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MurderWeasel
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That boy needs therapy!
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Well, here came someone else. Kimberly had seen him around, but she'd be damned if she could remember his name. It was something boring and normal, like David. Hell, maybe it was David. Didn't matter. He was still under control, still joking around just like she was. They could have a little party here. No killing, just a fucking beach barbecue, maybe rig a volleyball net and frolic in the waves in swimsuits. It didn't sound half bad.

Better still, Bridget didn't have his name either, so she asked. Everything was going so well. Kimberly figured they should all be on even footing, so she chimed in, "I'm Kimberly, by the way. Kimberly Nguyen." There. Now he wouldn't be guessing.

"So," she continued, "what do we do now? I mean, I'm sure nobody's gonna kill anyone. They'd have to be fucking crazy. So do we just, like, chill out or something? Or should we go search for a boat to take us away? Or do we just wait until the terrorists get bored and let us off?"

She kinda thought that last option was the best, but she didn't like it much. Kimberly was not a girl for whom inactivity and passivity came naturally. She was starting to get a bit fidgety, was almost ready to just pick a direction towards some shelter and start walking. The map had shown a mansion. Maybe they should go there. Kick back in comfort or something. Or perhaps go to the docks, see if there was a boat. This whole thing could just be a dumb joke. Maybe that was all SOTF was. Some kids get kidnapped, they fake the teachers' deaths, then they really just pay everyone to act it out or some shit. Kimberly was pretty sure the teachers' killing had been faked. The blood splashes had just been too perfect, flying everywhere on the front row. So campy.

She'd built herself a nice little castle of denial, and subconsciously planned to hold out against the siege of reality for as long as possible.
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D-Day · The Beach: East