They didn't have collars.
Of the entire situation, Drew focused on that specific fact.
They didn't have collars.
He'd never been the type of person to spend a lot of time watching the Program. There wasn't a lot of time for television at home, and Drew wasn't going to waste his limited free time on watching people dying. He'd had more than enough of that in his life already, and seeing strangers kill one another held no attraction for him.
This year, however, Drew hadn't had the good fortune to be able to duck the Program (which was now even more literal, huh?). Manny, his cousin, had been landed with a year-long military studies project that consisted almost entirely of the Program.
Drew couldn't remember the title of the coursework right now, since Manny had barely ever talked about it, even though he'd spent every free afternoon either watching the Program as it happened, catching up on it, or studying past clips. His tío, Manny's dad hadn't approved of the habit, especially when the TV was in the lounge where the girls could easily walk in and see the violence unfolding on screen. Manny, in that calm way of his, had explained the importance of him acing the class, pointing out that if he kept his grades up, his application for officers' school would be fast tracked.
Drew's uncle had laughed softly and said "Don't get your hopes up, mijo." He hadn't commented further about Manny watching the Program.
Earlier in the year, Manny had mentioned 'collars' and 'danger zones' whilst chatting with a study partner. Drew hadn't realised that it had involved Program and curious, he'd asked what they were discussing. Manny had explained that the collars were an explosive device and the danger zones a means of corralling the participants as needed. Drew had backed out of the conversation at that point, less than eager to talk about more murder methods, but the imagery had stuck in his head.
A collar around the neck, a metaphorical and literal chain for the metaphorical and literal enslavement they were all being put through, in and out of the Program. There was no difference between killing one another on the General's orders and marching off to kill people in a foreign country.
Drew had never voiced his feelings to anyone but his uncle, and not for years now. When everything had become too much and he'd finally exploded in frustration at the army, at America, at everything, his uncle had borne the rant stoically and then regarded him, infinite sadness etched across his face.
"Andrés. I know it hurts, but talk like that will get you killed. That isn't what your parents would want for you," his voice cracked slightly. "It's not what I promised my brother."
Drew had looked back at him, thousands upon thousands of thoughts and words scattering through his head. He wanted to say that his uncle didn't understand, he wasn't the one who'd been orphaned at eleven, he wasn't the one who'd lost the only person who knew what he was going through. Drew wanted to demand where his uncle's promise was when José had gone off to Europe and then never come back, when they'd buried him without a body because he was 'missing presumed dead'.
Drew hadn't said any of those things. He'd nodded, pushed back his chair, and walked out.
He was fifteen then.
He was eighteen now and he was in Mexico, which in some ways was darkly ironic and in others just pissed him the hell off. This was his home, his real home. Where his family had come from and lived and worked and been called Landeros and not Ladd. He knew why his grandfather had done that, but what did it matter now? Being called Ladd hadn't stopped his mom and dad going off to die, writing Joseph instead of José hadn't done his brother any good when he'd vanished in a night of Russian shelling.
Drew had come home just to die.
But he wasn't wearing a collar, and that was important. If he didn't have a collar then they didn't have any way of forcing him to move, and if they couldn't force him to move, then he could hole up and fortify. Although it was far from a sure bet, Drew would give it much better odds than wandering around in the open until he was shot dead.
First, he needed to know what he was working with. Drew pushed away any residual disgust he might have about the eagle emblazeoned on the military-green bag and instead focused on what it could contain. Quickly and efficiently, Drew opened it up, and found that at least in one tiny way his luck was in. They'd given him a rifle, and it barely mattered if he didn't know how to use it, a gun was still a gun and it sure as hell beat an American Flag or trash can or whatever other random junk they found to dump in people's packs.
All at once, a plan leaped into Drew's head.
His heart raced with adrenaline and anxiety as he crouched down behind a garden wall, poking through the bag. Food, water, that didn't matter right now. Some bullets, he set down on the grass, and then his fingers touched paper and he pulled out a manual.
Drew spent the next few minutes reading through it as thoroughly as he dared, freezing every time he heard the slightest sound. Out here, any kind of unfamiliar noise could represent a threat, someone sneaking up on him to kill him off. He thought his chances against a decent chunk of the class would be pretty good; he had a good weapon and he was in good shape. What he doubted was whether he could kill anyone. Not whether he was capable; he had a gun and that meant he could kill by definition. No, whether he could bring himself to do it, whether he had it in himself to pull the trigger.
Again, he tried not to think about how his plan for survival hinged on pulling that trigger until there was nobody left to pull the trigger on. He could worry about that after he'd found a safe place to get set up. He tried to concentrate on reading through the instructions instead. They were simple enough to get through, and Drew didn't know whether that should inspire confidence or concern. Should using a gun be easy? Was this designed for military personnel, who'd be assumed to be well aware of some information? Even though it was covering the very basics, he couldn't help but wonder and worry.
The buildings around here were fancy, fine architecture and with plenty of space between each home. Though the greenery may have been wilting, it wasn't dead the elements had done little to wear away the painstaking paintwork. It made Drew wonder how long the town had actually been abandoned, or even if it had been abandoned. That was his glorious country's MO, right? Take whatever they wanted with no regard for anyone else. It wouldn't be the first time they'd forced Mexican people from their homes.
He spent a little while moving through the winding paved walkways between the houses. Although there were larger streets, presumably to allow vehicles to make it up there, Drew kept from them as best he could. Too open, too exposed. He wanted to minimise his chances of any encounters.
After around twenty minutes which felt like hours, he spotted the perfect place. Three stories high, set up and slightly elevated from the other nearby buildings, with a set of steps leading up to the front door, itself set into a porchway. Probably there was a back entrance too, although Drew couldn't see it from here. He'd need to find that too, if he wanted to secure it properly.
Now he just had to make sure it was clear. Would his luck hold out that long? He was on a streak right now; maybe it was karma for the sheer cosmic bullshit which was getting picked for the Program in the first place.
Low and careful, rifle clutched in his hands, Drew crept up the gravel path leading up to the door. No bullets exploded through the air, nobody appeared in a window and began raining hell on him. Another eternity later, he reached the steps, wincing each time they creaked underneath his feet. The door was unlocked, and he entered.
It was a nice house, well-furnished and luxurious; much nicer than anywhere Drew had lived. It felt cold and hostile, like an empty shell. Drew couldn't even envisage that it would be more welcoming if it was his family living there. There was an empty trash can in the hallway, and he moved it behind the door, tilting it so that it would fall if anyone opened the door, and then started exploring.
A horribly decorated kitchen, all bright oranges and yellows that hurt his eyes to look at. A living and dining area with a flatscreen TV on the wall and a rug which looked like it had been puked up by a cat. Spacious and with lots of furniture, but quiet as the grave. There were some pictures on the walls, bizarre artwork that could have been drawn by a child.
Whoever had lived here, they had no head whatsoever for interior design.
The first floor was empty otherwise, and there wasn't anything of more use than the rifle Drew already had. He managed to locate the back door along the way, lodged a chair underneath the door handle and then piled up several more chairs around it, such that anybody entering would have to force their way through all the furniture. He returned to the main room and found the biggest couch there. With some effort, he began to push it across the carpet, grunting with the effort as it slowly ground its way over the floor. Thankfully, the entrance was an archway rather than just a door, allowing Drew just enough space to force the couch through.
Off the carpet and onto the lacquered wood floor of the main hallway, the couch's base began to drag along the floor with an ear-piercing screech. Drew froze, hunched over the sofa, listening out with all his might. The rifle was on the couch cushions, and after less than a second's consideration, he grabbed the weapon, continuing to listen out carefully.
Nothing. Nobody from upstairs or anywhere else. If somebody had heard him, then they were keeping very quiet about it.
That settled it. As quickly as he could, the same horrible noise shrieking out from the scraping, Drew pushed the couch all the way to the front door and then, with a groan of pained exertion, upended it, wedging the furniture against the entrance almost vertically. Nobody was getting through that without some serious effort.
Unfortunately the building had lower floor windows too, and Drew doubted his ability to secure all of those--no way were there enough supplies around here to board them up or whatever. Instead, he moved around the rooms, checking each window as he passed. They were the kind with a lock built-in, so they'd have to be forced or broken to enter. It would have to do for now.
Finally he ventured upstairs, through bedrooms and bathrooms and some kind of weird study that was filled with strangely-designed furniture which Drew figured was probably supposed to be ergonomic or something. It was just as empty as downstairs had been, and Drew dared to start hoping that he would be able to pull this off. He dragged some mattresses off the beds and tipped them onto the staircase,
On the third floor it got even better. Forget the rooms and the layout; a ladder had been folded down from the attic. There was a roof room.
Drew climbed straight up, finding himself in a small room with the roof sloping to either side, cramping the available space. However, there was enough room for a low futon, a desk, and a few personal effects. There was a square window set into the wall, overlooking the front garden where he'd originally approached the house from. It also offered a commanding view of the surrounding area; this had to be among the highest points on the peninsula.
Drew let out a tiny sigh of relief and laid down his things, flopping down onto the futon and just laying there for a few minutes. For now he was safe, or as safe as anyone could possibly be in the Program.
Ten, fifteen minutes later, Drew cracked open the window and laid down some of the futon cushions in front of it. He took a couple to get the setup right, and then, resting the rifle's barrel on the window, lay down prone like the snipers in the movies.
He breathed in, and then out.
In, and then out.
In My Sights
Phase 1 (0-12 Hours)
Drew didn't know enough about guns to be certain of the range of his rifle. It looked like the kind of weapon he could imagine an old-school sniper or maybe a game hunter using, what with the long barrel, the burnished stock, the scope affixed to the top of it. The bullets were enormous too, magnum calibre, as the instructions had helpfully advised him. Only three round capacity and bolt-action to boot.
None of that would have meant anything to him three days ago. Drew had the vaguest idea of how guns and ammo were supposed to work from cultural osmosis and media exposure, but what with the restrictions on privately owned firearms, he'd never been anywhere close to a weapon. Now, with a little practice, he'd more or less got the idea of how the rifle's action worked, how he loaded another round—not before he'd accidentally ejected bullets several times and on one heartstopping occasion got one jammed in the mechanism. Thank God he'd managed to clear the obstruction after a few minutes of fumbling; he'd almost had a panic attack.
Drew still had no idea what the range was though. How far was far for a rifle like this? His view from up here was excellent; if he compared what he could see out of the window with the map he'd found in his pack, he could match location-to-location with relative ease. This was especially true if he tucked the rifle up against his shoulder and looked down the scope, using it as magnification. Just because he could see didn't mean that he could shoot. There were physics and things to take into account, right? Bullets didn't just travel through a void, they were affected by wind and gravity and that meant there was no guarantee that he'd hit what he was aiming at or if there were sufficient force and velocity to actually... to actually ... harm... what he...
On two, three occasions now, Drew had caught sight of movement in the township below, people walking down the street or talking, travelling from point A to point B. On two, three occasions, Drew had put his eye to the scope and his finger on the trigger and he'd seen those people down there and he--and he hadn't been able to do anything.
It was too far, he told himself. He'd just be wasting ammo if he fired on them from here.
He tried to ignore that the view through the scope was shuddering wildly, in spite of the rifle's stable position on the windowsill. He tried to ignore the trembling in his index finger curled around the trigger.
He didn't succeed.
He couldn't do this. He had to do this. What was the point of sitting up here with a rifle if he didn't do anything?
Across the buildings, in the shabby area of the town, two figures—two people—went into a building. Drew's sights were trained on them the whole way. The view through the scope continued shuddering up and down, side to side.
His finger curled off the trigger.
A little while later, a length of time that Drew couldn't truly say how long, someone else approached. They went into a crouch and started to creep around the side of the building.
It was easier if Drew focused on the glint of metal in their hand, the fact he knew some people were inside, and this newcomer was sneaking around, looking for an angle of approach. It was easier if he thought of it almost like he was protecting them from a possible trespasser that would no doubt being out to kill them. That made it justified, didn't it?
Pulling the trigger was the hardest thing Drew had ever done.
None of that would have meant anything to him three days ago. Drew had the vaguest idea of how guns and ammo were supposed to work from cultural osmosis and media exposure, but what with the restrictions on privately owned firearms, he'd never been anywhere close to a weapon. Now, with a little practice, he'd more or less got the idea of how the rifle's action worked, how he loaded another round—not before he'd accidentally ejected bullets several times and on one heartstopping occasion got one jammed in the mechanism. Thank God he'd managed to clear the obstruction after a few minutes of fumbling; he'd almost had a panic attack.
Drew still had no idea what the range was though. How far was far for a rifle like this? His view from up here was excellent; if he compared what he could see out of the window with the map he'd found in his pack, he could match location-to-location with relative ease. This was especially true if he tucked the rifle up against his shoulder and looked down the scope, using it as magnification. Just because he could see didn't mean that he could shoot. There were physics and things to take into account, right? Bullets didn't just travel through a void, they were affected by wind and gravity and that meant there was no guarantee that he'd hit what he was aiming at or if there were sufficient force and velocity to actually... to actually ... harm... what he...
On two, three occasions now, Drew had caught sight of movement in the township below, people walking down the street or talking, travelling from point A to point B. On two, three occasions, Drew had put his eye to the scope and his finger on the trigger and he'd seen those people down there and he--and he hadn't been able to do anything.
It was too far, he told himself. He'd just be wasting ammo if he fired on them from here.
He tried to ignore that the view through the scope was shuddering wildly, in spite of the rifle's stable position on the windowsill. He tried to ignore the trembling in his index finger curled around the trigger.
He didn't succeed.
He couldn't do this. He had to do this. What was the point of sitting up here with a rifle if he didn't do anything?
Across the buildings, in the shabby area of the town, two figures—two people—went into a building. Drew's sights were trained on them the whole way. The view through the scope continued shuddering up and down, side to side.
His finger curled off the trigger.
A little while later, a length of time that Drew couldn't truly say how long, someone else approached. They went into a crouch and started to creep around the side of the building.
It was easier if Drew focused on the glint of metal in their hand, the fact he knew some people were inside, and this newcomer was sneaking around, looking for an angle of approach. It was easier if he thought of it almost like he was protecting them from a possible trespasser that would no doubt being out to kill them. That made it justified, didn't it?
Pulling the trigger was the hardest thing Drew had ever done.
Drew missed, and felt relieved.
Drew missed, and felt anxious.
Drew missed and he didn't really know how to feel.
It was a long shot, and he was no sharpshooter. Missing was probably to be expected, even from a good vantage point and the target having no idea that he was there. The target—how are you thinking of them as 'target' that's a person you—ran inside and that was that.
Except for how it wasn't. Except for how Drew spent the next fifteen, thirty, hundred minutes up in his little spot shuddering and shaking from head to toe.
He didn't bother trying to lie to himself that it was because shooting gave his position away. It wasn't that. It wasn't even close to being because of that. He'd just tried to shoot someone. He'd just tried to kill someone.
No matter how much he'd psyched himself up about the rifle and what it meant to be aiming out of this window, he couldn't truly be prepared for the reality of how it felt to have pulled that trigger and felt the kick back of the butt into his shoulder. His ears were still ringing from the thundering bang of the gunshot.
Drew gripped the bolt action. His hand shook, shook too much to even get a purchase on it and pull it back. He made the motion, the bolt didn't come with it as his hand slipped. Sweat. When had his hands started sweating?
Maybe round about the time his heart began to pound, his temples started throbbing, his stomach squeezed into a tight little ball that made him want to puke.
He'd done that. He'd just done that.
Drew sat with his back against the sloped wall of the tiny attic room, dropping the rifle from his jittering hands.
He buried his face in them as hot tears started to streak down his cheeks.
Drew missed, and felt anxious.
Drew missed and he didn't really know how to feel.
It was a long shot, and he was no sharpshooter. Missing was probably to be expected, even from a good vantage point and the target having no idea that he was there. The target—how are you thinking of them as 'target' that's a person you—ran inside and that was that.
Except for how it wasn't. Except for how Drew spent the next fifteen, thirty, hundred minutes up in his little spot shuddering and shaking from head to toe.
He didn't bother trying to lie to himself that it was because shooting gave his position away. It wasn't that. It wasn't even close to being because of that. He'd just tried to shoot someone. He'd just tried to kill someone.
No matter how much he'd psyched himself up about the rifle and what it meant to be aiming out of this window, he couldn't truly be prepared for the reality of how it felt to have pulled that trigger and felt the kick back of the butt into his shoulder. His ears were still ringing from the thundering bang of the gunshot.
Drew gripped the bolt action. His hand shook, shook too much to even get a purchase on it and pull it back. He made the motion, the bolt didn't come with it as his hand slipped. Sweat. When had his hands started sweating?
Maybe round about the time his heart began to pound, his temples started throbbing, his stomach squeezed into a tight little ball that made him want to puke.
He'd done that. He'd just done that.
Drew sat with his back against the sloped wall of the tiny attic room, dropping the rifle from his jittering hands.
He buried his face in them as hot tears started to streak down his cheeks.
Drew slept fitfully.
At one point he woke up, clutched the rifle to his chest, then he was throwing it clattering across the room.
He slept. Woke. slept again.
In the morning, with grey light filtering through the window, he picked it up again.
Drew sat there and stared at the far wall.
At one point he woke up, clutched the rifle to his chest, then he was throwing it clattering across the room.
He slept. Woke. slept again.
In the morning, with grey light filtering through the window, he picked it up again.
Drew sat there and stared at the far wall.
Drew remained in the attic and saw the helicopters.
How many hours from that first shot was it that Drew could pick up the rifle again? He wasn't counting. There was no point in counting.
For this to work out, he needed to retrieve the gun. He needed to use the gun. He needed to not be... like this.
He had no idea what the helicopters were, but it wasn't the first time that a chopper had flown over today. Drew had even heard a gunshot from one of them, spitting out death from above.
He was vaguely aware that that was something they did in the Program now and then. If traitors and dissent weren't to be tolerated outside of the death game, why would they be tolerated inside of it?
Guess they couldn't risk getting egg on their face if the 'ultimate test of patriotism' turned out a traitor for its final result.
The choppers were in formation. Maybe it was a particularly egregious display of anti-Americanism?
Drew made himself put the rifle to the window again. He took deep and shuddering breaths. He could do this. He needed to do this.
A ways off in the distance, not as far as the previous shot had been, a blonde boy stopped in the street. He seemed to be taking a moment in the sun.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Drew fired.
For this to work out, he needed to retrieve the gun. He needed to use the gun. He needed to not be... like this.
He had no idea what the helicopters were, but it wasn't the first time that a chopper had flown over today. Drew had even heard a gunshot from one of them, spitting out death from above.
He was vaguely aware that that was something they did in the Program now and then. If traitors and dissent weren't to be tolerated outside of the death game, why would they be tolerated inside of it?
Guess they couldn't risk getting egg on their face if the 'ultimate test of patriotism' turned out a traitor for its final result.
The choppers were in formation. Maybe it was a particularly egregious display of anti-Americanism?
Drew made himself put the rifle to the window again. He took deep and shuddering breaths. He could do this. He needed to do this.
A ways off in the distance, not as far as the previous shot had been, a blonde boy stopped in the street. He seemed to be taking a moment in the sun.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Drew fired.