Bad Guy

#1

He was gaining on her.

He was running. Down the tunnel. Down the slope. She was doing the same thing. Running. Slowing. Looking behind her, realizing that she was slowing down. Realizing that he was getting closer.

And he could feel his body heat up.

And he could see the expression of fear on her face.

And he could feel something. A tingling. Crawling up the skin of his arms, tingling and tickling and wanting to be moved. Wanting to be used. Wanting to get to Jasmine and push her down and make her hurt, make her scream, make her fucking pay for what she did to Paris. Make her fucking feel everything that he had when she’d brought her foot down on him.

And he could barely feel the his own exhaustion.

He could barely feel the pain. The gunshot in his shoulder. The way his arm was screaming at him to stop, to help it, to stop the pain that she caused. Stop the pain that she needed to feel back.

And as the dog closed in on the fox, it could feel something. An image of the fox under its foot. An image of her screaming. An image of her begging for mercy, apologizing for what she’d done to it. What she’d done to Paris.

And as it raised its hand to stop her, to drag her back, it could feel a smile, a grin coming across its face.

And at that moment, the ground disappeared under Maxwell’s foot.

And at that moment, there was nothing but empty air as his body flew. Hurtled. Hit the ground with a thump and a crack and kept going. Down the slope.

And as his head hit the ground, everything went black, blank for a brief moment.

And as his head hit the ground again, there was a crack, a thud, and nothing more.

All it had taken was a few hours of Maxwell being on this island and already he had gone crazy.

The first thing he’d felt as he regained consciousness was the ringing in his ears. The arm, numb underneath his body. He could barely even feel it, but in a way, he still could. He couldn’t even move it but yet it was still there, the occasional prick of what felt like a needle into his arm telling him that it was still there. Still feeling, even despite the high pitched drone sounding in his ears, even despite the feeling of pain - dull, aching - all over his body. Still alive, even despite everything he felt.

Still sane, even despite what he’d done. How his… mind had thought, during those moments.

Admittedly, he couldn’t quite remember all of it. Admittedly, everything felt like a blur, a sort of mishmash in his head. He remembered enough though, to know what he had done.

To know what this island had made him become, even if only for a moment. To chase that girl down the tunnels, knowing that he was going to kill her if he caught her…

He didn’t know what that meant.

To be honest, he didn’t even want to think about it.

So he pushed the thought aside. Saved it for later. Standing up - getting out of here - was probably for the best. He got his arm - the one not under him, the one where the pain wasn’t coming from - into a bent position, pushed his body up. The arm below him was still numb, still unmoving as he dragged it from below. He moved into a kneel. Pushed his right arm against the ground and pushed his body up again. Stood. Tried to take a step forward and tried to find a way out of these tunnels.

Felt blackness - dots swimming - in his vision as a feeling overtook him. Rocked his body. Sent him careening backwards onto the ground.

And he felt his breath get torn out of his body.

He felt his head begin to spin, ache.

And he felt his shoulder cry at the rest of his body. Tell it needed fixing. Tell that it couldn’t bear the injury any longer.

And he supposed even if he was injured, even if his state was so bad that he could barely even walk now, he could still try to help his body. Stop the pain in his shoulder. He moved. Rolled to the side. Felt the pain in his head reign over him as he crawled. Felt the cavern wall. Placed his body upwards as he brought his bag out from behind his back.

Saw - however faint the light was - the blood, the wound on his shoulder as he propped his back up. Let himself rest.

Only for the moment he could afford though. He brought his right hand over to his bag and began to bring items out.

The arrival of daylight didn’t do a lot to help with Maxwell’s vision.

He had woken up a couple of… minutes earlier, he imagined. There was no real way of telling the time down in this place. His head still hurt, his shoulder still stung and admittedly the cavern hadn’t been an ideal place to sleep in but he was still alive. Still… okay, he supposed. He knew he wouldn’t be able to use his arm, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to fight for the time being, but he was still alive. He could still stay alive. He knew that he would have to change his strategy, he knew that fighting wasn’t as much of an option now, but that didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have even been smart to fight anyway, if he wanted to win.

Admittedly, he wasn’t sure anymore.

Admittedly, he didn’t know whether playing to win, taking out his classmates was the route he wanted to take anymore.

But he was still here. Everyone else was still out there. He could leave those thoughts, he could leave his choice until later. He looked to his left, down at his shoulder. The arm of his shirt had been forced up over his arm. The coat he had - a recent purchase, around $600 - had been cast to the ground, covered in dirt. Admittedly, part of him hadn’t wanted to ruin his favourite coat, but he needed to be able to see his wound, treat it. Cover it with the bandage it was covered in now. It was white - stained brown and red - and wrapped around his left shoulder. He knew he probably needed a sling, he knew that he didn’t want his left arm to be free, but he didn’t have a choice in regards to that.

He supposed he would have to do that later.

He supposed he would have to find someone to help him, put their mercy and care upn him.

And he supposed that to do that, he was going to have to find a way out of these tunnels.

So he stood up. Pushed his back up along the cavern wall. Took a moment to breathe, took a moment to keep his balance - he hoped this wouldn’t be an issue as he walked, God knew how he’d handle it then - as he took a step. Moved forward. Placed his right hand, his useful hand along the wall, pushing his weight onto it and-

Moving his hands, trying to block his ears as an absolute screech filled them. Surrounded him. Hurt and couldn’t make him stop and couldn’t make it-

Stop.

Silence, before a voice began to call out. The man on the bus. The man who put them here. Victor, his name was. Danya. Not someone Maxwell really respected. Not someone Maxwell really liked from the little they had seen each other.

But that didn’t matter. Odds were he had something important to say. Something that Maxwell needed to hear. He closed his eyes. Stepped forward. Let Victor’s voice fill his ears.

…

Killers. Victims. News that - given the people announced - was only semi-important to Maxwell. He took a step forward. Heard the names. Heard that people he had never really talked to - people he had never really known - had died. Had become never to be seen again. He knew that there was something he could say, some faux-philosophical remark about how he would forever regret not being able to see those faces again, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t matter. All he needed to do right now was find a way out of these caverns. Once he did that, he could worry about the details. Ask someone else who had killed-

Yasmin Carrol.

Lost her legs and her life to Katarina Konipaski.

And he felt something. Like a knife tearing its way through his spine. Like a punch impacting deep into his gut. Yasmin was gone. Someone had managed to get into the cabin. Someone had managed to break it apart.

Someone - Katarina - had managed to kill Yasmin.

And she was dead now.

That quiet girl, that arty girl he’d met at the party, at the cabin was gone.

And he’d never see her face again.

And he wanted to say something. Express his regrets. Think about how he wanted to know her more, get to understand her like he had with Paris, Felicia, Lyndi, but he couldn’t. He had to get back to the cabin, back to Daniel and Baxter. He had to make sure they were safe. He had to make sure his group was still in-...

Lyndi Thibodeaux.

Lyndi.

Killed.

And he felt the world spin around him. He felt a force hit him in the gut again, send his body packing downwards. His hand clutched a part of the cavern wall, pushed in. He closed his eyes. Kept them as tight as possible. Tried to stop hearing.

Because Lyndi was dead.

That girl he had seen cheerlead at one point. That girl that he had met, talked to, left the cafeteria with. That girl who had asked him out on the grounds, looking at the sky together. That girl who went out with him, that girl who he always seemed to be able to have fun with, even when they weren’t actually with each other. That girl who always seemed so friendly. So upbeat. So caring. That girl he had planned to spend the future with, travel the world with Paris and Soren in tow. To have as much fun as they possibly could before the future, his aspirations as a composer took the two away from each other.

The girl who loved him.

The girl who he loved.

She was gone.

Dead.

And he’d never see her face again.

He’d never see her smile. He’d never feel her touch.

And they’d never travel the world. They’d never need to leave each other.

They’d never need to meet on this island.

…

And he wouldn’t have to kill her.

Because he knew that he would have had to do it, didn’t he? He’d said it himself, back in the bedroom, back at the cabin. He wasn’t going to die here. He wasn’t going to let them win. He was going to do whatever it took for him to get off of this island alive. He was going to do whatever it took to get ahead of all the other people here. He… didn’t want to die. He didn’t want his life to end on this island, to these people. That was his logic. That was the train of thought he had been going off for the past few days.

And that was what caused him to think of the group around him as people to use. Means to an end.

And that was what caused him to split off from them. Leave them alone. Leave Yasmin to die.

And even though he could still barely remember it, he knew that was what caused him to attack that girl.

And that was what caused him to enjoy it. Want her to die by his hand.

And he hated that.

He hated that these terrorists, he hated that Victor had made him do that.

All it had taken was a few hours of being on this island and already he had gone crazy.

And he hated that.

He hated that these people - the ones on the bus, the ones all around him on the island - had been the ones who turned him into that.

But what could he do?

What way was there for him to fight against that? What way could he do that without becoming the martyr for a cause only he would care about?

He didn’t know.

But as he took another step forward, he was able to remember. Back at the cliffs. When he and Paris had split themselves off from the other three and Paris had revealed his grand and stupid plan. To be a hero. To traverse the island, stopping all the villains and wooing all the damsels in distress. Admittedly then, Maxwell remembered that he hadn’t been fond of the plan. He remembered expressing his doubts. He remembered Paris saying something in response, saying something about how it was his destiny to stop the people causing harm, how he had to do something about this game, all the people on this island.

And Maxwell remembered something else he said. How nobody here was going to just lay down and die. How there were going to be people who actively tried to pursue victory.

And he remembered saying that they - he and Paris - needed to stop them. Needed to make sure that they weren’t the ones crowned the Fittest at the end of this competition.

And he knew he had been unsure of that. Of the idea that he could be a hero galavanting around the island actively trying to help people who weren’t himself. It’d seemed stupid. Actively detrimental to his chances of survival. He was the one atop the totem pole. He was the one who he imagined everyone on this island was predicting to kill, predicting to main, predicting to win. What place did he have to be a hero? How would that in any way benefit him?

He didn’t know.

But he’d said it. His piece. His idea of pitious heroism.

So he supposed - even if he himself wanted to win, even if he himself wanted to live - that he was going to have to commit to it.

Because what were the other options? Die? That one was out of the question. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to let anybody here kill him.

But what was the other option? Maim? Kill? Act the villain and hurt anybody who stood between him and victory?

Let everyone else turn him into that?

No.

He wasn’t going to win.

He wasn’t going to live.

Not like that.

Never like that.

He still wasn’t sure what his plan was. He knew he couldn’t just push it until later like all the other things he didn’t want to bother him.

But he knew he wasn’t going to let them change him.

He knew he wasn’t going to let them win.

So he took a step across the cavern wall. Another. Felt his hand slowly fade its way off the rock face as he began to see the entrance, his exit.

And he knew that out there were people. On this island. Playing this game. People who weren’t going to just lay down and die. People who were going to actively pursue victory.

And even though he didn’t know how he was going to do it, even though he could still feel the pain in his shoulder, in his head, across his body, he knew that he had to try and stop them, he knew that he wasn’t going to be one of them anymore.

He knew that he was going to do whatever it took to stop one of them from winning.

((Maxwell Lombardi, continued elsewhere))