((Timothy Skula continued from Searching For Clues))
"Where the hell did that damn pole get off too?"
Timothy was now officially worried. Once again, Mike had gotten away from him in his mad dash to go to...whereever the fuck he was going. He didn't stop to wait for him. He had just babbled on and on about a boat. Where would this boat be? He just talked on and on about a boat.
And once again, Timothy was fucking lost and he was getting tired of it. He tried to guess where it was that Mike had gone but the map he was given could have easily been written in gibberish for all he could read.
Still, he wasn't totally stupid. He knew where boats would be if there actually were boats. They would be near the coastline or in the ocean. He just had to follow the sound of waves, while trying his best to ignore gunfire and announcements.
His feet eventually led him to a beach. Timothy scanned around for several minutes, but there was no boat to be found. More importantly though. No Mike either.
"Oi! Mike!" he called out, "Where the hell are you ya asshole!"
His breath was starting to waver at the end, the waves overpowering his yells. He reached into his bag and found that he was down to his last chunk of bread. He had eaten so much of it and still he was hungry! His hands shook as he brought it closer to his mouth. When he stressed, Timothy ate, altough it was never bread that he leapt towards.
He devoured the remains of the loaf and found himself staring at the ocean. It was so vast, there was no way he could swim off of the island to safety. That dumbass Danya probably stopped that idea real quick anyways. As for a boat? That damn Pole probably halucinated the whole thing in an attempt to keep sane.
"Now what!" he shouted out to the sea, "Now what the hell do you want me to do! If you fucking gave me an innertube I'd float to safety! Any time now! C'mon!"
[[Ilario Fiametta III continued from Nothing But Soundwaves.]]
He'd lost the trail somewhere. Ily wasn't particularly fit, and he hadn't realized just how exhausted he was. By the time the trail of blood disappeared he'd been panting hard, and the time he had spent attempting to find her again had finished wearing him out. When his steps became erratic enough to send him stumbling into the sides of trees, he found a sheltered area under a long-dead tree and curled up. His sleep was alternately light and filled with Jackson's eye, popped and leaking, and deep, black nothingness. When he woke again, his mind was almost numbed, his thoughts drifting, but his resolve was solid.
So he couldn't find Kris. He didn't have to. She wasn't the only one on this island who had sinned, who had killed, and she wasn't the only one to send high school children to hell. He would find the others. He would make up for his loss. Eventually, he thought, she would come looking for him. She knew that he would be competition, that he would kill her, and she would try to kill him first. That's when he would finish his job. But until then...
There was shouting in the distance. He slipped through the trees until he was crouched at the edge of a beach, sand filling the new cracks in his expensive loafers. There was a pudgy boy in front of him, shouting at the ocean. His pack was slung over his shoulder, odd and bulky. Ily wormed his way closer, almost fascinated with the picture in front of him. What was in that pack? A gun? A knife? Not that he needed such things to kill people. Had he?
The AK-47 lay next to him. Absently, Ilario reached over and flicked the safety off, checking that the weapon was set to semi-automatic. He didn't want to waste bullets, after all. Not if he missed again. Rising into a crouch, he settled the stock of the gun against his shoulder, aiming and squinting at the broad back through the scope.
Was he a killer? Ilario couldn't be sure. He couldn't see the face, and the voice didn't ring a bell. But it sounded angry. It sounded slightly scared, but a selfish, angry fear. The fear a killer might have, worried about being caught. Yes - that would make sense. The odds were with him, anyhow. Most of the victims would be hiding the way he had been, while the killers would be out in the open. Yes. Yes. He would take the shot. He would repent for his accident, his apology in the sweet crack that was already too familiar, his forgiveness in the scent of cordite and smoke.
He wasn't smiling. But the look was on his face all the same, the almost-pride, the look he used to get when he handed in a particularly good paper.
He checked his aim. The boy was standing still. It would be easy this time.
The trigger depressed.