Young Writers Society

Hey guys. Hope you like the addition. Oh, I didn't have time to do the Italics, and I'm off to work, so I'll get to them as soon as I can.

Chapter Ten

I took stock of the twenty-some people left. No one was talking, of course, and most had their backs to me, but I could smell their fear in the air, feel the tension and the absolute madness.

A couple of seats ahead, there were two twin girls and a man with silvery hair who I assumed to be the “general dude”, as Tommy had put it. There was the businesswoman, the mother and son across the seat, Knight and Tommy, the girl with the tattoos, the man—I couldn’t look at him—who’d killed every time the horn blew, an Asian man, the college girl, and a man wearing a suit who looked to be somewhere in his forties. Farther up the bus there was a couple who clung to each other as if they never intended to let go, a young black girl, and the man who’d defended those in danger while the rest of us had stood by. I couldn’t look at him, either. There were also two more men in the very first seat behind the driver. I couldn’t see their faces or even the back of their heads, but their gelled hair peeked up over the seats.

I felt as if we were all staring up at the horn. It was white, and square. So seemingly harmless and yet significantly deadly to everyone on the bus. When it sounded its call, my life would be changed again.

“They will want to leave some alive,” Shelia said. She was speaking to me. Her son was tucked safely in her arms, and for a moment I let myself wish I had someone to hold me, too.

She was waiting for me to respond, I realized. I met her clear gaze, sensing that Knight and Tommy were listening to us. “How do you know?” I asked, and swallowed the bile rising in my throat when I saw that woman’s slit throat again in my mind’s eye.

Shelia pursed her lips and looked over my shoulder to see out the window. I knew what she would see; we were still on a highway. There would be nothing but wilderness and other vehicles speeding past.

“They will want to watch the survivors’ behaviors. See how the mind and body was affected by this,” she answered. “And the interviews with them certainly will up the ratings, as well.”

“But it’s our choice, isn’t it?” Tommy butted in. “Whether or not we want to be watched or questioned after the experiment?” His pudgy face was shining with sweat and his eyes were bright with fear. The excitement I’d seen in him when the experiment began was gone, nowhere to be found ever again. I was glad; he wouldn’t live to see tomorrow if he viewed any of this as a game.

Shelia focused on him now. “Was it your choice to be chosen for this experiment?” she said simply.

“We all put our names in the box,” Knight growled. “It’s our own doing.”

I didn’t, I thought.

Shelia didn’t reply. She only jostled her son a bit and bent to press her lips to his silky hair. His eyes were fluttering. He had that look of someone who was caught between the real world and the place where dreams snatched you up and carried you away. Again, I envied him.

“What’s his name?” I asked softly.

Shelia opened her mouth, hesitated, and frowned. “His name is Patrick.” Her tone was brisk and to the point, making it plain that she didn’t want me to ask any more questions.

I didn’t get the chance. The horn was blowing again, mocking us and egging death on. I was still on the floor and had a view of the entirety of the aisle. I saw the big man stand up swiftly; he’d been waiting for this. At the same time the silver-haired man appeared in the aisle—the general. He would be going after the girl with the tattoos.

“Get under a seat,” Tommy was telling me urgently. I ignored him. Colors were spotting my vision again for some reason, and I swayed as I tried to watch what was going on up front.

“Do as he says,” Knight hissed in my ear. He wrapped his hand around my arm, and I jerked away instinctively.

“Why do you care?” I snapped.

He was the stranger again, eyes cold and aware. “Do you want to live to see your family again? That guy will be going after anyone he sees and decides to make his next target. And seeing how you’re an easy kill strike just sitting there, I’d say you have a damn good chance.”

His voice didn’t reach me anymore; the huge man was walking calmly towards Tattoo Girl and her protector. The girl’s protector was holding out his knife, saying, “Don’t come any closer. I will kill you.” But the huge man wasn’t listening. He kept coming.

Funny thing was, Tattoo Girl didn’t look the least bit alarmed. She lifted her head, and for the first time I realized she was crying. Tears sparkled on her cheeks like little jewels, and she said to the man in front of her, “Move.”

Of course he didn’t. The huge man was so close, only steps away. I expected him to throw his knife at the last moment to get the girl’s protector out of the way, but he didn’t. When he reached them, the huge man—with a move so startlingly and lightning-fast that no one saw it coming—slipped a knife out of the waistband of his jeans and stabbed it under and up into the other man’s stomach.

Someone screamed.

The general appeared out of nowhere, and apparently he had morals about stabbing people in the back, because he tapped the giant on the shoulder. The huge man whipped around and already had the other knife in his right hand swiping for the general’s neck. But the elderly man must have expected that, because he jerked out of the way, and in a practiced and familiar technique, he put his own knife into the man’s chest and twisted it.

“She’s mine,” the general said.

“Oh, God,” I heard Tommy mutter.

“Shut up,” Knight ordered calmly. Through my horror, I faintly wondered how he could sound so… bored.

The giant’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish’s. The knives in each of his hands dropped to the floor with loud clatters. In what seemed like slow motion, he slid off of the knife still in his heart and fell onto his back. He fell partly into a seat where one of the twins was sitting, and she shrieked and jumped out of the way.

The general was already moving. In the same manner as the giant, he didn’t dive at Tattoo Girl or speak. He just walked to her seat. She stared up at him, the tears drying on her cheeks. He said nothing. She said nothing. They only stared at each other.

Finally Tattoo Girl opened her mouth. “Do it,” she murmured. Her beautiful face was hard and resigned. There was a hunger in her expression that I didn’t understand.

I was holding my breath, anticipating her inevitable death, quick and bloody.

The general made a sound deep in his throat. “You killed my wife. We were married for forty-two years,” he growled, and the pain in his voice was palpable and difficult to hear.

Tattoo Girl glanced out the window, as if she wanted one last look at the sun before she died. “I’m sorry,” she said evenly, turning to face him once more. Her gaze was direct, and even the general seemed taken aback.

He would kill her now. Am I really just going to sit here and watch this? I suddenly asked myself. We’re all just sitting here. Acting as if nothing can be done, as if none of this affects us. The girl doesn’t have to die.

We all have a choice. And the choices we make will affect the rest of our lives.

Without pausing to think about it, I made my choice.

Abruptly, I jerked away from the seat I was cowering against, away from Knight’s warmth, and began to crawl up the aisle.

“What are you doing?” Tommy hissed.

People stared at me as I passed, but I ignored them. The general was fingering his knife, breathing raggedly. As I drew even nearer, I was able to see a spot of blood on his thumb from where his knife had pricked the skin.

“Do it,” the girl said again.

The general didn’t move. The knife in my hand shook, and he was so riveted to the Tattoo Girl that he didn’t even notice me coming at him.

Only one thought flashed through my mind before I raised the knife: Can I really do this?

But I wasn’t given time to debate or hesitate; the general had made his decision. With a growl, he gripped the handle of his own weapon tighter and aimed it at the girl’s throat. I saw the other woman’s throat in my mind’s eye: The river of blood, the gaping mouth. I screamed and, squeezing my eyes tight, drove my knife home.

“Wren!” I don’t know who shouted my name; all I knew was that the general was turning to me, looking down at me with an expression akin to relief.

He didn’t say a word. The knife was still in his hand, and I knew he could have killed me in a moment if he’d wanted to. But all the silver-haired man did was sit down in the seat behind him—someone actually jumped over and into another seat to avoid him—and close his eyes. I’d stabbed him in the side, and when he leaned back to lay his head against the glass of the window, he was still very much alive.

Silence reigned as we all watched him die. It took a few minutes; my gaze was riveted on the rise and fall of his chest. Eventually it became slower and slower, until it stopped completely. He died without another sound, another word or glance.

It was then that I realized that the bus had stopped.