SOTF Archive/SOTF Classic

((GMing approved. Same goes for Vinny's post above, too. Just so you know))

By the time Ericka realized what happened she was already on the ground.

Her shot hit. He kept coming. He slammed into her. She dropped her gun. He pinned her. He grabbed his knife...

Oh god, he grabbed his knife! He's gonna stab me and kill me and it'll be over. she struggled to free herself but it was no use. He raised his knife above her and... hesitated... He dropped the knife.

It wouldn't be enough, Ericka was still in danger, but she had been given an opening.

She clawed at the ground until she felt the knife. Gripping it tightly in her hand she drove it into Frankie's side. And again, and again, and the stomach this time, and... Ericka drove her knife into the boy as many times as the could in as many locations as she could reach.

She knew she wouldn't be safe until her attacker was dead.

She stabbed him in the side. The knife sliced easily through Frankie. Each thrust was a short, sharp stab of fire that wracked his body. He used to be gripped by side splitting laughter but he'd never laugh again. He was aware of /something/ moving inside of him. She stabbed him in the stomach, again and again and again. He could feel the fight leaving him. It soaked the earth around him. His murderer bathed in his blood. He tried to speak. She stabbed him in the chest. The words died in his throat.

Frankie's thoughts were filled with pain. He hadn't but up a good fight after all. He'd even thrown away his one and only chance. Now he was getting what he deserved. A real player would never hesitate. He watched the chance slip right out of his fingers and into hers. He felt the knife inside him again. She stabbed at his face. He moved sluggishly to the side. The fire spread out wards from his lips as she sliced through his face. He tried to say something but he didn't have the strength. Blood and saliva was running down his face. He was dimly aware of the sound of screaming.

She was still trapped beneath him. A little girl like her could never bench his weight. There was a small amount of satisfaction at this small victory. She stabbed him again. The knife didn't feel so cold anymore. Ericka tore up his insides. She reached the place where the butterflies live, chasing them out with the knife. The pain was too much for Frankie. He slumped forwards.

He could feel her struggles, stronger than his own. He was barely fighting anymore. The peace of death seemed just beyond his reach. He locked eyes with his killer. His whole body was shaking. He tried to get up but he didn't have the strength. I never was any good at push ups. The full weight of him was on Ericka now. The blows stopped. His face was in the dirt. His ragged breaths brought dust into his broken body.

I wonder, will it be father who comes to my funeral or will it be dad?

A soft touch on his shoulder.

Frankie looks up. The pain is gone. There is a woman in black standing over him. She takes his arm and helps him up. She smiles softly at him as she fixes his collar. Together they begin to walk. The pain is gone. He looks over his shoulder as he leaves. He can see everything so clearly now. Nothing is clearer than the body on the ground, and under that the squirming form of Ericka.

The body is his, because he, Boy 125 Frankie Watson, is DECEASED

It hadn't quite been sleep. It had, however, been an honest attempt. Mere moments (minutes?) of dull conversation about chemicals and fucking dinosaurs and sleep was clutching at her and she was prepared for him to have his way with her but was left starving. Half-dead eyes and murky clay-filled thoughts but no rest, REM, relief. No shutting off. No more sleep. The switch was stuck on and the only thing that would do any good was pulling the cord but no, not now not ever. Still, her body had been so hungry to be dead for a while before the sound ruined its appetite.

The attacca started with that first explosion, the one that Rhory propelled herself into the mine-cart/corpse to in near perfect unison. Her head reeled as rebounded from its collision and the Big Fucking Knife made godawful noises as it clanked and scraped but who could hear it over the screaming anyway and

Then came the steady wet percussion. Squelch-scream-squelch-scream-squelch-squelch. It was a quiet organic roar. It burned. She shut her eyes and tensed every muscle against it. The sound danced through her defenses and ripped its way into her. Squelch scream squelch. Vulgar guttural fleshy sounds, body vernacular. Squelch. The air behind her finally emptied of it but her head was already full. Squelch. Stop. Squelch. Stop.

She imagined she could smell it. Carved meat.
Had she been crying this whole time?

Annaliese sat blinking, her brain trying to process the scene in front of her.

"This? This is some repugnant ass shit, yo," she murmured as she watched Ericka flailing from under Frankie's corpse. Under normal circumstances, she would have gone to help the trapped girl without hesitation. However, the fact that Ericka popped a cap into Frankie before going all Garth and the Doughnut Man on him had put a definite pause on that thought.

Frankie had seemed like a really nice guy from the little bit of time she had spent with him, and prior to a few minutes ago, she would have sworn that he never would have hurt a fly. But he launched into a monologue worthy of Syndrome at Ericka. In response, she whipped out a gun and shot him. Which, really, is the correct response to a super villain's monologue. But Frankie wasn't a super villain. Was he?

Annaliese pulled her knees up to her chin and slowly rocked while she contemplated what to do next. Frankie and Ericka obviously had some history which lead them to their showdown. She didn't have any history with either one of them. Did that mean it was safe to help Erica out? Or would Ericka continue on her bloody-thirsty rampage and make her the next notch on her bedpost? And was that somebody crying?

Don't let it sink in. Don't let it process.
She twisted herself around the mine cart before she had time to realize she would regret it.

He seemed almost alive at first. He squirmed awkwardly, inhumanly, a meat bag of bugs on the ground. Blood and other things seeped and fell from him. No, it. It was an it now. It, an it,the it; it was a sight too much to absorb. Just enough to fascinate. The warm reek of red filled the dirt and air, thick and dense. A sick dwarf star threatening to collapse into a red-black hole. But it had gravity enough. It already drew everything from her. She was emptied except for a floating dull horror. She could hear more wet sounds as it splashed and flailed. Something hit hard against the dirt, snapped. A red little arm surfaced briefly. As if to breathe. She breathed. It tasted like the residue on those clear ground beef wrappers, the ones that always get your hands wet as you tear away for the meat. But this was sopping. Soaked in a dark humid haze, red summer stormy sunset. A gurgling now, a splash, a grunt. Something spilled. Red mouth flesh cunt. Dark surfacing, like the back of a whale. A beached newborn whale as it slipped out beside it and its puppeteer below. A leg kicked out shattering the illusion but everyone already knows puppets aren't alive.

Don't let it sink in. Don't let it process.
Just run.

((Rhory Anne Broderick continued in Behold this compost! behold it well!))

Even as her attacker collapsed dead on top of her, Ericka still continued to stab at the boy in panic. It took a few moments to truly dawn on Ericka that her assailant, someone she barely remembered from school had wanted her dead... and she had... she... she killed him. Frankie was dead and it was her who had done it. Not only that, but now she was trapped beneath his corpse.

A frightening thought occurred to Ericka. Was she really sure Frankie had been alone? Just because he attacked her by himself didn't mean he had been by himself, he could have left any group he had been with in order to settle his own personal grudge. If he hadn't been alone, and they found out about his death, they probably wouldn't just let her go.

Ericka craned her neck trying to locate her gun. When she saw it she realized it was out of reach. She squirmed and wriggled, trying to get out from under Frankie, or at least make it to her gun. She finally made it to her gun, but she couldn't quite grab it, so she pulled it closer with her fingers until she could get a firm grip on it.

Ericka had already been tired before the attack, adrenaline had been what kept her alert when she was confronted by Frankie, but now that was gone and she was out of breath. Her energy used up, she was unsure if she could survive another attack while she was trapped under the boy, but she probably couldn't move him either. Trapped like this she would likely die... she would....

Certain her life was about the end, Ericka began sobbing. She would need someone else to save her, but on this island only one person would survive... Would someone really risk themselves to help a competitor?

Annaliese sat and watched Erika struggle. To help or not...to help or not.... 'This would be so much easier to decide if I could just check my horoscope for today. Then I would at least know whether I should hang around here or completely bug out.'

She continued to mull over whether or not to give Erika the assist out from under Frankie. Right up until Erika managed to put her hand back on the gun. She never asked for help. She never really tried to get out from under Frankie until after she secured the weapon.

'You know, with a gun, she doesn't have to get free to be able to hurt you,' a rational voice pointed out to her. 'And she shot at Frankie no questions asked.'

Annaliese stopped rocking as she pondered this new information before nodding in agreement. "So maybe I better get my ass outta here," she finally concluded. Since Erika had yet to acknowledge her, she decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Grabbing up her gear bag and Frankie's, Annaliese tried to exit the mine area as quietly as possible.

((Annaliese Hansen continued in Jesus Loves the Little Children))

Ericka was exhausted, but she had to get out and help didn't seem to be on it's way. With a bit of effort she managed to roll Frankie onto his back.

His wounds... The blood from Frankie's wounds had seeped onto Ericka's clothing, the stains acting as a mirror for the wounds of her first kill.

Frankie had attacked her, but she couldn't be certain that Danya would announce it that way. She would have to act as if there were people out for revenge, even if there weren't, it was likely that many people would still be willing to kill her, even if only to be the one to live.

A quick search of the surrounding area didn't turn up Frankie's supplies. He must have had friends here after all... but were they still in the area? Well, it was definitely better to be safe than sorry. So Ericka gathered her things and headed out to find a safe place where she could get some rest.

((Ericka Bradley continued in Not an Easy Out))
((Thread Finished))