Gravemakers and Gunslingers

[Sean†]

((Joe Rios continued from To Die Hating Them, That Was Freedom))

What Joe wanted most at this particular moment in time was a warm bed.

It wasn't a particularly out-of-the-ordinary thing to want, but he had realized his desire for it very quickly after walking for almost two days straight with his only breaks being to eat and drink, especially since he had stopped to kill two people along the way. And damned if he was going to have his last proper rest ever on the ground.

The mansion wasn't a particularly ideal place to stop. A large chunk of the roof and several walls were missing, meaning that by spending his night there, Joe was taking a fairly big risk; this didn't actually matter a huge amount to Joe, since death was his end goal anyways, but he had decided that he would prefer to die while awake and aware instead of having some idiot behead him in his sleep.

With that in mind, Joe walked up to the door. He wasn't going to knock it down like some character from a bad commercial this time. Instead, he simply knocked once.

No answer.

Another knock. Still no answer.

Joe pressed his back to the wall next to the door and elbowed it open. There was a definite possibility that the door was trapped; he'd become aware of Sarah Atwell's devices and didn't want to be on the receiving end of one, even if he did want to die. There was dying and then there was being tortured to death. He noted the hypocrisy of his statement and crept through the doorway, scythe at the ready in case of an ambush. Still nothing. He arrived to the conclusion that the mansion was well and truly empty, and relaxed.

The mansion was a real mansion, as opposed to the "McMansions" that Joe was accustomed to seeing in St. Louis. It was spacious and somewhat comfortable considering how old it was; Joe would have liked to live somewhere like here if he survived, but he wasn't counting on surviving and he didn't particularly want to anyways. A bit of poking around led him to a guest bedroom that didn't seem to be nearly as picked over as the others.

He opened up a wooden wardrobe, stuffed his daypack into it, took his iPod out, and closed it, the scythe keeping it slightly ajar. He then sat on the bed, kicked his shoes off, removed his socks, and let the air pass over his blistered feet for the first time in a bit over a week. It felt like heaven to Joe. He unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, slid them off, took his shirt off, and climbed into bed.

It was comfortable. More comfortable than his own bed, in fact; whoever had owned this mansion was clearly very rich, Joe thought as his head rested on a down pillow. He put the album Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd on as his eyes closed and he slept well for what felt like the first time in years.

---

Silence.

Joe opened his eyes slowly and propped himself up on one elbow. He could see through the window that it was daytime. He sat up on the bed, got out, and stretched.

The familiar static sound of the announcements coming on blared in his ears, jolting him.

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Not this shit again, can't a guy get a little fucking rest for once?" Joe shouted at nothing in particular. Danya was really starting to annoy him.

"Good morning once again, kiddies. Would you believe that there are less than one hundred of you left alive? Well, it's true. Congratulations to those of you still standing. You've come a long way. You only need to brutally murder a few more people, and then you'll be on a plane home. Isn't that a delightful thought? I bet you all miss your families. I'm sure they're rooting for you," the voice said.

Oh, fuck you, you gigantic cunt, Joe thought to himself as he recalled how distinctly non-approving his family was likely to be. He elected not to state this out loud.

"Now then, those whose families will be mourning, instead:"

"Alexander Campbell died of I-thought-it'd-be-fine-to-field-amputate-my-arm. This is a lesson: practice first aid before your wound starts growing green fuzz."

"Ricky Fortino and Francesca Fiametta both managed to get themselves caught in the tunnels, and exploded. Turns out wandering in the dark deep underground isn't such a great idea when you have to get out in a hurry."

"Mirabelle Nesa picked the wrong horse to bet on, and died defending Liz Polanski. That's what happens to people who try to escape. Then, Harun Kemal and Rashid Hassan engaged in some touching buddy-to-buddy combat. Harun came out on top, and Rashid lost the top of his head."

"Timothy Questiare was stabbed to death by George Leidman. Then, Alice Blake sent Ash Morrison rolling down a hill. Spines are shockingly fragile."

"Peter Siu shot Jacquard Broughten, though it took her some time to die. Then, Joe Rios exploded onto the charts, using a scythe to rip and reap Mike Maszer and Alan Rickhall. Well, okay, the first was while he was trying to run, and the second was the result of the worst game of chicken ever, but we can pretend it was more exciting, can't we?" The voice had clearly struck a nerve, as Joe visibly frowned at this.

Oh, god damn it! Is this knob-biter literally impossible to please or something!? Joe thought, exasperated.

"David Meramac took a jog in a danger zone. Yawn. I swear, the collars and weapons are nothing but a formality and an expedient. If you kids went camping for a month, half of you would likely fall down crevasses."

"Milo Taylor and Melissa Li both were the subjects of collar experimentation, by Aileen Borden and Nick Reid respectively. Both died terrible, explosive deaths. You'd imagine after the fine example of our first death that you would have learned by now, but no. Then again, it's a pretty good way to kill someone. Trick them into thinking you're helping them, then give a little pull. Just be sure to watch your fingers."

"David Morrison just toppled over dead. Reviewing the footage, it seems he hadn't eaten in a while, so we'll put this down to dehydration. Or AIDS."

"Örn Ayers was shot by Liam Brooks, and bled to death. Finally, Samantha Ridley put a bullet in Adrian Staib."

"None of our kills today were half as interesting as Ms. Vernon's stifling of her friend yesterday, so we're giving her the prize. Step it up, kids."

"Ms. Vernon should proceed to the Gazebo to claim her prize. Everyone else, stay out of the Gazebo, the Warehouse, the Groundskeeper's Hut, the Destroyed Cell Tower, and the South-Eastern Woods. In fact, you can leave the South-Eastern Woods alone for the rest of the game. Talk to you tomorrow, assuming you survive that long." With that, the voice shut off and quit disturbing Joe's peace.

The realization hit Joe that this whole mass-suicide plan really wasn't going to work. He threw his head back and breathed in.

"FUCK!!!!!!!!!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "God fucking damn it all to hell! Fucking... FUCK! No no no no god damn it fucking no! This is not how it's supposed to work! What in the unholy FUCK!" he shouted.

Better idea. Win. It's not gonna end well either way, and the little plan I had to fuck the system over clearly isn't going to work, Joe thought. A smirk formed on his face.

At least this way I get to deck that fucker over the head for taking Rose away from me, he thought as the smirk grew into a full grin.

He put his clothes back on, socks and shoes included, and grabbed the daypack after checking to see that no one had looted his scythe, and more importantly the crude short sword he had crafted from Alan's naginata.

A click of two buttons changed his choice of music from Pink Floyd to White Zombie as he walked out, sawn-off naginata in his hand and a renewed vigor in his beaten, bloody body.

((Joe Rios continued in So Give Me Something To Believe.))