The Best of the Worst Situation

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((Clayton Barber continued from Why not me?))

Darkness turned to the light of an uneventful day, back to night, then back to day as the light of an early morning warmed Clay's face. He did manage to find a suitable replacement for his cane: a thin, sleek stick pulled from the woods after considerable deliberate search. It seemed almost perfect, though as he worked it through his fingers and tested flexibility, he noted it was a bit dry and inflexible. For now, it was the best he could find. Strong, lightweight, easy to handle and smooth so he wouldn't cut his fingers on it.

The first thing Clay did upon waking was to pull his magnifying glass out of his pocket, along with the folded-up map, to carefully study it and take note of his current position. He would have to keep moving on today, and moving brought with it great risk. His first encounter with classmates did not go very well, he recalled something flying at his head, making a dive at the aggressive shapes around him before everybody fled, leaving him to slowly shuffle away. But with his 'weapon' and general disadvantages, he realized there was little other option than trying the same approach again and praying he had approached somebody a bit more hospitable.

Clay's mulling over these thoughts was interrupted by a horrid piercing electronic screech from nearly directly above him. The announcements played, declaring who would live to see another day and those who had not. Too many of his classmates were giving in to the terrorists' demands. Maybe, Clay wondered, they simply couldn't keep their heads about themselves. Plenty of his classmates were, he believed, rational enough to come to the same conclusion he did. The best chance of survival was to team up and wait it out. No need to rush to the end if a rescue could possibly be on its way.

The announcement that the menagerie would now be declared a danger-zone was troubling enough to take precedence over all else. Clay didn't bother waiting for anything past that. He knew he needed to leave, and it needed to be now. With his walking stick, he could keep a clear path ahead of him and walk in a direction. Any direction, he supposed, would do, but he used the glow from the rising sun to sus out north and started walking in that direction.

Something caught his stick and there was that moment of thinking it would be little more than a minor set-back, only to be stricken with a cold horror as Clayton heard the snap first and felt the lack of resistance and sudden loss of weight next. A freak accident, surely, but one that wouldn't have happened if he still had his cane.

Those bastards. There was no reason to do that.

The collar beeped.

Clay crouched down and reached for the other piece of the stick. Maybe it was long enough. Maybe it was too much time wasted looking for it.

Beep.

It wasn't long enough. He would need to do take deliberate steps... but his heart raced. What if he couldn't clear it in time?

Beep.

His next step wasn't so cautious, and he caught the very same obstacle that caught his stick on his toe. A rock? A wire? A root? No time in worrying about it. He struggled to get his foot past the obstacle that seemed to snatch his toe. A raised root seemed the most likely candidate. It did little to help him, but he kicked it out of reflexive anger, and that was when Clayton learned he'd twisted his ankle.

Beep.

He wasn't going to be able to get out in time. It wasn't going to be enough time, not without his cane, and not with his foot the way it was.

Beep beep beep.

Clayton faced the sky, looking to the light. Squinting his eyelids open, hoping the pain would be enough to distract him.

He clutched at his throat.

Beep beep beep.

B053 - Barber, Clayton: Deceased