The Wind Below

[dinah_shore†]

Blankness. That was all Emma felt, a profound and deep blankness. There was still fear, but that was something she was learning to cope with. After all, she was probably going to be afraid until she died; splayed out on a bed of blood-soaked sand, preforated by bullets in several places. That was the nicest death she could imagine for herself on an island where students did unspeakable things to eachother for the amusement of the masses.

Emma didn't react as she watched Noah noticing her favourite black lace thong (the matching bra was in her pack somewhere too). Once Noah proved himself to be at least marginally saner than J.R., she stopped caring about what he was saying. Normally Emma might be embarrassed to have a practical stranger get a peek at her (now mud-stained) unmentionables, but in perspective, nothing mattered anymore.

I'm already dead, she thought, watching Noah bandage himself up. Carefully, she prodded the side of her head and grimaced in pain. Her fingers had come away with some nasty-looking, coagulated blood on them.

Hello, gangrene. Hello, Jesus. Fuck.

"Fuck" definitely was the embodiment of the situation she'd found herself in, she'd decided. Absently, Emma gathered up her things and stuffed them into her duffle bag. Her assigned weapon lay on the ground.

I won't be needing this, she thought, before turning around and picking the falchion up anyway.

It seemed that Noah had left eariler without her noticing. Emma felt a little sad to be alone again. The familiar crackle of the morning announcement was jarringly absent, and it seemed that all the noises in the background had fallen to a hushed whisper. Alone in an empty world. The corpses seemed more like a natural part of the environment than the rocks and trees did.

Horrified, Emma turned and ran away.

((continued elsewhere))