Nia waited.
If she assumed rationality, there was no good reason for a passerby to run
toward the sound of gunshots. Ideally the commotion would cause anyone close by enough to hear it to flee. But assuming rationality was to assume an unacceptable level of risk. There was always the danger of any given hero-type immediately heading for the nearest sign of danger, hoping to pointlessly render assistance to the injured or vengeance to the injurer. Or alternatively, the sort that had already notched a body count might be tempted toward an opportunity to add one more to their list. Humans loved to watch numbers go up. One way or another.
Or perhaps useless sentimentality. Fear that any gunshot might have a loved one on the other side. What happened, then, when the victim was a nobody, when you now stood in the crosshairs yourself? People so often didn't think that far.
Nia waited.
But no one came.
The boy didn't move. She had gained no insight as to his identity from his final moments, though she could paint what she imagined would be a fairly accurate picture on the basis of her observations. He had stood alone in no cover in the middle of the garden. He had seemed paralyzed by something when she first spotted him, perhaps the announcements, perhaps one of the early names was meaningful to him, or perhaps it had been Alexander's body that had startled him, wrapped and covered but still obviously human-shaped. If she were to speculate it would be the latter; the former would likely elicit more than shock. That implied he hadn't witnessed much violence, or at least no bodies, yet, and that he was sensitive enough for such a thing to paralyze him completely. Regardless of her speculation he was clearly careless and unthinking, stopping where he had, reacting so slowly to her approach.
He hadn't attacked her, hadn't threatened her, hadn't bargained, hadn't even really begged until she had already crossed the point of no return. He had been afraid but polite, as though he was more concerned with the consequences her actions would have on her than on him. Even his last word, he couldn't be so foolish as to think that her mercy at that stage would mean anything but more suffering for him, even in that moment he may have been thinking more of the consequences she would face than his own death. He hadn't screamed, had hardly cried.
He wasn't afraid
enough. He wasn't angry. He didn't fight. He didn't care. Perhaps he believed in an afterlife, perhaps he was just apathetic.
Either way he was a walking corpse on an island full of them.
She was guilty of nothing at all.
Nia approached after what she would approximate as five minutes, though it might well be more or less; she heard no footsteps, straining her ears, no sounds she'd consider unusual. She was still cautious, eyes darting over her surroundings, moving slowly. She brought her bags, this time, as there were more supplies to scavenge. Satisfied, as she stood for a moment beside the fresh corpse and heard and saw nothing, she looked down. Nudged the boy with her foot. Nothing. Hard to tell exact positioning with the spread of the bloodstains and the bulk of his body, but one gunshot had gone in under the ribs, near enough to the right kidney. The other had pierced a lung, possibly the heart. The boy had died quickly, not that that was her concern.
His things were more important. Two bags which, to her utmost fascination, both had numbers on them. Had this milquetoast individual stolen someone's things? Or, even more interesting, scored a kill himself? There were a few killers whose descriptions she did not know, unfortunately, but she highly doubted this boy was one of them, unless he had suffered some sort of mental break since performing a kill or had done so accidentally. More likely was that he had an ally, or had scavenged a bag. If it was the former, it had hardly helped him, had it?
She laughed. Staring blankly through a still-warm body, she laughed. It was funny. It was allowed to be funny. If he didn't care enough to fight for his life, why should she? Why should anyone feel anything at all?
She thought to kick him. It. It, the unnamed corpse. It was an irrational impulse that went away when she ignored it. The impulse, not the corpse. She giggled again.
Two bags. Both filled with supplies, though much of the food stores were depleted. She imagined a boy the size of the unknown corpse needed more to eat than she did. There were still some energy bars to scavenge, slipping them into Jeremiah's still mostly-empty bag as her own was filled to bursting. The remaining bread and crackers from both bags were scattered, smashed into the dirt, the water bottles emptied and tossed after she drank her fill from one that remained sealed. She considered going through the medical kits, finding something poisonous, maybe squeezing some of the alcohol pads into the water or something similar, but it felt like too much effort for too little gain. Some part of her envied those who had been assigned poison. It would at least give her some more interesting options.
More interesting were the unique items both bags carried. One bag carried a pair of tekagi-shuko gloves, as noted by a slip of paper left in the bag; the name meant little to her, but an included manual indicated that they were more useful for climbing than for combat. She hardly wanted to find herself in a situation where hand-to-hand combat would be necessary, anyway, but some help in climbing might be useful. Of course attempting to climb a tree was a risk in and of itself, with her lack of experience in the matter, but it might be a useful defensive maneuver. Worth an attempt in a relatively safe environment.
The other bag contained a bottle of caffeine pills, and
that was far more immediately and obviously useful. Sleep deprivation could easily kill, particularly if she was to continue travelling alone with no one to watch her back when she attempted to sleep at night. The bottle was full; the boy hadn't used any, it seemed. She popped two immediately, washed down with her own water, and placed the rest in her bag. The gloves went on her hands, her fingers flexing, ensuring the added burden wouldn't impede her. They seemed comfortable enough, for the time being.
And that was all.
No, it wasn't. The corpse. Was she meant to do something with it? It was far bigger than Alexander's, and uncovered, almost gaudy in how it stood out from its environment. She had no duty to the unnamed boy, and certainly none to the slab of meat he had become, but something pricked at her brain as she looked at it, head tilted, thoughtful.
Ah, yes.
She had an idea.
Efficiency was important to her. Efficacy just as much so. She knew what a gun could do, she had known before she had used it herself. Jeremiah's hammer swung from her waistband. It was hers, she felt its power in her arm but there was no point in practicing with it the way she had the night before with the pistol. Aiming was not the problem. The problem was in not knowing how much force she could actually exert. It was all too possible that in the heat of the moment, forced to fight at close range, she would swing the hammer and do next to nothing. It would be in that moment that she would die.
She needed a test subject.
Nia dropped down next to the body, eyeing it with clinical expertise. The trouble, of course, was that most of her classmates were much thinner than the unnamed boy. An attack that did nothing to him might well break a rib on someone not so well-padded; a practice swing to his midsection would be poor proof of anything. She'd start with something simpler.
She took a breath, steadied her aim. Swung her arm down.
... Not much. She wasn't trying hard enough. Again.
Again.
The fourth time, there was an ugly
crunch and it sounded familiar and corpse's hand was mangled. Blood didn't flow. Surreal to watch, a bit, but she'd heard broken bones, confirmed them by touching the hand, feeling things shift that should not.
It had worked. It had taken too long. She wasn't trying. She looked at its face.
She looked at its face.
She looked at his face.
He hadn't fought, he hadn't begged, he hadn't ran, he wasn't angry, he had made it this far.
He'd outlived Alexander. He'd outlived Jeremiah.
He was lucky.
Why? Why had he been so fortunate? It felt at moments like the angel of death followed her alone, like he had simply had the good fortune to avoid her until this moment, like it didn't matter how much the people she loved kicked and screamed and clung onto life and she refused. She refused to be blamed. Life was arbitrary and unfair. Nothing went how it was supposed to. Least of all here.
He was lucky until he wasn't.
He didn't deserve it.
His skull cracked like anyone else's would.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
>> She decided the hammer worked just fine.