Built to Survive

[Cyco†]

Bryan woke up in a ditch on the side of the road. It was early morning. He squinted in the sliver of concentrated light that peeked over the incline and flared sharply in his eyes, throwing a hand up in front of his face and cursing softly. 'Where am I...?' he thought, turning his eyes away from the glare. His hand moved to the collar. 'Oh yeah...shit.' He felt like he'd been hit by a train, but he knew he'd have to get up. He rolled onto his belly, snorting into the dry dirt in discomfort, which blew jets of dust every which way. Then he pushed himself up with his hands and got slowly to his feet, dusting off his trusty Motörhead t-shirt. He was stiff from lying on the cold hard ground, but that was the least of his problems now. He was fucked, there were no two ways about it. He looked down. His duffle and another bag he'd never seen before were at his feet. He grabbed them both and marched clumsily up the slope to the deserted road. Maybe he'd be a little less fucked if he could get some damn bearings. He stopped in the middle of the road and let his bags fall again on the ground. He stretched and looked around, doing a 180 on the spot. He was on a vacant expressway. There were some factory buildings way off in the distance in one direction, and a whole lot of road in the other. Trees speckled the road every so often, but he didn't see any signs of life. He'd be able to see someone coming from a good ways away.

'Uh...' he looked at the sun. 'That way's east...so...' he shrugged. 'So what? So that's east. Big fucking deal. That doesn't tell me anything.' He threw his arms behind his head and locked his fingers as he licked his dry lips, slowly contemplating his predicament. 'What the hell am I gonna do...? That prick Wilson. That motherfucker. Who the fuck does he think he is?' The more he thought about it, the more his blood steadily boiled. He twitched violently, holding his breath until his eyes felt like they would pop. He shouldn't have, but he did. It started as a low grumble, but swiftly crescendoed into a full-blown cry of deep-seated frustration, clear and distinct in the emptiness surrounding him.

"....aaaaaaaARGH! YOU FUCKER!! YOU SONOFABITCH!! YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?? AAARGH!!" Spit flew as he screamed, and his fists clenched so tight that they became cramped and he threw them open quickly to relieve the pressure. The sound echoed in the distance, and faded down to nothing again. It was quite a spectacle, and would've made him an easy target, but he couldn't see anyone around. Plus, it did make him feel better. He wiped his mouth with his arm, breathing deeply and settling himself down. 'You'd better hope you never see me again, Wilson. Sonofabitch...'

As much as he didn't like the situation, Bryan decided it would be best to at least check his provisions. He was playing this whole thing by ear; oddly enough, he'd never been kidnapped by terrorists and used in a sadistic game before. He grabbed the bags again and scuttled back into the ditch, checking to see if the coast was clear once more. He had caught a healthy amount of information from the brief encounter with Bathurst's principal, but all in all he was still pretty confused. He threw the foreign bag on the ground and knelt down beside it briskly, opening it and rummaging through the water bottles, food, flashlight--er...huh? He wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but with a slight hesitation grabbed hold of his designated weapon and quickly withdrew it from amongst the other items.

A low chuckle escaped his lips as he held up the heavy black Franchi SPAS-12 shotgun, shining in the sun like some holy instrument of unspeakable power. Which it kind of was anyway. "Fuckin' eh," he exclaimed under his breath, eyeing it over and giving a satisfied smile. He'd seen it before in that Shwarzenegger movie, The Terminator. He'd only ever held a gun once before in his life, a Baretta semi-automatic handgun at a shooting range with his father. And that was when he was 7, for chrissake. It was fairly hefty, and fairly assuring too. Anybody stupid enough to fuck with him was going home in a matchbox. Just the fact that fortune could smile in a place like this was kind of funny. He cradled the pump-action with fascination. There were a couple switches here and there, a folding stock along the top, and a convenient shoulderstrap that would hold eight rounds. He took one more second to admire it, then slung it over his shoulder and (after another quick glance around, just in case) hurriedly searched through the remaining contents of the bag.

Along with the food and flashlight was a first aid kit, a survival guide (which was quick and straightforward, but disturbingly cheerful), a compass and map, a full box of 12-guage shells and an instruction manual for the SPAS-12. He hastily thumbed through, trying to get more of a grasp than just 'it kills stuff.' Before long he figured out the location of the safety button, which he quickly disengaged, and how to toggle between pump-action and self-loading. Bryan really was a fast learner when it came to things he was interested in. His survival, for example. He withdrew eight rounds from the box and secured them onto the shoulderstrap, then grabbed an additional eight rounds and fed them into the SPAS-12. He zipped up the bag and shouldered it, leaving his other duffle beside him in the ditch. All that was in there was a change of clothes. Hygeine was not a key objective here (it rarely was for him anyway). He gripped the barrel and pumped it once with vigor, loading the first round into the chamber. He was ready for...er...what was he going to do, anyway?

Up until now he hadn't even thought of how he'd go about this. Sure, he was armed to the teeth. And he was probably doing a whole lot better mentally than some of the others, considering how many pussies there were at Bathurst. He was anxious, as any adolescent with their life at great risk would be, but he kept that healthily repressed. Better he keep his cool than flip out and get himself killed for sure. Which brought him to his second problem. Wilson said that there could only be one survivor. Which meant he'd have to make sure everyone was dead. He thought about it. 'Well...they'd probably kill me if they had the chance, right?' The stakes were the same for everyone. Even his comerades from the Fists. He might have to waste them all, too. And what about Tori. She was here. Would he kill her as well, even though she was so nice to him? Was she ok? Maybe she'd already been killed. Bryan was only coming up with more questions trying to answer the initial paradox: would he sacrifice everyone else's life for his own?

None of his friends from Neilson's were here; the youngest besides him was a freshman in college. He really didn't have a lot of friends at all. He could probably count them all on one hand. He'd alienated himself from everyone at school over the years, and even the Fists were just interested in him for muscle. He was good friends with the school janitor, but did that even count? He had to face facts here: nobody on this island was going to be his friend any time soon, so he might as well defend himself at least. He didn't want to die. And although he wouldn't admit it, deep down he wanted to prove himself to them. Wilson, Danya, even the other students. Show them all that he had what it took to survive in this world. Survival of the Fittest. That was him. He'd make it through, or die trying.

Bryan made his way back onto the road, clutching the shotgun tightly. Wait, "the" shotgun? No. It was his shotgun now. They could pry it out of his cold dead hands. Every thought now was tied to another that slowly built his confidence up as he looked at the distant buildings. He'd head that way. Why? Because he felt like it, motherfucker. He took a deep breath through his mouth and let it out sharply through his nostrils. He felt alert. Powerful. He was a terrible force to be reckoned with, and he'd make everyone well aware.

((continued in The Very Basic Will to Live))