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I'll Cross That Bridge When I Come To It; Open
Topic Started: Sep 10 2016, 01:42 PM (433 Views)
Brubaker
Cannon Fodder
[ * ]
((Mitch Settles continued from The Awakening))

Mitch moved slowly away from the asylum, looking for cover wherever he could find it. He wasn’t sure why he did this, but some sort of natural survival instinct was kicking in and he wasn’t about to ignore what his gut was telling him. He had decided the bridge might be a good place to reconnoiter the island as it would give him a good vantage point to view several key areas. It also provided access to other places he might want to be, and gave him options and right now, options were good. He had in mind the hunting lodge or the housing blocks, or maybe even the vehicle depot; could be he would find a bike or something he could fix up, to what end, he didn’t know.

It wasn’t far to the bridge and even with his excess of caution it soon came into sight. He stopped there, observing, watching for movement, fearful of what he would see or that he would be seen, not even knowing why he was so scared. He waited some more, not willing to move, to allow himself to steady his nerves. Mitch had never felt this way, not even before an important race or dangerous stunt. He thought about this, the fact he had always been a daredevil, willing to risk life and limb (literally, as it had turned out) to experience the thrills allied with extreme sports. How was this different? What made this island, his classmates, feel so dangerous to him? He concluded this wasn’t at all the same as the sports he had loved so much; this wasn’t for thrills, or self-aggrandizing glory. This was for keeps. His classmates weren’t competitors, at least not in the sense that there would be trophies and prizes. No, they were potential killers, wanting only to take him out of this dangerous motherfucking game. This, then, was the reason for his apprehension; to some, maybe everyone, he was the prey. Bullshit! He was no one’s target, nobody’s chump. Mitch never, ever played to lose.

Losing. Mitchell Settles never went into motion with any thought of losing. What that meant here, the consequences of not losing, was that he was the winner. Last man standing. All others, his friends, classmates, girls and boys alike, dead. Some, undoubtedly, by his hand. He would be a killer, if he didn’t want to lose. He would use the Glock to take out (kill, he would have to kill) someone he knew, perhaps a friend. Probably friends. He was beginning to grasp the enormity, the devilish conundrum created by the terrorists. Their conspiracy was to make kids into killers, pure and simple. Why didn’t matter. Sure, he wondered, but now was not the time to unravel motives, now was the time for him to act.

Mitch moved out from cover, his right hand clenching and unclenching near the Glock tucked into his belt. He felt both apprehensive and exhilarated. But he was prepared, physically and, he hoped, mentally to face whatever happened next. He took his first determined steps onto the bridge, looking ahead to the other shore, behind for indications of stalkers, and side to side to scope out whatever he could see from this vantage.
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