"FUCK!"
*THWACK!*
"FUCKING FUCK YOOOOOOUUUU!"
*KRACK SMASH*
"MOTHERFUCKIN' COCK SUCK CUNT-FINGER-FUCKED FUCK!"
*SPLASH!*
"GAH!"
((B011 MICHAEL CROWE: V6 START))
Michael was, to put it nicely, not prepared for this at all. His chest heaved as he stared down at the shattered barrel below him. Not only was he not prepared; he was fucking pissed, he was fucking pissed and was covered in dirty who-knows-how-old alcohol. His axe was gripped tightly in his left hand. Damn, this was not good. This was not good at all. His right hand wiped the sweat from his brow, pushing his hair back a bit. His throat was already hoarse from his screaming barrel destroying tantrum.
It's okay, calm down, find Jonathan, cry like a bitch then die viole- Nah fuck that scene. Find Jonathan, get the fuck out. Stay calm, stay calm. You got this.
Easier said than done, the moment Michael walked out into the main room of the bar, his eyes caught the camera staring back at him. Covered in sweat, booze, and possibly his tears; wait, was he crying? Michael rubbed a hand over his eyes before almost calmly and casually placing his Wayfarers over his eyes as a precaution. Not like it'd help. Camera already got a good glimpse of his misty eyes, hell, they probably heard, nay saw him smash the shit out of that storeroom. Probably watched him while he slept too.
It was almost comical, after that intense period of venting he was completely deadpan calm as if nothing had happened. Almost casually he planted the axe into the desk and turned his head towards the corner of the room, making a beeline for that damned camera.
His voice choked a bit, but after a second, he composed himself. "Hey..." What would he say? Hey mom, hey dad! Your son's a faggot and he's gonna die. Whoop-de-fuckadilly-doo right? Would he appologize for whatever he'd be forced to do on the island. Would he laugh, take it as a joke, and walk outside to realize it's not?
Nah. He knew his chances, he might as well say it while he could.
"Hey... Hey Danya?" He waved his hand to the camera to see if it was following him. He was unsure if they moved across the room, or if they were static, either way, he WAS sure he had their full attention. "O-Okay Danya, you listen, an' you listen good, okay?" Michael gripped his giblets through the front of his pants to make his point clear. "You have a nice, slow, long, jerk to these events, Danya; You pedophile sick fuck, you." His voice cracked as he spoke, tilting his head to the side. He chuckled, it was a fake one, but it's better than wearing a crybaby bitch pout. "Because when I win, and you damn well know I will... I WILL PERSONALLY WALK UP TO YOUR LITTLE CAMERA ROOM, RIP YOUR DICK OFF, AND FUCK YOU IN THE ASS UNTIL MY CHILDREN COME OUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH!" Michael's strained high pitched voice probably wasn't doing much in terms of intimidation, but damn it felt good to get that off his chest. Michael gave himself a hard punch in the mouth and turned around, yelling out the Ric Flair special.
Fuck it, if Danya blew his head off, at least he died threatening to rape him until he'd choke on his semen. Michael walked over to the counter, ripped his axe out of the table, and sat down at a nearby bench, exhausted.
Fuck, that was cathartic.
We pissin' our pants yet?
It's gonna be pee-pee pants city real soon...
He had to go back home! He had to, he had to, he had to, he had to, he had t-
Then he heard the insults of the boy.
((Jerry's v6 start))
All his bravado he was building while sitting on the floor of the toilet was now gone. He thought he could face his enemies - no, his fellow students - and find his friends and then... and then...
Kill them? Betray them? Backstab them? Hurt them? Torture them?
Or instead, be the victim, be the betrayed, be the trusting idiot, be the one in pain, be the one dying?
None of that made any sense normally, but now it did. Killing made sense to Jerry, he had to go back to his parents, but it means to give up everything he worked for. His humanity, his morals, and obviously, his life. No matter whether or not he made it out, all his life would be ruined. Everybody would know him, question him, interview him, try to snuff the life out of him. He can't win either ways, but only one let him alive.
Oh, fuck the game and be nice. He decided to cross the bridge when he'll reach. Not that's his goal, but he still had somewhat of a weapon and if all of his friends died then...
Fuck the game, be nice. For now.
He dropped his knife in his duffel bag and headed toward the screaming man. What if he had a gun? Should he just stay there cowering in fear?
Fuck. The. Game.
He exited the woman's washroom and tried to stay as casual as possible while saying,
"May I... join you?
Then he heard the insults of the boy.
((Jerry's v6 start))
All his bravado he was building while sitting on the floor of the toilet was now gone. He thought he could face his enemies - no, his fellow students - and find his friends and then... and then...
Kill them? Betray them? Backstab them? Hurt them? Torture them?
Or instead, be the victim, be the betrayed, be the trusting idiot, be the one in pain, be the one dying?
None of that made any sense normally, but now it did. Killing made sense to Jerry, he had to go back to his parents, but it means to give up everything he worked for. His humanity, his morals, and obviously, his life. No matter whether or not he made it out, all his life would be ruined. Everybody would know him, question him, interview him, try to snuff the life out of him. He can't win either ways, but only one let him alive.
Oh, fuck the game and be nice. He decided to cross the bridge when he'll reach. Not that's his goal, but he still had somewhat of a weapon and if all of his friends died then...
Fuck the game, be nice. For now.
He dropped his knife in his duffel bag and headed toward the screaming man. What if he had a gun? Should he just stay there cowering in fear?
Fuck. The. Game.
He exited the woman's washroom and tried to stay as casual as possible while saying,
"May I... join you?
Oh shit, someone was in here! Michael gripped his axe as the door opened, still in his seat. He leaned forward a bit keeping the axe hidden behind the chair.
If this fucker thought he was being sneaky, he was failing horribly. He kept his eyes trailed on the kid as he slid out of the bathroom. Michael stayed stiff as a bored, making sure the bastard didn't see him looking at him.
Turns out it was Jerry, who, for the most part, was a pretty chill dude. Michael relaxed a bit.
Michael had relaxed even more when he asked to join him. Wait? Join him in what?
Michael's right hand grabbed the side of his sunglasses, lowering them, eyeing him up and down. Did he have a weapon? If he did it wasn't visible. Michael had the upper hand if he tried shit, though he doubted Jerry of all people would. He raised his glasses back at eye level. Michael smiled.
"Sure." Michael stood up. His left hand gripped the felling axe, however he kept it low, showing it off, but hopefully Jerry would pick up on his body language in that he didn't intend to use it unless he had to. He raised his right hand assuming he'd get a handshake.
"I was just, ehhh, venting earlier."
He probably scared this poor fuck senseless, which wasn't a good thing to have if someone wanted to befriend you.
"Wasn't nothing meant for you or anyone else on this island, just got a bit pissed at-" Michael nodded his head towards the camera. "Well, y'know."
Michael smiled again, his eyes staring through the Wayfarers, still looking for a weapon; Just in case. If Jerry had one, Michael wanted to know.
If this fucker thought he was being sneaky, he was failing horribly. He kept his eyes trailed on the kid as he slid out of the bathroom. Michael stayed stiff as a bored, making sure the bastard didn't see him looking at him.
Turns out it was Jerry, who, for the most part, was a pretty chill dude. Michael relaxed a bit.
Michael had relaxed even more when he asked to join him. Wait? Join him in what?
Michael's right hand grabbed the side of his sunglasses, lowering them, eyeing him up and down. Did he have a weapon? If he did it wasn't visible. Michael had the upper hand if he tried shit, though he doubted Jerry of all people would. He raised his glasses back at eye level. Michael smiled.
"Sure." Michael stood up. His left hand gripped the felling axe, however he kept it low, showing it off, but hopefully Jerry would pick up on his body language in that he didn't intend to use it unless he had to. He raised his right hand assuming he'd get a handshake.
"I was just, ehhh, venting earlier."
He probably scared this poor fuck senseless, which wasn't a good thing to have if someone wanted to befriend you.
"Wasn't nothing meant for you or anyone else on this island, just got a bit pissed at-" Michael nodded his head towards the camera. "Well, y'know."
Michael smiled again, his eyes staring through the Wayfarers, still looking for a weapon; Just in case. If Jerry had one, Michael wanted to know.
Jerry sighed. It wasn't someone he could consider a friend but it wasn't someone he could consider an enemy. And plus, he had an axe and it seemed really scary so no fighting between the two of them. He'd love to keep in his body, especially his head, in one piece if he were to go home. But also for his parents if he happened to not got home.
Gosh, why is this have to happen? They didn't do anything wrong, they just happened to be alive at the wrong time. So unfair and disgusting. Nobody had to go through this, the anxiety of betrayal and the fear of death. Just five minutes in this hell and he wanted a way out. He could go on a rampage starting with Michael, but was it really him? Was he born a killer? He looked at his past, at his family, at his friends, did they made him into a future killer?
No, they didn't. He lived a happy life and nobody could take that from him.
He sat down in a sit beside the window. Michael was obviously apprehending a fight and, to be honest, Jerry too. Who wouldn't? Paranoia is the only thing to keep you alive other than your weapon. He really wanted to home, but fuck that game. It's not going to ruin him.
Not today, maybe tomorrow.
"I..."
Fuck, how do you say that you got a knife? Nobody teaches that! Then a flash cross through his mind, he remembered a battle royale in wrestling. It was similar, but instead of being eliminated: they died. But that wasn't the only thing: wrestlers have alter-egos and personas. Jerry could do the same, right? He shallowed hard and revealed his weapon,
"I got this baby," oh gosh, please don't be cheesy, please don't sound corny, "it's, uh, a shock knife if I read that right."
He could work on the tone of his voice to sound more tough but that'd be good enough for now. He kept it in his hand in a while to check the weight of it, and let it fall into his bag. He noticed the number on it. Weird, he got B022 written on it. They weren't considered humans anymore, just numbers.
"Oh fuck this man, look at your bag! It's not even our name on it, it's a fucking number. We're not people anymore," his voice rised then lowered, remembering that somebody with a gun could hear them and decide to shoot them up.
Gosh, why is this have to happen? They didn't do anything wrong, they just happened to be alive at the wrong time. So unfair and disgusting. Nobody had to go through this, the anxiety of betrayal and the fear of death. Just five minutes in this hell and he wanted a way out. He could go on a rampage starting with Michael, but was it really him? Was he born a killer? He looked at his past, at his family, at his friends, did they made him into a future killer?
No, they didn't. He lived a happy life and nobody could take that from him.
He sat down in a sit beside the window. Michael was obviously apprehending a fight and, to be honest, Jerry too. Who wouldn't? Paranoia is the only thing to keep you alive other than your weapon. He really wanted to home, but fuck that game. It's not going to ruin him.
Not today, maybe tomorrow.
"I..."
Fuck, how do you say that you got a knife? Nobody teaches that! Then a flash cross through his mind, he remembered a battle royale in wrestling. It was similar, but instead of being eliminated: they died. But that wasn't the only thing: wrestlers have alter-egos and personas. Jerry could do the same, right? He shallowed hard and revealed his weapon,
"I got this baby," oh gosh, please don't be cheesy, please don't sound corny, "it's, uh, a shock knife if I read that right."
He could work on the tone of his voice to sound more tough but that'd be good enough for now. He kept it in his hand in a while to check the weight of it, and let it fall into his bag. He noticed the number on it. Weird, he got B022 written on it. They weren't considered humans anymore, just numbers.
"Oh fuck this man, look at your bag! It's not even our name on it, it's a fucking number. We're not people anymore," his voice rised then lowered, remembering that somebody with a gun could hear them and decide to shoot them up.
Michael stood still, awaiting his handshake. When he realized he wasn't getting it, he lowered his arm, his grin fading. Damn, don't let the end of the world make you lose track of common courtesy for fucks sake...
"You know..." Michael shrugged for a moment; he'd lean his head back and pinch his brow. "When someone offers a handshake you kinda fuckin' follow through with it right?" Shaking his head he looked at Jerry. "Like damn man, don't leave me hangin'..."
Whatever, it really didn't matter, but holding onto small shit like that helped him hold onto what small traces of normalcy his suddenly shorter life expectancy had. He wasn't really serious with the whole handshake thing. It was just a mix of reflex and trying to lighten the mood. Weird sense of humor right?
He couldn't really get onto Jerry though, dude was definitely scared as shit. Hell, Michael himself was scared. Anyone would be in this situation.
But it was once Jerry stopped stuttering and put on the 'hard-ass' routine when Michael got his grin back. It was hilarious to see Jerry walk out scared-as-balls then turn a one-eighty, and pretend that he weren't scared. Michael understood how he felt. Pretty identical to be honest. Michael was just a hell of a lot better at hiding it. Then again from what little he knew of Jerry, he knew had almost no mean bones in his body. Made the whole I got this baby even hokier. Plus, it was a whole lot better to have someone who knew he was scared and tried to hide it with you, than it was to have some crybaby coward roll up in a ball rocking back and forth, right? That's what they call courage right? It wasn't the lack of fear, it was knowing you're scared as shit but you defy it anyways. Kind of an admirable trait. Even if it was done in such a goofy chucklefuck manner.
Least he knew he had a knife now. Not only that it was a fucking taser knife or some shit. Zap and shank. Fuck that's metal. Probably the most metal shit he's heard of since that one internet weapon that threw saw blades like a fucking lacrosse stick. If that made it on the island he was as fucked as a fuckboy on fuck night Fridays. Glad to have Jerry on his side though. Two good weapons, two badass motherfuckers. People already don't wanna fuck with Mike alone, and with his new buddy to back him up, well shit, he was all set to live through this thing until he found Jonathan. Speaking of which he-
Jerry interrupted his train of thought and spoke up about his bag.
"Numbers? Oh yeah, this fuckin' thing. Number eleven, shitty fuckin' number man." Jerry lapsed back into freak out mode on seeing the numbers. He wasn't wrong, we weren't people anymore, we're entertainment for a bunch of sick fuck bastards. When Michael got out of here, he was gonna have a lot of dick-ripping-off to do. Danya wasn't the only one who's going to feel the wrath of a thousand angry fucks all wrapped up into one kinda-medium sized fuck; as five foot eight couldn't necessarily be considered a big fuck, there was gonna be a lot of people to feel the maximum fuck of medium fuck's rage. Point at hand though, he couldn't have Jerry break, not yet at least.
"Hey." Michael brought his right arm up again, he didn't know why, felt like body language, maybe consolidation? "It's alright man, don't panic. We panic we're as good as dead." Michael kept his grin up, he really didn't want Jerry to flip his shit, to hurt himself, or worse, try to come at him with the shock knife. Couldn't have that.
"Listen, we just gotta, j-just gotta plan some shit out, okay?" Michael lowered his hand down a bit. "Plan something out, right?"
Might as well ask if there's anything he wants.
"You uhh, there someone on this island you maybe wanna find?"
Maybe he could help Jerry find his friends, and in return Jerry could help him find Jonathan and Darius. The three fuck-a-tiers needed their D'artigan after all...
I mean, some garbage plan is better than no plan right? Can't lose your mind doing nothing. Michael'd much rather spend his time looking for the people he cared about then pacing around in circles in some shitty cheap bar.
"You know..." Michael shrugged for a moment; he'd lean his head back and pinch his brow. "When someone offers a handshake you kinda fuckin' follow through with it right?" Shaking his head he looked at Jerry. "Like damn man, don't leave me hangin'..."
Whatever, it really didn't matter, but holding onto small shit like that helped him hold onto what small traces of normalcy his suddenly shorter life expectancy had. He wasn't really serious with the whole handshake thing. It was just a mix of reflex and trying to lighten the mood. Weird sense of humor right?
He couldn't really get onto Jerry though, dude was definitely scared as shit. Hell, Michael himself was scared. Anyone would be in this situation.
But it was once Jerry stopped stuttering and put on the 'hard-ass' routine when Michael got his grin back. It was hilarious to see Jerry walk out scared-as-balls then turn a one-eighty, and pretend that he weren't scared. Michael understood how he felt. Pretty identical to be honest. Michael was just a hell of a lot better at hiding it. Then again from what little he knew of Jerry, he knew had almost no mean bones in his body. Made the whole I got this baby even hokier. Plus, it was a whole lot better to have someone who knew he was scared and tried to hide it with you, than it was to have some crybaby coward roll up in a ball rocking back and forth, right? That's what they call courage right? It wasn't the lack of fear, it was knowing you're scared as shit but you defy it anyways. Kind of an admirable trait. Even if it was done in such a goofy chucklefuck manner.
Least he knew he had a knife now. Not only that it was a fucking taser knife or some shit. Zap and shank. Fuck that's metal. Probably the most metal shit he's heard of since that one internet weapon that threw saw blades like a fucking lacrosse stick. If that made it on the island he was as fucked as a fuckboy on fuck night Fridays. Glad to have Jerry on his side though. Two good weapons, two badass motherfuckers. People already don't wanna fuck with Mike alone, and with his new buddy to back him up, well shit, he was all set to live through this thing until he found Jonathan. Speaking of which he-
Jerry interrupted his train of thought and spoke up about his bag.
"Numbers? Oh yeah, this fuckin' thing. Number eleven, shitty fuckin' number man." Jerry lapsed back into freak out mode on seeing the numbers. He wasn't wrong, we weren't people anymore, we're entertainment for a bunch of sick fuck bastards. When Michael got out of here, he was gonna have a lot of dick-ripping-off to do. Danya wasn't the only one who's going to feel the wrath of a thousand angry fucks all wrapped up into one kinda-medium sized fuck; as five foot eight couldn't necessarily be considered a big fuck, there was gonna be a lot of people to feel the maximum fuck of medium fuck's rage. Point at hand though, he couldn't have Jerry break, not yet at least.
"Hey." Michael brought his right arm up again, he didn't know why, felt like body language, maybe consolidation? "It's alright man, don't panic. We panic we're as good as dead." Michael kept his grin up, he really didn't want Jerry to flip his shit, to hurt himself, or worse, try to come at him with the shock knife. Couldn't have that.
"Listen, we just gotta, j-just gotta plan some shit out, okay?" Michael lowered his hand down a bit. "Plan something out, right?"
Might as well ask if there's anything he wants.
"You uhh, there someone on this island you maybe wanna find?"
Maybe he could help Jerry find his friends, and in return Jerry could help him find Jonathan and Darius. The three fuck-a-tiers needed their D'artigan after all...
I mean, some garbage plan is better than no plan right? Can't lose your mind doing nothing. Michael'd much rather spend his time looking for the people he cared about then pacing around in circles in some shitty cheap bar.
"I want to find my friends."
He blurted out without thinking of anybody in particular, just somebody he could trust to have his back in any situation. Michael wasn't one of these people, but he could work out fine if he decided not to go around hitting and hacking people with his axe of his. The more he thought about the other boy's weapon, the more he felt envy toward it. Christ, it was a knife that was "shocking", what is that supposed to mean? He wished he could have been able to google it.
He scratched his neck. It wasn't itchy but he started to think about the overall situation. They were on an island, that was for sure. He remembered that from before he passed out. He also remembered Mr. Graham's death, shot and left there, bleeding. He erased the image from his mind by focussing on something else: the island. People lived there, people stayed there, people died there, and people left. These people must have left an impact here, one way or the other.
The terrorists must have swept in to clean it up and removed stuff that could be considered a weapon like a knife or a gun. "Cleaning", more like taking away any items that could be used to defend themselves. Securing, then. Only to make it deadlier by giving kids weapons. He felt like barfing when he thought about them. He was downright disgusted just by the idea that someone would do this to them, yet there they were.
For now, he had to think about survival. He looked around from his seat, he tried to situate the room in time. It looked old, but not in a fashioned way, more like it was abandoned for years and years. The place seemed like restaurant but with a handful of small tables and seats. Then it hit him, the counter! It was obviously a bar, this was some kind of pub or something. They must be storing food, that was most likely rotten and eaten by thousand of rats, and bottles of alcohol.
He stood up and pointed at the counter. It took a couple of second before he started to explain his plan.
"Are we in a... pub?"
That wasn't very convincing for someone that was supposed to be strong and tough, he tried again, "Stuff must have been left behind, should we search for it?"
He really had to work on his monotonous, badass voice.
He blurted out without thinking of anybody in particular, just somebody he could trust to have his back in any situation. Michael wasn't one of these people, but he could work out fine if he decided not to go around hitting and hacking people with his axe of his. The more he thought about the other boy's weapon, the more he felt envy toward it. Christ, it was a knife that was "shocking", what is that supposed to mean? He wished he could have been able to google it.
He scratched his neck. It wasn't itchy but he started to think about the overall situation. They were on an island, that was for sure. He remembered that from before he passed out. He also remembered Mr. Graham's death, shot and left there, bleeding. He erased the image from his mind by focussing on something else: the island. People lived there, people stayed there, people died there, and people left. These people must have left an impact here, one way or the other.
The terrorists must have swept in to clean it up and removed stuff that could be considered a weapon like a knife or a gun. "Cleaning", more like taking away any items that could be used to defend themselves. Securing, then. Only to make it deadlier by giving kids weapons. He felt like barfing when he thought about them. He was downright disgusted just by the idea that someone would do this to them, yet there they were.
For now, he had to think about survival. He looked around from his seat, he tried to situate the room in time. It looked old, but not in a fashioned way, more like it was abandoned for years and years. The place seemed like restaurant but with a handful of small tables and seats. Then it hit him, the counter! It was obviously a bar, this was some kind of pub or something. They must be storing food, that was most likely rotten and eaten by thousand of rats, and bottles of alcohol.
He stood up and pointed at the counter. It took a couple of second before he started to explain his plan.
"Are we in a... pub?"
That wasn't very convincing for someone that was supposed to be strong and tough, he tried again, "Stuff must have been left behind, should we search for it?"
He really had to work on his monotonous, badass voice.
That wasn't too helpful. Michael would have no idea who to keep his eyes out for. Shit, who hung out with Jerry before it all hit the fan? Fuck it, beggars can't be choosers. Right now Jerry was his closest ally, and Michael was Jerry's. For all we know, Jon, Darius, Bradley, and all the other chucklefucks in Michael's buddy group? They could be dead.
No. No they're not. It's too early for that. Nobody would kill just yet.
But someone's going to die before the day's out. Or...
All of us would.
Michael found himself staring out the window. He saw two other buildings across from the one he's in. Turning his head to the left, he saw two large apartment complex looking thingies... At least he was sure they were apartment complexes. Where were they anyways? Michael reached through his bag, pulling out an assortment of items, laying them on the table.
Big ass first aid kit, Danya's survival guide; HAH! Like that desk jockey would know anything about survival... and the map. Skimming over it, he searched for his location.
Well shit. Island's smaller than he thought. Way smaller. He could practically spit on the other side of the bridge. Finding his pals should be easy right? There was the living quarters, which for the most part didn't look too bad. The area they were at was roughly the size of your typical college campus, the buildings were a bit larger, but not too bad. Then, there's the helipad and storeroom, maybe the size of a large Costco?
The hard part was going to be the Asylum. Even if it weren't too large, the interiors would be a fucking labyrinth. And if the asylum was large. Well... It'd be even worse. He had a feeling most of the students would be here. Whether or not it's a good or bad thing is a different story. Hell, Henry could be leading some Wickerman death cult right now; burning Bradley like Nicholas Cage or some crazy shit. Michael shook his head at the thought. He doubted even a single one of his classmates would do something so sadistic, let alone a large group of people falling down that route.
Then Jerry regained his attention with a question. A damn good question at that... Jerry was planning on looting the place. That's something that'll help in the long run for sure, especially if shit goes pear shaped. "Hell yeah, not like anyone else gonna use this shit." Michael grabbed his supplies and put them back in his bag. He kept the map on him however, folding it up and putting it in his jacket pocket.
"Aight Jerry, best thing to get would be bottles, toilet paper, and maybe some backup weapons."
No. No they're not. It's too early for that. Nobody would kill just yet.
But someone's going to die before the day's out. Or...
All of us would.
Michael found himself staring out the window. He saw two other buildings across from the one he's in. Turning his head to the left, he saw two large apartment complex looking thingies... At least he was sure they were apartment complexes. Where were they anyways? Michael reached through his bag, pulling out an assortment of items, laying them on the table.
Big ass first aid kit, Danya's survival guide; HAH! Like that desk jockey would know anything about survival... and the map. Skimming over it, he searched for his location.
Well shit. Island's smaller than he thought. Way smaller. He could practically spit on the other side of the bridge. Finding his pals should be easy right? There was the living quarters, which for the most part didn't look too bad. The area they were at was roughly the size of your typical college campus, the buildings were a bit larger, but not too bad. Then, there's the helipad and storeroom, maybe the size of a large Costco?
The hard part was going to be the Asylum. Even if it weren't too large, the interiors would be a fucking labyrinth. And if the asylum was large. Well... It'd be even worse. He had a feeling most of the students would be here. Whether or not it's a good or bad thing is a different story. Hell, Henry could be leading some Wickerman death cult right now; burning Bradley like Nicholas Cage or some crazy shit. Michael shook his head at the thought. He doubted even a single one of his classmates would do something so sadistic, let alone a large group of people falling down that route.
Then Jerry regained his attention with a question. A damn good question at that... Jerry was planning on looting the place. That's something that'll help in the long run for sure, especially if shit goes pear shaped. "Hell yeah, not like anyone else gonna use this shit." Michael grabbed his supplies and put them back in his bag. He kept the map on him however, folding it up and putting it in his jacket pocket.
"Aight Jerry, best thing to get would be bottles, toilet paper, and maybe some backup weapons."
Oh crap, paper toilet. He never thought about that. Even though he was on this island, he was still a human being with need like going to the bathroom, eating, drinking, sleeping, and much more. Nobody could just go around hacking away and thinking they could still leave today.
This game could spend days, maybe even a week before it comes to an end. It could last even longer, up to fourteen days of fighting, if he recalled right the news report about one of those version. If it was time limited, he would have played, but it wasn't. They could stay here for a long time, if one person was murdered a day and the murderer called it a day. They'll spend so much time on this island, it'll become their lives and histories. It freaked Jerry the fuck out.
It could last a month maybe if the class didn't feel like playing. Maybe one day for everyone students on the trip. Maybe they'd all be dead, but for one, tomorrow. The future held the answer, and he'd rather not know about it.
So the plan was to loot the place: find paper toilet, find some booze, and find something to use as a weapon. Should be feasible quickly and neatly. Especially since they are two and they can seperate to find more at once. Divide and conquer the pub? Sounds like a plan.
He thought about it, he started in the woman's bathroom and it was the closest room to him, other than the man's and Michael seemed to have awaken somewhere around here, so maybe he should search this specific room.
Did it really make a difference? No. Jerry just wanted some kind of control over this situation. They, the students, had no power over this program/game/fight or whatever the terrorists called it at the "you get tied down and gassed" briefing. They were terrorists, right? It wasn't some kind of inside job? Gosh, if this was one of those conspiracy revealed to be true, how fucked up that'd be?
He sighed, he didn't have time to think about those things. He was busy trying to not die and stick around long enough to see another day. He exhaled and inhaled, fuck this was a dramatic ten minutes. He shook his head, just get going and don't stop. If you stop, you think, if you think, it hurts. Just go and never stop. He bit his lip, time to get going, no time to think.
"I'll check out the washrooms, and you search where they stashed the booze, okay?"
This game could spend days, maybe even a week before it comes to an end. It could last even longer, up to fourteen days of fighting, if he recalled right the news report about one of those version. If it was time limited, he would have played, but it wasn't. They could stay here for a long time, if one person was murdered a day and the murderer called it a day. They'll spend so much time on this island, it'll become their lives and histories. It freaked Jerry the fuck out.
It could last a month maybe if the class didn't feel like playing. Maybe one day for everyone students on the trip. Maybe they'd all be dead, but for one, tomorrow. The future held the answer, and he'd rather not know about it.
So the plan was to loot the place: find paper toilet, find some booze, and find something to use as a weapon. Should be feasible quickly and neatly. Especially since they are two and they can seperate to find more at once. Divide and conquer the pub? Sounds like a plan.
He thought about it, he started in the woman's bathroom and it was the closest room to him, other than the man's and Michael seemed to have awaken somewhere around here, so maybe he should search this specific room.
Did it really make a difference? No. Jerry just wanted some kind of control over this situation. They, the students, had no power over this program/game/fight or whatever the terrorists called it at the "you get tied down and gassed" briefing. They were terrorists, right? It wasn't some kind of inside job? Gosh, if this was one of those conspiracy revealed to be true, how fucked up that'd be?
He sighed, he didn't have time to think about those things. He was busy trying to not die and stick around long enough to see another day. He exhaled and inhaled, fuck this was a dramatic ten minutes. He shook his head, just get going and don't stop. If you stop, you think, if you think, it hurts. Just go and never stop. He bit his lip, time to get going, no time to think.
"I'll check out the washrooms, and you search where they stashed the booze, okay?"
"Yeah, I gotcha."
Jerry decided to loot the restrooms, after all, there's only so many pages in the survival handbook. Hah, get a good look at that you fucker! That left Michael with the weapons and beer run.
This was the plan then. Ransack the place, get what we need, prepare for what could be the rest of our lives. Rather do it now, then try later and find the rest of the place has been fucked over. At the very least, whatever's in here will add three days to our lifespan, and that's if there's no high-proof alcohols in the building. Michael had doubted there'd be just cheap lagers and drafts here. But first, there was another task at hand. One that required a bit of Crowe-creativity.
Michael's eyes trailed down towards the table below him. His hand slid across the top of it, it was old, but it wasn't soggy or moldy. This was built to last, which meant...
Michael's leg shot up into the bottom of the table, knocking it on it's side. Grabbing a hold of the table leg with his right hand, he took his axe with his left and brought it down on the base of the leg, right where it met the counter top. Four decent smacks, and the leg came off without a hitch. "One for you..." Michael swung twice on the next leg, before twisting and yanking it off. "One for moi..." Michael squinted through his shades, admiring such a simple, yet effective tool.
Wasn't too hard, wasn't too soft. With this, he could pull his hits. He didn't have to worry about killing someone if he hit them with this. If someone were to attack him, he could knock them out, take their shit, leave, put it in the back of his mind.
He couldn't say that with the axe. There's no pulling punches with an axe. You'll cut through them, or if you don't, you'll cut so deep they'll bleed out anyways later on. He didn't want to use it except as a last resort.
Michael moved over to behind the bar. He wondered how this place was abandoned, how much was left over. And how much after that Danya and his droogs took. You bastards, you fucks, you're gonna get it, just you fucking wait. Michael slid his hands along the counter, reading the worn labels on the bottles. "High proof, high proof..." He needed something with a high alcohol content, on one hand, you could make a molotov, easy dispatch right? Except it was a cruel and senseless waste of both life and liquor.
The liquor wasn't for drinking. He knew while he was on this island he was gonna get shit on. Beaten, cut, burnt, blown up, shot, maybe even literally shat on. He'd need something to clean those wounds if he didn't want to die of sepsis, or blood poisoning, or some fucking flesh melting bacteria or shit that could be on this island. He'd need it to survive, and contrary to Danya's belief, survive doesn't necessarily mean kill everything that moves.
There wasn't anything here of use though. Empty draft machines, pitchers, glass cups, bottles of 50 year old flat beer. No way in hell was this place inhabited since the 70's.
He remembered where he woke up. That barrel soaked his fucking ankles when he broke it. There had to be something in the back room, right? Michael shifted over to his awakening point, if that's the right word to use. "Yo!" Michael called out to the restrooms. "I'ma check the store room, maybe we'll find some rum, or whiskey or some shit y'know, in case someone tries cuttin' us or some shit!"
Michael opened the door, and walked down the two steps into the room. His shoes stuck to the floor with each step, as an audible plop was heard as he walked through the wet floor. If the place still had the good shit, it'd be here.
Jerry decided to loot the restrooms, after all, there's only so many pages in the survival handbook. Hah, get a good look at that you fucker! That left Michael with the weapons and beer run.
This was the plan then. Ransack the place, get what we need, prepare for what could be the rest of our lives. Rather do it now, then try later and find the rest of the place has been fucked over. At the very least, whatever's in here will add three days to our lifespan, and that's if there's no high-proof alcohols in the building. Michael had doubted there'd be just cheap lagers and drafts here. But first, there was another task at hand. One that required a bit of Crowe-creativity.
Michael's eyes trailed down towards the table below him. His hand slid across the top of it, it was old, but it wasn't soggy or moldy. This was built to last, which meant...
Michael's leg shot up into the bottom of the table, knocking it on it's side. Grabbing a hold of the table leg with his right hand, he took his axe with his left and brought it down on the base of the leg, right where it met the counter top. Four decent smacks, and the leg came off without a hitch. "One for you..." Michael swung twice on the next leg, before twisting and yanking it off. "One for moi..." Michael squinted through his shades, admiring such a simple, yet effective tool.
Wasn't too hard, wasn't too soft. With this, he could pull his hits. He didn't have to worry about killing someone if he hit them with this. If someone were to attack him, he could knock them out, take their shit, leave, put it in the back of his mind.
He couldn't say that with the axe. There's no pulling punches with an axe. You'll cut through them, or if you don't, you'll cut so deep they'll bleed out anyways later on. He didn't want to use it except as a last resort.
Michael moved over to behind the bar. He wondered how this place was abandoned, how much was left over. And how much after that Danya and his droogs took. You bastards, you fucks, you're gonna get it, just you fucking wait. Michael slid his hands along the counter, reading the worn labels on the bottles. "High proof, high proof..." He needed something with a high alcohol content, on one hand, you could make a molotov, easy dispatch right? Except it was a cruel and senseless waste of both life and liquor.
The liquor wasn't for drinking. He knew while he was on this island he was gonna get shit on. Beaten, cut, burnt, blown up, shot, maybe even literally shat on. He'd need something to clean those wounds if he didn't want to die of sepsis, or blood poisoning, or some fucking flesh melting bacteria or shit that could be on this island. He'd need it to survive, and contrary to Danya's belief, survive doesn't necessarily mean kill everything that moves.
There wasn't anything here of use though. Empty draft machines, pitchers, glass cups, bottles of 50 year old flat beer. No way in hell was this place inhabited since the 70's.
He remembered where he woke up. That barrel soaked his fucking ankles when he broke it. There had to be something in the back room, right? Michael shifted over to his awakening point, if that's the right word to use. "Yo!" Michael called out to the restrooms. "I'ma check the store room, maybe we'll find some rum, or whiskey or some shit y'know, in case someone tries cuttin' us or some shit!"
Michael opened the door, and walked down the two steps into the room. His shoes stuck to the floor with each step, as an audible plop was heard as he walked through the wet floor. If the place still had the good shit, it'd be here.
Meanwhile in the bathroom, Jerry heard Michael's swinging. He must have been having fun over there, whacking stuff with his axe.
He wished he had an axe when he searched the men's bathroom. Some of the door were easy to open, but others had to be kicked because somebody had the idea to lock them. He could have just slid under the space below the door but that was nasty. The floor was obviously not cleaned for a long time and who knows what went on it.
He felt like he just walked into a time capsule. The wall, the floor, the decor, everything was so old. The paper toilet looked old too. They were kinda crusty and dry, but still usable. However, in the middle, bugs were crawling, angry that somebody shook their houses. When realized a bug was crawling on his hand, he screamed.
"It's fine, j-just bugs!"
Nasty, nasty, nasty.
Instead of going for each and separate bathrooms, he went for the janitor's closest. In there, he found a broomstick. Was that a weapon? He could hit someone with it, so he considered it. He was going to go back for it after he got the paper toilet.
There were two kinds of paper toilet: the rolls and the tissue one. The rolls were in a pile, and it was obvious it was the house of crawlies while the tissues kind was wrapped around in plastic. There was about a dozen of neatly stashed tissues on the shelf.
He beat-hugged the pile and carried it out of the bathroom. He dropped it on a table, the once neat square was transformed into a rectangle with holes right and left. He dropped a couple of them, whoops.
"I got the paper toilet," he screamed to his ally, "I also found a broomstick for whatever its worth."
He wished he had an axe when he searched the men's bathroom. Some of the door were easy to open, but others had to be kicked because somebody had the idea to lock them. He could have just slid under the space below the door but that was nasty. The floor was obviously not cleaned for a long time and who knows what went on it.
He felt like he just walked into a time capsule. The wall, the floor, the decor, everything was so old. The paper toilet looked old too. They were kinda crusty and dry, but still usable. However, in the middle, bugs were crawling, angry that somebody shook their houses. When realized a bug was crawling on his hand, he screamed.
"It's fine, j-just bugs!"
Nasty, nasty, nasty.
Instead of going for each and separate bathrooms, he went for the janitor's closest. In there, he found a broomstick. Was that a weapon? He could hit someone with it, so he considered it. He was going to go back for it after he got the paper toilet.
There were two kinds of paper toilet: the rolls and the tissue one. The rolls were in a pile, and it was obvious it was the house of crawlies while the tissues kind was wrapped around in plastic. There was about a dozen of neatly stashed tissues on the shelf.
He beat-hugged the pile and carried it out of the bathroom. He dropped it on a table, the once neat square was transformed into a rectangle with holes right and left. He dropped a couple of them, whoops.
"I got the paper toilet," he screamed to his ally, "I also found a broomstick for whatever its worth."
Bugs in the bathroom? Poor bastard, Michael was glad he didn't get bathroom duty. Goddamn, Michael hated bugs. He hated spiders most of all, but all bugs are fucking terrible. Well, except honey bees, those are pretty cool, they actually do shit. But shit like mosquitoes and flies could fuck off. Do nothing but spread malaria and get eaten by spiders, which coincidentally, spiders only eat other bugs that do nothing but spread disgusting shit. It's like damn God, couldn't you think of something a bit less redundant? Out of the seven days it took, the one with the bugs must have been his writer's block. Michael wasn't going to ask him about it right now though, he had a long fulfilling life in front of him, regardless of what those gas mask wearing fuck-sticks told him.
The wet plopping noises were getting on his nerves now. There wasn't much good stuff here to use. Most of the bottles were empty, or were so molded that putting it on a cut would cause your dick to rot off. So really, there wasn't good stuff at all, just useless shit. Guess on this one he was SOL. Michael opened the crate next to the shelves.
Well whaddya know. There was still vodka. The edible nail polish remover that people most commonly of Slavic nationality consume. Michael picked up various bottles, before he heard Jerry mention something about a broomstick. "Nah man! I got you a table leg!" Michael called back. "Smaller, and just as good of a hit!" A broomstick was just too long to reliably use. Maybe if we had a kni- oh shit the shock knife! Well... we've got nothing to connect the two. Actually, we don't even need to connect the shock knife! Michael had an axe, he could sharpen that shit! Damn, we might not have guns, but we got enough shit to go Far Cry on some motherfuckers. "Aaaaactually, hold onto that broom for a moment!"
Looking back at the vodka bottles, they were barely empty. Just a shot or two at most if you combined what they all had together. Well, damn. There isn't nothing in here worth dragging along outside of toilet paper and a few improvisational. Yep, he was shit out of luck it seems. Eh, maybe he could use one of the bottles to throw and distract someone? Fuck it, he'll come back later if he has to. Michael closed the box back up.
"Store room's fuckin' empty, wouldn't order the fish and chips here if I were you." Michael walked back into the main room, scratching his head. "I think we got everything here, but if we stay a little longer, I could probably make that broomstick into a damn javelin or some shit; whittle it down to a point, y'know?" In terms of weapons and commodities, they did all right, now it was just a hope of if the first aid kits had enough in them to keep them from dying from tetanus.
The wet plopping noises were getting on his nerves now. There wasn't much good stuff here to use. Most of the bottles were empty, or were so molded that putting it on a cut would cause your dick to rot off. So really, there wasn't good stuff at all, just useless shit. Guess on this one he was SOL. Michael opened the crate next to the shelves.
Well whaddya know. There was still vodka. The edible nail polish remover that people most commonly of Slavic nationality consume. Michael picked up various bottles, before he heard Jerry mention something about a broomstick. "Nah man! I got you a table leg!" Michael called back. "Smaller, and just as good of a hit!" A broomstick was just too long to reliably use. Maybe if we had a kni- oh shit the shock knife! Well... we've got nothing to connect the two. Actually, we don't even need to connect the shock knife! Michael had an axe, he could sharpen that shit! Damn, we might not have guns, but we got enough shit to go Far Cry on some motherfuckers. "Aaaaactually, hold onto that broom for a moment!"
Looking back at the vodka bottles, they were barely empty. Just a shot or two at most if you combined what they all had together. Well, damn. There isn't nothing in here worth dragging along outside of toilet paper and a few improvisational. Yep, he was shit out of luck it seems. Eh, maybe he could use one of the bottles to throw and distract someone? Fuck it, he'll come back later if he has to. Michael closed the box back up.
"Store room's fuckin' empty, wouldn't order the fish and chips here if I were you." Michael walked back into the main room, scratching his head. "I think we got everything here, but if we stay a little longer, I could probably make that broomstick into a damn javelin or some shit; whittle it down to a point, y'know?" In terms of weapons and commodities, they did all right, now it was just a hope of if the first aid kits had enough in them to keep them from dying from tetanus.
Okay, we got no luck for the bottle, maybe they were empty or moldy. However, they were still bottles, made of glass and sharp when broken, made a lot of sound when thrown and smashed. Though since they lack the precious liquid, Michael didn't take them. They were still useful, he felt like speaking up but Michael still had a fucking axe and he didn't want to be the reason why that he went around cutting people, starting by Jerry. Maybe he should do that later.
They still lack of guns but they found other things that could be considered weapons like a soon-to-be spear and a table leg. He thought about killing someone with one of those thing and it wasn't enjoyable. With a gun at least, it was from far away, you pressed on a trigger then you're done. The person is dead and you're alive.
But with a stick, you'd have to get close, poke someone with it and chances are you wouldn't be done. You'd have to do it a lot of times, repeatedly until their last breath leave their body. You'd have to get bloody, so bloody. Your clothes would be soaked, you'd be covered in dry blood, you'd have some in your mouth. He wasn't ready to do such thing, if he was to play the game, he'd have to wait. Until somebody tries to kill him or while protecting someone, that'd make him a hero, a savior even.
Yes, that'd make him a nice person. Not a killer, not a murderer, not a villain, not a psychopath, not a-
Stop thinking, get to work. He had to figure what was so shocking about his knife and he had to make his broomstick pointy and deadly.
"Okay, so I'd go get the broomstick and the package I've dropped along the way."
He went back into the janitor's closet, founding a trail of compacted packs to it. One, two, and three tissues plastic wrappers left behind. He squeezed them under his elbow and he grabbed the broomstick.
When he went back into the main room, he found Michael still in the same position.
"Okay so here's the broom," he handed it over and he said, "I found some leftovers, I'll go make two piles."
Figuring that knife out would be for another moment.
They still lack of guns but they found other things that could be considered weapons like a soon-to-be spear and a table leg. He thought about killing someone with one of those thing and it wasn't enjoyable. With a gun at least, it was from far away, you pressed on a trigger then you're done. The person is dead and you're alive.
But with a stick, you'd have to get close, poke someone with it and chances are you wouldn't be done. You'd have to do it a lot of times, repeatedly until their last breath leave their body. You'd have to get bloody, so bloody. Your clothes would be soaked, you'd be covered in dry blood, you'd have some in your mouth. He wasn't ready to do such thing, if he was to play the game, he'd have to wait. Until somebody tries to kill him or while protecting someone, that'd make him a hero, a savior even.
Yes, that'd make him a nice person. Not a killer, not a murderer, not a villain, not a psychopath, not a-
Stop thinking, get to work. He had to figure what was so shocking about his knife and he had to make his broomstick pointy and deadly.
"Okay, so I'd go get the broomstick and the package I've dropped along the way."
He went back into the janitor's closet, founding a trail of compacted packs to it. One, two, and three tissues plastic wrappers left behind. He squeezed them under his elbow and he grabbed the broomstick.
When he went back into the main room, he found Michael still in the same position.
"Okay so here's the broom," he handed it over and he said, "I found some leftovers, I'll go make two piles."
Figuring that knife out would be for another moment.
Jerry handed him the broom. Michael got straight to work.
They were going to make it; at least they are in the early game. Michael summed up their weapons. Two table legs, a shock knife, an axe, and a spear. Nobody who wanted to live would come at them, unless they were really well armed. If someone had a gun, and Michael knew damn well people would, they wouldn't be too scared of them unless Mike and Jerry managed to close the distance quickly. If the gun was semi-automatic, or even bolt action, they'd be screwed if they missed their first shot, and even if they didn't the one not hit would close the distance and utterly facefuck them. Twenty foot rule. A man could close in on someone within 20 feet if they weren't expecting it, and it's turned down to 8 feet if they are expecting it. If they were quick to close the distance, they could down a gunman before he even had drawn.
But there was another problem, if the gun was automatic, a spray and pray could end them both right then and there. No 'ifs', 'ands', or 'buts'. You'd be so full of wholes you would be dead before you could even say 'Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto". You might not even be able to finish the "Domo Arigato" part. The only way to beat a machine gun killer would be to catch them off guard. Gang and gank 'em before they knew what happened. If they got a hold of a gun like that, that'd cement their chances to even higher. Maybe even a week.
But there was another problem. Who knew if Jerry would be willing to stick with Michael for the duration of this fucked up show? Hell, Michael couldn't even promise to stick with him, his plan was to find Jonathan, or Darius, or Bradley or some shit. And for all Michael knows, Jerry had similar plans. Even if both of them found their friends and stayed in one large group it just wouldn't work. Too many incompatibilities.
It'd probably be better on Michael's conscious to help Jerry find his crew, before he left to find his own, but what if during the time it took his friends died? If by any chance taking the route Jerry told him when the other one would've led him to his friends. Would Michael be bitter? Would he blame Jerry for causing the deaths of his closest ones? Especially if he could help them had he gone another route. But then would be be able to live with himself if he found his crew and left Jerry on his own. What if Jerry died alone shortly after?
Michael turned the broom and began shaving the next side down with his axe.
Would Jerry even stick with him for that long? There's a chance one of them could be killed before ever reaching anyone's goal. Someone well armed enough to take them on, paranoia, fuck something as simple as saying the wrong thing could start fight to the death now. Might as well speak up about it now. Had to get priorities straight. Have to make sure there is a sense of loyalty in the first place.
"Yo, Jerry, if shit hits the fan and we get attacked..." Just drop the question."Like you gotta fight someone, no running or anything.." No pussyfooting around. "If I had to kill,-I mean we had to, like..."
Man just nut up and say it.
"If we had to kill someone, would you back me up?"
Michael stared at Jerry through his dark sunglasses.
They were going to make it; at least they are in the early game. Michael summed up their weapons. Two table legs, a shock knife, an axe, and a spear. Nobody who wanted to live would come at them, unless they were really well armed. If someone had a gun, and Michael knew damn well people would, they wouldn't be too scared of them unless Mike and Jerry managed to close the distance quickly. If the gun was semi-automatic, or even bolt action, they'd be screwed if they missed their first shot, and even if they didn't the one not hit would close the distance and utterly facefuck them. Twenty foot rule. A man could close in on someone within 20 feet if they weren't expecting it, and it's turned down to 8 feet if they are expecting it. If they were quick to close the distance, they could down a gunman before he even had drawn.
But there was another problem, if the gun was automatic, a spray and pray could end them both right then and there. No 'ifs', 'ands', or 'buts'. You'd be so full of wholes you would be dead before you could even say 'Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto". You might not even be able to finish the "Domo Arigato" part. The only way to beat a machine gun killer would be to catch them off guard. Gang and gank 'em before they knew what happened. If they got a hold of a gun like that, that'd cement their chances to even higher. Maybe even a week.
But there was another problem. Who knew if Jerry would be willing to stick with Michael for the duration of this fucked up show? Hell, Michael couldn't even promise to stick with him, his plan was to find Jonathan, or Darius, or Bradley or some shit. And for all Michael knows, Jerry had similar plans. Even if both of them found their friends and stayed in one large group it just wouldn't work. Too many incompatibilities.
It'd probably be better on Michael's conscious to help Jerry find his crew, before he left to find his own, but what if during the time it took his friends died? If by any chance taking the route Jerry told him when the other one would've led him to his friends. Would Michael be bitter? Would he blame Jerry for causing the deaths of his closest ones? Especially if he could help them had he gone another route. But then would be be able to live with himself if he found his crew and left Jerry on his own. What if Jerry died alone shortly after?
Michael turned the broom and began shaving the next side down with his axe.
Would Jerry even stick with him for that long? There's a chance one of them could be killed before ever reaching anyone's goal. Someone well armed enough to take them on, paranoia, fuck something as simple as saying the wrong thing could start fight to the death now. Might as well speak up about it now. Had to get priorities straight. Have to make sure there is a sense of loyalty in the first place.
"Yo, Jerry, if shit hits the fan and we get attacked..." Just drop the question."Like you gotta fight someone, no running or anything.." No pussyfooting around. "If I had to kill,-I mean we had to, like..."
Man just nut up and say it.
"If we had to kill someone, would you back me up?"
Michael stared at Jerry through his dark sunglasses.
The chills on his back started to crawl upward.
Like electricity flowing through a cable, his spine conducted the bugs up to his brain, passing through his stomach, lungs, heart, neck, collar, mouth and, finally, reaching their final destination. The bugs spread around his brain, hitting themselves against the skull, knocking cells around and devouring his thoughts. The invaders finally attacked the central command of Jerry starting with the brain stem, eating their way through his fleshy yet so yummy brain. There was a frenzy, then nothing for a second.
He became numb.
They just stayed up there, waiting. They looked through Jerry's eyes, listened through Jerry's ears, felt through Jerry's skin, and they studied. Despite rampaging through his body and sending shocks in every corner of his body, Jerry wasn't dead. He still needs to breath, sleep, eat. But something somewhere changed, whether in his DNA or chemicals in his brain, he became someone else. He was a puppet, the puppet master being those insidious thoughts and the string being his emotions.
For a moment, he zoned out as the words echoed in his head.
He tried to swallow away the bugs, to drown them, to kill them, but they were still there. He killed one and ten were given birth by the echoing voice in his head. No matter what he did or thought about, they still crawled. He felt them crawling in his veins, crawling in his arteries, crawling in his capillaries, crawling and crawling and crawling and crawling and crawling and crawling.
He opened his mouth, the bugs almost escaped, they were craving for that moment, but he sewed his mouth back shut. These thoughts, this pain, this thing inside of him needed to stay there. He needed to contain and lock it in. The urge of vomiting these monsters was becoming unbearable, however. He felt them gathering in his throat, forming a knot, resisting against their host.
They needed to escape to spread their eggs. They had to make sure their spawn will live because they knew their host was dying. Not yet, but one day, he will be. He'll simply fade away, and if they stayed stuck in inside of him, how will the next generation of parasite will exist? Who will spread their deadly traditions? They couldn't stay here forever, they had to find a way out. So they fought, spreading the knot, making it impossible to swallow. They made a stone in his stomach, and Jerry felt like puking it out. They let the mercury flow inside of him, making him heavy and slow. They tied his feet to cement blocks. They gently pushed him toward the ed-
He gave up, and let the flies escape.
"You can count on me."
Like electricity flowing through a cable, his spine conducted the bugs up to his brain, passing through his stomach, lungs, heart, neck, collar, mouth and, finally, reaching their final destination. The bugs spread around his brain, hitting themselves against the skull, knocking cells around and devouring his thoughts. The invaders finally attacked the central command of Jerry starting with the brain stem, eating their way through his fleshy yet so yummy brain. There was a frenzy, then nothing for a second.
He became numb.
They just stayed up there, waiting. They looked through Jerry's eyes, listened through Jerry's ears, felt through Jerry's skin, and they studied. Despite rampaging through his body and sending shocks in every corner of his body, Jerry wasn't dead. He still needs to breath, sleep, eat. But something somewhere changed, whether in his DNA or chemicals in his brain, he became someone else. He was a puppet, the puppet master being those insidious thoughts and the string being his emotions.
For a moment, he zoned out as the words echoed in his head.
He tried to swallow away the bugs, to drown them, to kill them, but they were still there. He killed one and ten were given birth by the echoing voice in his head. No matter what he did or thought about, they still crawled. He felt them crawling in his veins, crawling in his arteries, crawling in his capillaries, crawling and crawling and crawling and crawling and crawling and crawling.
He opened his mouth, the bugs almost escaped, they were craving for that moment, but he sewed his mouth back shut. These thoughts, this pain, this thing inside of him needed to stay there. He needed to contain and lock it in. The urge of vomiting these monsters was becoming unbearable, however. He felt them gathering in his throat, forming a knot, resisting against their host.
They needed to escape to spread their eggs. They had to make sure their spawn will live because they knew their host was dying. Not yet, but one day, he will be. He'll simply fade away, and if they stayed stuck in inside of him, how will the next generation of parasite will exist? Who will spread their deadly traditions? They couldn't stay here forever, they had to find a way out. So they fought, spreading the knot, making it impossible to swallow. They made a stone in his stomach, and Jerry felt like puking it out. They let the mercury flow inside of him, making him heavy and slow. They tied his feet to cement blocks. They gently pushed him toward the ed-
He gave up, and let the flies escape.
"You can count on me."
That was it then. Just like that, no stuttering, no hesitations, no 'if's 'and's or 'but's. This was it. Locked into place, Michael and Jerry were the SOTF Bonnie and Clyde 2015...
Except that they weren't. Michael wasn't going to be the murderer, neither he, nor Jerry.
Michael had to make it clear. He paused on his whittling to take a moment to contemplate. "Alright, listen. You and I both know we wanna see the people we care about.." Good start, good start. "But there is a big fucking problem with that, you feel me?" Michael placed the broom stick to his side. "We're gonna find a lot of people out there, angry, petty, scared, sadistic, you name it."
"All of 'em gonna have one thing in common, they gonna kill; don't matter if they want to live, if they got a grudge, or if they just want to see what it feels like to do it, there's gonna be killers on this island."
Michael always had a thing for the dramatic. It didn't matter if it were a group of mobsters talking about whacking a snitch, the underground resistance planning a last ditch assault against their machine overlords, or the lock and load montage as a rag tag team plans to escape a zombie infected city. One thing they all had in common was that big ass speech right before the climax. Michael'd like to think this speech would be one. He'd also liked to think this was one of his movies. Once you die, scene cut, go to the break room with your friends. Except this wasn't no movie.
"We ain't gonna be players, hunters, bandits, whatever the fuck you call 'em. If someone hits us, we hit back harder, someone raids us, we raid back harder. But we won't be the ones starting shit."
This was honestly a morbid fucking thing to be talking about, there were a lot better conversations he had planned. But it's best to get this shit out of the way now then later.
"If we can get away without anyone dying, then let's do it, but if it's us or them, you and me, we gotta make sure it's them. Make them got, before they get us got, no trusting the fuckers."
He picked up the wooden broomstick, damn he was almost done, he'd probably have been done by now if he didn't stop to be all dramatic and shit.
"Just to make sure we're on the same page, we ain't killing nobody who don't deserve it, okay?" Michael grinned, he was done with the words. Got them out, felt a hell of a lot better.
A bell rang, Michael turned his head. "Must be some people looking for their friends, hope they find 'em...." Speaking of which.
"Hey Jerry, you didn't tell me who you were lookin' out for, by the way." Michael smiled as he whittled. "Any brothers or sisters? Bee-Eff- Eff's maybe?" As Michael thought a bit about Jerry's first impression, he thought about his own. What if he woke up to someone screaming and breaking shit, threatening to sexually assault a camera which all culminates in getting asked to help him kill shit?
Holy fucking shit. Michael just realized that to Jerry, and any other normal person who wouldn't know him, he probably looked bat shit fucking insane out the goddamn membrane.
Michael chuckled, Jerry probably thought it was about the whole friend talk, but Michael just had to laugh at himself a bit. This was a fucking joke. A joke in horrible taste, but damn, his very existence on this island was a joke. Hell there was an asylum on this fucking island right? Christ, the moment anyone left this place they'd be sent to another one back home.
Funny how that works right?
You uhhh, looking for a girlfriend or boyfriend? Maybe both, if you're a bisexual Morman?" Michael chuckled and wagged his eyebrows on delivery. Michael desperately hoped he could at least lower the tension a little bit. The hard part of teaming up was over; and to be honest, Michael wanted to go back to the good old days of five minutes ago, when they were just talking about catching their bearings and wondering where everyone was.
Except that they weren't. Michael wasn't going to be the murderer, neither he, nor Jerry.
Michael had to make it clear. He paused on his whittling to take a moment to contemplate. "Alright, listen. You and I both know we wanna see the people we care about.." Good start, good start. "But there is a big fucking problem with that, you feel me?" Michael placed the broom stick to his side. "We're gonna find a lot of people out there, angry, petty, scared, sadistic, you name it."
"All of 'em gonna have one thing in common, they gonna kill; don't matter if they want to live, if they got a grudge, or if they just want to see what it feels like to do it, there's gonna be killers on this island."
Michael always had a thing for the dramatic. It didn't matter if it were a group of mobsters talking about whacking a snitch, the underground resistance planning a last ditch assault against their machine overlords, or the lock and load montage as a rag tag team plans to escape a zombie infected city. One thing they all had in common was that big ass speech right before the climax. Michael'd like to think this speech would be one. He'd also liked to think this was one of his movies. Once you die, scene cut, go to the break room with your friends. Except this wasn't no movie.
"We ain't gonna be players, hunters, bandits, whatever the fuck you call 'em. If someone hits us, we hit back harder, someone raids us, we raid back harder. But we won't be the ones starting shit."
This was honestly a morbid fucking thing to be talking about, there were a lot better conversations he had planned. But it's best to get this shit out of the way now then later.
"If we can get away without anyone dying, then let's do it, but if it's us or them, you and me, we gotta make sure it's them. Make them got, before they get us got, no trusting the fuckers."
He picked up the wooden broomstick, damn he was almost done, he'd probably have been done by now if he didn't stop to be all dramatic and shit.
"Just to make sure we're on the same page, we ain't killing nobody who don't deserve it, okay?" Michael grinned, he was done with the words. Got them out, felt a hell of a lot better.
A bell rang, Michael turned his head. "Must be some people looking for their friends, hope they find 'em...." Speaking of which.
"Hey Jerry, you didn't tell me who you were lookin' out for, by the way." Michael smiled as he whittled. "Any brothers or sisters? Bee-Eff- Eff's maybe?" As Michael thought a bit about Jerry's first impression, he thought about his own. What if he woke up to someone screaming and breaking shit, threatening to sexually assault a camera which all culminates in getting asked to help him kill shit?
Holy fucking shit. Michael just realized that to Jerry, and any other normal person who wouldn't know him, he probably looked bat shit fucking insane out the goddamn membrane.
Michael chuckled, Jerry probably thought it was about the whole friend talk, but Michael just had to laugh at himself a bit. This was a fucking joke. A joke in horrible taste, but damn, his very existence on this island was a joke. Hell there was an asylum on this fucking island right? Christ, the moment anyone left this place they'd be sent to another one back home.
Funny how that works right?
You uhhh, looking for a girlfriend or boyfriend? Maybe both, if you're a bisexual Morman?" Michael chuckled and wagged his eyebrows on delivery. Michael desperately hoped he could at least lower the tension a little bit. The hard part of teaming up was over; and to be honest, Michael wanted to go back to the good old days of five minutes ago, when they were just talking about catching their bearings and wondering where everyone was.