Class Roster

Boys

Girls

Opening Remarks

(As Given by a Pro Wrestling Fan in an Alternate World)

What? Battle royale? You’re asking what a battle royale is? Don’t you know? Then what are you doing coming to a wrestling show? What? No, it’s not the name of an offensive move. No, it’s not the name of a championship title, either. A battle royale is a type of match. What, you mean today? Here? No, there’s not gonna be one here today. They’re held at bigger arenas than this⁠—you know, a special occasion kind of thing. Hey! Hey, look! See, that’s Takako Inoue. She’s pretty hot, am I right? Oh, sorry, where was I? Right, battle royale. All Japan Pro Wrestling still puts them on. A battle royale is, well⁠ ⁠… Okay, so wrestling is usually one-on-one, or with two teams of two, something like that. But a battle royale has ten, maybe twenty fighters, just a big, big number of ’em, all in the ring at once. And anyone can go after anyone, one-on-one, or one-on-ten⁠—anything goes. But no matter how many people get pinned⁠—wait, you don’t even know what a pin is? That’s when your shoulders are on the mat and then comes the count, one, two, three, and on that third count, that’s it, you’re done. Same in a battle royale as with a normal match. Wrestlers can also forfeit, and sometimes there’s even a knockout. Oh, and countouts too, when someone stays outside the ring too long. And there’re disqualifications. In any case, pins are usually what does it in a battle royale.

Go! Takako, go! Take her out! Oh, ah⁠ ⁠… Sorry, sorry. Anyway, the ones that get pinned lose and have to leave the squared circle. And the match keeps going like that, with fewer and fewer competitors as it goes on. Of course, in the end, it’s down to two. One-on-one, and there’s the real match. One of those two is gonna go down. When it’s over, only one man’s standing. The winner. Victory. They give out a giant trophy and hand over the prize money. Get it? Huh? You mean the ones who are friends? Well, you see, at first, they work together. But when the end comes, they’ll have to fight each other. Those are the rules. That means that sometimes, if you’re lucky enough, you can see some really rare match-ups. You know, like way back with the tag team Dynamite Kid and Davey Boy Smith. And it happened once with Road Warriors Animal and Hawk. Well, with that one, one or the other of them stepped out of the ring to let the other guy win. A real display of love, like they were brothers, you know? A letdown, if you ask me. Now see, two people who didn’t always get along can still team up. But you’re workin’ with one guy to take out another, and your ‘partner’ can stab you in the back just like that! Who would I like to see in a battle royale? Well, with all the rival federations that’ve popped up now, I’d like to see the best of each face off. Keiji Mutoh, Shinya Hashimoto, Mitsuharu Misawa, Toshiaki Kawada, Nobuhiko Takada, Masakatsu Funaki, Akira Maeda, The Great Sasuke, Hayabusa, Kenji Takano, also Genichiro Tenryu and Riki Choshu, and Tatsumi Fujinami and Kengo Kimura could probably still pull it off. It’d be fun if Yoji Anjo and Super Delfin could be in it too. You never know, they might make it to the end. For the women, you have to go with Takako there. Then there’s Aja Kong, Manami Toy, Kyoko Inoue, Yumiko Hotta, Akira Hokuto, Bull Nakano, Dynamite Kansai of course, Cutie Suzuki and Hikari Fukuoka, Mayumi Ozaki, Shinobu Kandori and Chigusa Nagayo, and⁠ ⁠… what’s that? You don’t know any of them? And you really came here to watch pro wrestling? Hey! No no no, Takako, fight back! Takako! Niiice.

Prologue

GOVERNMENT MEMO
TOP SECRET

internal memorandum

1997.00387461

FROM: Director of Defense, Special Planning Department of the Secretariat to the Leader; Chief of Combat experiments, Nonaggressive Forces staff office

TO: Supervisor, Republic Combat Experiment 68th Program, Trial #12, 1997

On may 20, at 18:15, a routine inspection by Central Processing identified evidence of an intrusion into the operation systems. The incident occurred in the early hours of March 12, and our utmost efforts are focused on the investigation for traces of any possible subsequent unauthorized access.

The identity and objective of the perpetrator, as well as the extent of the compromised data, remains under investigation. The method of intrusion employed a high degree of skill, and uncovering the full picture of the damages will likely require significant time.

Upon receiving a report that we could not rule out the possibility that damages extended to data from the 68th program, the office of defense in the special planning department of the secretariat to the leader and the combat experiments division in the nonaggressive forces staff office jointly held an emergency exploration into a possible delay of the 1997 trial #12 of the same.

However, in view of the fact that preparations for trial #12 are already complete, and with no evidence yet found of a leak of related information to the general public, the deliberations resulted in the decision to conduct the trial as planned. Despite this conclusion, we will pursue a swift investigation into necessary changes for trials #13 and beyond, and will be devoting special attention to revisions of the current guadalcanal system.

Nevertheless, given your role as supervisor of trial #12, and as the director of its execution, you are to proceed with the utmost caution.

Furthermore, this incident is classified top secret and is to be treated as such.

0

As the bus entered the prefectural capital city of Takamatsu, the scenery slowly shifted from pastoral to urban. With the city came lights in multicolored neon, headlamps from oncoming traffic, and in offices left to shine through the night. A group of men and women in sharp business suits stood talking in front of a roadside restaurant, perhaps waiting for a taxi. Weary, cigarette-smoking youths squatted in the sterile parking lot of a convenience store. A blue-collar worker, perched on his bicycle, waited for the crosswalk signal to change. The evening was still a bit chilly for May, and the man’s disheveled, threadbare windbreaker made him stand out⁠—just one of many fleeting impressions flowing beyond the bus windows, swept away by the low rumble of its engine. The digital clock above the driver’s seat changed to 8:57.

Shuya Nanahara (Boys #⁠15, Ninth Grade Class B, Shiroiwa Junior High, Shiroiwa Town, Kagawa Prefecture) was seated on the left-hand side of the bus, gazing off into the nighttime scenery. He had to lean forward a bit to see around Yoshitoki Kuninobu (Boys #⁠7), who occupied the window seat, rustling through his travel bag. With his right leg stretched out into the aisle, Shuya flexed his toes against the inside of his Keds sneaker, the canvas torn inside the heel, frayed threads sticking out like cat whiskers. Those shoes were hard to come by these days, although supposedly that hadn’t always been the case. The brand was American, and the sneakers were made in Colombia. Though this was 1997, and the Republic of Greater East Asia certainly wasn’t lacking for goods⁠—if anything, it overflowed with them⁠—imported commodities were extremely difficult to acquire. Well, such was only to be expected with the national policy of quasi-seclusion⁠—especially so with a hostile country like America (government officials called it the “American Empire,” as did school textbooks).

From his seat near the back of the bus, Shuya surveyed the cabin. Under the dim fluorescents filtering through dingy ceiling panels, he had a view of the other forty-one students who had been his classmates since the eighth grade. After leaving their school in Shiroiwa less than an hour before, the kids were all still excited and chatting away. They weren’t overjoyed that their school trip was beginning with an overnight ride imposed on them either out of cheapness, or possibly due to an overly packed schedule. But once the bus passed over the Great Seto Bridge, got onto the Sanyo Expressway, and was on its way to their destination in Kyushu, they would calm down a little.

Toward the front, a rowdy cluster of girls bubbled around the teacher in charge of their class, Mr. Hayashida. Among them was Yukie Utsumi (Girls #⁠2), class leader and representative for the girls’ side, with braided hair that looked good on her. Also in the group were Haruka Tanizawa (Girls #⁠12), her teammate on the volleyball team and quite tall for a girl; Izumi Kanai (Girls #⁠5), daughter of a town councilman with a prim attitude to match; Satomi Noda (Girls #⁠17), a gifted student whose round-framed glasses suited her calm and collected countenance; Chisato Matsui (Girls #⁠19), ever meek and demure; and a few others. They formed the popular group, or anyway the middle‑of‑the‑road group⁠—though to call them a group at all might not be quite right. Girls tend to form cliques, but not so in the Shiroiwa Junior High Ninth Grade Class B, where there weren’t really any to speak of. The closest to a clique would be the group led by Mitsuko Souma (Girls #⁠11), who was a little rough around the edges and, to be frank, a juvenile delinquent. Hirono Shimizu (Girls #⁠10) and Yoshimi Yahagi (Girls #⁠21) made three. From his position, Shuya couldn’t tell where the girls were sitting.

The first row behind the driver’s seat was slightly elevated, and its shorter backrest revealed two heads side by side, belonging to Kazuhiko Yamamoto (Boys #⁠21) and Sakura Ogawa (Girls #⁠4), the closest couple in class. Every so often their heads shook, likely in shared laughter at some joke. Well, with a pair as reserved as Kazuhiko and Sakura, the most trivial talk might seem hilarious.

Shuya glanced up the aisle to see an immense school uniform protruding into the space just ahead. Inside that uniform was Yoshio Akamatsu (Boys #⁠1). Yoshio was the largest kid in the class, but he was sensitive, the type that ends up teased and picked on. He was scrunching his bulky frame forward, buried in the latest popular portable video game.

The jocks, Tatsumichi Oki (Boys #⁠3, Handball Team), Kazushi Niida (Boys #⁠16, Soccer Team), and Tadakatsu Hatagami (Boys #⁠18, Baseball Team), sat together, flanking the aisle. Shuya himself had been in Little League (and was even called the ace shortstop) and used to be good friends with Tadakatsu until the two had drifted apart⁠—possibly because Shuya had quit playing baseball. Replacing the sport with more “unpatriotic” hobbies, like the electric guitar, was likely part of it too. Shuya had seen Tadakatsu’s mom get uptight about those kind of things.

After all, rock music was banned in the Republic. There were, of course, ways around the ban. Shuya’s guitar wore an official permit sticker that read use of this musical instrument in the production of decadent music is strictly prohibited. “Decadent music” being rock.

Now that he thought about it, Shuya realized he had made a completely new set of friends.

A quiet laugh came from the seat behind big Yoshio Akamatsu. It belonged to one of those new friends, Shinji Mimura (Boys #⁠19). Around the edge of the seat, Shuya caught sight of Shinji’s short hair and the finely crafted earring in his left earlobe.

When they became classmates the year before, Shuya had already heard of “The Third Man,” the ace guard on the basketball team. Shinji was proud of his exceptional athleticism, on par with the ace shortstop Shuya⁠—though Shinji would certainly jest, “I’m better, baby.” During a school field day held soon after class placement, the two discovered they made a great duo and hit it off right away. But there was more to Shinji than just sports. Though his grades were merely average (aside from mathematics and English), Shinji possessed a staggering breadth of knowledge and a perspective far beyond his years. Ask him most any question, and he’d have the answer right away, even down to typically unobtainable information about foreign countries. And he’d always have advice in a time of need. Despite all that, Shinji didn’t have an arrogant bone in his body. Well, he did have his own way of joking, like the time he said, “Everyone knows I’m a genius. Haven’t you heard?” But there was nothing offensive about it. Basically, Shinji Mimura was a good guy.

Seated beside Shinji was Yutaka Seto (Boys #⁠12), who had been the athlete’s friend since elementary school. Yutaka was the class clown, and one of his quips was probably what had sparked Shinji’s laughter.

One row behind the pair was Hiroki Sugimura (Boys #⁠11). Hiroki, reading a paperback, had somehow managed to fold his lanky frame into the narrow seat. Taciturn and a student of martial arts, Hiroki had an intimidating presence and kept mostly to himself. But once Shuya had tried talking to him, he found the boy to be nice, if shy, and the two got along surprisingly well. The paperback was probably one of Hiroki’s prized anthologies of Chinese poetry. Chinese literature books were fairly easy to find despite being translations of foreign works. But then they would be, as the Republic proclaimed China “our sovereign territory.”

There was a line Shuya read once in an American book he’d salvaged from some corner of a used bookstore, relying on a dictionary to make it through: “Friends come in and out of your life.” Maybe that was true. Perhaps he would drift apart from Shinji and Hiroki and his other friends like he had with Tadakatsu.

Or not.

Shuya glanced at Yoshitoki Kuninobu in the adjacent seat, still rustling through his bag. They, at least, had been together this far, and he didn’t see anything changing that. Shuya and Yoshitoki had been friends ever since they were still wetting their beds in the pompously named “House of Mercy and Love,” a Catholic institution for children who had lost⁠—or who were no longer allowed to live with⁠—their parents. They seemed destined to be friends, whether Shuya wanted it or not.

While we’re on the subject, an explanation on religion in the Republic might be in order. The government was a unique brand of national socialism, with the Leader, wielder of supreme power, as its leading symbol. (Once, Shinji Mimura had scowled and said, “This is what successful fascism looks like. Is there anything as evil anywhere in the world?”) But the Leader didn’t enforce a state religion⁠—aside from belief in his political system, which itself didn’t clash with any established faith. Citizens were free to worship, as long as their activities remained within certain bounds⁠—though the complete lack of any legal protection meant that only the most devout persisted, and only in meager efforts. Shuya himself had never been particularly religious, but he did feel gratitude toward religion. He recognized that the Church had given him a comfortable childhood and had raised him into a decent young man, if he could be called one. Secular, state-run orphanages did exist, but by reputation were lousy facilities poorly run, notorious as training grounds for future soldiers in the Nonaggressive Forces.

Shuya looked over his shoulder toward the rear of the bus. Sitting in the long bench seat of the last row were bad boys Ryuhei Sasagawa (Boys #⁠10) and Mitsuru Numai (Boys #⁠17). A third was at the righthand window (Ryuhei Sasagawa had left a couple seats empty between). Though the seat backs blocked his view of this third boy’s face, Shuya recognized the distinctive haircut, slicked-back and hanging long, atop a head that remained perfectly still, unperturbed by the dirty jokes and coarse laughter of other two at his left. The youth may have been sleeping, or perhaps, like Shuya, had been captivated by the city lights.

Why that boy⁠—Kazuo Kiriyama (Boys #⁠6)⁠—had shown up to something as childish as this school trip was the greatest mystery to Shuya.

Kiriyama was the leader, of sorts, of the area delinquents, Ryuhei and Mitsuru among them. Though by no means big⁠—he couldn’t have been taller than Shuya⁠—Kiriyama could easily subdue a high schooler and even took on local yakuza. He had become a prefecture-wide legend. His father’s being the president of a leading local enterprise probably helped, but there was more to his stature than that. (Shuya had heard rumors that Kiriyama was a bastard child. Uninterested, he’d never bothered to look into it.) Kiriyama had a handsome, intelligent face, and his voice, though not deep, was intimidating. His grades were the best in the class⁠—the class leader for the boy’s side, Kyoichi Motobuchi (Boys #⁠20), spent late nights studying just to compete. Even in sports, when forced to participate, Kiriyama was better and more graceful than just about any of his peers. The only boys in Shiroiwa Junior High who could rival him in a serious match-up would be the former ace shortstop Shuya and the basketball team’s ace guard Shinji Mimura. In every aspect, Kazuo Kiriyama was the perfect man.

But why then did this perfect man end up a leader of hooligans? Shuya couldn’t begin to know the answer, though he could perceive in Kiriyama⁠—a sense, almost tactile⁠—something out of place. Shuya couldn’t put his finger on it. Kiriyama never acted out in school, nor would he bully someone as Ryuhei Sasagawa and others sometimes did to Yoshio Akamatsu. But Shuya felt something was⁠ ⁠… lacking, perhaps?

Kiriyama frequently skipped school. The thought that he would ever actually study was preposterous. When he did show up for class, he just sat there, silent, his mind seemingly somewhere completely different. Without a powerful and meddlesome government insisting upon a compulsory education, Kiriyama might never have attended school at all. Or he might have come all the time, just because he felt like it. Shuya couldn’t guess which. He had thought the boy would certainly pass on the school trip without a second thought, yet here he was. Kiriyama acting upon another whim, then?

Shuya was staring off at the lights in the ceiling, thinking about Kiriyama, when a sunny voice called his name and pulled him back to reality.

From the seat across the aisle, Noriko Nakagawa (Girls #⁠15) offered something wrapped in cellophane. Small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, the pouch was packed full with little, light brown, round objects⁠—cookies, probably. Light from the ceiling glinted along the surface of the clear, stiff wrapping like the sun over water. A neatly tied bow of gold ribbon held it closed.

Noriko Nakagawa was in Yukie Utsumi’s group of mainstreamers. Shoulder-length hair framed a round and very girlish face, with striking eyes that were gentle and dark, almost black. She was petite, with a playful streak, the picture of an average girl. If anything about her merited special mention, it was her talent with Japanese; Noriko was the best writer in class. (As a result, Shuya and Noriko talked relatively often. During breaks, Shuya would compose song lyrics in the margins of his notebook, and sometimes Noriko would ask to read them.) Noriko usually kept with Yukie and the other girls, but showing up a little late for the trip, she had been forced to take the open seat.

Shuya reached toward the bag, but stopped, raising his eyebrows in question.

Somewhat flustered, Noriko said, “Um, my little brother begged me to bake these today. I had these extra, and they’re no good stale, so you and Mr. Nobu can have them, if you like.”

Mr. Nobu was Yoshitoki Kuninobu’s nickname. Despite his good-humored, goggling eyes, Yoshitoki could be surprisingly wise and mature. Referring to him as you would an adult seemed appropriate. The girls didn’t often use the boys’ nicknames⁠—“Mr. Nobu” included⁠—but Noriko did, and freely. She made it feel natural and never offended anyone by it. That was Noriko; she had this buoyant quality. Shuya never had a nickname⁠—actually, he did have something of a strange one from elementary school, after a brand of cigarettes, but like Shinji’s “The Third Man” moniker, no one ever actually used it when talking with him⁠—but some time ago he had noticed that Noriko was the only girl who ever called him by his first name.

Listening in, Yoshitoki interjected, “Really? You mean it? Nice! If you made them, they must be good.”

Yoshitoki snatched the bag from Shuya’s reach, quickly undid the ribbon, and withdrew and sampled a cookie.

“Wow! These are amazing!”

Caught in the middle, Shuya grinned. Could that boy be any more obvious? As soon as Noriko had taken the seat across from Shuya, Yoshitoki began acting all weird, sneaking glances at her and straightening his posture.

A month and a half earlier, during spring vacation, Shuya and Yoshitoki were fishing for black bass at the city reservoir when Yoshitoki blurted, “Hey, Shuya, I⁠ ⁠… kinda⁠ ⁠… got a crush.”

“Oh,” Shuya said, “who is it?”

“Nakagawa.”

“From our class?”

“Yeah.”

“Which one? There are two Nakagawas. You mean Yuka?”

“Whatever. You’re the one who’s into the fat ones, not me.”

“You jerk. You trying to say Kazumi’s fat? She’s just a little chubby, that’s all.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Yoshitoki said. “Anyway, well, it’s Noriko.”

“That so? Well, she’s a nice girl.”

“Don’t you think so? Right?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Yoshitoki was utterly transparent. Yet Noriko seemingly remained unaware. Shuya couldn’t tell if she was that oblivious or what. Maybe that was just part of what made her Noriko.

Shuya took a cookie from the bag in Yoshitoki’s hand and held it up to his eyes. Then he looked at Noriko and asked, “You said they’re no good stale?”

“Yeah.” Noriko gave two sharp nods. For some reason, her eyes seemed tense. “That’s right.”

“Guess you must be confident they were any good in the first place, then.”

Shuya had been making a lot of snide remarks lately, perhaps picking it up from Shinji Mimura. The habit annoyed some, but Noriko giggled and said, “That’s right.”

“Hey,” Yoshitoki said, cutting in again, “I said they were amazing, didn’t I? You heard me, right, Noriko?”

Noriko smiled. “Thanks. You’re so sweet, Mr. Nobu.”

Yoshitoki suddenly stiffened as if he had poked his finger into an outlet. Then, without further comment, he stared down at his feet and crunched on a cookie.

With another grin, Shuya popped a cookie in his mouth. It was sweet and light.

“This is good,” he said.

Noriko, who hadn’t taken her eyes off him the entire time, said, “Thanks!”

Shuya thought she sounded different when she was thanking him. Maybe he had just imagined it⁠ ⁠… But no, her eyes were so serious, watching him eat that cookie. Were they really left over from ones made for her brother? Or had she made them because she wanted someone in particular to eat them? No, that was just his imagination. Wasn’t it?

Shuya’s mind jumped to Kazumi. She was a grade ahead of him, and until last year, they had been in the music club together.

Rock music would never make it into the repertoire of a school in the Republic, but when the music club’s advisor, Mrs. Miyata, wasn’t around, the band often played rock to kill time. That’s really why the students joined up. The only female saxophone player in the ensemble, Kazumi Shintani was better than any of the boys at rock sax. She was tall (nearly as tall as Shuya’s one-hundred-seventy centimeters), and a little chubby, but when she had that alto sax in her hands, and her hair gathered at the sides of her neck, and she got that mature, world-wise expression, she was really cool. The sight made Shuya’s heart race. Then she taught him difficult guitar chords. (“I played a little before I started sax,” she’d said.) After that, he practiced day and night, and by the middle of eighth grade, he had become the best in the club⁠—all because he’d wanted Kazumi to hear.

One day after school, Shuya and Kazumi found themselves alone in the music room. He sang and played “Summertime Blues” for her, and she said, “That was incredible, Shuya. Really cool.”

That night, he bought himself his first can of beer to celebrate. It was delicious. But three days later, when he told her straight out, “Um, I⁠ ⁠… like you,” she was as straight with him.

“Sorry, I have a boyfriend.”

She graduated and went on to a high school with a music program⁠—the same school as her boyfriend.

There’s more to the story of Shuya and Yoshitoki fishing at the reservoir that spring day. After telling Shuya about Noriko, Yoshitoki asked, “Do you still like that older girl?”

Shuya answered, “Yeah, I like her. Probably will for the rest of my life.”

Yoshitoki looked perplexed. “But hey, she’s already got someone.”

Shuya had said, “So what?” and with an overhand cast, sent his silver lure as far as it could go.

Shuya grabbed the cookies from Yoshitoki, who was still looking downward, and said, “If you eat them all, Noriko won’t get any.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.”

Shuya returned the package to Noriko and said, “Sorry about that.”

“Oh no,” she said. “It’s all right. You two eat them.”

“Really? The two of us shouldn’t get to have all⁠—”

Just then, Shuya noticed who was sitting next to Noriko. Shogo Kawada (Boys #⁠5), his large frame clad in the school’s uniform, leaned against the window glass, arms folded, eyes closed, and still. Asleep, maybe. Kawada’s hair was cropped so short as to be almost nonexistent, and his face, vaguely reminiscent of some carnival food vendor, wore a faint layer of stubble. Stubble, everyone! Didn’t he look a little old to be in junior high?

Well, actually, that could be explained. Though the same group of students in Class B had been carried over from the eighth grade, Shogo Kawada had transferred in from Kobe only the month before. And whether due to illness or injury (likely the latter⁠—he didn’t seem the type prone to illness), he had missed over half a year of school and had been held back. This made him a year older than most of the class. Though Kawada had never spoken of any of this himself, Shuya had heard it all the same.

And what he had heard was, frankly, not good. According to rumor, Kawada had been nothing but a thug, and he’d received the injuries that had taken him out of school in a fight. Scars all over his body seemed to confirm the speculation. One long slash across his left eyebrow came from what appeared to be a blade. And in the locker room, Shuya had shivered when he saw the scars on the youth’s arms and back. (As an aside, Kawada’s muscular body, reminiscent of a middleweight boxer’s, impressed even Shuya.) On his left shoulder were two peculiar round marks, one right next to the other⁠—just like gunshot wounds, as impossible as that would be.

These rumors came paired with another, shared by whispers: Someday, Kawada and Kiriyama are going to fight. Just after Kawada transferred in, Ryuhei Sasagawa, reckless and posturing, got in the new student’s face. What went down and how it ended were only hearsay, but Ryuhei came back looking pale and ran crying to Kiriyama, who gave no response, save for a disinterested glance. At least so far, the two would-be rivals had not yet given any impression that anything serious was going to happen. Kiriyama didn’t appear to have any interest in Kawada, and the feeling seemed mutual. Thanks to that, Class B remained at peace, happily ever after.

In any event, between the age difference and the rumors, the other students would avoid Kawada. But Shuya didn’t like to judge people from rumor. Someone once said, “If you can see it with your own eyes, you don’t need to listen to the word of others.”

Shuya looked at Noriko and gestured to Kawada with his chin. “Is he asleep?” he asked.

“Hmm,” she said, and glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah, I didn’t want to wake him.”

“He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who eats cookies, anyway.” Noriko giggled, and just as Shuya began to crack a smile, the voice came.

“I’m fine.”

Shuya again looked at Kawada.

The firm, deep voice lingered in Shuya’s ears, unfamiliar, but evidently belonging to Kawada. He must have been awake, though his eyes remained closed. Shuya realized he’d almost never heard him speak, despite the new student having transferred in over a month before.

Noriko glanced again at Kawada, then back to Shuya, who shrugged and stuffed another cookie into his mouth.

After that, he and Noriko and Yoshitoki went on talking, or so he thought.

❖

It was just before ten when Shuya noticed something was off.

Something felt wrong inside the bus. In the seat to his left, Yoshitoki breathed softly, asleep. Shinji Mimura’s body had slumped over, dangling into the aisle. Noriko Nakagawa’s eyes were closed. No one was talking. Everyone seemed to have fallen asleep. Of course, it was past bedtime for kids who really cared about being healthy, but with the excitement of having just left on their school trip, wasn’t it a bit early for everyone to be sleeping? They all should be singing. Wasn’t this bus equipped with one of those hateful, vulgar karaoke machines?

Worst of all, Shuya himself felt incredibly tired. In his stupor, he tried to look around, but his head, too heavy, flopped against the backrest. His vision swam, and at the shadowy front of the confined cabin, in the windshield mirror, Shuya saw the bus driver reflected in miniature.

A mask covered the driver’s mouth, with some hoselike object trailing down and a thin strap hooked around his ears. What was it? Aside from the hose hanging downward, it looked just like one of those emergency oxygen masks from an airplane.

Was the air inside the bus unbreathable? Ladies and gentlemen, the bus will be making an emergency landing due to engine trouble. Please fasten your seat belt, put on your oxygen mask, and listen for the flight attendants’ instructions. Yeah, right.

A scratching noise came from the right, and Shuya, with considerable effort, inclined his neck in that direction. His body felt heavy, like he was moving through jelly.

Shogo Kawada had lifted himself from his seat and was trying to open the window. But whether it was rusted shut or had a broken lock, the window wouldn’t budge. Kawada began to pound on the glass with his left hand, trying to break it. Why?

But the window didn’t break. Kawada attempted to strike it one more time, but his arm lost its strength and fell slack. He slumped back into his seat. Shuya thought he could faintly hear that low voice say, “Damn.”

And then Shuya slept.

❖

Around that same time, the children’s families back in Shiroiwa were visited by men in black sedans. The parents must all have been equally speechless, called to their doors in the middle of the night and presented with the government document stamped with the peach emblem.

Nearly all would silently nod and think of the children they would likely never see again. But some would lash out, only to be beaten unconscious with a single blow of a tactical baton⁠—or, if they were unlucky, showered in a stream of hot lead spat out by submachine guns and taken from this world just a little ahead of their beloved young.

❖

The bus for Shiroiwa Junior High’s Ninth Grade Class B had long since peeled off from the school trip caravan and turned back toward Takamatsu City. It entered the city, wound through the local streets, then stopped, its engine fading to silence.

The driver was in his forties, a good‑natured‑looking fellow with salt and pepper hair. The oxygen mask still strapped to his slightly haggard face, he looked back at the students of Class B with a hint of sadness in his eyes. But when a man arrived outside the window, the driver’s expression cleared. He gave the Republic’s distinctive salute and pushed the switch to open the door. As the men in military uniforms and gas masks swarmed inside, the driver gazed off into the distance.

Beneath the moonlight and beyond the bone-white concrete pier, the ship that would carry the “players” swayed atop the vast jet-black sea.

42 students remain.

1

For a brief moment, Shuya found himself in the familiar surroundings of his classroom.

Of course, this classroom wasn’t that of Ninth Grade Class B, though it did have the teacher’s podium and lectern, washed-out blackboard, large-screen TV elevated on a stand to the left, and rows of desks and chairs of plywood and steel. On the corner of the desk where Shuya sat, someone had used a metal tool to carve antigovernment graffiti: The Leader is hot for women in uniform. Together on the bus until only moments ago (at least as far as he could tell), all forty-two students were seated at the desks, the boys in their standing collar button-up jackets and the girls in their sailor fuku, but asleep, slumped haphazardly onto their desks or back in their chairs.

Seated beside the frosted glass windows on the hallway side of the room (assuming this place had the same layout as his own school), Shuya surveyed his surroundings. None of the other students appeared to be awake. To the left and a little forward, near the center of the room, was Yoshitoki Kuninobu, with Noriko Nakagawa behind and Shinji Mimura on his left, each of them deep asleep on their desks. Lanky Hiroki Sugimura had been deposited at a desk next to the exterior windows at the room’s left. Shuya came to the belated realization that everyone had been placed in the same assigned seats as their class in Shiroiwa Junior High. Then he noticed what had been feeling off about the room⁠—the windows on Hiroki’s side were covered with black panels. Steel plates, perhaps? Dingy light from rows of ceiling fluorescents reflected coldly off the panels’ surface. The frosted glass windows near Shuya were also submerged in darkness, possibly covered from the hallway side. Shuya couldn’t tell what time of day it was.

He looked at his watch. Exactly one o’clock. Morning? Or afternoon? The date read THU/22. If his watch hadn’t been tampered with, either three hours had passed since that peculiar exhaustion overcame him in the bus or this was the afternoon of the next day. Okay. No point in dwelling on it.

Shuya looked around at his classmates.

Something was strange. Well, everything about this was strange. Yet something was wrong.

Shuya quickly recognized what it was. Noriko was slumped on her desk, and just above the sailor collar of her uniform, a metallic silver band snugly encircled her neck. Barely visible at the edge of Yoshitoki Kuninobu’s buttoned collar was a matching object. And Shinji Mimura, Hiroki Sugimura, and every one of his classmates all had one around their necks.

Struck with a sudden realization, Shuya touched his right hand to the back of his neck.

He felt something hard and cold. There was no doubting it⁠—he had one too.

He gave the object a little tug, but, firmly in place, it refused to come off. Now that he had become conscious of the band, he felt like he was suffocating. A collar! A goddamn collar. I’m no dog!

Shuya fidgeted with the thing for a time before giving up.

And what had happened to the school trip?

Shuya noticed his gym bag lying at his feet. The night before, he’d stuffed it with clothes and a towel, a travel notebook handed out by his school, as well as a flask of bourbon and whatever else he thought he would need. Everyone else’s bags were beside them as well.

Suddenly, the sliding door at the front of the class clattered open. Shuya looked toward the entrance.

A man entered the room. He was alone.

He was well built, though a little on the short side, with undersized legs that seemed only an afterthought to his torso. He wore plain, light beige slacks, a gray suit coat, a crimson tie, and black loafers, all of them shabby. A peach-colored pin on his collar identified him as a government official. He had rosy cheeks. But what stood out the most was his hair, straight and down to his shoulders in a style popular with younger women. Shuya was reminded of the grainy photocopied cover of a Joan Baez cassette he’d copped off the black market.

The man stepped onto the teacher’s podium and surveyed the class. His eyes landed upon Shuya, the only student awake (unless it was all a dream).

The two stared at each other for at least one full minute. But as the other students began to stir, and the sounds of uneasy breathing grew, the man looked away. Some of the students called out to wake up others who were more deeply asleep.

Shuya looked across the classroom. The other kids had started to awaken, their eyes yet unfocused, and with no idea of what was happening. Yoshitoki Kuninobu turned in his chair and met Shuya’s gaze. Shuya pointed to his own collar and tilted his head to the side. Yoshitoki’s hands scrambled for his neck, and shock sprang to his expression. Then, for some reason, Yoshitoki shook his head several times, finally looking to the front of the class. Noriko Nakagawa also gazed at Shuya, her eyes distant, but Shuya could only offer a shrug in response.

Finally, when everyone was awake, the man spoke, his voice cheery, “All right, is everyone awake? Did you sleep well?”

No one said a thing in reply. Not even the two class clowns, Yutaka Seto and Yuka Nakagawa (Girls #⁠16).

42 students remain.

2

The long-haired man at the teacher’s lectern continued with a broad smile, “All right, all right, all right, okay, I’ll explain. First off, My name is Kinpatsu Sakamochi, and I’m your new instructor.”

The man who called himself Sakamochi turned to the blackboard and wrote his name in large, vertical characters with the chalk⁠—a riff on the name of a teacher on a long-running TV series. What kind of stupid name was that? An alias, maybe, given the situation.

The class leader for the girls, Yukie Utsumi, stood suddenly and said, “I don’t understand.”

All eyes turned to her. Yukie’s long hair parted into two neat braids. Her expression was a little tense, but her voice was firm. Maybe she’d imagined up some scenario, impossible as it seemed, that had brought the students there, like they had all been knocked unconscious in a bus accident.

“What’s going on?” Yukie asked. “We’d just left on our school trip. Isn’t that right, everyone?”

Yukie looked over her shoulders to her classmates all around. Her question had triggered an outburst, as nearly everyone was shouting over each other.

“Where are we?”

“Did you fall asleep too?”

“Hey, what time is it?”

“Was everyone sleeping?”

“Shit, I don’t have a watch!”

“Do you remember getting off the bus and coming here?”

“Who the hell is that guy?”

“No, I don’t remember anything.”

“I don’t like this. What’s going on? I’m scared.”

Shuya noted that Sakamochi had stopped his speech to listen. Silent himself, Shuya watched his classmates. A few were keeping quiet.

The first to catch his notice was Kazuo Kiriyama, a little behind him and to the side, at the middle of the back row. Beneath his slicked-back hair, Kiriyama’s calm eyes were fixed on the man at the podium⁠⁠—watching, not glaring; his eyes were far too placid to call it that. Despite their attempts to get him to say something, Kiriyama paid no attention to his lackeys seated around him: Ryuhei Sasagawa, Mitsuru Numai, Hiroshi Kuronaga (Boys #⁠9), and Sho Tsukioka (Boys #⁠14).

Then there was Mitsuko Souma, second seat from the front on the window row. You remember, that vaguely rough-around-the-edges girl. Her desk was separated from the other two in her clique (Hirono Shimizu and Yoshimi Yahagi), and none of the other girls⁠—or boys, for that matter⁠—tried to talk to her. (Hirono and Yoshimi were in adjacent seats to Shuya’s left and were saying something to each other.) Mitsuko had the captivating face of a pop idol, though it wore its usual vaguely listless expression. Arms folded, she stared at Sakamochi. (Hiroki Sugimura sat directly behind her and was talking with Tadakatsu Hatagami to his right.)

Next was Shogo Kawada, in the same window row, two seats from the back. He, too, silently stared at Sakamochi. As Shuya watched, Kawada took a piece of gum from his pocket and started to chew, his eyes fixed dead ahead as his jaw worked up and down.

Shuya faced the front of the class and noticed Noriko was still staring back at him. Her dark eyes trembled in fear. Shuya glanced at Yoshitoki in the seat ahead of her, but he was talking about something with Shinji Mimura in the next row. Quickly returning his eyes to Noriko, Shuya attempted a tiny nod. A little relief edged into her eyes.

Sakamochi clapped his hands a few times and admonished, “All right, all right, all right, quiet down, everyone!” The uproar quickly subsided, and he continued. “Okay, I’ll explain. We’ve had you come here for one and only one reason.”

Then: “Today, you’re all going kill each other.”

This time, no outburst came. The students froze like subjects of a still life photograph⁠—except Kawada, Shuya noticed, who kept on chewing his gum. Kawada’s expression remained impassive, though Shuya thought he might have seen the flash of a faint smile.

Sakamochi maintained his broad grin and continued, “Your class has been chosen for this year’s Program.”

Someone whimpered.

42 students remain.

3

Every junior high school student in the Republic of Greater East Asia knew about the Program, which was covered in textbooks starting in the fourth grade. A somewhat detailed description appears in the government-compiled Republic of Greater East Asia Compact Encyclopedia:

Program (prōʹgrăm, -grəm) n. 1. A written list providing details of items or performers (names, order of appearance, etc.) [⁠ ⁠… ]

 

4. A battle simulation necessary to our defense and conducted by our nation’s Ground Nonaggressive Force. Officially titled “Combat Experiment 68th Program.” First held in 1947, the annual simulations are conducted by fifty ninth-grade classes selected voluntarily nationwide (prior to 1950, the number of classes was forty-seven), with various statistics collected from the trials. The experiment itself is simple: the students in each class fight each other until only one remains, and the findings, including the elapsed time of the simulation, are determined. The last survivor (winner) in each class is awarded a lifetime pension and a personally signed autograph from His Majesty The Leader. The 317th Leader’s famous “April Speech” was given in response to protestors and agitators from an extremist sect during the first year of the Program.

The “April Speech” appears in the seventh grade textbook as follows:

My beloved comrades, who strive toward revolution and development. [Two-minute interruption for applause and cheers for the great 317th Leader] Comrades. [One-minute interruption] Throughout the world, shameless imperialists who seek to menace our Republic still continue to assemble. Observe what they do to their own countrymen. They exploit them, they cheat them, they brainwash them, the people who would otherwise have been our comrades, into becoming the advance guard of their imperialism, and then they use them at their whim. [Unanimous cry of righteous indignation] Given the slightest chance, the imperialists would invade the soil of our Republic, the most advanced revolutionary state in the world. By weaving their plots to bring ruin to our people, they lay bare the depths of their devious ways. [Scattered shouts of anger] With our nation surrounded by this state of affairs, the 68th Program is absolutely vital. In truth, I myself will be unable to hold back my bitter tears of remorse over the loss of the lives of thousands, even tens of thousands, each at the age of only fifteen. But if their lives serve to protect the independence of our people living in this nation of abundance, then will not their flesh and blood live on for eternity, becoming one with this land of beauty passed down to us by our gods? [One-minute interruption for a wave of applause and cheers.] As you all know, we do not have a military draft in the Republic. The Ground, Maritime, and Air Nonaggressive Forces consist of young volunteer soldiers who aspire to patriotism and burn with a resilient purpose of revolution and development. They risk their lives day and night on the front lines. Think of the Program as a kind of draft, one unique to our nation. To defend our nation [⁠ ⁠… ]

Enough of that windbag. (Middle-aged Nonaggressive Forces recruiters could be often found right outside train stations, saying, “How about we get some pork and rice?” as their standard bait.)

Shuya had heard about the Program before he was even in fourth grade. It was after his parents died in a traffic accident and when he’d just begun to adjust to life in the House of Mercy and Love, where an acquaintance of his father had put him. (None of his relatives would take him in. Some said it was because his parents had been involved in antigovernment activities, but he’d never confirmed the story.)

Shuya must have been five at the time, watching TV in the rec room with Yoshitoki Kuninobu, who had already been well established at the House of Mercy and Love when he showed up. The latest episode of Shuya’s favorite giant mecha anime had just ended, and the director of the facility, Ms. Ryoko Anno, changed the channel. (The daughter of the previous director, at the time she was probably still in high school. Regardless, the kids used the honorifics with all the workers there, and Ms. Anno was no exception.) Shuya kept on watching the screen, where an adult man in a stiff suit was talking into the camera. The child recognized that this must be that “news” thing, that boring show that was on all the channels from time to time.

The man was reading from a script. Shuya couldn’t remember what the newscaster said, but it was pretty much always the same and was probably something like:

“We have received confirmation from officials with the government and the Nonaggressive Forces that the Program, run in Kagawa Prefecture for the first time in three years, completed yesterday at 3:12 p.m. The participating class was from Zentsuji Fourth Junior High, Ninth Grade Class E, of the city of Zentsuji. The Program took place at the previously undisclosed location of Shidaka Island, four kilometers off the coast from the town of Tadotsu. Three days, seven hours, and forty-three minutes elapsed before the winner was determined. Earlier today, the bodies were retrieved, and autopsies were held to determine the preliminary cause of death for the thirty-eight deceased students as follows: seventeen by gunshot, nine by edged weapon, five by blunt object, three by suffocation⁠ ⁠…”

The newscast displayed the apparent “winner,” a young girl in a tattered sailor-suit uniform, flanked by two soldiers, her face twitching as she looked into the camera. At the edge of her long, disheveled hair, her right temple was smeared dark red. But something peculiar about this image would remain fresh in Shuya’s memory: the corners of the girl’s mouth working in contorted flashes that looked like a smile.

Shuya recognized now that this was the first time he had witnessed the face of insanity. But at the time, he hadn’t distinguished it as such; he simply felt afraid, as if he were looking at a monster.

Shuya believed he had asked, “Ms. Anno, what is that?”

Ms. Anno shook her head and said, “It’s nothing.” Then she looked away from Shuya and whispered, “That poor girl.”

Yoshitoki Kuninobu, preoccupied with a tangerine, hadn’t been paying attention to the TV for some time.

As Shuya grew older, these local news reports, coming roughly twice a year with no schedule and no warning, felt increasingly ominous. With fifty ninth-grade classes around the country, and assuming forty students in each, it was a death sentence visited annually upon two thousand children⁠—no, one thousand nine hundred fifty, to be precise. And this was no mere killing, but familiar classmates murdering each other in competition for a single survivor’s throne, like the most heinous game of musical chairs.

But there would be no resisting it. The actions of the government of the Republic of Greater East Asia were not to be defied.

So Shuya viewed the Program with dismissive contempt. That was how most of the kids in the ninth-grade “reserves” dealt with it. Okay, sure, a kind of draft unique to our nation? Our nation of abundance and land of beauty? How many junior high students were there in the Republic? Even with the declining birth rate, the odds weren’t even one in eight hundred or so. In all of Kagawa Prefecture, at most only one class “wins” that lottery in two years. Frankly, getting killed in a car accident was just as likely, and seeing how he never got the luck of the draw, Shuya never thought he’d get chosen. Hell, when the local shopping arcade held a raffle, he’d never won more than a box of tissues. So who gives a shit? Fuck it.

But every once in a while, someone in his class⁠—usually one of the girls⁠—would cry and say, “My cousin’s in the Program,” or something like that, and inside Shuya that black terror would return. And with it, anger. Who had the right to make that cute girl sad?

But then, after days of depression, that girl would begin to smile again, and Shuya’s feelings of terror and anger would gradually fade away. Only the faint, indistinct sense of helplessness and distrust toward the government remained behind.

That’s how it went.

And when Shuya entered ninth grade this year, he⁠—and likely his classmates⁠—believed Class B alone was safe. They had to believe.

Until this very moment.

❖

A chair noisily scraped against the floor as one of the boys stood and shouted, his voice shrill, “That can’t be!”

Shuya turned to see the source of the outburst, somewhere behind Hiroki Sugimura. It was the class leader for the boys, Kyoichi Motobuchi. Kyoichi’s face had crossed from pale into ashen in a surreal contrast with his silver-rimmed glasses. He could have been one of Andy Warhol’s silkscreen creations from their art textbook, Decadent Art of the American Empire.

Some in the class may have hoped Kyoichi would offer some rational argument. Kill the kids who were our friends just the day before? That’s impossible. This has to be a mistake. Explain it to this jerk, class leader.

But what Kyoichi said was utterly worthless.

“M-my father is the director of the Kagawa Department of Natural Resources.” Kyoichi was trembling, and his voice sounded even more nervous than it usually did. “There’s no way my class would be selected for the P-Program.”

The man who had called himself Sakamochi shook his head with a dry smile. His long hair billowed.

“You’re Motobuchi, yeah?” Sakamochi said, his voice syrupy. “Surely you know of the concept of equality, right? Listen, all people are born equal. Just because your father is a government official doesn’t mean it’s all right for him to receive special treatment. Clearly the same goes for his son. Listen, everyone, you all have your own circumstances. Some of you come from rich families, and some poor. But your value isn’t determined by such things⁠—by things beyond your control. Each one of you must discover your own worth through your own efforts. So, Motobuchi, don’t make the mistake of thinking that you alone are special.” Then he shouted, “Because you’re not!”

Stunned to silence, Kyoichi slumped to his chair. Sakamochi glared at the boy for a time until his broad grin suddenly returned.

“They’ll be talking about you on the morning news,” Sakamochi said. “Of course, with the Program being a secret experiment, they won’t announce any of the details until it’s over. But, well, your fathers and your mothers have all been informed.”

Everyone appeared stunned. We have to kill our classmates? Can it really be?

“What,” Sakamochi said, scratching his head in apparent consternation, “you still don’t believe me?”

He faced the doorway and called out, taking time with the words, “You men⁠—come on in!”

On command, three soldiers noisily rushed into the room. Their dress⁠—a camouflage combat uniform, combat boots, and a metal helmet with the peach emblem emblazoned on the front⁠—identified the men as members of the Nonaggressive Forces. They carried assault rifles slung from their shoulders and wore belt holsters with pistol grips visible. One was tall, with tousled hair⁠—odd for a soldier, that⁠—and his default expression seemed to be an insincere smile. Another was of average height and baby-faced, a leading man type. The last seemed a touch effeminate and fairly unimpressive compared to the other two. The three men were stooped over, hauling a large sack made of heavy plastic. It resembled a black sleeping bag, only it bulged here and there, as if stuffed with pineapples.

Sakamochi stepped aside to the window, and the three soldiers placed the bag atop the teacher’s podium. The ends of the bag hung off the edges of the platform. Whatever was inside must not have been very rigid, because the ends⁠—especially the side facing the windows⁠—drooped.

Sakamochi said, “These men will be assisting with your Program. Allow me to introduce them. This is Mr. Tahara, Mr. Kondo, and Mr. Nomura. All right, show them what’s in the bag.”

The insincere soldier called Tahara grabbed the zipper on the hallway side and tugged it open. A red liquid covered the interior.

With the zipper only partway open, one of the girls in the front row screamed. Others quickly joined in, the soprano chorus swelling over a backdrop of confused exclamations and clattering desks and chairs.

Shuya gulped.

Then he saw it, inside the half-open bag⁠—the teacher in charge of Class B, Mr. Hayashida. No, the former teacher. No, the former Mr. Hayashida.

His cheap, blue-gray suit was soaked in blood. Only the left half of his black-rimmed glasses (the source of his nickname, “Dragonfly”) remained. Unsurprising, given that only the left half of his head was still there. Behind the single lens, the red marble of an eye stared languidly at the ceiling. What was left of his hair was mottled with a gray jelly that must have been brain matter. His left arm, watch still on, spilled out from the bag, as if relieved to be free of the confines, and dangled off the front of the podium. Anyone in the front row would have been close enough to see if the watch’s second hand still moved.

“All right, all right, all right, quiet, quiet.” Sakamochi clapped his hands, but the girls’ shrieks persisted. “Quiet, please! Really, you all⁠—”

Suddenly, Kondo, the baby-faced soldier, drew his sidearm.

Shuya thought the soldier was going to fire a warning shot at the ceiling, but instead, Kondo seized the body bag with his free hand and dragged it off the platform. He then lifted Mr. Hayashida’s body so that the teacher’s head was level with his own. He looked like a hero in some sci-fi monster movie battling a giant cocoon-spinning worm.

The soldier put his gun to Mr. Hayashida’s head and squeezed the trigger twice. The teacher’s head blew apart, insides spraying out, the energy of the high velocity round scattering bits of brains and bone in a bloody mist that fell upon the faces and chests of the students in the front row.

When echoes of gunfire subsided, Mr. Hayashida didn’t have much of a head left at all.

The soldier tossed Mr. Hayashida’s body beside the podium. The screams had stopped.

42 students remain.

4

The standing students fearfully lowered themselves back into their seats. The unimpressive soldier on the end dragged Mr. Hayashida’s body bag to the corner of the room, then rejoined his two comrades beside the teacher’s podium. Sakamochi returned to the lectern.

The room was again silent, save for the sounds of one student somewhere near the back: miserable moaning punctuated by splashes of vomit spilling wetly on the floor. The smell came soon after.

“All right,” Sakamochi said, calmly smoothing back his hair, “Mr. Hayashida was, you see, very opposed to your selection for the Program. Well, this all happened so suddenly, I feel bad about it myself.”

The students had gone still. They had accepted reality. This was not a joke. They were going to be forced to kill each other.

But now, finally, Shuya desperately made himself think. His mind, dazed when confronted with the impossibility of the scenario, had been awakened by the ghastly sight of Mr. Hayashida’s corpse and the cruel performance in which it had featured.

I have to escape, whatever it takes. But how? Right, first, I need to talk to Yoshitoki⁠ ⁠… and Mimura and Sugimura. But how exactly does the Program go, anyway? The details haven’t ever been made public. I know we’re given weapons to kill each other with, but are we allowed to talk? And how does the government monitor what happens?

“I-I,” said a voice, interrupting Shuya’s thoughts. He raised his head and opened his eyes.

Yoshitoki Kuninobu half stood, blankly staring at Sakamochi, unsure if he should finish what he had been about to say, as if the words had spilled out of their own accord. Shuya’s body tensed. Yoshitoki, keep quiet!

Sakamochi offered a warm smile and said, “Yes, what is it? Ask me anything.”

On automatic pilot, without even thinking, Yoshitoki continued. “I⁠ ⁠… don’t have any parents. Who did you contact?”

“Ah, yes.” Sakamochi nodded. “There was a student living in a welfare institution. You’re Nanahara, then? The school records said you had⁠ ⁠… ideological problems. And⁠—”

“I’m Nanahara,” Shuya interrupted, half shouting.

Sakamochi glanced at Shuya, then looked back at Yoshitoki. Yoshitoki looked at Shuya too, still something vacant in his expression.

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” Sakamochi said. “There was another. You must be Kuninobu. Right, I made sure to contact the administrator of the facility where both of you live. She was⁠ ⁠… rather pretty.”

Sakamochi grinned at the implication he had seen her personally. As utterly cheerful as the smile was, there was something nasty to it.

Shuya grimaced. “Is she⁠ ⁠… Did something happen to Ms. Anno?”

“She was like Mr. Hayashida, Nanahara. She resisted on your behalf. To make her obedient, well⁠ ⁠…” Sakamochi paused before calmly continuing, “I had to force myself upon her. Now, don’t you worry, she’s not dead or anything.”

A crimson rage sprung up inside Shuya, but before he could say anything, he heard Yoshitoki yell, “I’ll kill you!”

Yoshitoki stood. His face had changed, with a heartfelt anger rarely displayed by the typically genial boy. His classmates had likely never seen him like this before⁠—nor would they have even imagined him generally capable of the emotion⁠—though Shuya, having lived together with his friend for so many years, had encountered that expression maybe a couple of times. Once was in the fourth grade, when a hit-and-run driver struck the orphanage’s dog, Eddie, outside the front gates, and Yoshitoki chased after him. The second time was just a year ago. A man had been using the House of Mercy and Love’s debts as an excuse to make dogged advances on Ms. Anno. When she finally scraped together the money and rejected him once and for all, he deliberately cursed her out where the children would hear. If Shuya hadn’t stopped him, Yoshitoki would have knocked the man’s front teeth out, whatever the cost. Yoshitoki was incredibly, incredibly kind, and could laugh off most any offense, whether it was being made fun of or being pushed around. But hurt someone he loved, and his response would be ferocious. Shuya admired that.

“I’ll kill you, you bastard!” Yoshitoki went on shouting. “I’m going to fucking kill you and bury you in shit!”

“Oh?” Sakamochi said, flashing an amused smile. “Do you really mean what you’re saying, Kuninobu? Listen, people have to take responsibility for the things they say.”

“Fuck you! I’m really going to kill you, and don’t you fucking forget it!”

Shuya yelled, “Yoshitoki! Let it go!” But Yoshitoki didn’t seem to hear.

Sakamochi spoke again, this time in a soothing yet oddly gleeful tone. “You know, Kuninobu, what you’re saying right now, that’s in defiance of the government.”

“I’ll kill you!” Yoshitoki didn’t relent an inch. “I’ll kill you kill you kill you!”

Just as Shuya lost his patience and was about to shout again, Sakamochi shook his head, then turned to the three soldiers standing beside the podium and made a sharp gesture.

The three camouflaged men, Tahara, Kondo, and Nomura, extended their right arms in unison, like the Four Freshmen or some other vocal group striking an impassioned pose for a song’s climax⁠—though this ensemble happened to be holding pistols. If this were the chorus, it might go, Baby please, Baby please / Spend this night with me.

From his seat diagonally behind, Shuya could see Yoshitoki’s goggling eyes bulged open even wider.

The three guns flashed simultaneously. Halfway into the aisle, Yoshitoki’s body danced the boogaloo.

It was over before anyone, including Noriko Nakagawa directly behind, could duck.

And as the gunfire’s echoes faded, Yoshitoki slowly leaned to the right, then flopped to the floor between his own desk and that of Izumi Kanai to his right. Izumi gasped.

The trio held their pose, arms outstretched and level. Three identical wisps of smoke wafted from the muzzles of their pistols. The room was oddly silent. Between the desk legs, Shuya saw his friend’s familiar face pointed straight at him, those goggling eyes open, staring at a point on the floor. A pool of bright blood began to spread. Yoshitoki’s arm, splayed at his side, began to spasm, shaking from the shoulder down to the fingertips.

Yoshitoki!

Shuya stood and began to run to Yoshitoki’s side, but Noriko got there first. She cried, “Mr. Nobu!” and stooped over him.

The soldier with the fake smile was the only one to shoot her. She fell forward as if she had tripped and slammed atop Yoshitoki’s convulsing body.

The man immediately pointed his weapon at Shuya. Becoming more and more confused, Shuya froze in place. Moving only his eyes, he looked at Noriko. She was on her hands and knees atop Yoshitoki. Blood gushed from a wound in her right calf.

To Noriko, Sakamochi said, “Leaving your desk without permission is not allowed.” Then to Shuya, “The same applies to you, Nanahara. Take your seat.”

Shuya tore his eyes from the sight of Noriko’s rapidly bloodying leg and from Yoshitoki beneath her, and looked Sakamochi straight on. He could feel his neck muscles twitch from the shock.

“What the hell is going on?” Shuya shouted, on the verge of crying, unable to make himself move. The insincere soldier kept his pistol trained right between Shuya’s eyes. “What the hell are you doing? You have to⁠—Yoshitoki needs first aid! And Noriko⁠ ⁠…”

Sakamochi frowned and shook his head. Then he repeated, “Take your seat now. And you too, uh, Nakagawa.”

Noriko, her face pale from the sight of Yoshitoki, slowly lifted her head to look at Sakamochi. Anger overshadowed what must have been incredible pain. She glared at Sakamochi and said, clipping each word, “Please help Kuninobu.”

Yoshitoki’s right arm continued to spasm. But as Shuya watched, the movements were quickly abating. Without immediate attention, his wounds would clearly be fatal.

With a sigh, Sakamochi turned to the insincere soldier and said, “Tahara, make sure of it.”

Before Shuya had time to think Of what? the soldier aimed his pistol down and fired once. Yoshitoki Kuninobu’s head jolted, and something sprayed out and splashed onto Noriko’s face.

Noriko was dazed, her mouth agape. Dark red flecked her face.

Shuya realized his own mouth was hanging open.

Though part of his head was now gone, Yoshitoki kept on staring at the same spot on the floor. But he had stopped spasming. He had stopped doing anything at all.

“Look,” Sakamochi said. “He was dead already. Now, if you’ve seen enough, take your seats.”

Noriko looked down at Yoshitoki’s gnarled head. “Oh,” she let out. “This⁠ ⁠…”

Shuya was still in shock. His eyes were locked on Yoshitoki’s face, glimpsed between the desk legs. His thoughts were paralyzed, as if it were his brains that had been blown out. His mind whirled in a tornado of memories of times spent with Yoshitoki. Little adventures camping and rowing downriver, rainy days engrossed in old, well-worn board games, watching a copy of an American movie that had made its way to the black market, The Blues Brothers. (Amazingly, the film had even been dubbed in Japanese, though the voice actors were terrible.) The two lead characters had been in an orphanage, and for a time, Shuya and Yoshitoki played pretend Jake and Elwood. Then he remembered the expression on Yoshitoki’s face, not so long ago, when he said, “Hey, Shuya, I⁠ ⁠… kinda⁠ ⁠… got a crush.” And after that⁠ ⁠…

“Can’t you two hear me?” Sakamochi said, or perhaps repeated, as Shuya might in fact not have heard. He just stared at his friend’s face.

As did Noriko. If they had continued like that, the two may have soon followed after Yoshitoki Kuninobu. Beside Sakamochi, the insincere soldier was pointing his gun at Noriko, and the other two soldiers pointed theirs at Shuya.

But a calm voice⁠—carefree, even⁠—saying, “Teacher Teacher Teacher,” brought Shuya back to reality, or at least made him turn dimly to face the voice’s source.

On the other side of Yoshitoki’s now empty chair, Shinji Mimura had raised his hand. Noriko finally looked his way.

“Um, Mimura, right?” Sakamochi said. “What is it?”

Shinji lowered his hand, and The Third Man’s voice sounded no different than any other day when he asked, “Since Nakagawa is hurt, could I help her to her chair?”

Sakamochi’s eyebrows rose a little, but he nodded his consent. “Sure, go ahead. I want to keep things moving.”

Shinji nodded, stood, and walked to Noriko’s side, kneeling between Yoshitoki’s body and her. As he moved, he had taken a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket, which he then used to wipe Yoshitoki’s blood from her face. Noriko didn’t react.

“Come, Nakagawa, stand,” he said, taking her by her right arm and helping her up.

Then, with his back turned to Sakamochi, Shinji looked at Shuya, who was still half standing at his desk. Beneath crisp, upturned eyebrows, Shinji’s typically good-humored eyes had turned solemn. With an arching of an eyebrow and a minute shake of his head, he jerked his left hand down, palm open. When Shuya didn’t understand, Shinji repeated the gesture.

The second time, Shuya realized through his daze that Shinji was telling him, Settle down. He returned Shinji’s gaze and eased back into his chair.

Shinji gave him a slight nod and helped Noriko to her seat, then turned his back again and returned to his own.

Noriko’s right leg dangled from her chair, blood gushing from the wound, staining her white sock and sneaker in bright red, like she had put on one of Santa’s boots.

Finally regaining her senses, Noriko started to thank Shinji. But, as if he could see behind himself, the boy dismissed her with a shrug. She withdrew, and her eyes fell back down to Yoshitoki, lying just to her right. Her gaze froze there, and though she didn’t make a sound, Shuya could see her eyes filling with tears.

He too looked at Yoshitoki’s corpse, the legs of the desks fragmenting the view. A corpse, that’s all it was now. There was no denying it. Though unable to fully process what had just occurred, Shuya knew this was a corpse⁠—the corpse of the boy with whom he had shared the last ten years of his life.

As he looked into Yoshitoki’s gaping eyes, anger came to him, pulsing, building steadily, resolute, taking control of his body. He thought he might be shaking. Emotions quelled by shock returned to him. His lip curled as he turned to face Sakamochi.

The man watched him with amusement. I’ll never forgive you, Shuya thought. I’m going to kill the bastard!

Shuya was only moments away from exploding as his friend had done, but then he remembered Shinji’s gestured message⁠—Settle down. An outburst now would only bring him the same fate as Yoshitoki. And now Yoshitoki’s crush, Noriko Nakagawa, was badly hurt. If Shuya died, what would happen to her?

With effort, he broke away from Sakamochi’s gaze and buried his eyes in the top of his desk. He felt miserable. Denied an outlet, the rage and sorrow threatened to crush his spirit.

Sakamochi chuckled, apparently turning his attention elsewhere.

To keep his body from trembling, Shuya clenched his fists under his desk. Strongly, strongly, he clenched. But with Yoshitoki’s body so near, forcing down his emotions was not easy.

He really couldn’t process it. Can it really be? Can you lose someone just like that? Someone that close, gone?

The two boys had always been together. What they had done together may not have amounted to much, but when they had been playing in the river and Yoshitoki nearly drowned, Shuya was the one who saved him. When they were collecting grasshoppers and carelessly stuffed too many into a single box, killing nearly all of them, they both felt bad about it. They had fought over who Eddy the dog loved more. When they snuck into the attic over the school’s faculty room for a laugh, and it looked like they were about to be caught, they pulled off the escape and laughed about it together. The two really had been inseparable. They had been.

And now, he’s gone?

Shinji raised his hand. “Teacher, I have another question.”

“Again, Mimura? What is it?”

“Nakagawa is hurt. Wouldn’t her being in the Program make it unfair?”

Sakamochi laughed in amusement. “Yeah. Well, that may be true, Mimura, but what of it?”

“Couldn’t you see that her wounds get treated and have the Program postponed until she’s healed?”

Shuya, having barely been able to control his tumultuous emotions, marveled at Shinji Mimura’s composure⁠—though he was surprised he could be any more impressed with the boy than he already had been before. It was true; Shinji was far calmer than Shuya had managed. If Shuya could match it himself, maybe he could buy himself and his classmates more time to find an escape.

Sakamochi burst into laughter. “What an amusing suggestion, Mimura,” he said. Then he offered a different solution. “All right, then, how about I kill Nakagawa. That would make everything fair, right?”

Not only Noriko, but all the students tensed. Shuya could see Shinji’s back muscles stiffen beneath his school uniform.

Right away, Shinji said, “I take it back, I take it back. I give.”

His joking tone sent Sakamochi into another burst of laughter. The insincere-looking soldier, who had already begun reaching for his holster, returned his hand to rest on his rifle’s shoulder strap.

Sakamochi clapped his hands twice and said, “All right, listen, you all have different aptitudes. Whether intellect or physical ability, you all start unequal. So Nakagawa won’t be receiving any medical atten⁠—You there! No talking!”

With a shout, he threw a white object at Fumiyo Fujiyoshi (Girls #⁠18), who was about to whisper something to the female class leader, Yukie Utsumi. For a second, Shuya thought it was a piece of chalk⁠—a guess that would have been apt, back in another world.

Thuk! Making the sound of a nail driven into a coffin, a thin knife sprouted from the center of Fumiyo’s high and fair-skinned forehead.

Yukie’s eyes widened as she saw it, while Fumiyo made for a bizarre show, looking up, trying to identify the knife in her own brow, her head tilting back.

Then, in an instant, Fumiyo collapsed sideways. Her temple slammed against Yukie’s desk, jolting it.

This time, no confirmation was needed. Who could have a knife sticking out of her forehead and survive?

No one moved. No one spoke. With held breath, Yukie stared down at Fumiyo. Noriko watched with a stunned expression. Shinji Mimura pursed his lips and looked at Fumiyo, who had fallen into the same aisle as Yoshitoki.

Shuya forced his dry throat to swallow and thought, He did that just because he felt like it. On a fucking whim! Our lives are at the mercy of this bastard, Sakamochi or whatever his name is.

“Whoops, I really did it now,” Sakamochi said. “Sorry, everyone. It’s against the rules for the teacher to kill his students.”

He closed his eyes and scratched his head. Then, his expression suddenly plain again, he said, “But no more doing anything without permission. That includes whispering. I don’t want to have to do it, but if you talk in class⁠ ⁠… I have plenty of knives.”

Shuya gritted his teeth and told himself, Wait. Two of his classmates were dead already, their corpses sprawled on the floor. Again and again, he repeated it to himself. Wait.

But Yoshitoki’s face kept drawing his eyes in. He couldn’t help it. He felt ready to cry.

40 students remain.

5

“I’ll explain the rules,” Sakamochi said, his voice again cheerful.

Unlike the already dried blood of their teacher, “Dragonfly” Hayashida, Yoshitoki Kuninobu’s blood was fresh, the smell of it thick in the air. Shuya couldn’t see Fumiyo Fujiyoshi’s face from where he sat, but she didn’t seem to be bleeding much.

“As you all may already know,” Sakamochi said, “the rules are simple. Kill one another. That’s it. No holds barred.” Sakamochi beamed a smile. “And only the sole survivor will be able to go home. And you’ll even get a signed card from the Great Leader. Pretty cool, right?”

In his mind, Shuya spat.

“You all might think those are some harsh rules. But the unexpected will happen⁠—that’s what life is. Listen, if you’re going to manage life’s accidents, you need to keep a good grip on yourself. Think of this as practice for that. An exercise, okay? Also, in the name of gender equality, there will be no handicaps for the boys or girls. But I do have good news for the girls. According to actual Program results, 49 percent of the past winners have been girls. If they can do it, so can you. You have nothing to fear.”

Sakamochi signaled, and the camouflaged trio began carrying in large black nylon daypacks from the hall. The backpacks soon formed a large pile beside Mr. Hayashida’s body bag. Some of them bulged out at angles, as if they might contain a pole-shaped object.

“One at a time, you will each leave here,” Sakamochi explained. “But before you depart, you’ll be given one of these bags, inside which you will find some food and water, and a weapon. Every bag has a unique weapon. You see, as I said before, you all come into this with differing capabilities, and this way, we can add a little⁠ ⁠… factor of uncertainty. If that sounds confusing, let me put it another way. We’re adding things into the experiment without knowing their effects. Now, we have not predetermined which of you will receive which weapon. As each of you leaves, we’ll take one bag from the top and hand it to you. Also inside your pack will be a map of this island, a compass, and a watch. Raise your hand if you don’t already have a watch. Nobody? Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you⁠—we are on an island. It’s just about six kilometers around. This is the island’s first time as the venue for the Program, but everyone has cleared out for us. There is no one else here.”

Sakamochi turned to the blackboard and took a stick of chalk. Next to where he had written his own name, he sketched a large, rounded diamond shape. Above it and to the right, he drew an upward-facing arrow and the letter N. Just to the right of the diamond’s center, he made an X. With his chalk still pressed to the blackboard, he looked over his shoulder to speak.

“All right, this is the island’s school. Got it? That’s where we are.” Sakamochi tapped his chalk against the X. “I’ll be staying here the whole time, watching over you.”

Next he drew four spindle shapes, one in each cardinal direction.

“These are ships,” Sakamochi said. “They have the very important job of shooting anyone who tries to escape by sea.”

Now he drew several parallel vertical and horizontal lines across the island, making it look like a misshapen wire mesh grill. Sakamochi labeled each square, starting at the top left, “Al,” then “A2,” and so on, continuing in the next row with “Bl,” then “B2,” and so forth.

“This is just a quick sketch,” Sakamochi explained, “but the map inside your pack is along the same lines.”

He set down the chalk and clapped the dust from his hands. “All right, so, when you leave here, you’ll be free to go where you please. But I will make announcements, broadcast throughout the island, at twelve and six, day and night. That’s four times a day. I’ll be letting you know which zones, according to your maps, will be dangerous, from what time. Take a good look at your maps, refer to your compasses and the topography, and hurry away from those areas!

“And why is that, you ask?” Sakamochi placed his hands on the lectern and looked around at the students’ faces. “That’s right⁠—the collars on each of your necks.”

Several of the students must have not yet noticed the collars, because they touched their hands to their necks and looked startled.

“Those collars,” Sakamochi said, “are the result of our Republic’s advanced technologies. Completely waterproof, shockproof⁠—No, hey, stop, stop, you can’t take it off. It won’t come off. And if you try to force it loose⁠ ⁠…” Sakamochi winced. “It’ll explode.”

The students who had been fidgeting with their collars quickly dropped their hands.

Grinning broadly, Sakamochi continued. “Those collars monitor the electrical signals emitted by your heartbeat and inform the computers inside this school whether you’re alive or dead. They also can identify your location on the island, which brings us back to the map.”

He gestured toward the blackboard with his right hand. “Those same computers will be randomly determining the dangerous areas before I announce them to you. And if any of you stay in those zones past the determined time⁠—oh, just those of you still living; the dead ones won’t matter⁠—if you remain in one of the forbidden zones, the computers will automatically recognize it and will send a signal of their own back to your collar.”

“And,” Sakamochi said, giving a dramatic pause, though Shuya felt he knew what was coming. “The collar will explode.”

Shuya had been right.

Sakamochi stopped to gauge the students’ expressions. Then, after a short time, he said, “But maybe you’re wondering why we have that rule. Well, if everyone just found their own spot to hide, the game wouldn’t progress. So we’re going to make you move about. And the areas you can move in will shrink, smaller and smaller. That’s why.”

Sakamochi had called this a game. As despicable as it was, the word fit. And though nobody said a word, they all seemed to get the rules.

“I want to make sure you fully understand,” Sakamochi said. “Going inside a building won’t help you. Neither will digging a hole. The signal will still reach you. Oh, and that reminds me, you’re free to hide inside any of the buildings, but phones have all been disabled. You can’t call your mom and dad. You’re in this battle alone, just as in life. Also, though we start without any forbidden zones that would trigger your explosive collars, this school is an exception. Twenty minutes after the last of you leaves, this will become a forbidden zone, so be sure to distance yourself from here first. Get two hundred meters away. All right? And in each announcement, I’ll read the names of the students who died over the previous six hours. Though the announcements will occur at regular six-hour intervals, when there is only one student left, I will inform them by broadcast. Oh, and one more thing. There is a time limit. Did you hear me? A time limit. In the Program, students die, but if there’s ever a twenty-four-hour period with no deaths, time’s up. No matter how many are still alive⁠ ⁠…”

Shuya saw this one coming too.

“The computers will do their thing, and all of the survivors’ collars will explode. There will be no winner.”

Right again.

Sakamochi stopped speaking, and silence returned to the classroom. The smell of Yoshitoki Kuninobu’s blood remained heavy in the air, and the students still seemed in a daze. They were afraid, though unable to fully comprehend their situation⁠—that they were about to be thrown into a killing game.

Sakamochi, sensing their collective mood, clapped his hands. “Well, that’s it for the tedious details. What I’m about to tell you next is more important. A bit of advice. Some of you might consider it preposterous to kill your own classmates. But don’t you forget: the others⁠—they’re ready to kill.”

Shuya wanted to scream Bullshit! But Fumiyo Fujiyoshi’s execution for talking in class left him with no choice but to restrain himself.

Everyone remained quiet, but something had changed, and Shuya saw it.

The students were looking around, their eyes sweeping across each other’s pale faces. But whenever two gazes met, each hastily looked away to Sakamochi. This episode only went on for a few seconds, but even after it passed, the looks on their faces remained⁠—expressions taut with paranoia and fear. Expressions that wondered if the boy or girl beside them was ready to kill. Only Shinji Mimura and a few others appeared calm.

Shuya gritted his teeth. Damn it, he thought. That’s just what these bastards want you to do! Come on, think, all of you⁠—we’re friends. There’s no way we could kill each other!

“All right then,” Sakamochi said, “let’s make sure you got the message. Inside your desk is paper and a pencil. Take them out.”

The students shifted uneasily in their seats and withdrew their paper and pencils. Shuya decided to go along with it for now.

“Okay,” Sakamochi said, “I want you to write this down. If you want to remember something, you have to right it down. ‘We will kill each other.’ Write it three times.”

Shuya heard the scratching of pencils taken to paper, and he could see Noriko gripping hers. Her expression remained grim. He started to scrawl down the insane mantra, when halfway through, his eyes flicked to Yoshitoki’s corpse, and he recalled his friend’s bright smile.

Sakamochi continued, “Okay, now write, ‘If I don’t kill, I’ll be killed.’ Three times.”

Once more, Shuya looked toward Fumiyo Fujiyoshi. Her pale fingers, poking out from the sleeve of her sailor fuku, had curled, forming a shallow cup. One of the school nurse’s aides, Fumiyo had been coolheaded and was always there to lend a hand.

Shuya looked up at Sakamochi.

You bastard, I’m going to drive this pencil into your heart!

40 students remain.

6

“All right,” Sakamochi said. “So you’re going to leave the classroom, one at a time, at uh, two-minute intervals. If you go through the door and turn right, the exit will be down the hall. Loiter inside, and you’ll be shot and killed. Now, according to the rules of the Program, we’ll select one student to go first, then the rest of you go in the order of your seat numbers. Boy, girl, boy, girl. When we hit the end of the list, we’ll loop back to the top.”

Shuya recalled that Noriko Nakagawa was number fifteen on the girls’ side. She’s the same number as me. We’ll leave at almost the same time. Unless she’s first, and then I’m last, that is. But⁠ ⁠… can she even walk?

Sakamochi withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket. “The first student was randomly selected. The result is in this envelope. Just a moment, now.”

Sakamochi took out a pair of scissors tied with a pink ribbon. He had started ceremoniously cutting open the end of the envelope when Kazuo Kiriyama spoke, his voice calm like Shinji Mimura’s, though cold and commanding. “When does the game begin?”

All of the students turned to look at the back row where Kiriyama sat. (All, except for Kawada, who just kept on chewing his gum.)

Sakamochi kept working the scissors as he replied, “As soon as you leave. So you all might want to find someplace to hide and come up with your battle plans. It’s nighttime, anyway.”

Kiriyama didn’t respond, but now Shuya finally knew it was one in the morning⁠—no, make it nearly half past one now.

Sakamochi finished cutting the envelope, pulled out a white paper from within, and unfolded it. His mouth rounded in surprise.

“What a coincidence! Boys, number one. Akamatsu.”

Sitting in the front seat of the window aisle (or should I say, the steel plate aisle), Yoshio Akamatsu looked stunned. At one hundred eighty centimeters and ninety kilograms, he was big bodied, but in gym class, Yoshio did nothing but screw up⁠—he couldn’t catch a fly ball if it was coming right to him, nor could he even run a single lap around the track. His thick lips had drained of color.

“Quickly now, Akamatsu,” Sakamochi said.

Yoshio grabbed the bag he’d packed for the school trip and unsteadily rose to his feet. The three camouflaged soldiers, rifles held at their hips, prompted him to take his daypack, and he did. The doorway opened into darkness, and he stood there, looking back at his classmates for a quick second, fear in his face. Then he was gone. The echo of a few footsteps became a clomping run, fading into the distance. It sounded like he tripped and fell once before darting off again.

As the room fell silent, several of the students let out pent-up sighs.

“Okay, we’ll wait two minutes. Next will be girls number one, Mizuho Inada.”

This pattern of attendance call and departure went relentlessly on and on.

But near the beginning, when number four for the girls, Sakura Ogawa left, Shuya noticed something. Hers was the second desk behind him, in the last row, and when she walked to the front of the class, she walked right by Shuya. He saw her touch her hand to the desk of her boyfriend, Kazuhiko Yamamoto, slipping him a scrap of paper. She must have left him some message on the sheet of paper she had used to write “We will kill each other.”

Shuya might have been the only one who noticed. Sakamochi, at least, gave no sign he’d seen anything. Kazuhiko palmed the note and squeezed it tightly in his fist beneath his desk. Shuya felt a tiny bit of relief, knowing that madness had not yet completely consumed them all. The bonds of love persevered.

She left the room, and Shuya wondered, What did she write to him? He looked at the map on the blackboard. The name of one of those squares on the grid? A meeting place? That drawing is much too crude, and besides, there’s no telling if it’ll match the real map at all. Maybe a direction and a distance? But wait, if the two of them are going off to meet somewhere in secret, that must mean they’re convinced some of us are out to kill them. That’s just how Sakamochi wants us to think.

Shuya thought. I don’t know what’s right outside, but surely I can wait there and talk to everyone who comes out after me. None of Sakamochi’s rules would do anything to stop that. Sure, everyone’s gone paranoid and confused, but if I can talk to them rationally, I know we can all come up with a plan. And Noriko’s the first one after me. Can she walk? Shinji’s also after me. Too bad Sugimura will have already gone.

Shuya tried to conceive of some way to get a note to Hiroki Sugimura, but the boy’s seat was too far away. Besides, if he screwed it up, he’d just become another Fumiyo Fujiyoshi.

Soon came Hiroki’s turn. As he was about to step through the open door, he glanced at Shuya, and their eyes met. But that was all. Inside himself, Shuya sighed. Fie wondered if Hiroki was thinking the same thing and would be waiting for him outside. He hoped Hiroki could pull aside some of the others.

Ahead of Hiroki, and after, went the three who had remained quiet through all of the uproar: Shogo Kawada, Kazuo Kiriyama, and Mitsuko Souma.

Kawada had kept on chewing his gum as he departed. His expression remained calm, and he didn’t give Sakamochi or the camouflaged trio a single look.

Kiriyama had also left quietly, as did Mitsuko.

When Sakamochi had said, “The others are ready to kill,” those three were likely the very first to be suspected by the others. They were the bad kids. Killing would be nothing to them if it ensured their survival.

But Shuya thought Kiriyama, at the least, was different. Kiriyama had his boys⁠—Hiroshi Kuronaga, Ryuhei Sasagawa, Sho Tsukioka, and Mitsuru Numai. More than just some group who kind of got along, they had a real bond. The rules of this game might turn everyone else into enemies, but those five would never betray each other. When Kiriyama left, Shuya paid close attention to the cluster of followers seated around his desk. Curiously, their expressions lacked concern. Maybe Kiriyama had been able to pass a note to the others. Surely the five of them were planning to escape together. With Kiriyama, they’d be able to give the government the slip⁠—though he wouldn’t be trusting anyone outside his gang.

Mitsuko Souma also had her group. But her seat left her separated from Hirono Shimizu and Yoshimi Yahagi, and she wouldn’t have been able to pass them a message. Anyway, Mitsuko was a girl. No way she’d be playing this game. Impossible.

Shogo Kawada alone gave Shuya pause.

No one in the class associated themselves with Kawada. After he transferred in, he’d hardly even talked to any of his classmates. And so much of him remained an enigma. Never mind the rumors, but those scars covering his body⁠ ⁠…

For a moment, Shuya began to doubt. Is Kawada going to be the one among us who’ll actually dive right in? No way. Or would he? There’s at least a possibility, isn’t there?

Shuya quickly banished the thought. Falling into mistrust and jumping at shadows⁠—that would be letting the government win. But in his heart, the whisper of a worry remained.

Time passed.

Many of the girls cried as they left.

Though to Shuya it felt like not much time had passed at all, he reckoned it had been nearly one hour (minus Yoshitoki Kuninobu’s two minutes) when Girls #⁠14, Mayumi Tendo, vanished out the door, and Sakamochi said, “Boys number fifteen, Shuya Nanahara.”

Shuya picked up his duffel bag and stood. He tried to think of anything he could do before leaving the room.

Instead of walking straight for the door, he headed left. Noriko turned her head and watched him approaching her.

“Nanahara,” Sakamochi said, flourishing his knife. “You’re going the wrong way.”

Shuya stopped. The three soldiers had put their hands to their weapons. He went to speak, but he felt his throat stiffen. He had to force out the words. “Yoshitoki Kuninobu was my friend. At least let me close his eyes. ‘Accord the dead every courtesy.’ Isn’t that what the Leader wrote in his Analects?”

For an instant, Sakamochi looked unsure, but in the end, he chuckled, lowered his knife, and said, “All right. That’s very kind, Nanahara.”

Shuya let out a small breath and resumed walking. When he reached Yoshitoki’s body, on the floor directly in front of Noriko’s desk, he stopped.

Though he had said he was going to close Yoshitoki’s eyes, he couldn’t help but freeze. The boy’s skull had burst open just above the ear, caused by the insincere soldier’s violent confirmation of the kill. His short hair was matted with blood, and up close now, Shuya could see a thin layer of tissue and something white. Skull. When the bullet ate its way into the boy’s head, it had made his eyes bulge out even more than usual. Yoshitoki’s eyes were vacant and pointed upward in their sockets, like those of a starving refugee receiving his food ration. A pink mixture of blood and spittle oozed from the crack of his open mouth, and dark blood trickled from his nose, the liquids lazily flowing into and being absorbed by the vast sea of blood that had escaped his chest. An awful sight.

Shuya lowered his bag and crouched down. Yoshitoki had slumped forward, and Shuya sat him back up. The boy’s uniform was torn in three places on the chest and stained dark red, and when Shuya lifted him up, blood gushed out and splashed to the floor. The body felt enervated and incredibly light⁠—probably because of all the blood that had drained out.

With Yoshitoki’s corpse in his arms, Shuya’s mind became icily clear, his sadness and fear overcome by rage.

Yoshitoki, I will avenge you. I’ll do it. I promise.

He hadn’t much time. Using his palm, Shuya wiped the blood from his friend’s face and gently closed his eyelids. He laid Yoshitoki back down and folded the boy’s arms atop his chest.

Then, taking some time to gather up his bag, Shuya turned his mouth to Noriko and whispered quickly, “Can you walk?”

That was enough to send the three soldiers’ hands back to their sidearms, but Shuya caught Noriko’s nod. He faced Sakamochi and the three soldiers, but with his hand low where only she could see, he made a fist and jabbed his thumb toward the door. I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll wait for you outside.

Shuya couldn’t see Noriko, but out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught Shinji Mimura, seated across from Yoshitoki’s empty chair, still looking straight ahead with his arms folded, forming a smile at the corners of his mouth. Maybe he had noticed Shuya’s gesture. The thought helped Shuya pull himself together. He’s Mimura. If we have Mimura, we just might be able to escape.

But Shinji Mimura might have been more fully aware of their situation. His smile might have been a goodbye. But for now, the possibility didn’t occur to Shuya.

Shuya continued walking up the aisle. Before he collected his black daypack, he thought for a moment, then went to Fumiyo Fujiyoshi’s body and closed her eyes as well. He wanted to pull the knife out of her forehead but decided not to.

The instant he stepped through the doorway, part of him wished he had.

40 students remain.

7

The hallway was unlit, save for the light from the doorway shining onto the wooden floor. The classroom windows, like those on the outside wall, had been covered by black metal panels⁠—possibly to provide protection from any students who, like Shuya, were determined to escape and attempted to assault Sakamochi’s location. Whatever the case, none of them would be able to get near once they left and the school became a forbidden zone.

To the right, Shuya saw a door to an identical, adjacent classroom, and farther down, another. Beyond that, double doors⁠—the exit, perhaps⁠—stood open into darkness. To the left, the hallway dead-ended with another room.

Was it the faculty room for this small, remote school? The door was open, and the lights were on. Alert soldiers sat at cheap folding tables, fidgeting in metal folding chairs. Were there twenty of them, or thirty? No, there were more⁠—one man for each student in Ninth Grade Class B.

Shuya had been considering that if his daypack contained a gun (which was a possibility⁠—the Program news reports always included the number of¹¹ deaths by firearms” alongside the “deaths by blades” and “deaths by strangulation”), or if any of the students waiting outside had one, they could storm Sakamochi and his guards before everyone had left⁠—before the school became one of the forbidden zones. But now, all such hopes were dashed. The three with Sakamochi weren’t the only soldiers around. It seemed obvious now that he knew it.

One of the men turned his head to glance across his teacup at Shuya. Like the trio in the classroom, this soldier wore an expression that was oddly blank.

Shuya quickly turned on his heels and hurried to the exit. An impatient frustration occupied his thoughts. Well, all that’s left to think about now is to meet up with everyone else. But what if soldiers are waiting outside to prevent anyone from sticking around until the next of us comes?

Shuya left the dark hallway through the double doors of the exit and descended a small staircase of three or four steps.

The schoolyard was a desolate moonlit space the size of three tennis courts. Woods lay beyond it, and a small mountain loomed to the left, while the right opened into inky darkness⁠—the sea. Tiny points of light dotted the distance. Land, probably. The Program was always held in the same prefecture as its chosen junior high. The locations varied; Shuya had heard of a few, including a mountain surrounded by high-voltage fences and a prison slated for demolition. But in Kagawa Prefecture, islands were the norm, as local news invariably revealed (though only after each Program had ended). Sakamochi hadn’t given the island’s name, but Shuya thought that he might be able to recognize its shape once he got a look at his map. A sign on one of the buildings might even reveal the name.

A light breeze bore the smell of the sea. The night was cold for May, though not unbearable, at least as long as he was careful not to let the chill sap his body of too much strength in his sleep.

But first things first.

No one was around. No soldiers, nor any of his classmates, as he had hoped to find. Everyone had taken Sakamochi’s advice and hidden themselves. Even Hiroki Sugimura had gone. Only the salty breeze crossed the playground dirt.

Shit. Shuya scowled. Once they scattered, they would be playing right into the government’s hands. If any of them managed to meet up with their close friends and form a group, like Sakura Ogawa and Kazuhiko Yamamoto, or Kiriyama’s gang, then some hope remained. But if they all hid alone and stumbled upon each other one by one, anything could happen in the resulting confusion. And wasn’t that confusion an essential element of the game?

Okay then. I, at least, will wait for the rest. Starting with Noriko Nakagawa.

Shuya turned around for a quick look into the darkness back inside the school. Sakamochi had said, “If you loiter in the hallway, you’ll be shot and killed,” but none of the soldiers at the end of the hall seemed to be paying particular attention in Shuya’s direction. Not even chatting, the men were simply sitting around, with weapons not at the ready.

Shuya licked his lips and decided it would be a good idea to step away from the doors. He turned back around.

That was when he noticed it.

Before, he had been too preoccupied with the scenery to notice the object at his feet. It looked like a garbage bag.

At first, he thought someone might have dropped their daypack, but soon his eyes widened.

It wasn’t a garbage bag, and it wasn’t anyone’s daypack. One end had hair. Human hair.

A person. Wearing a girl’s sailor-suit school uniform. She was face down and curled into a fetal position, but Shuya recognized the single braid and the wide ribbon that tied it. How could he not⁠—he had just watched her from behind when she left the classroom three minutes before. She was still, with not even a twitch. Girls #⁠14, Mayumi Tendo.

From the back of her sailor fuku, beside the lobster tail of her braid, a dull metallic pole stuck out at an angle like a radio antenna twenty centimeters long. Four tiny objects resembling the tail of a fighter plane were affixed at its end.

What⁠ ⁠… what is that?

Instead of immediately seeking cover as he should have done, Shuya froze in astonishment.

Sakamochi’s answer to Kiriyama’s question echoed in his mind. When does this game begin? As soon as you leave here.

Had someone really done this? Did someone return and do this to Mayumi Tendo the moment she left?

Shuya hurriedly cowered and glanced around.

Whatever the reason, the attacker was nowhere to be seen. No arrow had flown at him during his momentary distraction. Had the killer fled, satisfied once he took out the lone girl? Or was this some kind of false flag tactic, done by those soldiers at the end of the hall to convince the others that some of their classmates had already started playing the game? That didn’t quite sound right.

Shuya realized that Mayumi Tendo might not be dead yet. She might be seriously wounded and unconscious. He should check her, at least.

Shuya was about to step forward. He would have found a swift exit from the game had he not sensed something and stopped⁠—

A whizzing sound split the air, and a silver object flashed past his eyes, downward, from above. A new antenna sprouted from the ground.

Shuya was shaking. If he hadn’t waited for Noriko at the doorway, he would already be dead. The attacker was on the roof.

Shuya pinched his lips and plucked the arrow from the dirt, then sprinted to his right. He moved without thought, only hoping that it was in a direction the shooter hadn’t anticipated. He spun and looked up. On the gabled roof of the one-story school, a black silhouette loomed across the pale moonlit sky.

Is that⁠ ⁠… Sho⁠—

He had no time to think. The shadow turned its aim on him.

Shuya launched the arrow at the figure. He had only hoped to startle his attacker and buy some time. But the arrow moved incredibly fast and traced a graceful arc straight at the shadow. Had anyone other than the ace shortstop, Shuya, attempted it, events might have gone differently.

The figure grunted, brought its hands to its face, and bent over. Then it began to sway, and fell.

Shuya recoiled back a step and watched the figure slowly tumble down the more than three-meter drop before thudding to the earth, the weapon clattering alongside.

Light spilling from the school’s entrance revealed the large, uniformed figure keeled over on the ground. He was Yoshio Akamatsu, the first to leave, who had left so terrified. He was completely still⁠⁠—unconscious, or worse. Lying at his fingertips was some combination of a rifle and a bow. A kind of crossbow, maybe. Yoshio’s daypack had fallen by his feet, half open, the bundle of silverish bolts visible inside.

Shuya felt the blood drain from his face. He started it, he really did! Yoshio Akamatsu started the game! He got his weapon, came back, and killed Mayumi Tendo!

He sensed someone approaching from behind.

He spun to see Noriko Nakagawa, who gasped at the scene before her. Shuya’s eyes fell back to Mayumi Tendo, and he dashed to her side and touched his hand to her neck. She was dead. She really was dead.

His mind was a spooled fuse, and he felt it burn. What if there are others who’re thinking like Yoshio? When they come back, what if they have guns?

His perspective on the game had been forcibly altered. This is how it is. This is what Sakamochi meant. As soon as you leave here.

Shuya sprang to his feet, ran to Noriko, took her by the hand, and said, “Run! Run as fast as you can!”

He ran, tugging along the injured girl. But which way to go?

He didn’t have time to think it through. For now, he ran for the woods. Shuya thought, We could wait behind that tree, and⁠—but he had to dismiss the idea. In her current state, Noriko wouldn’t stand a chance if anyone should attack. Nothing would be more dangerous than to remain anywhere near that school.

Any thoughts of waiting outside the building for his classmates had vanished. He rushed Noriko into the woods, with trees mixed with bushes and a carpet of ferns.

Shuya turned, thinking to shout some warning in the direction of the school, where eleven of his classmates remained. (With twenty-one pairs of boys and girls, twelve more should have come after Shuya and Noriko, but Fumiyo Fujiyoshi had made it eleven.) He discarded the idea. The others aren’t stupid. They’re not stupid like me. They’ll run for their lives the instant they step out of those doors. Besides, Mayumi Tendo’s corpse is waiting for them too. Shuya convinced himself he was right. For a moment, he thought of Shinji Mimura’s face, but he dashed the image from his mind. He forced himself to believe that they would be able to meet. He would find a way, later. But for now, he didn’t want to spend one second longer near that school.

Holding Noriko Nakagawa tight, he continued haphazardly through the brush. A nearby bird cried and flapped its wings into flight. He didn’t see it, but he hadn’t the time to watch anyway.

39 students remain.

8

Yoshio Akamatsu regained consciousness almost immediately, but after blacking out from a terrible blow to the head, he felt like he was coming out of a deep slumber.

The first thing he noticed was the incredible pain. He was in a daze. What happened? Did I stay up too late playing video games last night? So was yesterday Saturday, or even Sunday? Is it Monday now? I have to get to school. What time is it? It’s still dark out. Maybe I can sleep a little more.

The sky and the ground were sideways, and before him he saw an empty dirt field, and beyond it the curved, bowlike shape of a mountain, darker than the night sky.

Suddenly, everything came back⁠—meeting Sakamochi; seeing Mr. Hayashida’s corpse; leaving the room; taking cover in a shack and finding the crossbow inside his daypack; returning to the school; watching Takako Chigusa (Girls #⁠13), her face harsh yet beautiful and then tense, and she was sprinting away, carried by those ace track runner legs; desperately climbing the narrow steel ladder on the side of the school to get to the roof; loading the first arrow as quickly as possible, but too slow, and Sho Tsukioka (Boys #⁠14) was getting away. And then⁠—

He turned his head and saw a girl lying there in her sailor fuku.

To no great surprise to himself, the flood of memories had been accompanied not by guilt over killing his classmate, but by terror. For inside him terror was a giant billboard rising in a wasteland, and on it his classmates, armed with axes and pistols and all kinds of weapons, jumped out at him like in a 3D movie, with the tagline, I’ll kill you! written in blood.

He was under no illusion that killing his classmates wasn’t wrong. And maybe it was foolish to even try to survive when every one of them would die once the game’s time expired. But that was only logic. Yoshio didn’t want to die. He feared his classmates because he thought they would turn on him. You have to understand, these killers are prowling all around.

The decision to pick off his would-be enemies in the most efficient way possible had not arisen from a conscious decision, but from somewhere deeper, from the primal fear of death. This wasn’t a matter of determining friend from foe. All were foes. When someone like Ryuhei Sasagawa bullied him, hadn’t the others only looked away?

Yoshio scrambled to his feet. First things first, he needed to deal with Shuya Nanahara. Where is he, anyway? My crossbow, my crossbow, I need to pick up my crossbow. Where is my crossbow?

Suddenly, something like a club struck the back of his neck.

Yoshio lurched forward and fell. His body twisted into a V, and his face raked against the moist earth. That the skin scraped off his forehead and cheek didn’t bother him at all. By the time he had fallen, he was already dead.

Sticking out the back of his neck was a silverish bolt, just like the one he had put in Mayumi Tendo.

38 students remain.

9

Kazushi Niida (Boys #⁠16) had emerged from the school two minutes after Noriko Nakagawa. He stood now, frozen in place, trembling. The crossbow next to Yoshio Akamatsu’s body had been loaded, and Kazushi picked it up without intending to use it. But when Yoshio had stood, Kazushi’s finger squeezed the trigger reflexively.

Kazushi tried to move his clouded mind into action. That’s right, he thought, I have to get away from here. That’s the first thing. That’s what I should have done in the first place, instead of paying any attention to Yoshio Akamatsu or Mayumi Tendo. I need to get out of here. See, Yoshio is clearly the one who killed Mayumi. So I didn’t do anything wrong.

Kazushi was very good at making excuses, and doing so stirred sense back into one part of his numbed brain.

He lowered the crossbow and scooped up Yoshio’s daypack with its bundle of bolts nearly without a thought. He started to move on, but stopped and picked up Mayumi’s bag as well. Then he ran.

38 students remain.

10

They had been running for what seemed like ten minutes. With the arm he had around her, Shuya motioned Noriko to stop. Faint moonlight filtered through the treetops. She looked up at him. Their ragged, heavy breathing seemed an overwhelming wall of sound, but Shuya tried to listen past that wall for any noises concealed in the surrounding darkness.

He heard no pursuing footsteps. Though too busy gasping for air to be able to let out a sigh of relief, he did feel a little reassured. He had been carrying both of their bags over his right shoulder, and when he set them down, his muscles protested sharply. Shuya was out of shape. Sure, his electric guitar was heavier than a bat, but he didn’t spend the whole time swinging it. He put his hands on his thighs and took a rest.

Shuya prompted Noriko to sit, and helped her down into the shadowy brush. He listened again for any sound around them, then sat beside her. The thick mass of leaves crunched faintly beneath him.

He felt like they had run a long way, but having zigzagged through the undergrowth, they had likely gone off course on their way up the mountain. They might have been no more than a few hundred meters from the school. At least he couldn’t see its artificial glow, whether it was because of the rolling mountainside or the folds of trees between.

Shuya felt safe in this darker place. Coming this way had been a snap decision, but one assuredly safer than heading for the open seaside.

He looked at Noriko and whispered, “You all right?”

Softly she said, “Yeah,” and nodded.

Shuya wanted to remain sitting there for a while, but he knew that wasn’t an option. Instead, he opened his daypack. Behind what felt like a water bottle, his hands brushed against a long, thin, and firm object.

Shuya pulled it out. He felt a leather sheath and a leather-wrapped grip sticking out of it. A combat knife. Sakamochi had said a weapon would be inside. Was this it? He groped around the inside of the bag but felt only a flashlight and what must have been a bundle of bread rolls. Nothing else that seemed to be a weapon.

Shuya popped open the snap and withdrew the knife. He noted the length of the blade⁠—fifteen centimeters⁠—and that it was in usable condition, before returning it to the sheath, which he then fastened, clasp open, around the belt of his school slacks. He undid the lowermost button of his jacket so he could reach the handle at a moment’s notice.

Without asking permission, Shuya pulled over Noriko’s daypack and opened the zipper. Peeking into a girl’s things was taboo, but it wasn’t like she’d packed it herself.

Inside, he found something unusual. It was a stick, about forty centimeters long and curved into a V, wooden, and firm and smooth to the touch. Was this what a boomerang looked like? A throwing weapon of primitive hunters and warriors, an Aboriginal village’s champion huntsman could send it flying through the air and bag a kangaroo, but what were kids supposed to do with one? Shuya sighed and returned it to Noriko’s bag.

He had finally caught his breath, no longer sounding like an invalid wheezing on his deathbed.

“You want some water?” Shuya asked.

Noriko nodded and said, “Just a little.”

He took the plastic bottle from his daypack, twisted open the lid, and sniffed at its contents. He poured a little of the liquid onto his hand and tested it with his tongue. He then took a sip, and when nothing unusual happened, he passed the container to Noriko. She took it and drank only a small mouthful. She must have understood how precious water might become over the coming days. The bottles only held about one liter, with only two provided to each student. Sakamochi had said the phone lines wouldn’t work, but what about the water pipes?

Shuya said, “Let me take a look at your leg.”

Noriko nodded and stretched out her right leg, unfolding it from under her skirt. Shuya took the flashlight from his daypack and, wrapping his palm around it to prevent light from spilling out too far, used it to get a look at the wound on her leg.

It was on the outside of her calf, a vertical gash about four centimeters long and one centimeter deep. Blood was still trickling from the edges of the exposed pink flesh. She would need stitches.

Shuya switched off his flashlight and pulled over not the daypack but his own gym bag. He took out the flask of bourbon and two clean bandanas he’d packed for the school trip. Uncapping the flask, he said, “This is going to hurt.”

“I’m ready.”

When he tipped the flask and poured the bourbon to disinfect her wound, she let out a small gasp. He placed one of the folded bandanas directly over the gash, then spread open the other before refolding it into a long strip and wrapping it firmly around her calf. Not a proper bandage, but it would stop the bleeding for now.

As he pulled the two loose ends tight and tied the bandana in place, Shuya muttered a curse.

Softly, Noriko asked, “Thinking about Mr. Nobu?”

Shuya gritted his teeth. “Him, and Akamatsu, and everyone. This sucks. This really sucks.”

While his hands worked the knot, Shuya studied her face until he had to look down again to finish the tie. She thanked him and pulled her leg back.

“Mayumi,” Noriko said. “She⁠ ⁠… Did Akamatsu⁠ ⁠…” Her voice trembled. “He killed her, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. He was above the doorway. He fell when I threw the crossbow bolt at him.”

Thinking back to what had happened, Shuya realized that he’d left without dealing with Yoshio Akamatsu. At the time, he assumed the boy had been knocked out cold, but Akamatsu might have quickly regained his senses. He could have climbed back up to the roof, crossbow in hand, and continued his slaughter.

Was I too naïve again? Should I have killed him then and there?

Shuya held his watch up to the moonlight. The finely crafted old model K. Hattori diver’s watch (a gift, like most of his possessions, with him living in an orphanage) read just past 2:40. Whatever had happened to Yoshio Akamatsu, nearly all of the students would have left the school by now, save for two or three. Shinji Mimura would already be gone by now. At least, Shuya was almost certain, Shinji would never let himself be killed by Akamatsu.

Shuya shook his head, thinking himself a fool for still believing he could get his classmates to band together.

“I never thought he was that kind of guy,” Shuya said. “Willing to kill everyone just so he could survive. I mean, I understand the rules of the game. I just didn’t think anyone would actually go along with it.”

“I don’t think,” Noriko said, “that’s quite how it was.”

“What?” Shuya looked into her face. Her expression was hard to read in the moonlight.

“It’s like⁠ ⁠… You know how Akamatsu was such a timid boy. I think maybe he was scared. I know he was. You have no idea who’s going to turn on you out here. I think Akamatsu was convinced that everyone was going to come after him. That had to be terrifying. He thought that if he didn’t act, he’d be⁠ ⁠… killed.”

As Noriko had done, Shuya leaned back against a tree trunk and stretched out his legs.

He himself had seen the logic⁠—fear could turn a student into a killer⁠—but he also thought that by nature, the scared ones would just hide. Yet maybe it was true that extreme terror could drive them into taking the initiative.

Shuya asked, “You think so?”

“Yeah.” Noriko nodded. “Still, to not even give her a chance, that’s awful.”

They remained silent for a time. Then a thought came to Shuya, and he said, “Do you think if he saw the two of us together, he wouldn’t have attacked? With us together, that would prove we weren’t participating.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Shuya considered what she’d said. If indeed Akamatsu had merely been taken by paranoia, then⁠ ⁠…

In that moment, Shuya thought, I thought some of the others were going along with this. That’s why I ran. But maybe I was wrong. Killing your own classmates⁠—who could do a ridiculous thing like that? Then⁠ ⁠… shouldn’t I have waited for the others, even if that meant I had to deal with Akamatsu?

Either way, what’s done is done. Even if we went back now, everyone will have already left. But was Noriko really right about Akamatsu? Had he simply been afraid?

Shuya didn’t know what to think anymore.

“Noriko.”

She looked up.

“What’s your take on this?” he asked. “I was worried we’d be in danger of someone else like Akamatsu, so I thought that whatever else we did, we had to get away from that school first. But⁠ ⁠… if he was just afraid⁠ ⁠… I mean, do you really think anyone is going to play this game? I mean, I was hoping that if I could get everyone together, we could escape this damn game. What do you think?”

“You mean everyone?”

“Yeah.”

Noriko fell quiet. Gathering her pleated skirt, she pulled her knees in to her chest. Then she said, “I must be a terrible girl.”

“What?”

“I could never do that. Maybe Yukie,” she said, meaning Yukie Utsumi, the class leader, who they’d both known since elementary school, “and some of the other girls I’m always with, them I could trust, I think. But not the others, no way. I couldn’t be with them, not at all. Don’t you think that? I can’t know exactly what Akamatsu was feeling, but I’m afraid of everyone else. I didn’t realize it until now, but I don’t really know anything about them, or what kind of people they are, really. You can’t see inside a person’s heart.”

“I don’t really know anything about them,” she had said.

She’s right, Shuya thought. What the hell do I know about the other kids? They’re just people I happen to be with during the school day. Shuya suddenly found himself again wondering if some of his classmates were enemies.

“And so I’d suspect them,” Noriko said. “Even if they were with us, if I didn’t really trust them, I’d suspect them. I’d suspect that they were⁠ ⁠… they were trying to kill me.”

Shuya sighed. As horrific as this game was, it was extremely well designed. In the end, he couldn’t let any and all join up with them, not unless he was absolutely confident they could be trusted. What if, what if, someone were to catch him off guard? It wouldn’t be just him he’d be endangering but Noriko as well. That the kids who’d left the school ahead of him had immediately vanished was natural. They were just being pragmatic.

Shuya’s thoughts were interrupted as his mind made a new connection.

“Wait a second,” he said. Noriko’s eyes flashed up to him. “That means that just because we’re together, that doesn’t prove we don’t mean harm. They still might suspect that I was planning to eventually⁠ ⁠… kill you.”

Noriko nodded. “That’s right. And I’d be suspected too, the same way. With the two of us together, one of the others might not attack us. But if we asked any to join with us, I think they probably wouldn’t. It would depend on who we asked.”

Shuya gulped. “Scary, isn’t it.”

“Terrifying.”

Maybe running from the schoolyard had been the right choice after all. What mattered most to Shuya was getting Noriko Nakagawa, the girl Yoshitoki had loved, safely out of here. And right now, she was safely at his side. Shouldn’t he have been satisfied with that? He had taken the safest approach. But⁠ ⁠…

“But,” he said, “I at least wanted Mimura with us. He’d come up with some brilliant plan. You’d be fine with him, right, Noriko?”

“Of course,” she said with a nod. Given how much time she spent with Shuya at school, she’d had plenty of opportunities to talk to Shinji Mimura.

Shuya recalled how Shinji had stood Noriko up and signaled him to calm down. He realized that if Shinji hadn’t done that, both he and Noriko may very well have remained frozen in place and been shot just like Yoshitoki.

Noriko lowered her head, possibly having the same thoughts, remembering the events that had led them here, and whispered, “Mr. Nobu⁠ ⁠… he’s gone, isn’t he?”

Quietly, as if he didn’t quite believe it himself, Shuya answered, “Yeah, I guess so.”

The two were again silent for a time. They might have talked about memories of their friend, but this wasn’t the time or place. Besides, what had happened to Yoshitoki weighed far too heavily on Shuya for superficial reminiscences.

“What should we do?” he asked. “From here.”

Noriko tightened her lips and tilted her head in silent question.

“I was just thinking,” he offered. “Maybe we could find Mimura or some of the others. The ones we feel we can trust.”

Noriko said, “That’s⁠ ⁠…” but the word trailed into contemplation, and she never finished the sentence.

Right, Shuya thought, neither of us knows how to find them. At least not for now.

All Shuya could do was sigh.

Between the branches overhead, the moonlit sky was dim and gray. Shuya felt he now understood what they meant by “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” If it didn’t matter who they joined up with, the two could have simply walked around and shouted. But that would have been an open invitation to any would-be opponent to come kill them. Shuya hoped that no such enemies were out there, but still, he was afraid.

The thought led to an idea, and Shuya turned to Noriko and asked, “Weren’t you afraid of me?”

“What?”

“You never worried I might try to kill you?”

He couldn’t see it very clearly in the moonlight, but he thought Noriko’s eyes went wide. “You would never do anything like that!”

Shuya thought about it a little, then said, “But you said it before, ‘You can’t see inside a person’s heart.’ ”

She shook her head. “I just know that you of all people would never do anything like that.”

Shuya looked her straight on. He must have looked dazed. “You know?”

“Yeah⁠ ⁠… I know,” Noriko said. She hesitated, but then continued. “I’ve been⁠ ⁠… watching you for so long.”

The sentiment probably deserved to be delivered with more formality. And would it be asking too much for a situation that was at least a tiny bit more romantic?

Shuya recalled the anonymous love letter, written on pale blue stationery, that he’d found inside his desk one day in April. As the former ace shortstop in Little League and the current self-proclaimed (and occasionally acknowledged) rock star of Shiroiwa Junior High, Shuya had received love letters before. But this one had made something of an impression on him, and he’d held on to it. He thought it was because he liked the poetic writing:

Be it only a lie, be it only a dream, please turn back and look at me

Not a lie, not a dream, your smile that day

But maybe my lie, but maybe my dream, that it was sent my way

It won’t be a lie, it won’t be a dream, on the day you call my name

Never a lie, never a dream, that.

Shuya had wondered if she had written the note. The handwriting was similar, and the poetic style would have fit. Had it really been her?

Shuya briefly considered asking her about the letter, but decided not to. This wasn’t the right time, and he had no right to bring it up, since he was utterly smitten by Kazumi Shintani, a girl who, to borrow from that pale blue love letter, would never “turn to look at him.” Not that girls, or the matter of that love letter, were of much concern anymore. What was important to him now was protecting the girl who Yoshitoki Kuninobu had had a crush on, not worrying about who might have a crush on him.

Shuya thought back to Yoshitoki’s bashful expression when he said, “Hey, Shuya, I⁠ ⁠… kinda⁠ ⁠… got a crush.”

“Shuya,” Noriko was asking him now, “aren’t you afraid of me? No, I should really ask⁠ ⁠… why did you rescue me?”

“Well⁠ ⁠…”

Shuya considered telling her about Yoshitoki. My best friend was in love with you. So I have to help you. That’s the way it is.

He discarded that thought also. That was a discussion best saved for another time, when they could really talk. If such a time ever came, that is.

Instead, he told her, “You were hurt. How could I leave you like that? And at the very least, I trust you. Hey, not trusting a cute girl like you would bring some serious bad karma.”

The glimmer of a smile flashed across Noriko’s face, and Shuya did his best to return it. Even in these dire circumstances, working his muscles into a grin made him feel a little more at ease.

Then he said, “Well, I’m glad that we’re together, even if it’s only us two.”

Noriko nodded and said, “Yeah.”

But what were they supposed to do now?

Shuya began repacking his bags. Even if their next move was to stop again to rest and think things out, they needed somewhere with good visibility. He reminded himself that he had no idea what the others were planning, but he knew he had to be careful. He needed to be realistic, even if he hated what that meant.

He kept out the map, compass, and flashlight. The world’s worst orienteering meet, he thought.

Shuya asked, “Can you walk some more?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Then let’s keep moving a little longer. We’ll find a place we can rest.”

38 students remain.

11

Mitsuru Numai (Boys #⁠17) carefully advanced from tree to tree, where the woods met the beach, moonlit and narrow, with only a few dozen meters of sand until the water. Over his shoulders, he carried his personal gym bag along with the daypack he’d been given, and in his right hand he clutched a small semi-automatic pistol. (A Walther PPK 9 mm, the gun was one of the better weapons issued to participants. Most of the other weapons used in the Program were imported on the cheap, and in high volume, from neutral countries not aligned with either the Republic or the American Empire.) Mitsuru had seen a hobbyist replica version of the Walther and understood how to use it without having to read the included manual. He even knew he didn’t need to cock the hammer before firing and had been able to load the firearm from the supplied box of ammunition.

The weapon felt reassuring in his right hand, but something far more important was in his left: a compass. It was the same cheap, tin model as Shuya had received, but so far, it had done the job. Forty minutes before Mitsuru left the classroom, his personal Great Leader, Kazuo Kiriyama (Boys #⁠6), had handed him a note that read, If this really is an island. I’ll be waiting on the southern point.

Of course, in this game, no one is your ally. That’s the rules. But the Family⁠—the Kiriyama Family⁠—had a real bond. When others labeled them as thugs, they didn’t mind it. It only strengthened their ties.

And Mitsuru Numai and Kiriyama shared an even more special connection. In a way, Mitsuru had made Kazuo Kiriyama who he was today. He was fairly sure about something that Shuya Nanahara and the rest of those typical kids would have no way of knowing: before junior high, Kazuo Kiriyama had been no delinquent.

Mitsuru could remember clearly the day he had met Kazuo Kiriyama. It was a memory so vivid he could never forget it if he tried.

Ever since elementary school, Mitsuru had been a real bruiser, though as the school bully, his rule was not that of a tyrant. To him, born to a family of no real worth and a poor student with no talents to speak of, fighting was the only way he could prove himself. He measured worth in toughness⁠—a standard to which he held himself and never failed.

Naturally, on his first day of junior high, Mitsuru did his best to subdue any would-be competitors (“bitches,” to him) coming in from other elementary schools. From what he saw in the kids he met in what amounted to the entertainment district for his town, he didn’t have much to worry about. But there might have been some, coming from the other schools, who hadn’t heard about him. One king was enough; that was how order was preserved. Of course, he never thought of it in exactly those terms, but he understood how it worked.

Sure enough, among his new class were a few such “bitches.” After the entrance ceremony and the subsequent orientation back in the classroom, school was let out, and Mitsuru was finishing up the last of them when it happened.

In the secluded hallway outside the art room, Mitsuru grabbed the kid by the lapels and shoved him against the wall. The boy was already bruised above an eye that brimmed with tears. He’d been no problem at all. Just two punches, and it had been over.

“You got that?” Mitsuru was saying. “Don’t you go acting like you’re tougher than me!”

The kid was nodding his head, okay, okay, okay. He was begging to be let free, but Mitsuru needed a promise first.

“I asked you if you got it!” He lifted the boy up with one arm. “Answer me. I’m the toughest in this school. You got it?”

Annoyed at the kid’s lack of a response, Mitsuru raised him higher still. That was when he felt his eyes upon his back.

Mitsuru spun. Suddenly released, the boy fell to the floor and took off running, though Mitsuru wasn’t about to chase after him.

There were four of them, all far taller than him. They surrounded him. Lapel pins on the stand-up collars of their sloppy uniforms announced they were in ninth grade. With one glance, he knew exactly what they were. They were like him.

“Hey, kid,” a pimply-faced one said with a creepy grin. “You shouldn’t pick on the weak.”

Another, with shoulder-length, auburn-dyed hair, pursed his unusually thick lips and said, “Naughty, naughty.”

The mocking, effeminate way he said it sent all four into roaring, deranged laughter, Hee-hee-hee!

“We’ll have to teach you a lesson,” the first one said.

“Oh, we must,” lisped the second, and they all laughed again, Hee-hee-hee!

Mitsuru tried to take the pimpled teen by surprise with a front kick, but before he could, the one on his left swept his leg out from under him.

Mitsuru fell flat on his ass, and the pimply one was right on him, kicking him in the face, knocking out one of his front teeth. The back of his head slammed against the same wall he’d been holding the other kid against. He felt dizzy. The back of his head felt warm and wet. He got on his hands and knees to try to stand, but the one on the right kicked him in his stomach. Mitsuru groaned, then puked everything he had. He heard someone say, “Gross.”

Fuck, he thought. Cowards, bastards! I could take on any of you, one-on-one.

He was helpless now. He had chosen this location to rough up the other kid because no one would be around. No teachers were going to come.

Then his wrist was being held to the floor. One of them carefully curled Mitsuru’s index finger and pressed it beneath his leather shoe. For the first time in his life, Mitsuru felt total terror.

They wouldn’t. They wouldn’t.

They did. The foot pressed down, and Mitsuru’s finger audibly, sickly, snapped. He shrieked. The pain was incredible, like he’d never experienced before. He heard more laughter, Hee-hee-hee!

They’re insane, Mitsuru thought. They’re nothing like me. There’s something wrong with their fucking minds⁠—

They prepared his middle finger.

Pride and everything be damned, he was ready to beg. “S-stop,” he pleaded, but they ignored him. Another snap, and his middle finger was ruined. He screamed again.

He heard one of them say, “Now, how about another?”

That was when it happened.

That was when the door to the art room slid wide open, and a quiet voice said, “Would you guys keep it down?”

At first, Mitsuru wondered if a teacher had been in the classroom. But a teacher would have intervened more quickly, and besides, the request would have been bizarre coming from one of the faculty.

Still pressed against the floor, Mitsuru turned his head to look.

There stood a boy, not too tall but incredibly handsome. He was holding a paintbrush.

Mitsuru had seen him at orientation. The boy was one of his classmates. He was from out of town, and no one knew who he was. But he was quiet and meek, and Mitsuru hadn’t taken much notice of him. The boy had the refined looks of someone from a well-off family. He would certainly be no good in a fight and wasn’t worth Mitsuru’s time.

But what the hell is he doing in the art room after the first day of school? Well, painting, of course, but that’s kind of weird.

Whatever the case, the pimpled bully approached the boy, saying, “What was that, asshole?” He stood in front of the kid and repeated,

“What was that, asshole? You some first-year? What the fuck are you doing here? Huh? You want to say that again?” He slapped the paintbrush from the younger boy’s hand. Dark blue paint splattered across the floor.

The boy slowly looked up to the older boy’s pimply face.

What happened next might seem obvious. Suffice it to say, that little kid beat up the four ninth graders⁠—knocked them all out cold.

The boy approached Mitsuru and gazed at him for a time before saying, “You should go to the hospital.” Then he was gone, having glided back to the art room.

Mitsuru remained sitting on the floor for a time, staring off at the four bodies in stunned awe. That boy was something altogether different. Mitsuru felt like a novice boxer, who, even granted a decade long career, would likely never progress past six-round bouts, meeting the world champion for the first time.

Mitsuru had seen genius.

Ever since, Mitsuru served that boy⁠—Kazuo Kiriyama. Mitsuru didn’t need to test him. Kiriyama simultaneously took out four guys who Mitsuru thought he could handle one at a time. And, since one king was enough, anyone who wasn’t the king had better serve. He’d believed that for a long time. That’s how it worked in the boys’ manga he so avidly read.

Kazuo Kiriyama was a mystery.

When Mitsuru asked him how he had learned to fight like that, he simply said, “I just learned,” and wouldn’t answer any further questions on the subject. Mitsuru tried to coax more out of him by suggesting he must have had a reputation in elementary school, but he only denied it. Any karate competition wins, then? That didn’t work either. Later, Mitsuru learned that Kiriyama had been sneaking into the art class to work on a painting, as had happened on the day they met. When Mitsuru asked him why, he said, “I just felt like it.” Mitsuru was drawn to Kiriyama, due in part to those mysteries. (As an aside, the painting, a view of the empty courtyard from the art room, was a far better work than a sixth-grade student would otherwise be expected to produce. Mitsuru never saw the painting, however, as Kiriyama tossed it into the wastebasket as soon as he had completed it.)

Mitsuru showed Kiriyama around the small town, with the coffee shop where he and his friends hung out, the secret stash where he kept his stolen objects, the shady dealer of illicit goods, and so on. He was only a small fry, but he left out nothing he knew. Kiriyama never gave a reaction, though he must have been interested enough to come along. Sometimes Kiriyama ran up against some of the older kids in school (aside from the ones he’d already beaten up), and some from one of the other junior highs, and sometimes even high schoolers.

Each time he laid them flat on the ground in a flash. Mitsuru was crazy about Kiriyama, elated like a trainer feels when a boxer he coaches becomes a champion.

And there was more to Kiriyama than that. He was smart, and he excelled at anything he did. When they did a break-in, like at the liquor store warehouse, he came up with, and executed, the brilliant plans. Kiriyama had gotten Mitsuru out of many a scrape. (Since he and Kiriyama teamed up, he had never been caught by the police.) Also, his father was supposedly the president of a major company within the prefecture⁠—and even the entire region of Chugoku and Shikoku combined. He was afraid of nothing. Mitsuru believed that some men were born to be kings. He thought, This man is destined for greatness. Something more than I could even imagine.

Kiriyama was appointed the leader of their group. As they went around causing trouble, Mitsuru had asked himself once, just once, if it was right to involve him. The single restriction Kiriyama imposed on the gang was his own house (strictly speaking, a mansion); he never allowed Mitsuru or the others inside. (He had never said this straight out, but his demeanor made it understood.) Mitsuru didn’t know if Kiriyama’s father was aware of what his son was up to, but either way, this delinquent wondered if he should be teaching the sheltered boy all this bad behavior. After mulling it over, he voiced his concern to Kiriyama.

But the boy only replied, “Whatever. It’s interesting.”

Mitsuru decided to accept that.

And so, he and Kiriyama had been through a lot together⁠—the king and his trusty advisor.

As for his classmates, he wasn’t sure, but he could never believe that Kiriyama and his Family would kill each other, even in this desperate situation. That’s precisely why Kiriyama had handed them notes. Mitsuru was certain Kiriyama had already figured out what they needed to do⁠—how to outwit that Sakamochi and escape. Once Kazuo Kiriyama got started, the government wouldn’t stand a chance.

Such were Mitsuru’s thoughts as he left the school and headed south. Just once, in the twenty-five minutes he walked, he saw another person. The figure vanished into a cluster of houses to the southeast of the school. Mitsuru thought it might have been Yoji Kuramoto (Boys #⁠8). Mitsuru was of course nervous. After all, he had seen Yoshio Akamatsu dead out in front of the school. The game had begun.

Nothing had changed Mitsuru’s plan. He hurried toward the meeting location. The others didn’t matter a bit. He and his friends were escaping.

As he moved farther south, cover became more sparse, and he grew more tense, both in body and mind. Underneath his school uniform, he was drenched in cold sweat, and beads of it ran from his short, permed hair and down his forehead. A little ahead, the shoreline curved right, to the west. In the middle of the curve, a craggy outcropping jutted eastward from the mountain and submerged into the sea. The rock formation looked like the exposed spine of a buried dinosaur, or a kaiju maybe. The rocks stood far taller than Mitsuru and blocked his view of the other side. He glanced seaward where, across the dark, flat expanse, tiny lights indicated small islands and other landmasses. Mitsuru was certain he was on an island in the Seto Inland Sea. At least of that much he could be sure.

He carefully surveyed the area before leaving the trees and stepping onto the sand. Exposed in the moonlight, he walked toward the outcropping. Clinging to the steep rock face, he began to climb. The ascent was difficult; the rocks were cold and smooth, and his bags and the pistol he held got in the way.

After some struggle, he reached the top of the rocks to find that the formation was only three meters wide, with sandy beach spreading out below on the other side. He stepped forward to begin the descent.

“Mitsuru.”

The voice came suddenly from behind, and Mitsuru nearly jumped. Reflexively, he turned and raised his gun.

Then, with a sigh of relief, he lowered it.

Kazuo Kiriyama was sitting on a ledge in the shadow of a bulge of rock.

With relief in his voice, Mitsuru began to say, “Hey, Boss⁠—”

Then he noticed the three lumps on the ground at Kiriyama’s feet.

Mitsuru squinted at the darkness, then his eyes shot wide open.

Those lumps were people.

Ryuhei Sasagawa (Boys #⁠10) was on his back, staring up at the sky. Hiroshi Kuronaga (Boys #⁠9) was twisted on his side. He recognized them without a doubt⁠—like him, they were part of Kiriyama’s Family. The third was a girl in a sailor fuku. She was face down, and he couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was Izumi Kanai (Girls #⁠5). Beneath the three bodies was a pool of liquid. In the dark, the puddle was black, but Mitsuru knew that in daylight, it would be the same crimson color as on the flag of the Republic of Greater East Asia.

Clueless of what had happened, Mitsuru began to tremble. What⁠ ⁠… what was⁠ ⁠… 

“This is the southern point,” Kiriyama said, looking up at Mitsuru beneath slicked-back hair, his eyes as calm as ever. He wore his school jacket on his shoulders, with his arms free of the sleeves, like a boxer draped in his robe at the end of a bout.

“W-wha-what⁠ ⁠…” Mitsuru said, the tremble of his chin transmitting into his voice. “What⁠ ⁠… they⁠ ⁠…”

“You mean them?” Kiriyama thumped Ryuhei Sasagawa’s body with the end of his plain (though high quality), leather cap-toe boot. Ryuhei’s right arm swung from its resting place on his chest and traced a half-arm’s-length arc before splashing into the puddle. His pinky and ring finger disappeared into the liquid.

“They tried to kill me,” Kiriyama explained. “Kuronaga, and Sasagawa too. So I⁠ ⁠… killed them.”

It can’t be!

Mitsuru couldn’t believe his ears. Hiroshi Kuronaga was a nobody who just tagged along with their group. And he’d sworn an oath of loyalty to Kiriyama. Ryuhei had a lot of bravado and a violent streak (sometimes Mitsuru had to go to a lot of trouble to keep him from kicking Yoshio Akamatsu’s ass). But when his little brother got caught shoplifting, Kiriyama pulled some strings to deal with the police, and ever since, Ryuhei had been extremely grateful. Those two would never have betrayed Kiriyama.

Mitsuru sensed something sticky in the air. Blood. The stench of blood. Far from the smell of Yoshitoki Kuninobu’s blood in the classroom, this was on an entirely different level. The difference was in the quantity. A full bucket’s worth of blood had been splashed around.

Overcome by the smell, Mitsuru’s head shook up and down. That’s right, he thought, you can’t ever know what someone else is thinking, and maybe Kuronaga and Sasagawa thought they were going to be killed and went crazy, and that’s just how weak they were. They came here to the meeting place but tried to surprise Kiriyama to take him out.

Mitsuru’s eyes were pinned to the other corpse. Now flat on her stomach, Izumi Kanai had been a pretty and petite girl. She was the daughter of a town councilman (though, in a country with such an ultra-centralized bureaucracy, the title was only honorary), and though she wasn’t nearly in Kiriyama’s league, if you counted off the wealthiest families in town on your fingers, you’d reach her family on one hand. But she never acted stuck up, and Mitsuru himself had, on occasion, thought she was cute. Of course, he knew better than to get hung up on a girl of her class.

And now she’s⁠ ⁠… 

Mitsuru somehow managed to speak. “B-but, Boss, Kanai⁠ ⁠… she⁠—”

Kiriyama’s cold, dull eyes stared at him, overwhelming Mitsuru, who tried to come up with an answer to his own question. “Sh-she⁠ ⁠… She tried to kill you too, right?”

Kiriyama nodded. “Kanai just happened to be here.”

Mitsuru’s faith wavered, but he ultimately forced himself to believe that it wasn’t impossible. It’s what the boss said.

Mitsuru blurted, “Y-you don’t have to worry about me. I’d never think of killing you, Boss. Th-this stupid game can eat shit. We’re going to take out Sakamochi and those soldiers, right? Let’s do it! I⁠—”

He knew that with the forbidden zones, they couldn’t approach the school. That’s what Sakamochi had said. But Kiriyama would already have thought of a way around it.

But Mitsuru stopped talking. He’d noticed Kiriyama shaking his head. Mitsuru’s tongue had turned sticky, but he continued, “Okay, all right, so we’re escaping then? Great! Let’s find a boat and⁠—”

Kiriyama said, “Will you let me talk?” and when Mitsuru stopped again, he continued, “Either way would have been fine with me.”

That’s what Mitsuru thought he heard, and he could only blink in response. He didn’t understand what Kiriyama had said. He tried to read Kiriyama’s eyes, but they were just a calm twinkle in the shadow of his face.

“W-what do you mean, ‘either way?’ ”

Kiriyama’s neck stretched as he lifted his chin to the night sky. The moon shone brightly, creating delicate shadows on his handsome face.

In that pose, he continued, “Sometimes, I lose track of what’s right.”

Mitsuru was even more confused now, but as he listened, an entirely different thought skimmed across his mind⁠—a sense that something was missing.

He realized what it was⁠—who it was.

With him there, and Sasagawa and Kuronaga on the ground, one of the Family was missing: Sho Tsukioka (Boys #⁠14). He had left the school ahead of Mitsuru. Where is he?

Of course he might have been frightened and was taking longer to get here. Or might he have been killed on the way? Whatever had happened, his absence felt like a bad omen.

Kiriyama was saying, “Like now. I just don’t know.”

The sight of Kiriyama, talking on like this, seemed strangely sad.

“Anyway,” he said, and turned to Mitsuru. He seemed to be talking faster now, as if he’d reached an allegro mark in the score. “When I came here, Kanai was already here, she tried to run away, and I kept her from escaping.”

Mitsuru swallowed.

“Then I flipped a coin,” Kiriyama said. “Heads, and I’d fight Sakamochi. And⁠ ⁠…”

Before Kiriyama had finished speaking, Mitsuru finally understood.

No. He couldn’t⁠ ⁠… 

He didn’t want to believe it. It shouldn’t have been. Kiriyama was the king, and he was his trusty advisor. It was supposed to be his eternal loyalty, and Kiriyama’s grace. Take Kiriyama’s slicked-back hair. Right about when Mitsuru’s broken fingers had healed, he’d recommended the new hairstyle to Kiriyama and had him try it out. “That’s better, Boss,” he’d said. “You look badass.” And Kiriyama had never changed it. Maybe a hairstyle didn’t amount to much, but to Mitsuru, it was a symbol of their bond.

But, Mitsuru now realized, what if he just thought it would be too much of a bother to change it? What if he had too much on his mind to care about something like that? And it doesn’t stop there. All we did together, I believed was out of a kind of sacred team spirit. What was it to him? A diversion? Just⁠—just⁠—an experience? Not more than an experience, no feelings attached? Hadn’t he said it himself? “It’s interesting.”

From the depths of his mind, an old doubt came back to life. He had thought it unimportant and left it gathering dust in some corner of himself.

He had never seen Kazuo Kiriyama smile.

Mitsuru’s next thoughts drew closer to the core of the truth.

He’s always seemed like he has a lot on his mind. I think that’s true, but down in his heart, is there a darkness deeper than I can imagine? No, not a darkness, but nothing, just an empty space.

Maybe Sho Tsukioka sensed it.

Mitsuru had no more time to think. He focused all his thoughts on his trigger finger (the one that had been broken) on the lowered Walther PPK.

The sea breeze blew in, stirring up the smell of the pool of blood, mixing with it. The sound of crashing waves carried on.

Extending from his hand, the nose of the PPK shook. But Kiriyama was already throwing back his jacket.

There was a faintly pleasant sound. Brattattattat. The sound of 950 rounds firing per minute, though of an altogether different nature, resembled the clacking of an old mechanical typewriter in an antique store. Izumi Kanai, Sasagawa, and Kuronaga, had all been stabbed. For the first time since the game’s opening, gunfire echoed across the island.

Mitsuru was still standing. Though he couldn’t see them through his clothes, he had four finger-sized holes running from his stomach to his chest. Whatever the reason, only two holes came out his back, each wide enough to fit a tin can through. The Walther PPK wavered at his side. His eyes stared off toward the North Star, though on such a brightly moonlit night, he probably couldn’t see it.

Kiriyama was holding a crude hunk of metal that looked like a small gift box with a grip slapped on⁠—an Ingram MAC-10. He said, “Tails, I’d play the game.”

As if he had been waiting for those words, Mitsuru tipped over forward. When he fell, his head bashed against a rock and bounced back five centimeters.

Kazuo Kiriyama remained seated for a time. Then, he abruptly stood, walked over to Mitsuru Numai’s corpse, and touched the fingertips of his left hand to the bullet-riddled body, as if he were checking for something.

This was no emotional response. He wasn’t feeling anything⁠—no pangs of conscience, no remorse, no sympathy.

He just wanted to know what happened to the human body when penetrated by bullets. Actually, it wasn’t that he wanted to know, just that knowing it wouldn’t be bad.

Before long, he withdrew his hand and touched it to his left temple⁠—to be precise, a little behind it. To anyone who didn’t know, he might have appeared to be straightening his slicked-back hair.

But that wasn’t what he was doing. He had a strange sensation⁠—not pain, not an itch, but a peculiar feeling that came to him only rarely, not more than a few times a year, drawing his hand reflexively to the spot. That sensation, along with the feeling of his fingertips touching there, had become deeply familiar to Kiriyama.

Though he knew a great many things about the world, due to the thorough and exceptional education provided to him by his “parents,” what Kiriyama didn’t know was the cause of that sensation. But how could he? By the time he was old enough to look in the mirror, the wound’s scar had almost completely healed. The rest of the story remained in the distant past: the freak accident that had caused the wound and nearly killed him in the womb; his mother’s immediate death; with less than a month to his due date, the consultation between his father and the famous doctor over the shard that had pierced his skull; the fact, unbeknownst to both his father and that doctor who bragged about his flawless operation, that the shard had gouged out the most minute cluster of nerve cells. The surgeon died of liver failure soon after, and his father⁠—his biological father, that is⁠—passed away under complex circumstances. By now, none were left who could tell Kiriyama the whole story.

But one thing was clear⁠—though to Kiriyama, it was just the natural way of things⁠—and even if he never consciously acknowledged it, and may have even lacked the ability to acknowledge it, this is what it came to:

He, Kazuo Kiriyama, standing in front of the four corpses, including that of Mitsuru Numai, had no reason to feel any pangs of conscience, any remorse, any sympathy, or any emotion at all. From the day he came into the world, he had never experienced anything that resembled an emotion.

34 students remain.

12

On the northern edge of the island, opposite Kiriyama and his Family, a steep, towering cliff side plunged into the sea roughly twenty meters below. The small clearing atop the cliff wore a crown of wild grass. The sound of crashing waves came carried up by the rocky face; their mist drifted in the breeze.

Bathed in moonlight, Sakura Ogawa (Girls #⁠4) and Kazuhiko Yamamoto (Boys #⁠21) sat side by side at the edge of the grassy cliff, their legs dangling below, Sakura’s right hand resting gently on Kazuhiko’s left hand.

Their daypacks and belongings, including their two compasses, were scattered around them. Just as Kiriyama had told the others to meet him at the southern tip, Kazuhiko had given Sakura a scrap of paper that read, “At the northern point,” (next to the words: “We will kill each other”). That he had not chosen the same location as Kiriyama was a bit of good luck, and no matter what else would happen next, they at least had been able to talk alone. A .357 Magnum revolver was tucked into Kazuhiko’s belt, but he didn’t think he’d be using it now.

“It’s peaceful here,” Sakura murmured. Her hair was cropped quite short for a girl, and her profile traced a beautiful outline from her high forehead down to the sideways glimpse of a gentle smile. She was tall and slender, and she always sat up straight. When Kazuhiko had finally arrived, the couple had shared all too brief of an embrace. In his arms, she had trembled like a wounded little bird.

“Yeah, it is,” Kazuhiko said. Aside from the bridge of his nose, which was slightly too wide, he had a handsome face. He turned away from her and faced ahead. The open sea remained pitch black in the moonlight, dotted with silhouettes of islands even darker and a large landmass beyond, which Kazuhiko thought must be the Honshu mainland. It was not quite half past three in the morning. Lights floated in the darkness, where all the different people were in peaceful slumber⁠—though some may have been students his age, up late studying for their high school entrance exams. Not so far away, yet a world beyond their reach now.

Kazuhiko shifted his attention a little closer and saw the small black dot roughly two hundred meters away. It must have been one of those ships Sakamochi said would shoot anyone who tried to escape. Even at night, the Seto Inland Sea bustled with nautical traffic, but on this night, the lights of sailing ships were nowhere to be found. The government had likely prohibited all passage.

The sight gave Kazuhiko the chills, but he tore his eyes away from the black dot. When he’d left the school, he saw Mayumi Tendo’s and Yoshio Akamatsu’s bodies, and on his way here, he’d even heard far-off gunfire. Now that the game had begun, all that would continue to the end. He’d talked to Sakura about it a little before, but none of it seemed to matter anymore.

“Thank you so much for these,” Sakura said. She was looking at the tiny bouquet of tiny flowers in her other hand. Kazuhiko had found them along the way and picked a few he liked, white clovers or something like that, the bundle of white petals like cheerleader pom-poms atop the airy stems. The flowers didn’t make for a particularly impressive bouquet, but they were all he could find.

Kazuhiko flashed her a grin. “Thank you very much.”

She remained looking at the flowers for a time, then said, “We won’t be able to go back together. No more walking through town together, no more eating ice cream together.”

“That’s not⁠—” Kazuhiko started to say, but she cut him off.

“There’s no fighting it. I know that too well. I heard that my father tried to oppose the government’s methods. Then one day⁠ ⁠…” Through her hand, Kazuhiko could feel her trembling. “… the police came. They killed him. They didn’t have a warrant or anything. They didn’t even say anything, but just came in and shot him dead. I can remember it. I was in our tiny kitchen. I was still small. I was sitting at the table. My mother held me tight. And I grew up, still eating at that same table.”

She turned to Kazuhiko and said, “There’s just no way to fight it.”

They had been dating more than two years, and he’d never known. She never told him about it, not even after they’d first slept together in her house the month before.

Kazuhiko knew there had to be something else he could say, as all he could muster up felt incredibly trite: “That must have been hard.”

Sakura surprised him with a smile. “You’re so kind, Kazuhiko. You really are. That’s why I love you.”

“I love you too. I love you so much.”

Kazuhiko wished he weren’t so young and inarticulate, so that he could explain how he felt: the effect that she had on him, her expressions, her words, her movements, so tender, her soul, beautiful and perfectly pure; how important her very existence was to him. But he felt unable to express it. He was only a ninth grader and, worse yet, one with low marks in Japanese.

“Anyway,” she said, closing her eyes. She took in a breath, more composed now, and let it out. “I wanted to make sure I got to see you first.”

Kazuhiko remained quiet, listening to what she had to say.

“Terrible things are going to happen. With what you told me, they’re already happening. Yesterday, everyone was friends⁠ ⁠… but they’re killing each other, aren’t they?”

Through her hand, Kazuhiko could feel her shudder again.

She gave him a smile mixed with emotion⁠—fear, and maybe a little irony at the senseless fate that had visited them. “I can’t take it,” she said. “Not that.”

Of course she couldn’t. Not someone as compassionate as Sakura. Kazuhiko didn’t know any sweeter girl.

“Besides,” Sakura continued, “we won’t be able to go home together. Even if by some miracle one of us could go back, it wouldn’t be together. Even if⁠ ⁠… even if I somehow survived, I couldn’t take you being gone. So⁠ ⁠…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Kazuhiko knew what she had been about to say: So I’ll die. Here. With you here, before anyone else can interfere.

Instead, she said, “But you will live.”

Kazuhiko smiled sadly, squeezed her hand tight, and shook his head. “That’s cruel. I feel the same as you. Even if I survived, I couldn’t take you being gone. Don’t you go and leave me alone.”

Sakura’s wide eyes stared into his. She began to cry.

She looked away from him and wiped her tears with the hand holding the clover bouquet. Then she said something that took him a little by surprise. “Did you watch it last week? You know, the one on Wednesdays at nine. The last episode of Tonight, At Our Rendezvous?”

Kazuhiko nodded. Rendezvous was a drama broadcast by the DBS commercial network. As would be expected from a show produced in the Republic of Greater East Asia, it was a shallow love story⁠—though fairly well made for its flaws, and it had been a ratings hit for years.

“Yeah, I saw it,” Kazuhiko said. “You kept telling me I should.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you know⁠ ⁠…”

She went on, and as Kazuhiko listened, he thought, This is just how we always talk. He found such bliss in their ordinary, pointless chatter. She wants us to be us through the very end.

Before he knew it, he was on the verge of tears.

“I’m totally fine,” Sakura was saying, “with how the two main characters ended up together. That’s how it always goes, you know? But I don’t like what happened with Miki’s friend, Mizue⁠—the one played by Anna Kitagawa⁠—and how she gave up on the guy she loved. I would have gone after him.”

Kazuhiko grinned. “I thought you’d say that.”

Sakura laughed bashfully. “I can’t hide anything from you.” She sounded so happy. “I can still remember when I first saw you, on my first day in junior high and in your class. You were tall, and cool, but more than that, I saw you and I thought, ‘Here’s someone who could really understand me. Deep down, he’d understand me.’ ”

“I⁠ ⁠… don’t know how to say this very well, but⁠ ⁠…” Kazuhiko twisted his tongue around inside his mouth and thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know how to say this very well, but I felt the same way, I think.”

He had said it well.

For a while, he leaned in against Sakura. With his left hand still holding hers, he reached his right hand to her shoulder.

Sitting together like this, they kissed. The moment lasted a few seconds. Or was that half a minute? Or an eternity?

Then, their lips separated. They had heard rustling in the bushes behind them. Someone had come. That was their signal. The train’s about to depart, so all aboard, you’d better get moving.

There was nothing left to say. Sure, they could have fought back. He could have taken his revolver in hand and faced whoever was there. But that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to pass quietly, before she got sucked into this damned senseless massacre. Nothing was more important to him than her. He couldn’t trade her for anything now. This was what her trembling heart wanted, and he would obey. If he were a little more eloquent, perhaps he would have thought: For her principles, I offer my life.

Their bodies fell through the air beyond the cliffside, the pitchblack sea at their backs, their hands still clasped together.

Yukie Utsumi (Girls #⁠2) was peeking out from the brush. Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t the slightest intention of harming anyone, at least not unless someone attacked her first, and had never imagined her sound would have signaled their departure. She could only stare in stunned silence as the best couple in class, their two bodies side by side, vanished from the grassy cliff top. She could hear the faint sound of waves crashing against the sheer cliff below. A gentle breeze blew. The tiny white clovers had spilled from Sakura’s fingers and came to rest upon the grass.

Behind Yukie, Haruka Tanizawa (Girls #⁠12) asked, “What’s wrong, Yukie?”

Yukie heard her, but just stood there, trembling.

32 students remain.

13

Megumi Eto (Girls #⁠3) sat in the dark, arms wrapped around her shins. Her small body trembled. She was inside a house on the outskirts of the island’s only village, a cluster of residences along the eastern shore. Though the lights might still have been working, Megumi didn’t dare find out. The moonlight coming in through the kitchen window didn’t reach under the table where she hid, leaving her in near total darkness. She couldn’t see her watch, but figured she’d been sitting there for two hours, which made it nearly four in the morning. Almost an hour had passed since she’d heard the small and distant burst of what sounded like fireworks. Megumi didn’t want to think about what that noise really was.

She lifted her face and saw the moonlit shapes of a teakettle and cupboards above the kitchen counter. Megumi knew that whoever had lived here must have been sent away to some temporary housing, but she could still sense their presence in the home. It felt unnatural and creepy, and reminded her of an old ghost story she’d heard as a child⁠—the one about the crew of Mary Celeste, who had suddenly vanished, leaving behind on their abandoned ship everything in mid-use, meals and all.

When she left the school, Megumi ran, unaware of where she was going. The next thing she knew, she had ducked into a village. Her first thought was that not many of the others had left before her⁠—five, only five. With fifty, maybe sixty, buildings in the village, she could fly into one of them with hardly any risk of running into anyone. Once inside, she could lock the door and hold the fort, as it was, and remain safe⁠—at least until she was forced to move by one of those forbidden zones. The exploding collar made for an oppressive presence, but there was nothing she could do about it. If you try to force it loose, it’ll explode, Sakamochi had said. What mattered now was not to miss the scheduled announcements of where and when the forbidden zones would activate.

Megumi had tried to enter the nearest house first, but it was locked. So was the second. At the third house, she used a rock to smash the sliding glass door around the back of the home. The loud noise sent her instinctively scrambling beneath the veranda to hide. No one seemed to be approaching. She went inside. With no way to lock the back door now, she struggled with the heavy storm doors on the outer rails but managed to slide the panels closed. Plunged into total darkness, the house felt sinister, more haunted mansion than home. Megumi turned on her flashlight to search the house and found two sturdy fishing rods to jam the storm doors shut.

Now she was under the kitchen table. I can’t kill anyone, she thought. There’s no way. But maybe, just maybe, if this won’t be in a forbidden zone until the end (she had checked her map and seen that nearly the entire village lay within zone H-8) I might be able to survive.

But, Megumi thought, her body still quivering, it’s so terrifying. The way the game is, everyone’s my enemy. I can’t trust anyone, I know that⁠ ⁠… but I just can’t make myself think that way. That’s why I’m stuck here, shaking like this. But even if⁠ ⁠… even if⁠ ⁠… that time comes, and the final whistle is blown, and I’m still alive, that would have to mean everyone else is dead⁠ ⁠… my friends, like Mizuho and Kaori⁠ ⁠… and that boy⁠—even thinking of him now makes my heart race⁠—Shuya Nanahara.

In the darkness, Megumi pulled her knees into her chest and sat thinking of Shuya. What she really loved about him was his voice. It was a little gravelly, not too high-pitched, but not too low. He seemed really into that banned music⁠—rock or something⁠—and when he had to sing songs praising the government or the Leader in music class, he always had this displeased look on his face. But even then, his voice was remarkable. And with his guitar, he could improvise rhythms like nothing she’d ever heard, and they made her body dance of its own accord. Yet there was a grace to the sound, the beauty of a church bell’s resounding ring. He had long, wavy hair (“the Bruce Springsteen look,” he’d said, though Megumi hadn’t a clue who he meant), kind, double-lidded eyes (sometimes Megumi thought they looked cute, like a cat’s), and the agility of a former Little League MVP.

Thinking of Shuya’s face and his voice, her trembling subsided. Ah, how nice would it be if Shuya were with me now⁠ ⁠… 

But⁠ ⁠… but why did I never tell him how I felt? I never sent him a love letter. I never had him meet me somewhere so I could tell him face to face. I didn’t even tell him over the phone. And now I never will.

A thought caught her attention.

The phone.

Sure, Sakamochi said we couldn’t use the phones, but what if⁠ ⁠… 

Megumi scrambled for her nylon handbag, which she’d left next to the daypack, and pulled the bag closer. She opened the zipper and shoved aside her clothing and toiletries.

Her fingertips felt the hard, squarish object, and she pulled it out.

It was her cell phone. Megumi’s mother had bought it for her in case something should happen on the school trip (though this was hardly just something.) Sure, she’d envied the couple kids who had one, and there was a thrill to it, like having her own secret passageway. On the other hand, she wondered if her parents were being overprotective and thought her mother worried too much, and besides, what did a junior high kid need with one of those things anyway? So she had stuffed the shiny new phone into the bottom of her purse, completely forgetting about it until this very moment.

With shaking hands, she flipped open the phone.

The device switched automatically from standby to dial mode, and the dial pad and tiny LCD screen sprang to life with a dim green light. In the glow, Megumi could see her own legs and skirt, and her bags too. But more importantly, there, on that screen, was that unmistakable icon, the antenna and bars. A signal!

“Please, God,” Megumi whispered.

Impatiently, she pressed the numbers for her home in Shiroiwa. Zero, eight, seven, nine, two⁠ ⁠…

She pressed the phone to her ear. Silence. Then, ringing. Hope swelled up in her chest.

One ring. Two. Three. Hurry, answer. Mom, Dad, I don’t care which. I know it’s the middle of the night, but you know your daughter’s in trouble. Hurry.

The receiver clicked to life, then the voice came. “Hello.”

“Oh, Dad!”

Still cramped in the confines of the kitchen table, Megumi closed her eyes. She felt like she might go mad from relief. I’m saved, I’m saved!

“Dad!” Delirious, she shouted into the phone. “It’s me. Megumi. Oh, Dad! Save me. Dad, come save me!”

But when there was no response, she regained her senses. Something is⁠ ⁠… wrong. What⁠ ⁠… Why isn’t Dad⁠ ⁠… Wait, what’s going on?

Finally, the man on the phone spoke. “I’m not your dad, Eto. This is Sakamochi. Didn’t I tell you that phones wouldn’t work?”

With a yelp, she dropped the phone, then clawed for it on the ground, mashing the button to end the call.

Her heart pounded, and despair crushed her chest once more. It didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. I’m going to⁠ ⁠… die here. I’m going to die.

But the hammering of her heart was about to be sent leaping to a whole new level.

She heard the sound of breaking glass.

Her head jerked to face the noise’s direction. The living room. She’d checked it earlier to make sure everything was locked. Someone’s here! Why? Of all these houses, why this one?

Hurriedly, she snapped shut the faintly glowing phone and stuffed it into her pocket. From atop her daypack, she drew her weapon⁠—a double-edged diving knife⁠—from its plastic sheath and gripped it tightly.

I have to run, quick as I can.

But her body remained frozen. All she could do was quiet her breathing. Please, please God, make sure they can’t hear my heartbeat.

Megumi heard a window open, then close, and then the sound of cautious, quiet footsteps.

The footsteps seemed to wind their way through the house, until finally approaching right outside the kitchen where Megumi hid. Her heart pounded louder and louder.

A flashlight’s thin beam pierced into the room. The light glided above the kitchen counter and the teakettle and pots.

The intruder sighed and said, “Good, no one’s here.”

The footsteps entered the kitchen, but Megumi had already been stricken with panic at the sound of the girl’s voice. Gone now, smashed to pieces, was any hope that the intruder was one of her good friends and that she could talk her way out. The voice belonged to none other than Mitsuko Souma (Girls #⁠11). The worst girl in the entire school, Mitsuko wore a lovely, angelic face but could make teachers wither under a single glance.

Even with all the rumors that surrounded Kazuo Kiriyama and Shogo Kawada, Megumi was most afraid of Mitsuko Souma. Maybe it was because Mitsuko was also a girl, or maybe it was because one of the girls in Mitsuko’s clique, Hirono Shimizu, had picked on her when they became classmates at the start of eighth grade, tripping her as she walked past in the hall and ripping her skirt with a box cutter. Hirono had since lost interest in her⁠—though Megumi had still been sad to learn that the same class would carry over to ninth grade⁠—and Mitsuko herself had never bullied her. Nevertheless, Mitsuko was someone not even Hirono could defy.

Someone like Mitsuko Souma, Megumi thought, would enjoy killing me off.

Megumi’s body began trembling again. No, of all things. Stop. Don’t shake. If she hears⁠ ⁠…  She squeezed her arms tightly around herself, striving to subdue her shaking.

From underneath the table, Megumi could see Mitsuko’s hand holding the flashlight and an illuminated band of skirt near the girl’s waist. Then Megumi heard the sound of Mitsuko rummaging through the drawers below the sink.

Hurry up. Please, just hurry up and leave. At least get out of this room. Wait, that’s it. I could run for the bathroom. I can lock the door from the inside and escape through the window. Just please, leave the kitchen so I can⁠—

Ririririri-ring! The sudden electronic chirp sent Megumi’s heart leaping nearly to her throat.

She thought she saw Mitsuko Souma jump too. Immediately, Mitsuko’s flashlight went dark and with it her skirt. Megumi sensed the girl retreating to the corner of the room.

When she realized the ringing was coming from her pocket, Megumi frantically took out her phone. Her mind went blank and she reflexively flipped open the phone and jabbed randomly at the buttons.

“Ah, this is Sakamochi,” said the voice on the phone. “Listen, Eto, I wanted to add that you’d better turn it off. The phone, I mean. If I were to call you, it would give your position away to everyone, wouldn’t it? Right? So you should⁠—”

Megumi’s fingers found the end call button, cutting off Sakamochi.

Silence, suffocating, continued for a while. Then came Mitsuko’s voice.

“Megumi? Is that you, Megumi? Are you there?”

Mitsuko seemed to be in the corner of the dark kitchen. Megumi quietly placed her cell phone on the floor and clutched her knife. Her hand shook even more, and the weapon seemed a fish trying to wiggle free from her grasp. But tightly, tightly, she gripped it.

Mitsuko was taller than Megumi, but she couldn’t have been that much stronger. Whatever her weapon was⁠ ⁠…

What if it’s a gun ? No, if she had a gun, she’d be firing in my direction. And if it’s not a gun, then⁠ ⁠… I have a chance. I have to kill her. If I don’t kill her, she’ll kill me.

If I don’t kill her⁠ ⁠… 

With a click, the flashlight’s beam reappeared. The light shot in beneath the table, blinding Megumi for a moment. Now! Stand up! Stick my knife at that light!

But something unexpected interrupted her thoughts.

The beam of light fell low, and into it Mitsuko sank, dropping to the floor, gazing at her, crying.

From trembling lips, Mitsuko breathed out the words, “Thank goodness.” She was sobbing. “I⁠—I⁠ ⁠… was so scared.”

She extended her arms toward Megumi, as if reaching out for salvation. She wasn’t holding a weapon; her hands were empty.

She said the rest in one breath. “It’s you, it’s you, I don’t need to worry, right, you wouldn’t kill me, you’d never do a thing like that, and you’ll stay with me, won’t you?”

Megumi was stunned. Mitsuko Souma⁠—that Mitsuko Souma⁠—is crying. She wants my help. Oh⁠ ⁠… 

Her tremors melting away, Megumi felt welling up inside of her a lump of emotion that was hard to describe.

So that’s it. Ah, that’s how it is. No matter what names people called her, no matter what the rumors, Mitsuko is just another ninth grade girl like me. How could she ever do something so terrible as kill her own classmates? The girl was all alone, frightened out of her mind.

But⁠—how could I? I thought it, didn’t I? I thought to kill her.

I’m⁠ ⁠… I’m an awful person.

Emotions filled her, both self-disgust and, at the same time, relief at having someone with her, at not having to be alone anymore. Teardrops began to fall from her eyes.

The knife tumbled from Megumi’s fingers. She crawled out from beneath the table and took Mitsuko’s outstretched hands. As if a dam had burst inside her, the words spilled out, passionate. “Mitsuko! Mitsuko!”

She felt herself trembling again, but because of a different emotion now. But what does that matter when I⁠ ⁠… when I⁠ ⁠… 

“There, there,” Megumi said. “It’s all right. I’m here now. I’m with you. We’re together now.”

“Yes. Yes,” Mitsuko said, scrunching up her tear-streaked face. She squeezed Megumi’s hands in return. “Yes. Yes.” She nodded.

There, on the kitchen floor, Megumi embraced her. She could feel Mitsuko’s warmth, and as the girl’s helplessly trembling body pressed against her chest, her feelings of guilt redoubled.

I thought terrible things. So terrible⁠ ⁠… I was going to kill her.

“Hey.” The words came unbidden from Megumi’s lips. “I⁠ ⁠… I⁠ ⁠…”

“What?” Mitsuko looked up at her with tear-filled eyes.

Megumi pressed her lips tight to stifle her own sobs and shook her head. “I’m so ashamed of myself. For a moment there, I was going to kill you. I thought I’d kill you. I was so scared.”

Mitsuko’s eyes flickered wide, but she didn’t become angry. With her tears still running down her cheeks, she simply bobbed her head.

Then, with a grin, she said, “It’s okay. It’s okay, really. Don’t be upset. It’s not a big deal. It’s natural, in a screwed-up situation like this. Don’t be upset. Okay? Just stay with me. Please.”

Mitsuko lifted her hand and gently held the back of Megumi’s head, then leaned in until they were touching, cheek-to-cheek. Mitsuko’s tears ran down Megumi’s face.

Oh, Megumi thought, I was wrong about everything. To think, Mitsuko Souma has been so kindhearted all along. Here I was going to kill her, and she forgave me with two little words: “It’s okay.” Isn’t that what Mr. Hayashida, though he’s dead now, always said? Never judge people by rumors. Only people with ugly hearts do that.

Again she felt emotions welling up inside her chest. She held Mitsuko tight. That was all she could do for now. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was an ugly person. I really⁠—

She heard a sound⁠—slkkk⁠—like a lemon being sliced.

It was a very pleasing sound, right out of a TV cooking show; a sound only the best, newest knife and the freshest fruit could provide. Today, viewers, we’ll be making salmon with a lemon marinade.

It took a good two or three seconds before Megumi realized what had happened.

Just beneath her chin and to the left, she saw Mitsuko’s right hand and the blade that extended out from it in a gentle curve, like the shape of a banana, casting the dull reflection of the flashlight’s beam.

A sickle. Like for reaping rice. And the end of it⁠ ⁠… in my throat.

Her left hand still cupping the back of Megumi’s head, Mitsuko drove the sickle deeper with another slkkk.

Megumi’s throat felt fiercely hot, but it didn’t last long. Unable to speak, she could only feel the incredible warmth on her chest as the blood streamed down, and then she didn’t feel anything. She was gone before she could place any meaning to the blade inside her throat. Without a final thought of her family, or even Shuya Nanahara, Megumi died in Mitsuko’s arms.

When Mitsuko let go, Megumi’s body crumpled sideways to the floor.

Mitsuko didn’t hesitate before switching off her flashlight and standing up. Annoyed by her tears, she wiped them away. (Mitsuko could cry at a moment’s notice⁠—that was one of her many special talents.) She held the sickle up to the moonlight that trickled in from the window and wiped the blood from the blade. The falling blood drops splattered softly as they hit the ground.

Not bad, for a start, Mitsuko thought. She’d intended to look for something easier to wield, a kitchen knife, perhaps, but this sickle wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. She’d just been a little too careless inside that house, not knowing if someone else was there or not. The next time, she’d be more cautious.

She looked down at Megumi’s corpse and murmured, “Sorry about that. I was going to kill you too.”

31 students remain.

14

The first night broke into dawn.

Shuya Nanahara looked up through the trees and watched the blue sky gradually take on white. Leaves and branches⁠—of evergreen oaks, camellias, and some cherry trees and others Shuya couldn’t identify⁠—wove an intricate net concealing where he and Noriko hid.

Shuya had checked his map, which confirmed the island’s rounded diamond shape and indicated two mountains, one to the north and one to the south. Shuya and Noriko were near the foot of the northern mountain’s western slopes, and just a little south relative to its peak⁠—zone C-4, according to the coordinate grid. The exceptionally detailed map included not only the topographic contour lines, but also each house in the village and around the island (these were marked with light blue dots), various buildings (only a few earned the commonly recognizable icons⁠—a medical clinic, a volunteer fire station, a lighthouse⁠—while the rest were places like the community center, the fisherman’s co-op, and the like), and streets big and small. Between the lay of the land, the roads, and the occasional scattered house, Shuya had been able to find his bearings.

Moreover, while he was fairly high up on the mountain during the night, he had double-checked that the map was indeed a faithful representation of the island. The silhouettes of islands of many sizes dotted the dark black sea⁠—and, as Sakamochi had said, the outline of a guard ship (due west) stationed with its lights off.

Directly to Shuya and Noriko’s west, the thicket terminated at a steep slope. A small field opened below, beyond which the downslope continued toward the sea. Passing through the field during the night, they had found a building, almost a shack, which had been built off the ground. Shuya had noticed the weathered wooden torii gate ten meters away and figured it to be a small, very small, Shinto shrine (the map confirmed this). The front door stood open, and no one was inside.

But, as he had done with the other houses they’d come across on the way, he decided not to hide inside the little shrine. One of the others might have the same thought, and with only one entrance, if someone were to notice them, they’d be trapped.

When it was time to rest, Shuya found a place, relatively near the ocean, where the undergrowth parted with just enough space for both of them to lie down. Higher up the mountain, the greenery would have been thicker, but he had the feeling that many of the others would end up converging there. And if the two encountered someone who turned out to be an enemy, and they had to run, he figured it would be better to do so on more level ground⁠—especially with Noriko’s wounded leg.

Shuya was sitting against a tree about ten centimeters wide. Noriko was just to his left, also leaning against a tree, with her injured right leg stretched out in front of her. They had pushed themselves through exhaustion, and Noriko had closed her eyes.

Even after lengthy discussions over what they should do next, they hadn’t come up with much.

His first thought was to find a boat to escape the island. But he quickly realized that would have been pointless. The guard ships were at sea, but more than that⁠ ⁠…

Shuya touched his hand to the collar around his neck and felt its cold surface. He’d gotten used to the feel of it against his skin, but the weight of it remained, an embodiment of the senseless fate that bound them.

That was right, the collars.

A specific signal transmitted by the computers inside the school would trigger the bomb inside the collar to explode. When Sakamochi had explained the rules, he said it would happen if any of them entered a forbidden zone, but nothing prevented the same from happening to students who attempted a seaward escape. Those guard ships weren’t even necessary. Even if Shuya managed to find a boat, escape would be utterly impossible unless he could do something about their collars.

Then it followed that their only move was to attack Sakamochi at the school and disable their collar locks. But the school, in zone G-7, had been designated a forbidden zone directly after the game’s beginning. Even if they could approach it, they were being tracked anyway.

Shuya was turning this over in his mind when he noticed the world around him had become bright. Moving about in the daylight would be dangerous. We just have to wait it out until the next nightfall.

But that thought led to another problem: the time limit. Twenty-four hours without a single death, Sakamochi had said. The death Shuya witnessed as he left the school had been more than three hours earlier. If the day passed with no more killings, they all would die in a little more than twenty hours. Waiting until night to prepare an escape could be too late. Ironically, each classmate’s death bought the others more time to live⁠—but Shuya didn’t want to think about that.

For now, damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. They were all damned.

Shuya kept hoping he could somehow meet up with Shinji Mimura. A guy with Shinji’s extensive knowledge, and the boundless wisdom to use it, would surely be able to find a way through this situation.

He also kept on regretting, despite the risk, that he hadn’t waited for Shinji after Yoshio Akamatsu’s attack. Did I really do the right thing? Had there really been any chance that some “enemy” would strike? Hadn’t Akamatsu only been an exception?

No⁠ ⁠… I can’t be sure of that. There might still be trouble yet. I can’t even tell who the bad guys are. Who’s thinking straight, and who isn’t anymore? But⁠ ⁠… in this game, maybe we’re the ones who’ve lost our senses. Are we the crazy ones?

Shuya felt like he was losing his mind.

All that’s left⁠—for now⁠—is to wait here a little while longer and see what happens. Maybe I’ll think of something. If I don’t, then we wait until night and find Shinji. But can we find him? Sure, this is a small island, only six kilometers around, but finding someone here won’t be easy. And once night comes, how long will we have until it’s game over?

Even in the⁠—I hate to think it⁠—one-in-a-million chance I find Shinji, or if Noriko and I escape on our own, we’ll only be criminals. Unless we defect to some other country, we spend our whole lives on the run. And then, one day, some agent of the government guns us down in a deserted alley. A bloated rat comes out to nibble at my fingers.

Maybe I’d be better off insane.

Then Shuya thought about Yoshitoki Kuninobu. He was saddened by Yoshitoki’s death, but maybe the boy had actually been incredibly lucky to have been spared this mad reality⁠—mad, and without hope.

Should we just kill ourselves? Would Noriko agree to a double suicide?

Shuya turned his head and, for the first time, studied Noriko’s profile in the soft, burgeoning light.

He noticed her well-shaped eyebrows, the gentle curve of her eyelashes on her closed eyes, and her lovely nose with the rounded tip, her full lips. She was a very cute girl. He thought he understood how Yoshitoki had liked her looks.

But now that face had been smeared with sand, and her hair, hanging just below her shoulders, was in tangles. Then there was that collar. The ugly silver band coiled around her neck like she was a slave in some long ago time.

This bullshit game is spoiling her beauty, Shuya thought, and with that he felt a sudden surge of rage that brought him back to his senses.

I won’t let this beat me. I’m going to survive, and I’m going to make these fuckers pay for dumping us into this game. And not just pay. You come at me with a right cross, and I’ll smash you with a fucking baseball bat.

Noriko’s eyes blinked open, and she met his gaze.

For a while, they stared at each other. Then quietly, Noriko asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing⁠ ⁠… Well, I was thinking⁠ ⁠…” Being caught staring into her face had taken him off balance. He blurted the first thing that came to him. “Okay, this might sound weird, but you’re not actually thinking of killing yourself, are you?”

Noriko looked down. Her ambiguous expression might have held the hint of a smile. He could see her clearly now; the sun was rising. Then she said, “Of course not. Although⁠ ⁠…”

“Although?”

She appeared to think for a moment. Then she continued, “Well, if we were the last two alive, I might want to kill myself. That way, at least you would⁠—”

Taken aback, Shuya shook his head. He shook it hard. He’d just brought up the subject on impulse, never expecting that kind of answer.

“Don’t talk that garbage,” Shuya said. “Don’t even think it. We are in this together until the very end. No matter what. That’s final.”

Noriko smiled and reached out her hand, touching his. “Thank you.”

“Look, we’re going to survive this. Don’t you even think about dying.”

Again, she gave him a little smile. Then she said, “You haven’t given up.”

He shook his head, putting a little force into it. “Of course not.”

With a little tilt of the head, Noriko said, “You know, I’ve always thought of you as having a positive force about you.”

“A positive force?”

She grinned. “I can’t explain it very well, but it’s like you have this drive toward living. Right now, it’s your determination to survive. And,” she said, turning her soft smile to him, “that’s what I really like about you.”

Embarrassed, Shuya replied, “I think that’s just me being an idiot.”

Then he said, “If we find a way off this island, well, it’s not like I have anyone. I mean, I don’t have any parents. But you⁠—you have your mother and your father, and your brother. You won’t be able to see them. Can you handle that?”

Another smile. “I’d already accepted that⁠—as soon as this started.” After a moment, she added, “But what about you? Will you be all right?”

“All right with what?”

“That you won’t be able to see her?”

Shuya gulped. She knew all about him. She’d said it herself: I’ve been watching you for so long.

He’d have been lying if he said it didn’t hurt. For so long he’d thought of no one but Kazumi Shintani. And now he’d never see her face again.

But he shook his head. “That’s⁠—”

He had been about to say that it was just a one-sided crush, just his own delusion, but he was interrupted. The sudden blare of Salamochi’s voice resounded all around.

31 students remain.

15

“Good morning, everyone!”

It was Sakamochi’s voice. Shuya couldn’t tell where the loudspeakers were, but the words came loud and clear, if distorted and metallic. The speakers must have been distributed throughout the island.

“This is your instructor, Sakamochi speaking. It’s now six a.m. How are you all doing?”

Shuya grimaced, though only after he’d recovered from being dumbstruck by Sakamochi’s cheerful tone.

“All right,” Sakamochi said, “I’m now going to announce the names of your dead friends. I’ll start with the boys. First, number one, Yoshio Akamatsu.”

Shuya thought that Yoshio Akamatsu hadn’t been dead when he left. So after that, he wondered, did he try to kill someone else, and then get killed himself? Or⁠—could it be⁠—had he remained lying there, unconscious, until that first forbidden zone activated, and his lovely little collar blew him to bits?

Since Shuya had been the one to knock him out, the idea didn’t sit well with him..

But the names of the dead piled into a heap that buried these thoughts.

“Continuing on, number nine, Hiroshi Kuronaga; number ten, Ryuhei Sasagawa; number seventeen, Mitsuru Numai; number twenty-one, Kazuhiko Yamamoto. And, let’s see here, the girls. Number three, Megumi Eto; number four, Sakura Ogawa; number five, Izumi Kanai; number fourteen, Mayumi Tendo.”

The list of names of course meant that the time limit would be postponed for the near future, but such thoughts were far from Shuya’s mind. He felt dizzy. The faces of the classmates whose names had been read formed and vanished in his mind. They were all dead, and for each one, there’d be a killer. Unless, that is, they had committed suicide.

This game is happening. There’s no stopping it. Shuya saw in his mind a long funeral procession, a crowd all dressed in black. A man in a black suit with a somber, know-it-all expression said, “Oh, it’s Shuya Nanahara and Noriko Nakagawa. That’s right, you two haven’t gone yet, have you? But look over there, those are your own graves that you just walked past. We already carved in your seat numbers, both fifteen. Don’t worry, the carving’s free. It’s on special.”

“That’s a good pace,” Sakamochi said. “Your teacher is very proud. Right, next up are the forbidden zones. I’ll be giving the sectors and times. Take out your maps and follow along.”

Still in shock at the number of the dead and still disgusted at Sakamochi’s tone, Shuya nonetheless took out his map.

“First, an hour from now. That’s seven a.m. From seven, zone J-2. Get out of sector J-2 by seven a.m. Got that?”

J-2 was located just to the west of the island’s southern tip.

“Next, in three hours. From nine, sector F-1.”

F-1 was on the same western shore as Shuya and Noriko, but much farther to the south.

“Next, in five hours. From eleven, sector H-8.”

H-8 included nearly the entire village on the eastern shore.

“That’s all for now. Now, I want you all to do your best today!” Sakamochi’s broadcast clicked off.

None of the forbidden zones were near the pair’s current location. Whether or not the areas were, as Sakamochi had said, selected at random, it seemed Shuya had made the correct choice by not escaping into the village. But this place might be included in the next set.

“He mentioned⁠ ⁠…” Noriko said, and Shuya turned to her. “He mentioned Sakura and Yamamoto.”

“Yeah.” Shuya’s voice caught in his throat. “Do you think they killed themselves?”

“I don’t know. But I’m sure they were together to the end. Somehow, somewhere, they were able to meet.”

Shuya had himself seen Sakura leave Yamamoto a note. But anything after that amounted to nothing more than wishful thinking. They could have been killed in separate places by separate crazed classmates.

Banishing the lingering image of the two lovers’ hands touching as the note was passed, Shuya took out the class roster from his pocket. The sheet had been in the daypack along with the map. Though it seemed vulgar, he had to keep track. He took out a pen, intending to strike through the names. But he couldn’t do it. It’s just too⁠ ⁠… it’s just too⁠ ⁠… Well, it’s cruel.

Next to the names, he drew a small checkmark. He did the same next to Yoshitoki Kuninobu’s and Fumiyo Fujiyoshi’s names. Shuya felt as if he had become that black-suited man in his vision. “Okay, you, and you. And you there. What size coffins are you? If you can make do with a model eight, it’s a big seller, so I can give you a steal.”

Be that as it may, Shuya noticed that of Kiriyama’s four lackeys, three were dead. Hiroshi Kuronaga, Ryuhei Sasagawa, and Mitsuru Numai. The only one left was Sho Tsukioka⁠—kind of a weird kid who went by the nickname “Zuki”⁠—and Kiriyama himself.

Shuya thought back to Numai’s smug expression after Kiriyama left the classroom. Shuya had assumed that Kiriyama would surely assemble his gang to escape. But what did their deaths signify? Had they gotten together, only to be possessed by paranoia, turning their meeting place into a battleground? And had Kiriyama and Tsukioka managed to flee? And were Tsukioka and Kiriyama still together? Shuya had no idea; something completely different might have gone down.

And there was that faint noise, sounding like gunfire, that had reached his eardrums. If it had been a gun, had it taken the life of one of those ten kids?

Just then, his thoughts were interrupted by a rustling sound. Noriko’s expression had gone visibly tense. Shuya stuffed the pen and paper back into his pocket.

Shuya listened closely. The sound continued⁠—and it was approaching.

Under his breath, he told Noriko, “Quiet.”

Shuya gripped his daypack. Thinking they needed to be able to move at any moment, he had gathered up all of his things into the backpack. He’d left some clothes in his gym bag, but those could be left behind. Noriko had done the same with her possessions.

Shuya hoisted the two daypacks over his left shoulder. He lent Noriko his hands to help her stand up, and they crouched side by side.

Shuya withdrew his knife. He held it in a reverse right-hand grip. But then he thought, Sure, I know how to use a guitar pick, but will I be any good with this?

The rustling grew louder. How close is it now⁠—within meters?

The anxious impatience he’d felt in front of the school again gripped his mind. He grabbed Noriko by the arm and pulled her back. They stood and backed into the underbrush. Faster! We need to move as fast as we can!

They came out of the bushes that had shielded them and emerged onto a trail. The footpath wound up the mountain’s slope. Overhead, treetops sandwiched a ribbon of blue sky.

Shuya shielded Noriko behind him as he retreated several meters up the path. In the bushes, the rustling continued, growing louder, until⁠ ⁠…

Shuya’s eyes widened.

A lone white cat popped out from the undergrowth. Filthy, scraggly, and with matted fur, but nevertheless, a cat.

Shuya and Noriko looked at each other. Breaking into a grin, she said, “A cat.” Shuya returned her a chagrined smile. As if only just now noticing the two, the cat looked their way.

It stared at them for a while, then pattered up to them.

While Shuya was putting his knife back into its sheath, Noriko crouched down slowly, on account of her injured leg, and offered her hands to the cat. It jumped into her hands and nuzzled her feet. She cupped its front legs and lifted the little animal.

She puckered her lips into a kiss and held them out toward the cat. “You poor thing. You’re so skinny.”

The cat opened its mouth into a happy meow.

“I wonder if it belonged to someone,” Noriko said. “It’s so friendly.”

“I wonder.”

The government had evicted the island’s residents to stage this game. (Since each Program operated in secrecy until its conclusion, the locals probably hadn’t been given a reason.) Noriko might have been right, and this creature might have been left behind without its owner. No houses were nearby, but could it have wandered all the way up the mountain?

As Shuya thought about this, his eyes drifted from Noriko and the cat. He turned his head.

Then he recoiled.

A mere ten meters down the path, a figure in a school uniform stood as if glued to the spot. He was roughly Shuya’s height, with a muscular build that had been forged on the handball court, dark suntanned skin, and short, spiked-up hair. He was Tatsumichi Oki (Boys #⁠3).

31 students remain.

16

Following Shuya’s eyes, Noriko turned. In an instant, her expression went tense. Which was he, Shuya wondered, an enemy, or not?

Tatsumichi Oki stood there, staring at them. Shuya sensed his field of vision narrowing in response to the threat⁠—as it did when he rode in a speeding car⁠—but at the periphery of his awareness, he perceived the large hatchet in Tatsumichi’s right hand.

Almost without a thought, Shuya reached for the knife in his belt.

That set it off. Tatsumichi’s arm jerked⁠—then the next instant, he was charging straight at them.

Shuya shoved Noriko, cat still in arms, into the bushes.

Tatsumichi was already within reach.

Shuya quickly raised the daypacks to catch the hatchet’s blow. But the bags split open, spilling their contents to the ground. The blade struck Shuya’s bottle, sending water spurting out, and continued through to Shuya’s arm. His skin felt ablaze, sizzling.

He discarded the sliced-up bag and jumped back to create some distance. Tatsumichi’s expression had turned hard, and his eyes were wide open, the whites forming a full circle around his black pupils.

Shuya was in disbelief. I know how things are here⁠—for a second, I suspected him too, but why? Tatsumichi was always so cheerful and carefree. Why would he do this?

Tatsumichi glanced to the side, where Noriko had fallen into the bushes. Following his eyes, Shuya looked over at Noriko. Her face and lips had frozen under the attacker’s gaze. The cat had already bolted into hiding.

Tatsumichi suddenly turned to face Shuya, and the hatchet was swinging sideways.

Shuya jerked the knife free from his belt, taking it in a reverse grip, and met the blow. Unluckily, the weapon hadn’t left its leather sheath. Even so, he halted the hatchet’s strike with a resounding clang. Its edge stopped five centimeters from his cheek. Shuya could make out the blue ripples on the blade’s surface, formed when the steel had been tempered.

Before Tatsumichi could swing again, Shuya dropped his knife and took hold of his opponent’s hatchet arm. But Tatsumichi powered through another slash. Though slowed, the hatchet made contact with the side of Shuya’s head. Several strands of his long, wavy hair tore loose and fluttered in the air. He felt his earlobe tear open. It didn’t hurt much. A blithe and incongruous thought ran through his mind: Well, all kinds of guys get their ears pierced. Shinji did.

Tatsumichi switched the hatchet to his off hand. Before he could ready another swing, Shuya kicked the inside of his leg. Tatusmichi’s leg dropped. Yes! Down!

But Tatsumichi didn’t drop. He staggered into a half turn, then fell against Shuya, backing him into the undergrowth on the seaward side of the path. Branches snapped all around them.

Shuya kept moving back. Pressed by Tatsumichi’s brute force, Shuya practically ran backward. Noriko’s face was disappearing into the distance. In this unreal situation, another inappropriate thought entered Shuya’s mind, a memory from a Little League practice. Let’s hear it for Shuya Nanahara, the backward-running champion!

Suddenly, the ground felt different.

Then Shuya remembered that steep slope down to the field with the tiny shrine.

I’m falling!

The two tangled boys rolled down the bush-covered slope. The clear morning sky and the green foliage spun around and around. But he had both hands around Tatsumichi’s wrist, and he didn’t let go.

Shuya felt like he had fallen an incredible distance, though it might only have been about ten meters. With a thump, he came to a crashing halt. He was in bright daylight. They had tumbled all the way into the open field.

He was flat underneath Tatsumichi. I have to get up, Shuya thought, before he does!

But instead, he hesitated. Something didn’t feel right. Tatsumichi’s full-powered machine press of an arm now lay limp and motionless.

When Shuya looked up from his position under Tatsumichi’s chest, he saw what had happened.

Directly above his head, the hatchet was lodged exactly halfway deep into Tatsumichi’s face. The half of it outside his face looked like a wafer of chocolate garnishing a Christmas cake. The blade entered through his forehead, split his eyeball cleanly in two (blood and some viscous fluid were pouring out), and its steel glimmered pale blue in the cavity of his gaping mouth.

And while Tatsumichi’s hand held the hatchet, Shuya was gripping that wrist. From Tatsumichi’s face to Shuya’s wrist, a terrible and creepy sensation raced at the speed of light.

As if tracing along the course of that sensation, Tatsumichi’s blood oozed all the way down the hatchet to Shuya’s hands. With a low yelp, Shuya released the boy’s wrist and scrambled out from underneath him. Tatsumichi’s body flopped over, face up, his face gruesome in death, soaking in the morning sun.

Shuya gasped for air, his shoulders heaving up and down. Dull waves of nausea came swelling up from the pit of his stomach.

Though the unrivaled horror of Tatsumichi’s death visage had certainly had its effect, Shuya was far more distressed by himself. He had killed someone⁠—and not just anyone, but someone who had, until yesterday, been a fellow classmate.

Shuya tried to tell himself it was an accident, but he didn’t believe it. After all, during their fall he had done everything he could to deflect the blade from himself⁠—by twisting Tatsumichi’s wrist back as hard as he could.

He felt like he was going to puke.

But Shuya swallowed, holding it down. He lifted his head and looked up the slope he’d tumbled down.

Shrubbery covered the slope, blocking his view. He’d left Noriko behind, alone. More than anything else now, he needed to protect her. This was no time to throw up. I have to hurry, he thought, trying to calm himself down. I have to hurry back to her.

Shuya stood. For a moment, he looked down at Tatsumichi’s face and the hatchet that had split it in two.

After a brief hesitation, he pried Tatsumichi’s fingers from the weapon’s handle. No matter what had happened, he couldn’t leave Tatsumichi like this. A burial was out of the question, but leaving that hatchet buried in his face would have been too cruel. Shuya couldn’t physically bear it.

Shuya gripped the handle and pulled.

Tatsumichi’s head lifted with the hatchet. The blade had dug so deeply that it wouldn’t come free.

Shuya exhaled deeply. Oh, God.

Then he thought again. No, where the hell is God in all this? Ms. Anno was such a devout Christian, and what did her faith get her aside from being raped by Sakamochi? Well, halle-fucking-lujah.

Rage erupted within him.

Gritting his teeth, Shuya knelt beside Tatsumichi’s head and placed a trembling hand on his dead classmate’s forehead. With his other hand, he yanked out the hatchet. With an ugly spurting sound, blood sprayed from the boy’s face, and the blade came free.

For a second, Shuya was overcome by the feeling that this was all a bad dream. The left and right halves of Tatsumichi’s head had tilted askew. It was too unreal, like a plastic facsimile. For the first time, Shuya realized how fragile and malleable the human body was.

Closing Tatsumichi’s eyes didn’t seem a good idea. Tatsumichi’s eyelid, which had been split in two along with the eyeball, had contracted and twisted upward and would never close again. The other eye was manageable, but who would want a winking corpse⁠—especially here?

Shuya felt sick again.

Instead, he stood and turned. To get back to Noriko, he’d have to take the long way around up the trail.

But his eyes shot open wide again.

Fifteen meters in front of him, in the middle of the field, stood a boy with glasses and a school jacket⁠—Kyoichi Motobuchi (Boys #⁠20), the boys’ class leader.

And the class leader was holding a revolver.

30 students remain.

17

Behind silver-rimmed glasses, the class leader’s eyes met Shuya’s. His hair, usually neatly parted to the side, was now a tangled mess, and his glasses were smudged and filthy, but those eyes⁠—those wide, bloodshot eyes? They looked just like Tatsumichi’s had. His face was as pale as it had been in the classroom, inhuman as an Andy Warhol painting.

Shuya perceived the gun’s barrel begin to move. He twisted over backward and dropped to the ground. The next instant, he heard the explosive bang and saw a small flame envelop the muzzle. He thought he felt something hot skim just over his head, but he might have imagined it.

His back still on the ground, and with no time to think, Shuya tried to retreat. The tall grass rustled against his back.

He wasn’t moving nearly quickly enough. He couldn’t escape. Kyoichi had advanced within a handful of meters and was settling his aim on Shuya’s chest.

Shuya’s face went as stiff as a plaster sculpture. More than the need to protect Noriko, more than anything now, true terror swelled up inside him. The next tiny, tiny lead bullet that gun spits out will kill me. It’ll kill me!

“Stop!” came a voice.

Kyoichi gave a start and looked back over his shoulder. Dumbfounded, Shuya followed the class leader’s glance.

A large figure stood at ease in the shade of the small shrine. It was Shogo Kawada (Boys #⁠5), with his butch-cut hair⁠—practically shaved off⁠—a prominent scar over his eyebrow, and that intimidating carnival-food-vendor’s face. He was holding a pump-action shotgun, a sawed-off Remington M31.

Kyoichi spun to face this intruder and fired. Kawada quickly dropped to his knees. His shotgun barked, and sparks showered from the muzzle as if it were a flamethrower. An instant later, Kyoichi’s arm was gone. Blood sprayed into the air, and for a moment, the class leader stared in wonder at the new short-sleeved look of his school uniform. The rest of the sleeve⁠—along with the arm, and the hand holding the revolver⁠—had fallen to the grass. Kawada swiftly pulled back the handgrip and chambered the next shell. The spent red casing flew out to the side.

As if only now realizing what had happened, Kyoichi let out an animal shriek. Shuya thought the class leader would just fall over now.

But he didn’t. Instead, Kyoichi ran to his severed arm. With the hand he still had, he wrenched the revolver from his own fingers. Like a relay baton pass, Shuya thought. One guy filling two positions, way to go! Once again, Shuya felt like he was watching a bad horror flick. Or maybe reading a bad horror novel.

Damn, this really is bad.

“Stop, I said!” Kawada yelled.

But Kyoichi didn’t stop. He pointed the revolver at Kawada.

Kawada fired again. Kyoichi folded over in the middle like a midair long jumper⁠—only this jumper was blown backward. He landed on the tips of his dangling feet, and then the next instant, as if the film had skipped a few frames, he had crumpled face up on the ground. He sank into the tall grass and moved no more.

Shuya scrambled to his feet.

He saw the class leader’s body amid the waving leaves. Near his stomach, a gaping hole had been shredded open through his school jacket. His insides looked like a slop bucket at a sausage factory.

Kawada didn’t spare the corpse a glance and walked straight toward Shuya, shotgun still at the ready. He pumped the forearm grip, ejecting another empty casing.

Shuya was overwhelmed by the series of events that he had just witnessed and the horrific deaths of Tatsumichi and Kyoichi. But between heavy breaths, he managed to say, “Please, wait, I⁠—”

“Don’t move,” Kawada said, stopping on the other side of Kyoichi’s body. “Drop your weapon.”

Shuya became aware of the hatchet in his hand. He did as he was told. The bloody hatchet thudded to the ground.

Just then, Noriko appeared where the trail hit the steep slope. She had pushed through the thicket, dragging her hurt leg behind her. She must have followed after Shuya and Tatsumichi. (Shuya then realized not even a full minute had passed since his fight with Tatsumichi Oki.) Noriko’s face had already gone pale, probably from the sound of the gunfire, but when she saw the sprawled corpses of Tatsumichi and Kyoichi, and Shuya and Kawada facing off, her breath caught.

Noticing Noriko above, Kawada wheeled his shotgun, pointing it right at her. Noriko froze.

“Stop!” Shuya yelled. “Noriko is with me. We don’t want to fight!”

Kawada slowly turned his head to Shuya. His expression seemed strangely vacant.

Then Shuya shouted, “Noriko! Kawada saved my life. He’s not our enemy!”

Kawada looked in Noriko’s direction and back to Shuya, then, slowly, he lowered his gun.

Noriko remained still for a time, then raised her hands to display that she was unarmed, and climbed⁠—nearly slid⁠—down the steep trail. Dragging her injured leg behind her, she limped to Shuya’s side. They both stared at Kawada.

Kawada regarded them as if they were twin armadillos. Shuya noticed that the stubble on the young man’s cheeks and chin had grown a little longer.

Finally, Kawada spoke. “First, let me explain⁠—I had no choice but to shoot Kyoichi. Understood?”

Shuya glanced down at Kyoichi’s corpse and considered what Kawada had said. What if, he thought, taking time with it, what it Kyoichi had just been confused? The class leader might have seen Shuya take out Tatsumichi and gotten the wrong idea. Noriko wasn’t with him. That misunderstanding would only have been natural.

Yet Kawada spoke the truth. Shuya couldn’t blame him for his actions. If Kawada hadn’t shot Kyoichi, Kyoichi would surely have killed him. After all, I killed Tatsumichi, didn’t I?

Facing Kawada, Shuya said, “Yeah, I understand. And thank you. You did save me.”

Kawada gave him a small shrug. “I was just stopping Kyoichi⁠—though I guess it ended up that way, huh.”

Adrenaline was still rushing through Shuya’s body, but he managed to cobble a few words together. “I’m just glad to see someone who’s still normal here.”

In truth, Shuya was astonished. Back in that classroom, he’d pegged Kawada as the only classmate who would take part in this game. But rather than becoming an opponent in the game, Kawada had saved his life.

Kawada stared at them thoughtfully for a while, then asked, “You two are together, then?”

Shuya raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, I said we were, didn’t I?”

“Why are you two together?”

Shuya and Noriko looked at each other, then back to him. Shuya said, “What do you mean⁠—” at the same time Noriko began, “What do you⁠—” and they both stopped mid-sentence. The two looked at each other again. Thinking she was letting him talk, he turned back to Kawada and said, “What do⁠—” But again she had said it too. They exchanged another glance, then faced Kawada in silence.

Something of a grin flashed across Kawada’s face. If it had indeed been a smile, this would be the first time Shuya had ever seen one from him.

Kawada said, “Okay, fine, I get it. Anyway, let’s find a place to hide. No reason to stand around here out in the open.”

29 students remain.

18

Yuko Sakaki (Girls #⁠9) hurtled through the undergrowth. Running wildly like this was dangerous, but she needed to escape, and it didn’t matter how.

The scene Yuko had just witnessed flashed through her mind⁠—what she had seen from the bushes. Tatsumichi Oki’s head split wide open. Shuya Nanahara extracting the blood-soaked ax.

Yuko had felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Shuya Nanahara killed off Tatsumichi Oki. Truly and utterly.

Until Shuya pulled out the hatchet from Tatsumichi’s head, Yuko, as if possessed, had been unable to tear her eyes away. But when she saw the red on that blade, terror finally overcame her. She grabbed her daypack, clamped her mouth shut to contain her unbidden scream, and ran. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

In her state, she scarcely heard the exchange of gunfire she’d left behind.

29 students remain.

19

Shuya and Noriko led Kawada back to the thicket where they had hidden. They picked up their bags, and Kawada remarked that the view from there wasn’t very good. Shuya had put a lot of thought into choosing that location, but Kawada seemed surprisingly acclimated to the situation, so the two did as he instructed and followed him a little ways up the mountain. That dirty cat had disappeared somewhere.

Not far away, in the undergrowth, Kawada said, “Wait here. I’m going to find Motobuchi’s and Oki’s bags.”

When Kawada had left, Shuya helped Noriko sit and then sat beside her. He gripped the revolver (a .38 Spl Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special) Kawada had given him after recovering the handgun from Kyoichi’s body. Carrying the weapon made him uncomfortable⁠—after all, he’d witnessed that ghastly one-man baton pass⁠—but he endured holding it.

“Here, Shuya,” Noriko said.

She held out a pink adhesive bandage. She must have retrieved it from her daypack, which Tatsumichi had slashed with his hatchet. Shuya touched a hand to his ear. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but his fingertips were met with a jolt of searing pain.

“Stay still,” Noriko said. Leaning in, she unwrapped the bandage and began carefully wrapping it around his earlobe. “I wonder why everyone came to this part of the island. Including us and Kawada, that makes five.”

Shuya stared back at her. Having been graced with one action scene after another, the thought hadn’t occurred to him. But she was right.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But we came here to get as far away from the school as possible. We avoided climbing the mountains and we stayed off of the coast, where we would have been too exposed. Maybe we all thought the same things, and we all decided this same location would be safe⁠—us and the class leader and Oki.”

The moment he mentioned Tatsumichi, he felt a sudden wave of nausea. That face, each half askew like a split-open peanut shell. And his body is right nearby. Come one, come all, and see the amazing Peanut Man!

With the queasiness came a sudden return to clarity of mind and senses, each having been numbed in the rush of combat.

“Shuya, you’re looking pale. Are you okay?”

Shuya couldn’t answer. A shiver ran through his body, then became a tremble. Harder and harder he shook, until his teeth chattered erratically, as if doing a maniac tap dance.

Noriko placed her hand on his back and asked, “What’s wrong?”

His teeth still clattering, Shuya answered, “I’m scared.”

Shuya turned his head left to look into her face. She gazed back at him with concern.

“I’m scared,” he said. “I’m freaking scared. I killed someone.”

Noriko looked into Shuya’s eyes for a long moment. Then, moving her injured leg with care, she slid forward to sit, cross-legged, diagonally in front of Shuya. Gently she opened her arms and wrapped them around his shoulders. Her cheek touched Shuya’s trembling cheek. He could feel her warmth. The stench of blood clung to the inside of his nostrils, but now the faint smell of perfume⁠—or is it shampoo?⁠—came through.

This gesture had surprised him, but he was grateful for the comforting warmth and smell. He sat still, hugging his knees.

Shuya was reminded of the hugs his mother had given him before her accidental death. He stared off into the edge of Noriko’s sailor collar and thought of his mother. She had spoken clearly and moved with such vibrancy. Though he had only been a child at the time, he thought she had been a cool mom. Her face, well, she looked a lot like Kazumi Shintani. She was always exchanging smiles with his father, who, with his mustache, didn’t look much like a typical salaryman. (Holding Shuya wrapped in her arms, she had told him, “Your dad works with laws. He helps people in trouble. In this country, that’s a very important job.”) Seeing them together like this made him think, One day, I’ll marry someone like her, and we’ll always smile at each other like they do.

Gradually, his trembling subsided and then stopped.

“Are you all right now?” Noriko asked.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Noriko slowly let him go.

After a while, Shuya said, “You smell nice.”

Noriko smiled bashfully. “Don’t say that. I couldn’t take a bath yesterday.”

“No, you really do smell nice.”

Another smile was flashing across her face when the bushes rustled. Shuya covered Noriko with his left arm and readied the Smith & Wesson in the other.

“It’s me,” said a voice. “Don’t shoot.”

Parting the thick undergrowth, Kawada appeared. Shuya lowered the revolver.

Kawada wore his shotgun in a shoulder sling and carried two daypacks in his arms. He pulled out a small cardboard box from one of the bags and tossed it to Shuya.

Shuya plucked the box out of the air and opened it. Inside, bullets formed neat rows and displayed their gold-colored posteriors. Five were missing, like pulled teeth.

“They’re for your gun,” Kawada said. “Load up.”

Kawada set down his shotgun and took up a piece of string. He lifted it up and pulled, and Shuya could see that the string ran into the bushes. Kawada then took out a pocket knife and unfolded the blade from its handle. Since his provided weapon had been the shotgun, he must have brought the knife on his own.

Kawada moved to a nearby tree, its trunk about as thick as a soda can, and carved in a notch. He then fit the taut string snugly into the groove and cut off the extra, which he also tied around the tree in the same manner.

Shuya looked up to Kawada and asked, “What’s that?”

“This?” Kawada said, putting the knife away. “It’s kind of a primitive alarm system. The string makes a circle around us twenty meters out, in double layers. This end is connected to the outer rings⁠—if someone catches on the string, this end will pull loose from the tree. Don’t worry, the intruder won’t even notice. But we’ll know to be on the alert.”

Shuya thought for a second, then asked, “Where did you find that string?”

With a small tilt of his head, Kawada said, “There’s a general store down by the harbor. I wanted a few things, so I went there first off. I found the string there.”

Shuya’s jaw had dropped. No matter how small, any island would have at least one place to buy goods as a matter of course. A store would have all kinds of useful things. The thought of it, though obvious, hadn’t crossed his mind⁠—though even if it had, with Noriko to look after, he wouldn’t have been able to wander around the island.

Kawada sat facing the two of them and began to search through either Oki’s or Motobuchi’s daypack. He withdrew a water bottle and a roll of bread and asked, “Wanna eat? It’s time for breakfast.”

Still hugging his knees, Shuya shook his head. He wasn’t at all hungry.

“What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick because you killed Oki?” Kawada inspected Shuya’s face and spoke casually. “Don’t let it get to you. Say everyone is killing one person at a time, then this is like a tournament. With forty-two students⁠—no, make that forty⁠—kill five or six, and you’ll win. Only four or five to go.”

Shuya glared at Kawada, even though he knew this was supposed to be a joke⁠—no, because he knew it was a joke.

Shrinking beneath Shuya’s withering look, Kawada pulled back and said, “Hey, sorry. I was kidding.”

His voice acidic, Shuya asked, “What, you don’t feel sick? Or was killing our class leader not the first time for you?”

Kawada shrugged. “Well, first one this time, at least.”

Shuya thought that was a weird thing to say, but he couldn’t place what exactly was odd about it. He felt confused. Whatever the case, if Kawada was as much of a delinquent as the rumors suggested, it might take a lot more to upset him than it would Shuya.

Shuya shook his head, then switched topics. “Um⁠ ⁠… there’s something I don’t get.”

Kawada lifted his eyebrows, and the scar over his left brow raised with them. “What’s that?”

“The class leader⁠ ⁠… Motobuchi, he⁠—”

“Hey,” Kawada interrupted, lifting up his chin. “I thought we’d been over this. I didn’t have any choice. Are you trying to say I should have let him kill me? I’ve got no interest in trying to be Jesus Christ. For one, I can’t resurrect myself. Not that I’ve tried.”

“No, that’s not what I was going to say.”

As he tried to figure out what to say, Shuya wondered if that was supposed to be another joke. Was Shogo Kawada the joking type?

Then Shuya said, “When Motobuchi fired at me, that was because he saw me kill⁠ ⁠… well, he saw Oki dead right in front of him. No, I did kill Oki. But that was because he attacked me first.”

Kawada nodded, and Shuya continued, “That’s why Motobuchi thought he had to take me out. He wasn’t being crazy.”

“That’s right. That might be. But still, I had to⁠—”

“No.” This time Shuya interrupted him. “I’m not talking about that anymore. But Oki attacked me even though I hadn’t done anything. And Noriko was with me. We were together. He shouldn’t have had any reason to suddenly attack, right?”

Kawada shrugged and placed the water bottle and bread near his feet. “Oki was up for it. That’s all. What’s not to understand?”

“Well no, I just⁠ ⁠… logically, I understand it. But I just can’t accept it. I guess it’s not that I don’t understand. But Oki? I don’t⁠ ⁠…”

Shuya hesitated, and Kawada jumped in. “You don’t have to understand why.”

“What?”

Kawada’s lips tightened into a morbid smirk. “I haven’t been in your class very long, so I don’t know what everyone’s like⁠—both of you included. But what the hell do you know about Oki, really? Maybe someone in his family is badly ill, and he felt he absolutely couldn’t let himself die here. Or maybe he was the kind of person who only thinks of himself. Or maybe he went crazy from the fear and lost all reason. Or there’s this possibility⁠—you were with her, and you had teamed up. But how could he be sure you’d let him into your group? If you decided he was a threat, you could have killed him. Or, if he thought you were taking part in this, he could see you using the same logic and killing him. What about you? Did you do anything that could have provoked him?”

Shuya started to say, “No, I⁠ ⁠…” Then he remembered. When he saw Oki, he had reflexively put his hand to his knife. Shuya had been afraid of Oki too.

“Is it coming back to you?”

“I⁠—I touched my knife.” Shuya looked at Kawada. “But that’s all. I didn’t⁠—”

Kawada lightly shook his head. “That’s plenty of reason right there, Shuya. Seeing you taking your weapon in hand, Oki might have thought he had to kill you. In this game, everyone’s on a very short fuse.”

Then, as if making a closing statement, he said, “But in the end, the easiest explanation is that he was simply ready to do it. You don’t need to understand why. All that matters is that if someone comes at you with a weapon, you can’t show any mercy or you’ll be dead. Rather than trying to figure out everything about the people you run across, you’d better first be wary of them. Don’t be too trustful of others. Not in this game.”

Shuya sighed. Had Tatsumichi Oki really been out to kill him? Maybe Kawada was right, and thinking about it was foolish.

Shuya again looked at Kawada. “That’s right.”

“What?”

“I forgot to ask you.”

“So what is it? Spit it out.”

Shuya did. “Why are you with us?”

Kawada raised his eyebrows, then touched his tongue to his lips. “That’s right. Maybe I’m not on your side too.”

“No, that’s not it.” Shuya shook his head. “Anyway, you saved us, didn’t you? And didn’t you risk your life trying to stop Motobuchi? I’m not suspecting you or anything like that.”

“You’re wrong, Nanahara. You really don’t know this game.”

“What do you mean?”

“Partners are an advantage to surviving the game.”

Shuya considered this, then nodded. Kawada had a point. They could take turns watching while the others rested, and were anyone to attack, they’d have strength in numbers.

“Is that all?” Shuya asked.

“Think about it.” Kawada nudged the shotgun on his lap. “Do you really think I was in that much danger by stopping Motobuchi? Do you think Motobuchi was ever going to stand down just because I ordered him to? Can you be sure I didn’t mean to kill that crazy kid no matter what he did? Did I really have no choice but to kill him? And sure, I was never going to be able to convince Motobuchi to team up with me, but when I shouted for him to stop, couldn’t that have been just an act to see if I could get you on my side? Isn’t it possible that I only want the numbers for now and plan to kill you both in the end?”

Shuya stared at Kawada’s face, taken somewhat aback by the logical and explicit manner in which the other boy spoke. Kawada may have been a year older than him, but the way he talked was like an adult⁠—and a gifted one at that. He reminded Shuya a little of Shinji Mimura in that regard.

Shuya shook his head. “Once you start getting suspicious like that, there’ll be no end to it. I don’t believe you’re my enemy.” He glanced at Noriko. “That’s what I think.”

“Me too,” Noriko said and nodded. “The minute we can’t trust anyone, we’ll have lost. That’s what I think.”

“A noble philosophy.” Kawada nodded. “And if that’s good enough for you, that’s fine. But just remember, in this game, you’d better always be on your guard.” With that he asked, “So what is it, then?”

Shuya realized he’d forgotten what he meant to ask.

“Oh, right,” Shuya said. “The issue isn’t us, it’s you. Why do you trust us? It’s like you said, just because we’re together, that doesn’t mean one of us⁠—or both, even⁠—aren’t really set against you. You don’t have any reason to trust us.”

“I see,” Kawada said, amused. “The practical question, is it, Nanahara? You’re getting the hang of it.”

“Don’t avoid the question. Please answer.” Shuya gestured, spreading his arms open. Kawada drew back as if to say, Hey, watch it with that revolver.

When Shuya persisted, Kawada again raised his eyebrows, and that faint smile returned. He gazed up at the treetops overhead for a time. When he looked back to Shuya and Noriko, his expression was serious.

“Okay, first⁠—”

Shuya saw something dart through Kawada’s calm eyes. He didn’t know what it was, but it was incredibly intense.

“I have my own reasons to object to this game’s rules⁠—no, the game itself.” Kawada stopped, then kept going. “It’s like you said, and though I’m embarrassed to admit it, I follow my conscience. And by that I mean⁠ ⁠…”

Kawada stood the shotgun between his legs and, like it was a cane, wrapped both hands around its barrel. He watched Shuya and Noriko.

Somewhere off in the woods, a bird chirped. Kawada looked solemn. Nervously, Shuya listened.

“You two looked like a nice couple,” Kawada said. “Back there. And now as well.”

Shuya stared blankly at him.

A couple?

Noriko spoke first, her face flushing bright red. “It’s not like that. Shuya would never⁠ ⁠…”

Kawada grinned. Then he broke into laughter, an unexpectedly affable laugh. “So that’s why I’m trusting you. Anyway, you just said it⁠—start to have doubts and there’ll be no stopping it. Does that answer your question?”

Shuya finally grinned. Then, feeling he owed it to Kawada, he said, “Thanks. I’m glad that you trust us.”

Still smiling, Kawada said, “Hey man, you’re welcome.”

“You know, I pegged you as an individualist from the day you transferred to our school.”

“Easy with the fancy words there. I can’t help it if I don’t look friendly. I was born with these looks, man.”

Noriko beamed at him. “I feel so much better to have another person with us.”

Kawada scratched the stubble below his nose, then did something unexpected. He offered Shuya his right hand. “Same here. It’s lonely by myself.”

Shuya shook his hand. Kawada’s palm was thick, and like this gesture, every bit that of a fully mature man.

Kawada leaned forward around Shuya and held out his hand to Noriko. “And one for you.”

Noriko shook it.

Then Kawada’s eyes fell to her leg, wrapped in the bandana. “I forgot about that,” he said. “First, let’s have a look at that wound. Then we’ll talk about what’s next.”

29 students remain.

20

The sunlight coming through the finely patterned frosted glass gradually brightened and took on white. A ray of direct sunlight suddenly streamed in through the upper edge of the window, landed on the wall where Yumiko Kusaka (Girls #⁠7) sat, and caused the girl to squint. Yumiko thought of that platitude always trotted out by their local bishop. (Her parents belonged to the Halo Church, as had she from before her name was even registered with the town hall.) “One day the light will find you, as it brings blessings to all Creation.”

Yeah, I’m so blessed getting to play such a fun game as this, ha ha.

With a sarcastic smirk, Yumiko shook her boyishly short hair and glanced at Yukiko Kitano (Girls #⁠6), who was wrapped in a blanket beside her, also sitting against the wall. Yukiko was vacantly staring at the floorboards beginning to take in the light. Despite the self-aggrandizing name on the front door that read oki island tourist association, this unwelcoming building seemed more like a community center. Over where the floor sank down a step for the entranceway, there was an office desk, a chair, and a rust-speckled filing cabinet. A phone sat on the desk, which she had tried, of course, but as Sakamochi had warned, the receiver was dead. A few fairly unappealing tourist flyers peeped out from the cracks.

Yumiko and Yukiko had been friends since nursery school, despite being in different classes and living in different neighborhoods. It was the Halo Church that had brought them together⁠—or rather their parents who brought them to the church. When they met, it was Yumiko’s third time coming to church but Yukiko’s first, and the girl had seemed nervous, whether from the gongs ringing with the chants, or possibly the general atmosphere of the sanctuary’s gaudy ornamentation. After the service, Yukiko’s parents, attending to some other matter, left her by herself. Yumiko approached the timid girl and said, “Don’t you think this is all dumb?”

Yukiko seemed startled, but then smiled. They had stuck together ever since.

Other than their names, the two girls didn’t share many similarities. Yumiko had always been feisty and was often called a tomboy. Even now she batted fourth on the softball team (not that she saw much of a chance that she’d make it through this⁠—not much of a chance at all). Yukiko liked more domestic things and often treated Yumiko to her homemade cakes and such. They were even very different heights; Yumiko was fifteen centimeters taller. Yukiko often said she wished she had Yumiko’s tall figure and chiseled looks, but Yumiko far more envied Yukiko her petite body and round cheeks. Yes, they were completely different types, but they were the best of friends. That never changed.

Fortunately (Well, that’s a disrespectful way to put it), Yoshitoki Kuninobu (Boys #⁠7) had died before he left, meaning that only two minutes passed between the girls’ departures. After exiting the classroom, Yumiko waited for Yukiko in the shadows next to the front door. Not knowing what else to do, the two ran. (That Yoshio Akamatsu would return to begin his massacre a scant twenty minutes later was something the two girls had no way of knowing.) Far north of the village and toward the mountain off the eastern coastal road, they found a solitary building plopped atop a small hill and locked themselves inside.

Four hours had passed since. Though they hadn’t done anything but sit there together and wait, the girls were exhausted from anxiety.

Yumiko looked away from Yukiko, and they both stared at the floor.

As dazed as she felt, Yumiko had been thinking, What should I do now? Even inside the building, they had heard Sakamochi’s six o’clock announcement. Not counting Yoshitoki Kuninobu and Fumiyo Fujiyoshi, nine of her classmates were already dead. And aside from Sakura Ogawa and Kazuhiko Yamamoto, she didn’t believe the others could all have been suicides. People are killing other people. Right now, this second, someone might be dying. Soon after the morning announcement, she thought she heard far-off gunfire.

Can someone really kill their own classmate? Yumiko knew the rules, of course⁠—she just couldn’t believe a human being was capable of following them.

But.

But if someone was trying to kill me, or if I at least thought they were, then I could do it. I think.

So that means⁠ ⁠… 

Yumiko glanced at a megaphone lying in the corner of the room. Does it still work? If it does⁠ ⁠… 

Then isn’t there something I can do?

But she was scared. She was scared to do it. Though she couldn’t believe anyone was possibly playing this game, she felt a touch of fear she couldn’t shake. That’s why she fled here with Yukiko right at the start. What if? What if one of them did?

But⁠ ⁠… 

She recalled a scene from her childhood. She saw the face of her second best friend, after Yukiko, in elementary school. The girl was crying. For some reason, all Yumiko could remember about her friend’s outfit were the pink sneakers.

“Yumi,” Yukiko said, interrupting Yumiko’s thoughts. Yumiko turned to her.

“Let’s have some bread,” Yukiko continued. “If we don’t eat, we won’t think of anything.”

Yukiko smiled tenderly. It was her familiar kind smile, if a bit forced.

“Right?” Yukiko asked.

Yumiko returned the smile and nodded. “Yeah, let’s.”

They each took out a bread roll and water from their daypacks. Yumiko’s eyes briefly landed on the two can-like objects inside her bag. The cylinders were greenish-silver in color, with a thumb-sized bar jutting out the top, attached to which was a lever and a ring about three centimeters wide. She assumed they were grenades. (Yukiko’s weapon must have been some kind of joke⁠—a dart set. At least the round wooden target was included.)

After she’d eaten half of her roll and drunk a mouthful of water, Yumiko asked, “You feeling a little better now, Yukiko?”

Yukiko was chewing a bite of bread, but her eyes widened in response.

“You were trembling all night,” Yumiko explained.

“Oh.” Yukiko broke into a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine now. I’ve got you with me.”

Yumiko smiled and nodded. As she ate, she almost brought up what she felt they must do, but she didn’t. She didn’t feel confident enough in her reasoning. What she was thinking could be extremely dangerous. Going through with it wouldn’t only endanger herself but Yukiko too. On the other hand, this very fear could drive them all straight to the deadline. Which was the right thing to do? Yumiko was unsure.

The two girls remained quiet for a while. Then Yukiko suddenly said, “Hey, Yumi.”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“You’re probably going to tell me this is a stupid thing to ask at a time like this, but⁠ ⁠…” Yukiko nibbled her small but full lips.

“What is it?”

Yukiko hesitated but finally spoke. “Did you have a crush on anyone in our class?”

Yumiko’s eyes widened a little.

Wow. This is exactly the kind of thing you’d talk about on a school trip. After the card games, the pillow fights, the explorations of the inn and such had concluded, this was the late-night topic. Anything else, even badmouthing their teachers or talking about the future, ranked a distant second. It was the holy topic, a little sacred ritual observed in the dark of night. Until she’d fallen asleep on the bus, Yumiko had assumed it would likely come up over the course of the trip.

“You mean, like a boy?” Yumiko asked.

“Uh-huh.” Yukiko, seemingly embarrassed, looked over to Yumiko with downcast eyes.

“Well⁠ ⁠…” At first, Yumiko didn’t know what to say, but she decided to tell the truth. “There is one.”

“Oh.” Yukiko’s eyes fell to the knees of her pleated skirt, and she went on, “Hey, I’m sorry I never told you, Yumi, but I⁠—I like Nanahara.”

Yumiko wordlessly nodded. She’d already had a hunch.

She pulled out her mental file on Shuya Nanahara. Height: 170 cm, weight: 58 kg, vision: right eye ²⁰⁄₁₇, left eye ²⁰⁄₁₃, build: thin, but well muscled. In elementary school, played shortstop in Little League, batting first. Quit baseball, and now prefers playing music, excelling in singing and the guitar. No nickname but is often called “Wild Seven,” like the brand of cigarettes. The handle came from his status as his Little League team’s ace player along with the first kanji in his family name⁠—the number seven. Blood type B, born on October 13th⁠—autumn, as the first kanji in his given name suggests. Lost both parents to an accident at an early age, and now lives in the House of Mercy and Love, a Catholic orphanage near the edge of town. Close friends with Yoshitoki Kuninobu, also in the orphanage⁠—well, he’s dead now. As for his studies⁠ ⁠… in a word, so-so. Strongest subjects: the humanities, including English and Japanese. His mouth has a kind of quirky curve to it, but his sharply defined double eyelids make him look kind. Not bad looking at all. Hair wavy, down to his shoulders in the back, almost a girlish length.

Yumiko’s portfolio on Shuya was practically bursting. (She was confident hers was more comprehensive than Yukiko’s.) (Mostly confident.) The bit about Shuya’s height held special importance⁠—because unless Shuya kept growing, Yumiko wouldn’t be able to wear high heels when she walked beside him, since they would make her taller.

But she didn’t think she could share these thoughts with Yukiko⁠—not in such specific terms.

“Huh,” Yumiko said as calmly as she could. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Yukiko looked down, then said what she’d been wanting to say all along. “I want to see him. I really want to see him. I wonder what he’s doing right now.”

Yukiko kept her hands pressed against the sides of her skirt as her eyes flooded with tears.

Yumiko gently put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “He’s Nanahara. I’m sure he’s fine. No matter what.” Then, thinking that sounded a little suspicious, she hastily added, “I mean, he’s the best athlete in class, and he seems really brave, not that I really know, but⁠ ⁠…”

Yukiko wiped her tears, nodded, and said, “Yeah.” Then, bouncing back, she asked, “What about you, Yumi? Who do you like?”

Buying some time, Yumiko looked up to the ceiling and affected a “Hmm,” as she racked her brains. This is bad. I’d better come up with a name quick just to get out of this.

Oki was the handball champ, and his face, though a little rough-hewn, wasn’t bad. Mimura was the ace guard on the basketball team and knew just about everything. He even had a following among a certain group of girls (though none in Class B, where he had a reputation as a playboy). Numai acted tough, but Yumiko had the impression he wasn’t so bad. He was nice to the girls⁠—oh, wait, he’s dead now. She liked Sugimura’s brooding vibe. A lot of the girls thought he was scary because he practiced at some martial arts school, but Yumiko found it attractive. But he was always with that Takako Chigusa girl. She would never let Yumiko hear the end of it if she found out. Takako was a tough one. But she was a good kid. Now that she thought about it, they all were, the boys and the girls.

She returned to that same question. Do I trust them?

“C’mon, who is it?” Yukiko prodded.

Yumiko faced her.

She hesitated again but decided she’d tell her friend. At least, she’d bring it up. Whenever she needed advice, no one was a better listener than Yukiko.

“Hey,” Yumiko said. “Can I ask you something?”

Yukiko tilted her head in confusion. “Yeah, what?”

Yumiko folded her arms, gathering her thoughts, then said, “So, do you think any of them really want to kill anyone? Any of our classmates, I mean.”

Yukiko frowned. “Well⁠ ⁠… they’re really⁠ ⁠… they’re dying⁠ ⁠…” At that word⁠—dying⁠—her voice trembled. “They’re all dying. You heard the announcement this morning. Nine already, just since we left. I can’t believe they all killed themselves. And you heard that noise. It sounded like gunfire.”

Yumiko tilted her head and spread open her hands. She noticed a small tear in the cuff of her left sleeve. “But look,” Yumiko said, “we’re scared here, aren’t we? With both of us together. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“I think everyone else is too. They all must be so afraid. Don’t you think so?”

Yukiko seemed to mull it over, then said, “Yeah. Maybe you’re right. I’ve been so caught up in my own fear that I never really thought about it.”

Yumiko nodded once, then continued, “We’ve been able to stick together, so we don’t have it so bad, but I think anyone who’s alone has got to be absolutely terrified.”

“Yeah.”

“So let’s say you were that afraid. What would you do when you stumbled upon someone else?”

“I’d run, of course.”

“What if you couldn’t?”

Yukiko seemed to consider it extremely carefully. Then, slowly she said, “I might⁠ ⁠… yes, I might fi-fight. If I was holding something, I’d throw it, and if I⁠ ⁠… if I had a gun, yes, I might shoot. Of course I’d try to talk. But if it was all of a sudden, and I had no other choice.”

Yumiko nodded. “Right? So I think⁠—what I think is⁠—none of them actually wants to kill anyone else. They’re just scared, and they’re convinced the others are trying to kill them. And someone who believes that, even if no one attacks him, might go after the others.”

Yumiko paused, uncrossing her arms, setting her hands on the floor. “I believe they’re all just scared.”

Yukiko pursed those small, full lips. After a moment, she looked down at the floor and said in a faltering voice, “I don’t know. I don’t trust them. Like Souma’s group, or Kiriyama, or⁠ ⁠…”

Yumiko gave her a smile, shifted her legs beneath her pleated skirt, and settled back in a different position. “I’ll tell you what I think, Yukiko.”

“Sure.”

“If we keep on going like this, we’ll die. Remember the time limit? When twenty-four hours pass without anyone dying? Even if we survive until then, we’ll be killed.”

Yukiko nodded, her face frightened again. “That’s true.”

“And our only possible chance is for everyone to work together and come up with a way to escape. Right?”

“That’s right. But⁠—”

“I have to tell you something,” Yumiko interrupted. She tilted her head ever so slightly. “Something bad happened to me because I didn’t trust someone. Back in elementary school.”

Yukiko looked into Yumiko’s eyes. “What happened?”

Yumiko raised her eyes to the ceiling. She saw the face of her crying friend⁠—and those pink sneakers.

She looked back at Yukiko. “I had this⁠—it was really important to me⁠ ⁠… Well, you remember those Egg Cats that were so popular, right?”

“Yeah. They put those characters on everything. I had an Egg Cat pencil board.”

“I had a tricolor pen⁠—limited edition. It seems so unimportant now, but back then, I treasured it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But one day, I couldn’t find it.” Yumiko looked down. “I thought one of my friends stole it. She’d wanted it so badly. And I realized it was missing right after first period gym class, and she’d excused herself early from gym because she wasn’t feeling well, and she was the first one back in the classroom. And on top of that⁠ ⁠… well⁠ ⁠… this is terrible⁠ ⁠… but she didn’t have a dad, and her mom worked at a bar, so she didn’t have a good reputation.”

Yukiko slowly nodded.

“I grilled her, but she said she didn’t know about it. I even went to the teacher. He probably had his own pre-formed opinions of her, because he commanded her to tell the truth. But she was crying, saying she didn’t know anything about it.”

Yumiko faced Yukiko. “When I went home, I found the pen on my desk. I’d just forgotten it there.”

Yukiko was quietly listening, so Yumiko kept going, “I apologized to her. She said it was fine. But I’d made things awkward, and in the end⁠—I think her mother remarried or something⁠—she soon transferred away, and I never heard from her since. But we had been really good friends. As much as you and me. But I didn’t believe her.”

With a frown, Yumiko continued, “After that, I decided I’d do my best to trust others. I want to believe in other people. If I can’t do that, I know that nothing will work out. And I’m not talking like the old people at that stupid Halo Church. This is what I truly believe. I hope you understand.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So, about now. Souma and the others⁠—they look like they’re bad. People say they are. But they can’t be so bad that they actually would enjoy killing. There’s nobody like that in our class. Isn’t that right?”

After a moment, Yukiko answered, “Yeah.”

“So,” Yumiko went on, “if we could only reach out to them and explain, everyone would stop fighting. Then we could all figure out if there’s anything we can do. And even if we can’t find a way out, at least we could avoid all this killing. How about it?”

“Yeah⁠ ⁠…” Yukiko nodded, but she still seemed hesitant.

A little worn out from all the talking, Yumiko sighed and shifted her legs again. “Anyway, that’s my opinion. But tell me what you think. If you’re against the idea, I won’t do it.”

For a while, Yukiko stared thoughtfully at the floor. After two full minutes, she cracked open her mouth.

“Yumi,” she said, “you told me once that I worry too much about what other people think.”

“Hm? Yeah, I guess I did.”

Yumiko stared into Yukiko’s face. Yukiko lifted her head, and their eyes met.

Yukiko grinned. “I think you’re totally right. That’s my opinion.”

Yumiko smiled back at her. “Thank you.” She was grateful Yukiko had thought for herself before saying that. She saw it as proof that her own reasoning had been correct.

That’s right. I have to do this. I’m not going to die without at least trying, not me. If there’s a chance, I’m going to take it. It’s like I told Yukiko, I want to believe. Let’s try and see.

Then Yukiko asked, “But how are we going to do it⁠—how can we reach everyone?”

Yumiko pointed to the megaphone lying in the corner of the room. “It’s all up to whether or not that works.”

Yukiko bobbed her head, then looked up at the ceiling. After a time, she said only this:

“If it works, I’ll be able to see Nanahara.”

Yumiko nodded. With a little feeling, she said, “That’s right. We will.”

29 students remain.

21

“All right, that’s good,” Kawada said to Shuya, tossing the needle and thread onto the daypack at his side. “Hand me that whiskey again, Nanahara.”

Noriko’s leg was stretched out on its side in front of Kawada. The wound on her right calf was sewn closed by coarse cotton thread; Kawada had managed to put in the stitches. They hadn’t had any anesthetic, of course, but over the course of the ten-minute operation, Noriko didn’t cry out once.

Shuya offered Kawada the flask. Next to him was a small fire pit fashioned from piled up rocks, and above the charcoal sat an open can filled with water at a rolling boil. (Kawada said he’d found the charcoal, along with the needle and thread, at the general store.) The boiling water had disinfected the needle and thread, but since pouring it directly onto Noriko’s wound wasn’t exactly an option, Kawada had cleaned the gash with Shuya’s whiskey before he stitched it up. Noriko took a deep breath and scrunched her face, preparing for the next splash.

Shuya looked at his watch. The water had taken a fairly long time to boil, and the time was already past eight.

“Okay,” Kawada said. He pressed one of Shuya’s bandanas, sterilized, against her wound in place of a proper gauze, then swiftly wrapped the other around her leg. “We’re all done.”

Then, with a note of concern, he added, “As long as no strange bug infected it already.”

Noriko took back her leg, thanked him, then said, “You’re good at that.”

“I was always good at playing doctor,” Kawada said.

Kawada pulled a pack of Wild Sevens from his pocket, put a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it with a cheap one-hundred-yen lighter. Shuya wondered if he’d pilfered those from the store as well, or if they were his own. They were a popular brand, up there with Busters and Hi-Nites.

Shuya stared blankly at the package, which for some reason was emblazoned with the silhouette of a motorcycle rider. None of his friends ever gave him a nickname, but that was probably because everyone already called him by the name of those cigarettes. The origin of this moniker was absolutely simple. Back in Little League, he was his team’s ace in the hole. When they were in reach of evening up the score, he’d nail it. When he was on base, even if his teammates couldn’t get in a hit, he’d steal bases to score another run. (He held the notable record of stealing home three times in one season.) With runners on base, he’d be counted on for a double play. When their pitcher tired out, he’d switch from shortstop and step up on the mound. He was the wild card. Mix that together with the first kanji in his family name⁠—the number seven⁠—and you get Wild Seven.

In eighth grade, Shuya became classmates with Shinji Mimura, the basketball team’s expert guard. Shinji had his own nom de guerre: The Third Man. The story went that Shinji got that name back in seventh grade, when he occupied the bench as the team’s third-string shooting guard. With five minutes left on the clock and twenty points down against opponents who were favored to win, he⁠—the literal third man⁠—was sent to the court, and the Shiroiwa Junior High team breezed to victory. After that, he became a starter, and Shiroiwa now held a regular position among the top teams in the prefecture-wide tournaments. Still, because of the lasting impact of that dramatic win, and an association with the first kanji in his family name⁠—the number three⁠—everyone kept on calling him “The Third Man.”

For this year’s April intramurals, as a joke the class girls made the two boys a pair of jerseys⁠—#3 and #7. Shuya and Shinji both wore them for the games. It all seemed so far away now. Again Shuya wondered, Where is Shinji now? I know we could count on him.

As if suddenly remembering something, Kawada dug through his pockets and produced a small leather pouch, almost like a coin purse. He took out a small foil and plastic blister pack of white pills, handed it to Noriko, and said, “Pain relievers. Take some, they’ll help.”

Noriko blinked in surprise. But she accepted the pills.

“Hey,” Shuya asserted.

“What?” Kawada said. He exhaled, seeming to relish the smoke, and leveled his gaze at Shuya. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s just a cigarette. Junior high kids smoke them all the time. Besides, I’m old enough to be in high school. And didn’t you bring booze out here anyway?”

Setting aside the assumption that it was fine for a high schooler to smoke, Shuya shook his head and said, “That’s not it. Did you get those drugs at the general store?”

Kawada shrugged. “Well, yeah. They weren’t for sale, but I took them out of a first aid kit behind the register. It’s no big deal⁠—just some headache medicine. It’s called Anvil. Doesn’t sound very good for your head, does it? Anyway, I’m sure it’ll make her feel better for now.”

Shuya pursed his lips. He might be telling the truth, but⁠ ⁠… 

“Aren’t you a little too prepared?” Shuya asked. “And where the hell did you learn how to stitch up a wound?”

The corners of his mouth turning up into a wide grin, Kawada offered another shrug. “My dad was a doctor.”

“What?”

“Well, it was a small dump of a clinic in the slums of Kobe. I’ve seen him sew people up since I was a little brat. I have to admit, I was an outstanding doctor’s aide myself⁠—or at least I acted like I was from time to time. You see, my dad couldn’t afford to hire a nurse.”

Shuya didn’t know what to say to that. Was that story true?

Holding the cigarette between his fingers, Kawada lifted his hand to cut off Shuya’s response. “I’m not lying. If you think about it, you can see that medicine can become essential in this situation.”

Shuya kept quiet for a moment, but then he recalled something else that had bothered him. “That’s it.”

“What’s it?”

“Pardon me, um, but if I might ask you⁠—”

“Skip the formalities, Nanahara. We’re in this together.”

Shuya shrugged once and went to his question. “You were trying to open the bus window. Did you notice the knockout gas?”

Noriko gave Kawada a questioning look.

Now Kawada shrugged. “You saw that? You could have helped.”

“Sorry,” Shuya said, “but I couldn’t. How did you know what was going on, though? I couldn’t smell anything.”

“Oh, there was a smell, Nanahara.” Kawada rubbed his half-spent cigarette into the ground. “It was faint, but anyone who knows it would have recognized it.”

This time Noriko asked, “How do you know it?”

“Actually, my uncle works at a government lab, and⁠—”

“Come on,” Shuya interjected.

With a wry smile, Kawada said, “If I have to, I’ll explain later. Anyway, I really screwed up. I should have caught on sooner. I never thought this would happen, you know? But enough about that. We need to focus on the present. Do you have a plan?”

The way he said, If I have to, I’ll explain later, tugged at Shuya’s mind, but Kawada was right: coming up with a plan for their escape was the priority. Everything else, Shuya set aside. “We’re going to escape.”

Kawada nodded as he lit another cigarette. Then, suddenly remembering it, he tossed dirt onto the charcoal in the fire pit. Shuya heard Noriko take a drink of water, swallowing the pill.

Shuya added, “Do you think it’ll be hard?”

Kawada shook his head. “The question you should ask, Nanahara, is: ‘Do you think it’s possible?’ If you did, I’d answer: ‘The chance is extremely remote.’ But what then?”

“These collars⁠—” Shuya said, gesturing to his neck⁠—and the object he had in common with Noriko and Kawada, “⁠—mean they’ll find us wherever we run.”

“That’s right.”

“And we can’t go near that school.”

Sakamochi had said it: “Twenty minutes after the last of you has left, this will be a forbidden zone.” And he hadn’t needed to sound so cheerful about it, the bastard.

“That’s right,” Kawada said.

“But what if we could draw them out? We could take Sakamochi hostage. We’ll make them disable these collars.”

Kawada raised his eyebrows. “And?”

Shuya licked his lips and continued, “And⁠ ⁠… that’s it. We’ll find a boat ahead of time, and we’ll take Sakamochi with us when we escape.”

Even as he said it, he knew the plan was a long shot. Without any idea how to draw Sakamochi out of the school, the thought didn’t even amount to a plan.

“You finished?” Kawada said, and Shuya could only nod.

Kawada took another drag on his cigarette, then said, “First, and most importantly, there won’t be any boats.”

Shuya bit his lip. “You can’t know that.”

Kawada grinned and exhaled smoke. “Didn’t I tell you I went to the store by the harbor? No boats. Not a one. Even the old, busted-up ones, like you’d expect to see up along the shore⁠—they’ve all been taken away. No, these guys were amazingly thorough.”

“Then we’ll use one of the guard ships. If we can take Sakamochi hostage⁠—”

“Impossible, Nanahara,” Kawada interrupted. “You saw how many soldiers there are. Besides⁠ ⁠…”

Kawada pointed to the silver collar at his neck. “Those bastards can trigger these however they please, forbidden zone or not. That’s anytime, and anyplace. The cards are stacked against us. Anyway, even in the off chance you succeeded, I bet the government wouldn’t think twice before writing off someone like Sakamochi as an acceptable loss.”

Again Shuya was speechless.

“Do you have any other ideas?” Kawada prompted.

Shuya shook his head and said, “No.”

“What about you, Noriko?”

Noriko also shook her head but said something else. “Well, we were talking⁠ ⁠… and we were thinking about gathering the people we trust and thinking up a plan together. If we think as a group, we might come up with something good.”

That’s right, Shuya thought. I forgot to say that.

Kawada lifted a single scarred eyebrow. “But isn’t it hard to know who to trust out here?”

Shuya answered enthusiastically, “There’s Mimura. And Hiroki Sugimura. As far as the girls go, there’s our class leader, Utsumi. But Mimura⁠—he’s really amazing. He knows everything. He’s good with machines too. I’m sure he’d think of something.”

Rubbing his hand though his stubble, Kawada watched Shuya’s face. Then he said, “Mimura, huh?”

Shuya’s eyes widened. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Kawada said. He seemed to find this hard to say, but he continued, “But I saw him.”

Immediately Shuya shouted, “What! Where?” He and Noriko looked at each other. “Where? Where did you see him?”

Kawada pointed eastward with his chin. “It was last night. He was just west of the school. He had gone into a house and seemed to be searching for something. He had a gun, and I think he noticed me.”

“Why didn’t you call out to him?”

Kawada regarded Shuya’s critical tone with a quizzical expression. “Why should I have?”

“You saw him back at the school⁠—he helped Noriko back to her seat. Didn’t you see? And⁠—”

Kawada anticipated the rest. “He suggested postponing the game because of her injury. Probably to buy everyone enough time to escape?”

Yes, he’s got it. Shuya nodded.

But Kawada shook his head. “You’re saying that should be enough for me to trust him? That won’t do. He could have just been putting on a show to convince everyone he could be trusted. That would put him in the perfect position to kill us all later.”

“Ridiculous!” Shuya yelled. “That’s some twisted mind you’ve got. He’s not that kind of guy. He⁠—”

Without saying anything, Kawada pushed out his palms in a calming gesture, and Shuya quieted. Right, shouting was dangerous⁠—incredibly dangerous.

Then Kawada said, “Cut me some slack. I don’t know Mimura that well. And like I said, rule one of this game is to suspect everyone, rather than trust them. You have to be especially cautious of the ones who seem clever. Anyway, even if I asked him to join up with me, I doubt he would have agreed.”

Shuya started to respond but decided against it, letting out his breath. What Kawada was saying wasn’t entirely unreasonable. The real mystery to Shuya was why Kawada trusted Noriko and him⁠—though the older boy had said it was because they “looked like a good couple.”

“Well then,” Shuya said, “we should go to where you saw Mimura. He can absolutely be trusted. I guarantee it. I know he’ll think of something. I know⁠—”

But Kawada shook his head, cutting him off again. “If this Mimura is as sharp as you say, do you think he’d stick around where I saw him?”

Kawada was right.

Shuya sighed a deep, deep sigh.

Noriko said, “Kawada, is there any way for us now to contact the others, like Mimura, or anyone?”

Kawada jiggled another cigarette out of the pack and shook his head. “I don’t think so. If you were just trying to get people to gather and didn’t care who came or how many, that’s one thing. But restricting your message to one specific person would be difficult.”

They fell silent for a while, and Shuya watched Kawada holding the cigarette in his lips. The lit tip of the Wild Seven made a faint crackling sound as it grew a little shorter.

When Shuya spoke, his mouth felt heavy. “So there’s nothing we can do.”

But Kawada lightly remarked, “That’s not true.”

“What?”

“I have a plan.”

Shuya stared intently at Kawada’s smoke-shrouded face. Then, unable to hold back his excitement, he blurted, “What do you mean? You have a way out?”

Kawada surveyed Shuya’s and Noriko’s faces. With the cigarette still perched in his lips, he looked up to the sky in contemplation. He traced his fingers along the smooth surface of his collar. Wisps of smoke drifted in the air.

“There might be a way,” Kawada said, then added, “with one condition.”

“What kind of condition?” Shuya asked.

Kawada gave a slight shake of his head. He held the cigarette near his lips as he said, “We have to survive to the end first.”

Shuya furrowed his brows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“It should be obvious.” Kawada returned his gaze to them. “It could only work when we’re the last three alive⁠—and everyone else is dead.”

Noriko immediately spoke up. “That’s too cruel. So we’re going to just look out for ourselves?”

Kawada lowered his cigarette, holding it between his crossed legs. He raised his eyebrows and said, “That’s no different than Shuya saying he wants to escape.”

“No,” Shuya interjected. “That’s not what Noriko’s saying. She’s just asking if you mean to trade everyone else’s lives for our own. Isn’t that right, Noriko? That’s cruel, to start.”

“Hey, hold on.” Kawada waved his hands, then rubbed out his cigarette on the ground. “I don’t mind if people join us⁠—as long as they can be trusted. Either way, the plan only starts when everyone who’s not in our group is dead. That’s all I meant.”

“If that’s the case,” Shuya said excitedly, “we could just tell everyone the plan. If it’s a sure thing, no one will oppose it. That way we could save all of them, right? Isn’t that so?”

Kawada’s lips tightened. Then, sounding a little weary, he said, “And what are you going to do if someone attacks you before you can say any of that?”

Shuya held his breath.

Kawada said, “As long as you don’t actively want to kill someone, the smartest way to survive in this game is to stay put and hide. That’s why the government put bombs in these things⁠—” he pointed to his collar “⁠—to force us to move. It’s one of the game’s cardinal principles. Never forget it. Carelessly stroll about, and someone might strike from the shadows. Even worse, Noriko’s injury makes us prime targets.”

Shuya knew he was right.

“And what’s more,” Kawada continued, “when you talk about saving everyone, you’re really only talking about saving them from dying here. We’ll be fugitives, and the government will come after us. Ultimately, our chances of being killed are high. Do you think everyone is going to accept that? Did you forget? In this game, you don’t know who your enemies are. If you thoughtlessly allow everyone to join up with you, you’ll do more than suffer for it.”

“But nobody’s⁠—”

“Can you really say nobody’s like that, Nanahara?” Kawada’s eyes were hard. “All right then, if your whole class was made up of good little boys and girls, it would be just peachy. But if we want to be realistic, don’t you think we should be on our guard? After all, weren’t you attacked by Akamatsu and Oki?”

While Kawada was preparing to attend to Noriko’s wound, Shuya had told him about getting ambushed outside the school by Akamatsu. And it was as Kawada said⁠—Shuya didn’t really know why Yoshio Akamatsu had done what he had done. Maybe Akamatsu really meant to play the game.

Shuya sighed. His shoulders dropped, and he feebly pushed out the words. “So we’re just going to watch and let the good ones⁠—who are probably most of our classmates⁠—die? That’s how it’s going to be?”

Kawada nodded slightly several times. “I know it’s hard, but yes⁠—though whether that’s actually most of them or not, I don’t know.”

They were quiet for a while. Kawada lit another cigarette. You smoke too much, Shuya thought. You’re in junior high, man.

After a time, Noriko said, “Hold on.”

Shuya turned his head toward her.

“You said the plan was for after everyone else was dead,” she said, “but couldn’t we also run out of time? Sakamochi said if no one dies for twenty-four hours⁠ ⁠…”

“Yeah.” Kawada nodded. “That’s definitely possible.”

“And if that happens, your plan won’t be any good?”

“Correct. But that won’t happen. Supposing everyone is getting along and playing nicely, they can all be a part of my plan. But that won’t happen either. So there’s no need to worry about that. I heard that of all of the past Programs nationwide, only half of one percent ended by the time running out.”

Shuya’s mouth opened a crack. Then he said, “You heard? Where did you hear a thing like that?”

“Hey, hold up.” Kawada pushed the air with both hands to stop Shuya again. “We have more important matters at hand. Neither of you has asked me what my plan is yet.”

Shuya went quiet but then asked, “So what’s your plan?”

Kawada shrugged. With the cigarette between his lips, he spoke from the side of his mouth. “Can’t say.”

Shuya frowned. “What?”

“I can’t say yet.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“You can’t say yet? When exactly, then, can you tell it to us?”

“Good question. When it’s down to the three of us, I suppose. But I’ll tell you this for now. What I have in mind, if anyone interferes, it’s not going to work. That’s why we can’t do it until we’re the only three left alive.”

Shuya again fell silent. As Kawada continued to smoke, Shuya stared at this new companion’s face. Somewhere inside his thoughts, a voice whispered, barely at the edge of his perception.

Kawada grinned as if he too had heard the voice’s whisper. “I know what you’re thinking, Nanahara. You’re thinking this: there’s another possibility. I could be baiting you with the hope of escape, tricking you into helping me so that I can survive. But there’s no such hope, and when it’s down to the three of us, I will kill you, and I will win. It’s all so convenient for me.” Kawada paused. “So, am I wrong?”

Shuya felt a dash of panic. “That’s not⁠—”

“Am I wrong?”

Shuya held his tongue and glanced over at Noriko. She remained quiet and stared at Kawada’s face.

“That’s not it. It’s just⁠—”

But Shuya cut off mid-sentence.

He had heard a voice. Far in the distance, and electrically distorted, the voice said, “Hey, everyone!”

29 students remain.

22

The voice continued, “Hey, everyone, listen up!” It was a girl’s voice.

Noriko said, “That’s Yumiko.”

The tall, perky Yumiko Kusaka (Girls #⁠7), who batted fourth for the girl’s softball team.

Kawada’s face stiffened. “I’m going to check it out. I’ll be back.”

He took his shotgun in hand, stood, and started walking into the thicket to the east, in the direction of the voice.

“We’ll come too,” Shuya said.

They hadn’t finished their conversation, but for now, Shuya tucked the Smith & Wesson in his front waistband and gave Noriko his shoulder, helping her to her feet. Kawada glanced back at them but continued forward without a word.

When they reached the edge of the thicket, Kawada halted. Shuya and Noriko stopped behind him.

With his back to them, Kawada said, “They’re⁠ ⁠…”

Shuya moved right behind Kawada, and he and Noriko joined the boy in poking their heads out from the brush.

The mountaintop was ahead. Among the sparse trees near the summit of the northern mountain stood a structure⁠—some kind of observation deck. Despite their position in the foothills some five or six hundred meters away, the three students could see it clearly. Crudely constructed, the platform resembled a shack stripped of one of its walls. Two figures stood within. Shuya’s eyes went wide.

Yumiko’s voice traveled to them. “Everyone! Stop fighting! Come up here!”

Shuya could see that the taller of the two figures⁠—Yumiko Kusaka, probably⁠—was holding something in front of her face. Is that a kind of megaphone? As in the ones cops use to address besieged bank robbers and the like? Something about it seemed ludicrous⁠—Hey everyone, stop fighting and come out with your hands up⁠—but Shuya realized they had found a way to reach not only where he and Noriko and Kawada were, but far across the island.

“Who’s that other one?” Shuya whispered.

“Yukiko,” Noriko said. “Yukiko Kitano. They’re together then. They’re really close friends.”

Kawada wore a pained expression. “What the hell are they doing? They’re going to get themselves killed like that. They’re completely exposed.”

Shuya bit his lip. So Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano were trying to persuade everyone to stop fighting. They were attempting what he himself had considered doing but had ultimately abandoned after Yoshio Akamatsu ambushed him. Those two girls assumed no one would really want to play the game. They must have chosen that location to be able to be seen by the most possible people. That, or they had been near there all along.

“I know none of us want to fight,” the voice said. “Come up here!”

Shuya hesitated. He still needed to figure out the situation. The conversation with Kawada had left a lot hanging. What if⁠—it’s unlikely, but what if⁠—Kawada is our enemy?

But ultimately Shuya told Kawada, “Can you look after Noriko?”

Kawada turned. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go up there.”

Kawada furrowed his brows. “Are you stupid?”

Shuya didn’t appreciate that remark, but he let it pass. “What do you mean? They’re putting themselves in danger. They’re not in this game. They’re clearly not. So they can join us. Didn’t you just say it? They’re in danger now.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Kawada said, baring his teeth. Somewhat inappropriately, Shuya noted that his teeth were large and quite nice. “Didn’t I just explain it all? In this game, the most important thing is to stay where you are. How far away do you think they are? Anyone could be between here and there.”

“I know that!”

“No, you don’t get it. Everyone has already noticed them by now. If we can assume someone’s going to attack those two, then that killer will be waiting for someone like you to bumble through. They’ll get more targets that way.”

Shuya shuddered, though less because of what Kawada said as how calmly he stated it.

“Please,” the voice said. “Come up here. There’s two of us. We don’t want to fight!”

Shuya separated himself from Noriko and said, “I’m going.”

He gripped the Smith & Wesson tightly and moved to step from the thicket, but Kawada grabbed him by the arm.

“Stop.”

“Why should I!” Shuya shouted. “You want me to just sit back and watch them get slaughtered?” Shuya had lost control over not only his voice, but the words that came tumbling out. “Or do you not want me to leave because you’re not finished using me to get farther ahead? Is that how it’s gonna be? Are you our enemy?”

Noriko spoke, her voice sorrowful. “Shuya, stop it,” she said. Shuya started to say something else when he noticed it⁠—Kawada’s expression remained placid, even as he clutched his arm.

Kawada’s face suddenly reminded him⁠—though they looked not a bit alike⁠—of the former director of the House and Mercy and Love, Ms. Anno’s elderly and now deceased father. After Shuya had lost his own parents, the manager of the orphanage had been his only authority figure and guardian. When he lectured the young Shuya, the manager had worn the same expression.

Kawada said, “You can die if you want to. But if you go now and never return, Noriko’s odds are going to get a hell of a lot worse. Did you forget about her?”

Shuya gulped. Kawada was absolutely right. “But⁠ ⁠…”

Kawada calmly continued, “I’m sure you’re all too aware, Nanahara, that loving someone means not loving someone else. If you care about Noriko, don’t go.”

“But⁠ ⁠…” Shuya wanted to cry. “So then what are you suggesting? We just let them get killed?”

“I never said that.”

Kawada released Shuya’s arm, turned to face Yumiko’s mountain, and raised his shotgun. “This is going to hurt our chances of survival just a little. Just a little.”

He aimed his shotgun at the sky and pulled the trigger. This close up, the gunpowder blast was incredible. For a second, Shuya thought his eardrums had been blasted clear out of his head. The gunfire echoed off the mountainside. Kawada pumped the shotgun and ejected the empty casing. He fired again. The sound shook the air.

I get it, Shuya thought. He’s using the gunfire to scare Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano, so they’ll stop calling out and hide.

Yumiko’s megaphone-amplified voice halted. Shuya thought she and Yukiko were looking their way. But the three were hidden in the thicket, so the girls would not likely be able to recognize who they were.

“Come on!” Shuya said. “Shoot some more!”

“I can’t. Those two shots alone might have been enough for someone to figure out our location. Anything more will be too dangerous.”

Shuya thought about it, then raised his Smith & Wesson above his head.

But Kawada took his arm again.

“Stop! How many times do I have to tell you, Nanahara?”

“But⁠—”

“All we can do for them now is hope that they’ll hide quickly.”

Shuya looked toward the summit. Then the voice⁠—Yumiko’s voice⁠—returned.

“Stop! We know you don’t want to fight!”

Shuya shook his arm free. He couldn’t stand it any longer. No matter what it took, he wanted them to hide somewhere safe. He put his finger on the trigger of the Smith & Wesson and⁠—

Bratta ttattattattattattattat.

The far-off sound resembled a typewriter, and as it went on and on, Shuya heard Yumiko groan. The megaphone persistently amplified her cry. Then she was quiet, and the scream came. It sounded like Yukiko Kitano. That sound too carried crisply all the way to Shuya’s ears thanks to the megaphone’s tiny, hardworking amplifier.

Beneath the platform’s roof, the taller of the figures slowly slumped to the floor, and the screaming continued, saying, “Yumi!” The megaphone issued a burst of static as it crashed to the floor. Another brattattat came, only this time, much quieter. Shuya realized that the first clattering noise had also been picked up by the megaphone. Now that the device had broken, the sound was much fainter.

Yukiko collapsed behind the shapes of the low trees surrounding the deck, and like Yumiko, she vanished from Shuya’s sight.

Both Shuya and Noriko had turned sickly white.

29 students remain.

23

On the concrete floor of the observation deck, Yukiko Kitano crawled toward Yumiko Kusaka. Her stomach felt like it was on fire, and all the strength had fled her body, but somehow she managed to crawl, her trail on the white concrete a wild brushstroke painted in red.

“Yumi!” The scream tore through her stomach, but Yumiko didn’t care. Her best friend had fallen and wasn’t moving. Nothing else mattered.

Yumiko was lying on her stomach with her face turned toward Yukiko. But her eyes were closed. A pool, thick and red, began spreading underneath her.

When Yukiko reached her friend, it took all of her strength to sit up. She grabbed Yumiko by the shoulders and shook.

“Yumi! Yumi!”

As she screamed, flecks of red fell on Yumiko’s face. Yukiko didn’t realize they had come from her own mouth.

Slowly, Yumiko opened her eyes and whispered, “Yukiko⁠ ⁠…”

“Yumi! Wake up!”

Yumiko winced. But she held on through the pain and said, “I’m sorry, Yukiko. I was a fool. Hurry⁠ ⁠… run.”

“No!” Crying, Yukiko shook her head. “We have to go together. Come on!”

Yukiko frantically looked around. She saw no sign of their attacker. Whoever it was must have targeted them from a distance.

“Hurry, Yumiko!”

She tried to help up Yumiko, but it was hopeless. She became suddenly aware that she could barely support her own body. The pain in her stomach redoubled, and she groaned and collapsed forward. She could only manage to turn her head to face her friend.

Yumiko’s face was right there, staring at her with glazed eyes. “Yukiko,” she said, her voice feeble. “Can you move?”

“No.” Yukiko forced her cheeks into a smile. “I guess not.”

“I’m sorry,” Yumiko repeated softly.

“It’s all right. We did what⁠ ⁠… we had to do⁠ ⁠… didn’t we, Yumi?”

She could tell from Yumiko’s face that her friend was about to cry. She thought her own wounds weren’t as severe, but she felt her consciousness rapidly slipping away. Her eyelids were heavy.

“Yukiko?”

Yumiko’s voice pulled her back, and she managed to say, “W-what?”

“There’s⁠ ⁠… something I couldn’t⁠ ⁠… tell you⁠ ⁠… before.”

“Hm?”

Yumiko formed a slight grin. “I also⁠ ⁠… had a crush⁠ ⁠… on Nanahara.”

For a moment, Yukiko didn’t understand what her friend was saying. Whether that was because she hadn’t expected it, or that her hearing had already started to go, she didn’t know.

But eventually the words knocked at the door of Yukiko’s heart and stepped inside. Oh, I see now.

As her awareness sank into the mist, a scene replayed in her mind. The two of them had just gone out shopping. They found a pair of earrings, some cheap things on sale for three thousand yen, but absolutely gorgeous. Though the two rarely shared the same tastes, they both wanted them. In the end, they decided they would each pay half and they would both get one of the earrings. It was the first time either of them had bought jewelry. Even now, that earring was tucked away at the back of her desk drawer in her house near the edge of town.

Somehow, Yukiko felt at peace. She found that an odd thing to feel as she was about to die.

“Oh⁠ ⁠…” Yukiko said. “You⁠ ⁠… did⁠ ⁠…”

Yumiko faintly smiled again.

Yukiko opened her mouth one last time. Come on, she told herself. You can at least say one more thing, can’t you? She wasn’t very religious, but if the Halo Church had ever offered her one thing of beauty, it was Yumiko. They had been together since the day they met in that church.

“Yumi⁠ ⁠… I⁠ ⁠… I’m⁠ ⁠… so glad we were⁠ ⁠…”

She had been about to say “friends” when the bang sound came and shook Yumiko’s head. A red hole opened in Yumiko’s temple, and those now hollow eyes simply pointed at her, seeing nothing. That far-off stare might have been unintentionally appropriate, considering she was on an observation deck.

Yukiko opened her mouth in terror and shock. She heard another bang and felt the impact of a blow to her head. Those were the last things she ever sensed.

Kazuo Kiriyama (Boys #⁠6) was crouched so as not to be seen from outside the platform. He lowered Mitsuru Numai’s Walther PPK and picked up the girls’ daypacks.

27 students remain.

24

After the two single shots had fired, Shuya and Noriko remained frozen. A hawk cried overhead.

Kawada took a look around, then turned back to them and said, “It’s over. Let’s go back.”

Shuya took Noriko’s arm and looked up to the taller boy. His lips trembled. “It’s over? There’s gotta be a better way to say that.”

Kawada shrugged just up to the base of his neck. “You’ll have to excuse the way I talk. I don’t know that many words. Anyway, I guess you understand now. Some of them are playing. And I’ll go ahead and tell you that this isn’t something Sakamochi and his boys did just to get us to fight. They don’t want to die either, so they won’t be leaving that school.”

Shuya wanted to respond, but he held himself in check and began walking, supporting Noriko by the arm.

As they walked, Noriko said in a scratchy voice, “It’s⁠ ⁠… it’s so terrible.”

When they reached their original spot, Kawada began packing up his things.

Shuya asked him what he was doing, and he answered, “Get ready. We’re going to move three hundred meters. Just in case.”

“But you said it’s safest not to.”

Kawada pursed his lips and shook his head. “You saw what happened. Whoever it was, that bastard is merciless. Even worse, he’s got a machine gun. He probably knows where we are. If he does, we’re better off moving.”

Then he added, “Just a little. We’ll move just a little.”

27 students remain.

25

Yutaka Seto (Boys #⁠12) was running frantically down the slope, or rather, crawling, since he was on his hands and knees, concealing himself among the bushes. The dry dirt had turned his size-small black school uniform almost completely white. His round, boyish eyes and class-clown face contorted with fear.

After Yutaka had left the school, he hid himself near the top of the northern mountain⁠—in the bushes not fifty meters below where Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano had called out to everyone with their megaphone.

Although he had been at an angle from them, Yutaka had a clear view of the girls. He went back and forth and back and forth, hesitating, deliberating what he would do. He had just decided to come out and answer their call when he heard the two distant gunshots, and the girls turned to look that way⁠—opposite from Yutaka. He reconsidered his move, thinking it would be a good idea to wait things out a little longer. Then not more than ten or twenty seconds later, that typewriter gunfire came, and as the megaphone amplified her cry, Yutaka watched Yumiko Kusaka fall. Right after that, Yukiko Kitano was also shot.

He knew that at that moment, the two girls yet lived. But Yutaka couldn’t make himself come out to help them. After all, he was a born joker, never good in a fight. Even worse, his weapon, the one that had been supplied to him, was a single fork⁠—a plain, ordinary fork like you’d use to eat spaghetti. Then, somewhere out of his sight, he heard two more shots, and he knew that the attacker had finished off Yumiko and Yukiko.

That instant, Yutaka scooped up his bag and took off, skidding down the mountainside. Whoever that is, he’s coming for me next. I’m sure of it! I’m the next nearest one!

Suddenly he noticed the great clouds of dust he’d stirred up. Oh, no! No, no! This is bad! Worse than a slipper in your soup! Damn it, man. Forget the comedy and focus!

Doing the best he could not to lose his footing, he changed tack and scrambled down the slope on the palms of his hands (well, his right hand, gripping the fork, was more of a fist) and the soles of his shoes. He could feel the skin scraping off his hands, but he didn’t care. Shit, I must look hilarious right now. I’m a human water beetle.

After proceeding like this for two or three minutes, Yutaka stopped. Furtively, he looked over his shoulder. The summit, where Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano had died, appeared distant beyond the trees. Nothing moved. Yutaka listened. Nothing made a sound.

Did I make it? Am I safe?

As if answering his unasked question, something dug into his arm.

Fear flooded his mind, and a shriek escaped his lips.

“You fool!” someone hissed. The pressure against his arm lifted, and a warm hand covered his mouth. Too disoriented to understand, he believed the killer had caught him, and in his panic, he swung the fork.

With a clang, the fork hit something and stopped. What happened?

But when nothing else happened, he fearfully opened his eyes.

The figure standing before him wore a school uniform. The boy’s body was turned to the side, and he covered his face with a semiautomatic pistol (a Beretta 92 F), blocking the fork. He held the gun in his left hand. Judging by their proximity, and that the boy’s right hand was over Yutaka’s mouth, the fork would have stabbed the boy more than a little deep had he not been left-handed. And he was left-handed. And only one boy in Class B had never had his left-handedness corrected.

“Watch it there, Yutaka.”

The boy’s hair glistened with whatever styling product he used to keep his bangs up off his face. Beneath it, he had straight, upturned eyebrows. And beneath those, his piercing, but humorous, eyes held Yutaka’s gaze. Then there was that earring in his left ear. He was The Third Man, Shinji Mimura (Boys #⁠19)⁠—Yutaka’s best friend in class. Shinji grinned and gently removed his hand from Yutaka’s mouth. Stupefied, Yutaka slowly lowered the fork.

Then finally, overcome with relief, he shouted, “Shinji! Shinji, it’s you!”

“You idiot!” Shinji Mimura whispered, pressing his hand back across Yutaka’s mouth. When he let go again, he said, “Over here. Keep quiet and follow me.”

Yutaka followed in a daze. Between the bushes and trees, he noticed how the island, which he’d gotten used to viewing from above, had leveled off. In those few short minutes, he’d descended a long way.

Yutaka looked straight ahead, glancing at Shinji’s back, when suddenly, a grim hypothesis overwhelmed him, and for a second, his legs froze.

What if Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano’s killer was⁠ ⁠… Shinji? What if he followed me here? No, then why hasn’t he killed me yet? Well, that’s because I think he’s my best friend, and he knows it, and if he partners with me, he can, say, use me to keep watch while he sleeps. That way, he’ll be more likely to survive. Then, when it’s down to the two of us, he’ll kill me. Say, that’s a great idea! If this were a video game or something, that’s totally what I’d do.

Stop it, idiot! What are you thinking?

Yutaka stamped out the thought. Shinji didn’t have a machine gun⁠—that’s what that noise had been, no doubt about it⁠—and besides, Shinji was Shinji. He was Yutaka’s best friend. He would never kill a girl as if she were no more than an insect.

Shinji looked back at him and whispered, “What’s wrong? Hurry up.”

Yutaka followed after him, still in a daze.

Shinji slowly and cautiously walked ahead. When they had covered about fifty meters, he stopped, pointed down near his feet with his pistol, and said, “Step over this.”

Yutaka squinted and saw the thin, inconspicuous thread that had been strung up taut and level.

“What’s⁠ ⁠…”

“It’s not a trap or anything,” Shinji said from the other side of the string. “If you catch on it, the empty can all the way at the end of it will fall and make noise.”

Yutaka’s eyes widened as he nodded. Shinji must have been hiding out here, and this was a kind of tripwire alarm. Impressive. The Third Man is more than some big-shot basketball player.

Yutaka stepped over the thread.

About twenty meters further, they reached a thicket, and Shinji stopped and told Yutaka to sit.

Yutaka sat facing Shinji. Realizing he still clutched the fork, he placed the utensil on the ground. Sharp pain suddenly returned to his left palm and the outside of his right hand. His skin had scraped off, particularly on his knuckles, where red flesh lay exposed.

Noticing this, Shinji set down his gun and pulled his daypack out from under a nearby bush. He took out a towel and the bottle of water, moistened an edge of the cloth, and said, “Give me your hands, Yutaka.”

Yutaka held out his hands, and Shinji wiped the wounds, taking care not to apply too much force. Then he tore off a couple thin strips from the dry side of the towel and wrapped them around Yutaka’s hands.

“Thanks,” Yutaka said. Then: “So you’ve been hiding out here.”

With a smile and a nod, Shinji said, “Yeah. I saw you from here⁠—caught a glimpse of you moving through the bushes. You were pretty far off, but I know you when I see you. I took a minor risk and followed your trail.”

Yutaka felt a little choked up. Shinji put himself in danger for me.

“Going around carelessly like that,” Shinji said, “that’s dangerous too, you know.”

“Yeah.” Yutaka thought he might cry. “Thank you, Shinji.”

“I’m glad.” Shinji let out a deep breath. “If I’m going to die out here, I at least wanted to see you first.”

Now Yutaka really did tear up. But he managed to hold back his tears, and he changed the subject. “Just now⁠ ⁠… I was right near Kusaka and Kitano. I⁠—I⁠ ⁠… I couldn’t help them.”

“Yeah.” Shinji nodded. “I saw it too. That’s how I found you. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Hell, I heard them, and I didn’t do a thing about it.”

Yutaka nodded. The scene of Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano’s deaths replayed, still vivid in his memory, and he trembled.

27 students remain.

26

By the time Shuya’s group had moved about a hundred meters to the southwest, and Kawada had finished running the wire through the undergrowth, it was already past nine in the morning. The sun was high in the sky, and the verdant smells of May were in the air. The sea, when they caught glimpses of it through the tress as they moved, shimmered a brilliant blue, dotted with the scattered islands of the Seto Inland Sea. It would have been the perfect setting, if they were only hiking.

But they weren’t. All passing boats steered far clear of the island, appearing as mere points in the distance. The only one close by was the gray guard ship in charge of the western shore. It too was quite far off⁠—though close enough to make out the machine gun mounted atop its prow.

Now that he’d finished setting the wire, Kawada let out a deep breath and sat in front of Shuya and Noriko. He returned the shotgun to rest atop his legs.

After neither of the two said anything, Kawada asked, “What’s wrong, you two?”

Shuya looked up at Kawada. He thought for a moment, then said, “Why do you think they did that?”

Kawada lifted his eyebrows. “Kusaka and Kitano, you mean?”

Shuya nodded. He hesitated, then said, “Didn’t they know what would happen? At the very least, they must have expected the possibility. According to the rules of the game⁠ ⁠…” He let out a sigh. “We’re supposed to kill each other.”

Kawada withdrew a cigarette, put it between his lips, and lit it with his hundred-yen lighter. “They seemed very close. Weren’t they part of some religious group together?”

Shuya nodded. They had been two entirely average girls but had always kept a certain distance from Noriko and Yukie Utsumi’s group of mainstreamers. He thought their religion might have been why.

“Yeah,” Shuya said, “the Halo Church or something⁠—some Shinto sect, I think. Their church is south of the highway, along the Yodo River.”

“Maybe that had something to do with it.” Kawada exhaled smoke. “ ‘Love thy neighbor.’ ”

“No, that’s not it,” Noriko said. “Neither of them seemed passionate about their faith. Especially Yumiko⁠—she made that very clear. She told me it was just a social thing.”

Kawada mumbled, “I see,” then his eyes dropped. He continued, “The good people aren’t always the ones who get saved. The same goes for everywhere, not just here. It’s the capable ones who make it. But I respect those who preserve their conscience even through rejection and failure.”

He stared at Shuya and Noriko. “Those two decided to believe in their classmates. They must have thought that if they could gather everyone together, they’d have a chance to save everyone. They should be commended. They did what we were unable to do.”

Shuya let out a breath and said, “I agree.”

After a while, Shuya again looked up at Kawada and said, “I don’t think you’re our enemy after all. So I’m going to believe in you.”

“Me too,” Noriko said. “I can’t imagine you as a bad person.”

Kawada shook his head and grinned. “At the very least, I’m no good at lying to girls.”

Shuya flashed him a grin. “So won’t you tell us? I mean, if you don’t want to share your escape plan, that’s all right. Just tell us why. Do you think we’ll let it slip in front of one of our classmates, and then something will go wrong? Is it because we can’t trust the others? Or at least, you think we can’t trust them?”

“Hey, don’t ask me so many questions all at once. I’m not smart enough to handle more than one at a time.”

“Liar.”

The cigarette in his mouth, Kawada rested his elbows on his legs, cupped his chin, and looked to the side. When he turned back, he said, “Nanahara, the reason I can’t tell you is just what you said. I don’t want the others to know my plan. And even if you two never tell, I don’t want the others even sensing that you know it. So I can’t tell you.”

Shuya thought about that a little while, then exchanged glances with Noriko. He gave Kawada a nod. “Okay then, I understand. We’re going to trust you. But⁠ ⁠…”

“Something still bothering you?”

“It’s just that, any way you think about it, there’s no possible way. So I’m really⁠ ⁠…”

“Curious, is that it?”

Shuya nodded.

Kawada let out a deep breath and rubbed his cigarette on the ground. He ran his hand through his short hair.

“Everything has a hole,” he said. “Well, most everything.”

“A hole?”

“Yeah, a weak spot. I’m going after that weak spot.”

Shuya narrowed his eyes in confusion.

Kawada continued, “I know this game a lot better than any of you.”

Noriko asked, “How so?”

“Don’t stare those pretty round eyes at me. I’m likely to get shy.”

She gaped at him, then formed a slight smile. “How?” she repeated.

Kawada brushed his hair again while the two waited.

Finally, he spoke.

“Do you know what happens to the survivor of this game?”

Shuya and Noriko looked at each other. They both shook their heads. Each Program had only one survivor. Whoever made it through this absurd game was shoved in front of news cameras, with the rifles of Nonaggressive Forces soldiers pointed at their backs. (“Smile. Smile nice for the cameras.”) But whatever happened to the survivor after that remained a mystery.

Kawada watched Shuya’s and Noriko’s faces as he continued, “They’re forced to transfer to a school in a different prefecture. They’re told never to speak of the game and to lead a normal life. That’s it.”

Shuya felt suddenly heavy, and his face stiffened. He stared intently at Kawada’s face, and realized that Noriko was holding her breath.

Kawada said, “I used to be in Ninth Grade Class C of Kobe Second Junior High in Hyogo Prefecture. I’m the survivor of last year’s Hyogo Program.”

27 students remain

27

Softening his expression, Kawada continued, “I got the Leader’s autograph too. Isn’t that swell? His handwriting looks straight out of a nursery school⁠—though I don’t remember it all that well, since I tossed the thing on burnable trash day.”

In sharp contrast to Kawada’s lighthearted tone, Shuya didn’t even breathe. Sure, the Program could come to any ninth grader. But to the same person, two years in a row? Not only would that require being held back a year, getting chosen for the Program was as likely as winning the lottery. But everything fit: Kawada’s familiarity with the game, his noticing the knockout gas on the bus, and all those scars on his body. If what Kawada was saying were true, it was outrageous!

Shuya said as much.

Kawada shrugged and said, “Yeah. The game was last July. I was badly hurt and hospitalized for a long time. I was able to do a lot of studying⁠—including about this country⁠—from my bed, you know. The nurses and everyone were really nice and brought me books from the library. The hospital was my school. Anyway, because of all that, I had to repeat ninth grade. But still⁠ ⁠…” Kawada looked at Shuya and Noriko again. “Even I didn’t expect to be playing this happy little game again.”

That’s right, Shuya thought, recalling the conversation they’d just had⁠—well, three hours past, now. When Shuya had asked Kawada, “Was killing our class leader not the first time for you?” Kawada said, “Well, first one this time, at least.”

After a moment, Noriko asked, “So the ones who’ve already been drawn⁠—” But she must have thought that sounded too much like she was talking about someone who’d won a sweepstakes, because she rephrased it. “Those who’ve already been in this once aren’t exempt?”

Kawada grinned. “Since I’m here, I’d suppose not. Don’t they say that the classes are randomly selected by computer? I’d say a previous winner like myself would have quite an advantage⁠—but it seems they don’t make a special case for it. I guess some people are just more equal than others.”

Kawada cupped his hands around his lighter and lit another cigarette. “Now you know why I recognized the gas’s smell. And why I have this.” He pointed to the scar over his left eyebrow.

Tearfully, Noriko said, “It’s terrible. It’s too awful.”

“Don’t say that, Noriko.” Kawada broke into a smile. “This way, I can help you.”

Shuya held out his hand.

“What’s that for?” Kawada said. “I’m no palm reader.”

Shuya laughed and shook his head. “I’m sorry for every accusing thing I’ve said. It’s a handshake. We’re together to the end.”

With an understanding nod, Kawada said, “All right,” took the boy’s hand, and gave it a little shake. Noriko smiled in relief.

27 students remain.

28

Kinpatsu Sakamochi (instructor) was sitting at his desk in the faculty room, rummaging through scattered piles of documents. Along the north and south walls of the room, Nonaggressive Forces soldiers stood, weapons at the ready, manning the loophole openings in the steel-plated windows. Little sunlight reached the room, and the fluorescent lights remained in use. A handful of soldiers sat at a desk across from Sakamochi, staring into a row of desktop computer monitors. Another three wore headphones connected to some other kind of machine. A large generator sat along the western wall, powering all the lights, computers, and other equipment. Unconfined by its soundproofing, a low hum filled the air. The rest of the soldiers were resting in the classroom the students had left.

“Let’s see,” Sakamochi said, “Yumiko Kusaka died at 8:42 a.m. and Yukiko Kitano, she was also at forty-two after.” He brushed his long hair back behind his ears. “Ahhh, there’s so much to be done!”

The old black phone at his desk rang. With his pen still in hand, he distractedly snatched up the receiver.

“Yes, this is Oki Island School,” he said offhandedly. “Shiroiwa Junior High, Ninth Grade Class B Program Headquarters.”

The next instant, he jolted upright in his chair and put both hands around the receiver. “Yes, sir. This is Sakamochi speaking. I appreciate everything you’ve been doing for us, Superintendent. Oh, yes, sir, our second one just turned two, and our third is on the way. Oh, no, we’re just doing our part for the country. The declining birth rate’s a big problem. Yes, sir. And how can I help you, sir?”

Sakamochi listened for a while and then chuckled. “Oh, wow. You put your money on Shogo Kawada? I’m betting on Kazuo Kiriyama. Yeah, I put it on the chalk. Well, Kawada, you see, he’s a contender, being experienced, after all. That’s almost unheard of, isn’t it? Of course he’s still alive. How much did you put on him? Wow, that’s incredible. Impressive. What’s that? The current status? Can’t you access it there? It’s on the government’s secret website⁠—oh, I see, you’re not very good with computers. Well, umm, that’s⁠ ⁠… yes. Hang on.”

Sakamochi held the receiver away from his face and called to a craggy-faced soldier at one of the monitors. “Hey, Kato. Do you know if Kawada is still with those two?”

The soldier typed on his keyboard, then curtly replied, “He is.”

His monitor would be displaying a map of the island, overlaid with the students’ locations as provided by the signals from their collars. Sakamochi was about to scowl at Kato’s gruff attitude, but he stopped himself. Kato had been this way ever since Sakamochi, back in his days as a mere junior high school teacher, took on a class of problem students. Kato had been at the top of the list. This was nothing new. Sakamochi put the receiver back to his ear.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Let’s see, Kawada is operating with two other students. That’s⁠ ⁠… Shuya Nanahara and Noriko Nakagawa. Yeah, they’ve been talking about escaping together. Would you like to listen to the recording? Oh, well, yes. Do I think he means it? Well, I can’t say for sure, but common sense says he’s lying, probably. Because escape is utterly impossible. Oh, yes, about that. Hold on, let me check. The papers, the papers. Here it is, Shogo Kawada, right? There wasn’t anything particularly suspicious about his behavior at his previous school. No subversive statements or actions, right. I see his father died sometime around the last game. It looks like he got drunk and said some seditious things. But Kawada’s comment was ‘Good riddance. Nobody cared about that bastard.’ Well, maybe they just didn’t get along. Maybe his dad tried to demand some of the compensation money. Yes, well, when you put it that way, having two more with him does give him an advantage. Nanahara is an excellent athlete, so he’ll be useful⁠—though Nakagawa is injured. Yeah, our Tahara shot her. Yes. Oh, yes. They completely trust him. He rescued an injured girl⁠—now, really, that’s brilliant. He’s feeding them all kinds of great stuff too. Yes.”

Sakamochi had been laying on the obsequious laughter, but suddenly, his eyebrows shot up high. With his free hand, he brushed back his hair over his ear.

“What?” he said. “That can’t be. Look, well, you’re talking about that thing in March, right? Yes, I received the memo. If that’s true, then right now⁠ ⁠… Yes. Well, those guys over in Central are always overreacting. Besides, they’re junior high schoolers. There’s no way they could be aware we’re listening to them. From what I can see now, I’m telling you, there isn’t a single student that knows. Yes. That’s why⁠—Yes. Yes. Yes, sir. All right. Oh, no, please, I couldn’t possibly accept⁠ ⁠… well, if you insist. Thank you very much. Yes. Yes. All right. Yes. Goodbye.”

Sakamochi let out an audible sigh, returned the receiver to its cradle, and picked up his pen. “So much to do!” he said, sweeping back his hair. He scribbled on the documents as if his pen were glued to them.

27 students remain.

29

When Shinji first met up with him, Yutaka Seto had seemed on edge from the shock of witnessing the deaths of Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano up close, but now that some time had passed he had calmed down. As the warm sunlight filtered through the treetops, Shinji listened for any movement. He sensed no one near, hearing only the peeping of small birds. Whoever had killed Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano had apparently not noticed the two boys. Still, Shinji needed to remain alert.

Shinji loved and respected his uncle, who had taught him everything, starting with basketball, and whose influence was largely responsible for The Third Man being who he was today. One of the things his uncle said was, “Relax when you need to, but be tense when you need to. The point is to never mix up the two.” This mentor often stressed to him⁠—for example, when driving basic computer skills into him, demonstrating how to access illegal foreign networks⁠—that there was no such thing as being too careful. And Shinji knew, he was certain, that this was one of those times when he needed to be tense.

He heard Yutaka call his name and returned his attention to the boy, who sat against a tree, hugging his knees, with his eyes looking down between them.

“Now that I think about it,” Yutaka said, “I should have waited for you in front of the school. Then we would have been together from the start.” He looked up at Shinji. “But I was scared.”

Shinji crossed his arms, Beretta still in hand. “I’m not so sure. It might have been dangerous.”

That’s right, Shinji thought. I’d better explain it to him. He might not know that Mayumi Tendo and Yoshio Akamatsu died in front of the school. And⁠—

Then Shinji noticed Yutaka was crying. Tears filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks, making thin white trails down his muddied face.

Shinji gently asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I⁠ ⁠…” Yutaka lifted an injured hand and dried his eyes with the torn edge of the cloth bandage. “I’m pathetic. I’m clumsy and a coward, and⁠ ⁠…” He paused. Then, as if forcing out words that had caught in his chest, he said, “I couldn’t save her.”

Shinji’s eyebrows inched up, and he glanced down at his downcast friend. He had known not to bring this up himself. Slowly, he said, “You mean Kanai?”

With his head still down, Yutaka nodded.

Shinji thought back to the time he was in Yutaka’s room when his friend told him, with a little bit of pride and a little bit of embarrassment mixed into his voice, “I⁠ ⁠… like Izumi Kanai.” And that Izumi Kanai had died so quickly. Her death had been announced in the six a.m. report. They didn’t know where she had died. They only knew it had to have been somewhere on the island.

“There wasn’t anything you could do,” Shinji said. “Kanai left ahead of you.”

“But I⁠—” Yutaka spoke without raising his head. “I couldn’t even look for her⁠—I was too scared⁠—I never thought something crazy like that would happen to her. I thought she’d be fine. I made myself think that. Then by six, she was already⁠ ⁠…”

Shinji quietly listened. Somewhere beyond the treetops, the bird was chirping again. Another bird joined in, and their calls overlapped as if in a mutual song.

Suddenly Yutaka lifted his face. Looking up at Shinji, he said, “I’ve made up my mind.”

“About what?”

Tears still clouded Yutaka’s eyes, but they looked straight into Shinji. “I’m going to avenge her. Sakamochi and the rest of those bastards in the government⁠—I’m going to fucking kill them.”

Somewhat startled, Shinji stared into his friend’s face.

Shinji himself was, of course, completely pissed off at this bullshit game and the government behind it. He had never really hung out with Shuya Nanahara’s best friend Yoshitoki Kuninobu (the boy’s too-laid-back attitude left Shinji with a bad taste in his mouth), but still, Yoshitoki was a nice guy⁠—a really, really nice guy. And the government had murdered him with a casual brutality. Then the rest of their classmates, one after the other, Fumiyo Fujiyoshi, and as Yutaka had just mentioned, Izumi Kanai, and then the others, like Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano, whose lives had been taken as he watched. But⁠ ⁠…

“But⁠ ⁠… that would be suicide,” Shinji said.

“I don’t care if I die. There’s nothing else I can do for her now.” Yutaka paused and examined Shinji’s expression. “Is it funny for a wimp like me to say something like that?”

“No⁠ ⁠…” Shinji said, drawing the word out. Then he shook his head. “Not at all.”

Shinji stared back at his friend for a time, then tilted his head back and gazed at the branches and leaves above. He wasn’t surprised by the clownish boy’s display of intense emotion⁠—that was just who Yutaka was. That’s why they’d been friends for so long. But⁠—

“I don’t care if I die. There’s nothing else I can do for her now.”

What’s it like to feel that way about a girl? Shinji wondered, looking up at the layers of leaves turned a yellowish green by the sun’s glow on their other side. He had had many girlfriends and even slept with three of them (not bad for a ninth grader, huh?), but he’d never felt that kind of love for any girl.

That his parents had never gotten along might have had something to do with it. His father, being who he was, had women on the side. (He did very well in his managerial position, but⁠—and this was probably strange coming from a boy who didn’t yet support himself⁠—in nearly every aspect, his father was an unremarkable man. Shinji couldn’t believe the man could share the same blood as his uncle, who radiated vibrancy.) And his mother, unable to bring herself to confront her husband, closed herself inside her own world, flitting from one new hobby to the next, from ikebana flower arrangement to various women’s clubs. His mother and father had normal conversations. They each did what was necessary. But they didn’t trust each other, and they didn’t help each other. They just quietly built up their resentment as they grew ever older. Maybe, in this world, that’s how most parents were.

When the ace guard Shinji Mimura picked up basketball in elementary school, he captivated the girls⁠—getting a girlfriend was easy. Kissing them was easy too. After a little while, sleeping with them became just as easy. Still, he’d never fallen in love.

He regretted never talking about it with his uncle, who always had an answer for everything. But he hadn’t started thinking about it until recently, and his uncle had passed away two years ago.

The earring Shinji wore in his left ear had been something his uncle treasured. He once explained to the boy, “This belonged to a woman I loved. She died a long time ago.”

After his uncle’s passing, Shinji decided he’d take the earring. If he were still alive, his uncle would probably say, That earring might be a bad influence on you, Shinji. To truly love, and to be loved, isn’t a bad thing, you know. Hurry and find yourself a pretty girl.

But earring or not, he still hadn’t been able to fall in love.

Shinji remembered when his little sister, Ikumi, three years younger than him but mature for her age, asked, “Do you want to marry for love? Or would you be okay with an arranged marriage?” He had answered, “I might not get married at all.”

Ikumi. Shinji thought of his sister. If it’s possible, I hope you’ll fall in love and have a happy marriage. Your brother’s going to say goodbye to this world without ever knowing true love.

Shinji looked at Yutaka. “Can I ask you something, Yutaka? Sorry if it might come out sounding rude.”

Yutaka looked blankly at him. “What is it?”

“What was so great about Izumi?”

Yutaka stared at him for a while, then his teary face formed a slight smile. Maybe he was thinking this could be his way of properly honoring her in death, now that flowers weren’t going to be possible.

“I don’t know how to put it,” Yutaka said, “but she was so pretty.”

“Pretty?” Shinji asked, then hurriedly added, “I mean, I’m not saying she wasn’t.”

Izumi Kanai wasn’t all that ugly, Shinji thought, but as far as our class goes, the pretty ones are Takako Chigusa (or maybe she’s just my type), Sakura Ogawa (well, she had Kazuhiko Yamamoto⁠—and they’re both gone now), and Mitsuko Souma (and no matter how good-looking she is, she’s out of the question).

With that little grin, Yutaka said, “When she looked sleepy at her desk, and she rested her cheeks on her hands, she was pretty.” Then he added, “And when she was watering the plants on the little balcony outside our classroom, and she would look so happy touching the leaves, she was pretty.” And then, “And at the field day, when she dropped the baton in the relay race, and she was crying after, she was pretty.” And then, “And during breaks, when she was listening to Yuka Nakagawa or one of the other girls, and she’d hold her stomach as she burst out laughing, she was beautiful.”

Oh.

As he listened to Yutaka rattle on, Shinji felt like a part of him understood completely. Though Yutaka’s explanations weren’t really explaining anything, Shinji thought, I get it. Hey Uncle, I think I’m actually starting to get it.

When Yutaka had finished, he turned to face Shinji.

Shinji stared back at him with soft eyes and tilted his head slightly.

Then he grinned. “I always said you’d be a comedian someday, but you know, you could be a poet.”

Yutaka grinned back.

Then Shinji said, “Hey.”

“What?”

“I don’t know how to say this, but I think Kanai must be happy right now⁠—to know someone loves her that much. She’s probably crying up there in heaven.”

After the incredible poetry of Yutaka’s words, his own sounded banal, but he’d had to say something. Even so, Yutaka’s eyes began to well up with tears again. Then, an instant later, the tears spilled out, trickling down, tracing several white lines down his cheeks.

Choked up, Yutaka said, “You really think so?”

Shinji placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. “I do.” He let out a breath and continued, “One more thing. If you say you’re getting revenge, I’ll help.”

Yutaka’s tear-filled eyes opened wide. “You mean it?”

Shinji nodded. “Yeah.”

It had been on his mind for a while now. No, not that girl issue, but something else⁠—what his future would be in this fucking grand Republic of Greater East Asia.

He’d talked about the future before⁠—now that he thought about it, with Yutaka too. Yutaka had said something like, “I can’t even imagine.” Then, “At the very least, I’ll be a comedian, right?” Shinji had given the glib reply the chuckle it sought, but inside, he felt this was a more serious matter. Maybe Yutaka thought it was serious too but couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. What it all came down to was this: this country was insane. (As Shinji had once said to Shuya Nanahara, “This is what successful fascism looks like. Is there anything as evil anywhere in the world?”)

And the insanity wasn’t limited to this damn game. Anyone who showed the slightest disobedience toward the government ended up being disappeared. Even if the charges were false, the government showed no mercy. Every citizen lived under its fearful shadow, in total compliance, finding sustenance only in the small happinesses of the day‑to‑day. And should those small happinesses be unjustly stolen, the only option was to acquiesce in subservience.

But Shinji had started to believe the way things were was wrong. Probably everyone thought it too⁠—only no one ever dared to come out and say it. Even Shuya Nanahara listened to illegally imported rock music to let off steam. But it never went beyond that. As Shinji began to understand the ways of the world he became more and more convinced that he needed to speak out despite the danger, even if no one else would.

Then, two years ago, it happened⁠—his uncle’s death. On the surface, it appeared to be an accident. When the police came to ask his family to claim his body, they explained that he had been electrocuted while working alone at his factory at night. But Shinji’s uncle had been acting strange for a little while. The man had seemed unusually preoccupied. While Shinji was doing his customary poking around on his uncle’s computer, he asked him what was wrong.

His uncle replied, “Well, one of my old friends⁠ ⁠…” But then he stopped himself, suddenly evasive, and said, “Ah, never mind. It’s nothing.”

My old friends.

Shinji’s uncle hardly ever discussed his past. He always managed to change the subject. When Shinji realized his uncle didn’t want to talk about it, he stopped asking. (And when he asked his father, he was told, “That’s nothing you need to know.”) But his uncle’s breadth of knowledge spanned the legal and the illegal, and behind his explanations on the world and society Shinji perceived a buried dislike, even a hatred, toward their nation. And also⁠ ⁠… something of a shadow. Once, Shinji had said, “You’re incredible, Uncle. You’re so cool.” But his uncle gave a pained smile and said, “That’s not true, Shinji. I’m not cool or any of that. You can’t survive in this country and live with integrity. No, if I were a good person, I’d be long dead by now.” The conclusion Shinji drew from all this was that at some point, his uncle had been involved in some form of resistance against the government. But something had caused him to stand down. At least that’s what Shinji suspected.

Because of this, Shinji was a little worried when he heard his uncle mention his old friends. But, thinking his uncle could handle anything, he decided not to pester him with questions.

But his fears had been well placed. At the time, Shinji had suspected one of his uncle’s old friends, with whom he’d lost contact, had reached out to him, and after some hesitation, he’d decided to take on the assignment.

And then⁠ ⁠… something happened. Since the police in this nation had the right to execute civilians without trial, they didn’t hesitate to do so wherever they were, whether it was at someone’s workplace or out on the street. But when the person involved was related to a prominent figure, it wasn’t unlikely for them to cover up the execution as an “accidental death.” What really disgusted Shinji was that his father had a fairly important role in a fairly important firm. (According to the Republic’s worker classification system, he was a Class-1 worker⁠—the highest rank outside of the upper-level bureaucrats.) What disgusted Shinji even more was that, if his theory was true, his uncle had been “taken care of,” while his good-for-nothing father had, in whatever roundabout way, consented to the government’s actions.

No matter what else, his uncle’s death couldn’t have been an accident. That man would never die some stupid, careless death via accidental electrocution.

Thinking about it now, Shinji sensed that his earring’s former owner may have been linked to his uncle’s past. Trembling with rage at his uncle’s murder, he swore to never bow down to this country.

Shinji was convinced that his uncle’s words⁠—“You can’t survive in this country and live with integrity”⁠—had been a warning. And just as he had warned, he died. But after all that he had taught Shinji, the boy thought this: I’m going to find a way to do what you gave up long ago. I want to be virtuous. After all, isn’t that what you taught me?

But of course that was only a general emotion, and he hadn’t taken any direct action to bring it into reality. He had heard of resistance groups but had no idea where to find them. Besides, his uncle had warned him, “You’re better off not trusting any groups or movements. They’re not all that reliable.” He also thought he was a little too young. But more than anything else, he was scared.

But then even if he got lucky enough to escape this damn game, he’d be a fugitive. If that’s the case, then I can do whatever I want, ironically enough. Whether through some group or on my own, it won’t matter. I’ll do whatever I want to with this country as my enemy. This determination had begun to harden inside him.

And now, Yutaka’s words had given those feelings a final push.

But Shinji decided to set aside such complex emotions for now and instead admit something else he’d been feeling.

“I’m jealous of you, you know⁠—that you had a girl to love. So if you’re doing this, we’re doing it together.”

Yutaka’s lips trembled. “Shit, you mean it? You really mean it?”

“Yeah. I do.” Putting his arm on Yutaka’s shoulder again, Shinji added, “But for now, we need to think of our escape. Killing that one little bastard, Sakamochi, won’t hurt the government. They wouldn’t even feel an itch. If we’re doing this, we’ve gotta have a much bigger goal. Right?”

Yutaka nodded. After a while, he wiped his eyes, and Shinji said, “Hey, you haven’t seen anyone, have you? Aside from Kusaka and Kitano?”

His eyes red from rubbing the tears away, Yutaka looked at Shinji and shook his head. “No. I⁠ ⁠… ran away as soon as I left the school. And I kept on running. What about you, Shinji? Did you see anyone?”

Shinji nodded once. “Just as I left. It must have happened after you were gone⁠—Tendo and Akamatsu’s corpses were right outside the entrance.”

Yutaka’s eyes widened. “They were?”

“Yeah. I think Tendo was killed as soon as she stepped out.”

“And Akamatsu?”

Shinji folded his arms. “I think he killed her.”

Yutaka’s face stiffened again. “Really?”

“Yeah, he was the first one out, so what other reason would he have for being there? He came back and shot her, probably hiding in some shadow. They had arrows sticking out of them, Tendo and Akamatsu both. The same kind of arrows. So he did in Tendo, then tried to attack the next one out, but instead he got his weapon taken from him⁠—probably a crossbow, looking at the arrows⁠—and got killed himself. That’s the simplest scenario.”

“But the next one out⁠ ⁠… that was⁠ ⁠…”

“Nanahara.”

Again Yutaka’s eyes went wide. “Shuya? Shuya killed him? He killed Akamatsu?”

Shinji shook his head. “I don’t know. The most we can know for sure is that Akamatsu wasn’t able to kill Nanahara. And he wasn’t able to kill the one after him either. So it was probably Nanahara who did it. Nanahara could have just knocked him out. He can be a little soft sometimes. Then someone who came out later finished off Akamatsu.”

Shinji thought for a moment, then added, “Nanahara would have escaped with Noriko. He might not have had time to deliver the killing blow.”

“Noriko? Oh, that’s right, she was shot, wasn’t she? That’s when you⁠—”

“Yeah.” Shinji formed a sardonic smile. “If only the game had been delayed. I never expected that to work, but I thought I’d try it. Anyway, Noriko came next after Nanahara. He signaled to her before he left. My desk was close enough to see it.”

Yutaka nodded. “I get it. Noriko was shot, so Shuya⁠ ⁠…”

“Yeah. And there’s the thing with Kuninobu.”

Now really understanding it, Yutaka bobbed his head several times. “That’s right. Nobu, he had a crush on Noriko, didn’t he? So Shuya couldn’t abandon her.”

“Yeah. Well, even without that, a kid like Shuya, I bet he had some plan to join together with everyone who came after him, or something like that. But Akamatsu made it obvious that that was never an option. Especially with Noriko injured. So I think he took off with Noriko, just the two of them.”

Yutaka nodded again. Then his eyes dropped. “I wonder where Shuya is. If you two teamed up, we’d be unstoppable.”

Shinji raised an eyebrow. Yutaka was probably thinking about the masterly combo Shinji and Shuya Nanahara made in the intramural games.

He’s right, Shinji thought. I’d feel a lot better if Nanahara were with us.

And it wasn’t just because of the boy’s athleticism⁠—he had this unfailing brand of courage and the ability, which Shinji shared, to make snap judgments under pressure. But more than anything else, few could be trusted in this game. Such a gentle person (a little too easygoing, from Shinji’s perspective) would never kill his own classmates just so he could survive.

But Shinji reached out again and placed his hand on Yutaka’s shoulder. His friend looked up at him, and he said, “I’m just thankful you’re with me. I’m glad we found each other.”

Yutaka looked like he might begin crying anew. Shinji put on a reassuring smile. Yutaka held back the tears and grinned back.

Then Shinji continued, “Enough about the dead bodies. I noticed someone else. You know the woods on the other side of the schoolyard?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Someone was there. Several people, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think⁠ ⁠… they were waiting for someone. And only five people left after me⁠—Motobuchi and Yamamoto, and Matsui, Minami, and Yahagi. Anyway, they didn’t try to get my attention. They were in a group, so they probably weren’t going to suddenly come after me, but I didn’t see any reason to want to go over to them and join them, either. You said you wished you’d waited for me⁠—but the way things were, that would have been impossible. The fact is that Akamatsu probably came back and killed Tendo. When I saw that group in the woods, I thought, The same could just as easily happen to them. Sure, they could have been well armed. Either way, I got away from there as quickly as I could.”

Shinji paused to wet his lips, then went on. “I saw two others.”

Yutaka’s eyes widened again. “Really?”

Shinji nodded. “During the night, I moved around a bit. And I saw a girl. She’d done her hair up all weird⁠—standing straight up, you know? So I think it was probably Shimizu. When I was walking along the base of the mountain, I saw her moving through the bushes.”

“Didn’t you⁠ ⁠… call out to her?”

Shinji shrugged. “Well, maybe I’m not being fair, but Souma’s friends scare me.”

Yutaka nodded.

“I saw one more person,” Shinji said. “It was that Shogo Kawada.”

Yutaka opened his mouth as if to say, Wow. Then he said, “Kawada, huh.” He spoke the older boy’s name with a certain amount of awe, as did many of the other students. “He’s a little intimidating. So you⁠—”

“Yeah, so I didn’t try joining up with him. But⁠ ⁠…” Shinji glanced up to the sky, then looked back to Yutaka. “He seemed to notice me. I’d gone into a house to look for something. Just as I was about to step outside, I saw him straight ahead. He quickly ducked behind a ridge in the crop fields. He was carrying a shotgun, I think. I hid behind the door, but I could tell that he was watching me for a moment. But then he was gone. He didn’t attack me or anything.”

“Hmm,” Yutaka said. “So, at the very least, Kawada’s not hostile.”

Shinji shook his head. “We can’t be so sure. He could have seen I was armed and decided not to risk an attack. Either way, I wasn’t about to follow him.”

“I see.” Yutaka nodded. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he looked up. “Hey, I didn’t see anything, but just before Kusaka and Kitano were killed, did you hear two other shots?”

Shinji nodded. “Yeah.”

“They didn’t sound like that machine gun. Do you think someone else was shooting at Kusaka?”

“No,” Shinji said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t that. I think someone was trying to stop them. What they were doing was so obviously dangerous. I think whoever fired those shots was trying to scare them into hiding.”

Yutaka leaned forward, nearly frantic. “Then at least whoever fired those shots isn’t hostile.”

“That’s right. But we don’t have any way to meet up with them. We could probably find where they fired from, but surely they’ve already moved. They exposed their location to that machine-gun bastard too.”

Yutaka sat back, dejected. The two remained silent for a while, and Shinji crossed his arms to think. He had been hoping that Yutaka had seen any of their classmates they could trust. If they had stayed in the same place, the two boys could have met up with them. The people he would have trusted were probably the same people that Yutaka would have trusted, and if his friend had come across any of them, he would have joined up with them. But Yutaka had been alone, so none of that really mattered.

But who can we trust anyway? Nanahara⁠ ⁠… and Hiroki Sugimura? Is that all? What about the girls? Maybe the class leader, Yukie Utsumi, and her friends⁠ ⁠… but the girls in class aren’t crazy about me, maybe because I get around too much. Well, Uncle, I guess you were right⁠—I should have found one girl and stuck with her.

Oh well, I must have been lucky just to run into Yutaka. Him I know I can trust.

Then Yutaka said, “Hey, Shinji. You said you were searching for something, right?”

Shinji nodded. “Yeah, I said that.”

“What was it? What were you looking for? Some kind of weapon or something? I should have done that, but I was too scared.”

Shinji looked down at his watch. Well, it should be about finished. The password cracker’s been running for an hour now.

Shinji stood up, tucked his gun in the front of his waistband, and said, “Yutaka, could you move over?”

Yutaka scooted away from the tree he’d been leaning against. Beyond it, bushes extended their roots along the earth, forming a small thicket.

Shinji walked to the cluster of bushes and reached his hand inside. Carefully, he slid it out, accessories, cables, and all.

Yutaka watched in astonishment.

Shinji had pulled out a car battery (that provided the power), a half-disassembled cell phone, and a laptop computer, all interconnected with red and white cords.

The LCD screen was on, though its display was blank.

Blank. That means⁠ ⁠…

Shinji pursed his lips to let out a barely perceptible whistle and pressed the space bar. The computer awoke from its energy-saving sleep mode, its hard disks whirred back to life, and the grayscale desktop came back on the display.

Shinji’s eyes twinkled mischievously as he searched for the last line in the tiny window in the center of the screen. “Shit, that’s all? A vowel substitution, really? That’s so easy, I never would have guessed it.”

Finally, Yutaka said in amazement, “Shinji, is this⁠ ⁠…”

Shinji opened and closed his fists, his customary warm-up to prepare his fingers for their flurry on the keys. He gave Yutaka a grin. “It’s a PowerBook 150. I never would have thought I’d find a sweet machine like this on some island in the middle of nowhere.”

27 students remain.

30

Waiting for her watch to point to ten o’clock, Yoshimi Yahagi (Girls #⁠21) cautiously poked her head out the back door of the house where she hid. The structure was located at the southern edge of the village, far from where Megumi Eto had been killed⁠—though Yoshimi had no idea Megumi had been killed there anyway. She’d only heard the girl’s name in the morning announcement.

Far more pressing from that announcement were the forbidden zones. At eleven a.m., the collars of any players remaining in sector H-8, which included the village, would explode. No pleas could convince the computer to wait.

The rear entrance faced a narrow alleyway that ran between the houses. The house on the other side might not have been even a meter away. She renewed her grip on her firearm (a Colt M1911, .45 caliber), putting both hands on it. It felt sturdy and solid. With her right thumb, she pulled back the heavy hammer. She’d only taken a quick glance, but she didn’t sense anyone down the alley in either direction.

Cold sweat bubbled up on a round, girlish face that didn’t quite suit the bad-girl reputation Yoshimi had earned as part of Mitsuko Souma’s group. Only an hour or two ago, from the second-floor window, she’d seen Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano calling out from the top of the northern mountain. Then she heard the brattattat of the gun. No doubt about it⁠—the killing was on, and not everyone was simply hiding as she was. Some of the others had no trouble killing their classmates. And she couldn’t know where they might suddenly appear.

She stepped out and sidled along the wall to her right. When she reached the corner, she peeked out to the south and saw crop fields extending up the gentle slope of the island, dotted with patches of green. She noticed several houses, though far more scattered than the village where she was. Yoshimi decided she needed to reach the mountain. There she would be safe for the time being.

Yoshimi resituated the daypack on her shoulders and glanced all around. Then she sprinted for a small thicket alongside the fields.

She made it there in seconds and pushed her way into the bushes. Holding her pistol in both hands, she looked to the left and then to the right. No one was there.

She hadn’t gone that far, but her shoulders heaved as she gasped for breath. Keep going, keep going. She was still in H-8. Actually, she might have left the sector already, but it wasn’t like a white line had been drawn across the ground, and she wouldn’t be able to feel right until she made it good and far away. A blue dot marked each house on the map, but with so many of them clustered in the area around the village, she couldn’t be sure which dot denoted which house. And the sector’s border cut straight through that cluster.

Yoshimi wanted to cry. She believed that if she hadn’t been part of Mitsuko Souma’s clique, she would have been able to find the trustworthy girls⁠—those average girls⁠—and moved as a group. But nobody would trust her now. Not after all the bad things she’d done with Mitsuko Souma and Hirono Shimizu⁠—like shoplifting and what was basically extortion. Even if she told the others she didn’t want to hurt them, they probably wouldn’t believe her. In fact, they might attack her on sight.

During the night, Yoshimi had seen another girl before she’d hid inside that house. As she was running into the village, the other girl ran out from it. She wasn’t sure, but she thought it might have been Kayoko Kotohiki (Girls #⁠8). The girl might have initially hidden in the village, then changed her mind and relocated. (That turned out to be the correct decision, since the village became the first forbidden zone.) If she’d wanted to call out to the girl, the timing and distance would have been right. But Yoshimi couldn’t bring herself to do it.

So, then, what about Mitsuko Souma and Hirono Shimizu? Sure, her friends were bad, but they were her friends. If she could find the girls, would they trust her? Could she trust them? Maybe not.

Almost utterly overwhelmed by despair, Yoshimi pictured the face of a certain boy. That face had remained in her mind since the game’s start. He had told her that he didn’t care that she hung out with Mitsuko Souma, he loved her anyway. He kissed her gently on the bed and softly reproved, “Don’t do anything too bad.” He made her believe that she might be able to change.

She had thought he might wait for her outside the school, but when she left, no one was there. The reason was obvious. Mayumi Tendo’s and Yoshio Akamatsu’s bodies lay at her feet, and anyone who lingered risked meeting the same fate. (Yoshimi wondered where their killer had gone.)

The boy in her thoughts was somewhere on the island. But where? Or⁠ ⁠… is he already⁠ ⁠… 

Yoshimi felt a sharp pang in her chest. Tears blurred her vision.

She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sailor top and proceeded to the outer edge of the thicket. But she had a little farther yet to go.

She tightened her grip on the pistol and looked about for the next patch of cover. To her right stood a group of tall trees with dense undergrowth beneath.

Again she sprinted across the field. Tiny branches scratched her face as she dove into the underbrush. Cautiously, she stood into a crouch and looked around. The thick layers of foliage partially blocked her view, but she didn’t see anyone near.

Still ducking, she continued deeper into the copse. It’s all right, it’s all right. There’s no one here.

Yoshimi reached the edge of the thicket. Straight ahead, she could now see the greenery of the southern mountain, with trees large and small set behind a dense grove of what looked to be bamboo. She would find plenty of places to hide there. Okay, I got this. Just one more time. Just once more, and I’ll⁠—

Suddenly, a rustling noise came from behind. Her heart leaped straight up.

Quickly she crouched down. Gripping her Colt M1911, she cautiously turned around. The hair on the back of her neck stood.

Between the trees a mere ten meters away, she caught a flash of black⁠—a school uniform. Her eyes widened in fear. There! Someone’s there!

Clenching her teeth to quell her fear, Yoshimi ducked her head. Her heart pounded, its pace quickening.

Again she heard the rustling sound.

She was sure that no one had been in the copse. Whoever this was had entered the bushes after her. Why? Was I seen? Was I followed?

Her face turned pale.

No, that’s not the only possibility. Whoever it is might simply be on the move, like me. If I was seen, then he⁠—or she⁠—would be coming straight for me. I haven’t been seen. So⁠ ⁠… so I’ll just wait. Wait, and let the other pass by. I can’t move. For now, just don’t move.

With another rustle, the intruder moved again. With her head low, Yoshimi saw through the crowded leaves the figure flitting from tree to tree. From her position, the person moved from right to left, revealing his profile.

Yes! Good, he’s not coming this way⁠—

She was about to let out a sigh of relief when she jolted her head up.

The figure had passed into the trees and out of sight. The rustling sound gradually receded into the distance.

She couldn’t have seen wrong. Had this just been a panic-induced hallucination? No, this was no trick of the mind.

Yoshimi bolted up into a standing crouch and moved toward the noise. After a few meters, she stopped again in the shade of the overgrowth and listened. The leaves blocked most of her view, but she caught sight of the school coat.

Her hands moved without thought, pulling in to her chest. If she hadn’t been holding the pistol, she would have looked like she was praying.

Which, at that moment, she was. If this incredible coincidence had been an act of some god out there, that’s the god to whom she was praying. She had no particular religion, but whichever god it was, she didn’t care. She offered her prayer of thanks. Oh, God, it’s really true! I love you, God!

She stood, and the name tumbled from her lips. “Yoji!”

Yoji Kuramoto (Boys #⁠8) trembled for a moment, then slowly turned around. His face had a vaguely Latin air, and his thick eyelashes moved as his eyes widened and then returned to their normal size. For the briefest instant, his expression seemed to go blank, but Yoshimi was positive that must have been her mind playing tricks on her. A smile blossomed on his face⁠—that familiar smile of the boy who loved her more than anyone else.

“Yoshimi⁠—”

“Yoji!”

With the daypack still over her shoulder, and the M1911 still in her right hand, she ran to him. She felt her face scrunch up, and tears came to her eyes.

In a tiny clearing amid the thicket, he caught her in his arms, his embrace tender yet reassuring.

Without another word, Yoji softly placed his lips on hers. Then he kissed her eyelids and then the tip of her nose. His kisses hadn’t changed at all. This may not have been the right time or place, but her body filled with joy.

When their lips parted, he gazed into her eyes and said, “You’re all right. I was worried about you.”

Still snug in his arms, Yoshimi replied, “Me too. Me too.” Tears spilled out the corners of her eyes and traced down her cheeks.

When Yoji left the classroom, he had glanced back at her. On the verge of crying, she watched him go. Then, from the moment she’d left, through the night and this morning, she’d felt so scared. But now, she’d met the person who she thought she’d never live long enough to see again.

As if the surprise had only now caught up with him, Yoji said, “This⁠ ⁠… what were the chances?”

‘Yeah, it’s incredible, right? I thought⁠—I thought I’d never see you again. Not in this⁠ ⁠… this horrible game.”

As Yoshimi cried, Yoji gently ran his fingers through her hair. “It’s all right now,” he said. “Whatever happens, we’ll be together.”

His words were comforting, but Yoshimi felt her eyes tear up even more. The rules say only one will survive, but for now, I can be with the one I love most. We’ll stay together until that time limit comes. If anyone attacks, Yoji will protect me. Oh God, please tell me this isn’t a dream. Right, God?

Yoshimi thought back to all that had happened since she met Yoji, when they became classmates in eighth grade. It all really began on a day in the fall of that year, when they chanced upon each other on the street and went to a movie together. On Christmas, they split a strawberry shortcake in a cafe, and then kissed that night. For New Year’s, she dressed up in a long-sleeved kimono for the first temple visit of the year. (The fortune she drew was a “Small Blessing,” while Yoji got a “Great Blessing”⁠—which he exchanged with hers.) Then, a night she’d never forget, on Saturday, the eighteenth of January, she spent her first night at Yoji’s house.

Yoshimi asked him, “Where have you been?”

Yoji pointed toward the village. “I was in one of those houses. But you know, this collar⁠—at eleven, it was going to explode. So⁠ ⁠…”

His expression was serious, but Yoshimi thought it was all funny. We were so near. This whole game I’ve been wondering where he was, and he’s been so near all along!

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I was there too. I was hiding in one of those houses. We must have been right by each other.”

They both grinned. She watched his smiling face, savoring the happiness of being able to share a smile with someone she loved. It may have seemed such a trivial thing, but it wasn’t at all. Nothing was more important. And now, she had reclaimed that happiness for herself.

Yoji gently loosened his embrace. He looked down to her right hand, finally noticing it, and Yoshimi realized she was still holding the gun. She gave him an embarrassed smile and laughed. “I totally forgot.”

He returned the smile. “That’s a fine weapon. Look at what I ended up with.”

He showed her what he’d been holding. She hadn’t noticed the weapon at all. It was a sheathed tantō short sword straight out of an antique store. The cord wrapped around the grip was frayed, and the oval-shaped guard had taken on a patina. Yoji revealed a bit of the blade, spotted with rust. He slid the blade back into its sheath and tucked it under his belt.

“Let me see yours,” he said.

Pointing the barrel to the side, Yoshimi offered him the pistol. “Here, just take it. I don’t think I’d be very good with it, anyway.”

Yoji nodded and took the Colt M1911. He held the grip and checked the safety. He pulled back the slide and exposed the chambered round. The hammer was still cocked.

“Got any ammo for this thing?”

With the magazine already fully loaded, Yoshimi nodded, searched through her daypack, then gave Yoji the cardboard box of ammunition. He took it with one hand, flipped open the lid with his thumb, and looked inside. Then he stuffed the box into the pocket of his uniform.

Then, the next moment, Yoshimi couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Completely unable to comprehend the reason for what was happening, she stared at his hands as if watching him perform some baffling magic trick.

Yoji was pointing the Colt M1911 at her.

“Yoji?”

She stood there in shock as he took a few steps back.

“Yoji?” she repeated.

Finally, she perceived that his face was no longer his own. It had contorted. The parts were all the same⁠—those long eyelashes, the large, hooked nose, the wide mouth⁠—but that face, with the twisted mouth and bared teeth, was one Yoshimi had never seen before.

From that contorted mouth, he spat out, “Go. Get the fuck out of here.”

For a moment, Yoshimi couldn’t understand his words.

Irritated, he continued, “I don’t care where. I said go!”

Still stunned, Yoshimi heard her mouth form the word “Why?”

The irritation in his voice grew stronger. “You think I can stand to be with some bitch like you? Get the fuck away from me!”

Something inside her began to crumble, first slowly, then faster. “Why?” Her voice trembled. “Did I⁠ ⁠… did I⁠ ⁠… do something wrong?”

Keeping the gun pointed at her, Yoji spat to the side. “Don’t make me laugh. I know you’re a worthless bitch. You’ve been arrested by the cops. Better yet, you’ve been sleeping with guys old enough to be your dad. Did you think I didn’t know? Do you expect me to trust a bitch like you?”

Yoshimi’s jaw dropped. She gaped at him.

What he said was⁠ ⁠… true. She had been arrested several times for shoplifting and for blackmailing a high schooler with her friends. And then there was the prostitution. It had happened a long time ago, but she had slept with some middle-aged men Mitsuko Souma had introduced her to. She’d only done it a few times. The money was good, and everyone else was doing it. Besides, at the time, she was fed up with her life, so she didn’t hate putting on the unfamiliar makeup, acting like an adult, and being with those men who were generous in their own way. She had assumed Yoji knew all this about her.

And she had put an end to all of that on that autumn day when they started dating. She still hung out with Mitsuko Souma and Hirono Shimizu, and she couldn’t suddenly pretend she was a good student, but at the very least, she stopped selling herself, and she did what she could to keep herself out of trouble. And so she believed that Yoji had forgiven her and loved her despite her past.

She believed that the whole time.

A single tear rolled down her cheek. “I⁠—I don’t do that kind of thing anymore.” Now she cried tears very different from the ones before. “I wanted⁠ ⁠… I wanted to be the woman you deserved.”

For a moment, Yoji stared at her, looking as if he’d been struck.

But then that twisted expression returned. “You lie! Stop pretending to cry!”

Yoshimi stared at him with her teary eyes. Again her words came tumbling out. “If that’s how⁠ ⁠… if that’s how you think, why did you go out with me?”

His answer came immediately. “I thought a slut like you would be an easy lay. Why else? Now go! Get out of here. Fuck!”

Something overcame Yoshimi, and she rushed toward him. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to hear him say another word, or maybe it was because she couldn’t deal with the reality that he was pointing the gun at her.

“Stop it!” she yelled through her tears. “Please stop it!”

She tried to grab the gun from his hands.

He dodged to the side and shoved her away. Her daypack slid down to her arm, and she fell on her back in the grass.

Then he was on top of her.

“What the hell are you doing!” he yelled. “Shit. You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? Fuck! I’ll kill you right here.”

He pointed the gun at her, and she frantically grasped his wrist with both hands. Then he added his other hand to the weapon, and the pistol inched downward until it was almost to her head. The rushing of her blood pounded in her ears.

Pushing as hard as she could, she yelled, “Yoji! Please! Stop, Yoji!”

Yoji said nothing. His bloodshot eyes glared down at her. His arms came down on her with a steady, mechanical force. Five centimeters left. Four centimeters. Three centimeters. If he fired now, the bullet would graze her hair. Two centimeters, and⁠ ⁠…

The sadness and fear tore her apart. But suddenly, a thought pushed through the fractures.

She understood everything now. She didn’t want to believe it, but she knew that the person she had so loved had only been an illusion.

And yet, it was a wonderful illusion. She had believed that with him, she could have started a new life. No matter what he was, Yoji had given her that dream. Without him, she never would have thought it possible.

She thought back to the time they were eating ice cream at the only burger stand in Shiroiwa. She got ice cream on the tip of her nose, and he said, “You’re so cute.” She thought that, at least, hadn’t been a lie.

She had loved him.

Yoshimi relaxed her arms. The gun snapped down to aim at her forehead. His finger was on the trigger.

She gazed up at him, and quietly she said, “Thank you, Yoji. I was happy when I was with you.”

His eyes went wide as if he’d finally realized something important, and he froze.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Shoot me.”

She smiled and closed her eyes.

He was still pointing the gun at her, but his arms began to tremble.

She waited for the hot bullet to bore its way into her head. But as long as she waited, the sound of the gunshot never came.

Instead, she heard a scratchy whisper. “Yoshimi⁠ ⁠…”

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

Their eyes met. Through the blur of the thin layer of tears, she saw Yoji’s eyes return to the familiar ones of the boy she loved⁠—only now, they were tinged with shame and regret.

Oh!

He understands! Yoji, is this real?

A sudden thunk noise sounded satisfying, though slightly disturbing and wet, like someone had stomped their heel against a damp wooden floor.

Almost simultaneously, Yoji’s finger pulled the trigger⁠—not that he had meant to. It was only a reflex. The gunshot, like an exploding firecracker, made Yoshimi shriek. But Yoji had already pointed the gun away from her, and the bullet lodged into the grass above her head, sending up a little cloud of dirt.

Yoji’s lifeless body toppled over onto her, then was completely still.

As she scrambled out from under him, Yoshimi looked over the shoulder of his black uniform and saw a smiling face. It was her longtime partner in crime, Mitsuko Souma.

Yoshimi didn’t understand what was happening. Though she didn’t know why, the smile on that sweet, beautiful, angelic face brought on a deep-seated terror.

Mitsuko asked, “Are you all right?” took her hand, and pulled her free from Yoji’s body.

There in the tall grass, Yoshimi rose unsteadily to her feet. Then she saw it. Planted deeply in the back of Yoji’s head was an extremely sharp sickle. (A sickle! As a city girl, atypical for Shiroiwa, Yoshimi had never seen one before.)

Leaving the sickle where it was for now, Mitsuko went for the Colt M1911 in his hand. His muscles had stiffened, so she pried up one stiff finger at a time. Once she had it securely in her grasp, she grinned.

Yoshimi just stood there, looking down at Yoji’s body⁠—just an empty shell now⁠—and trembled. She shook, and she shook. She had lost someone so important so easily. She felt like she had when she was a small child (back when she was more innocent), and her favorite glass figurine fell and shattered on the ground⁠—though the scale of her emotion couldn’t be compared.

Yoshimi’s senses returned, back on earth from somewhere high above the sky. She saw Mitsuko (she had been seeing this whole time, of course, but the visual information hadn’t reached her consciousness) put both hands on the sickle in the back of Yoji’s head and start to wriggle the weapon free. His head shook along with it.

“No!” Yoshimi screamed and shoved Mitsuko aside. The girl fell back onto the grass, and the hem of her pleated skirt shifted up to her thighs, revealing her well-formed, beautiful legs.

Heedless of Mitsuko, Yoshimi shielded Yoji’s body. The sickle remained planted in his skull. Teardrops fell from her eyes. The sickle was telling her, Shaking me won’t bring me back to life. Don’t shake me. This thing’s stuck in me⁠—can’t you see it hurts?

Giant waves of emotion swept through her. She was drowning in the feeling that the world was coming apart. Her mind came to the reason for all her pain, and with tear-filled eyes, she glared fiercely at Mitsuko. She tried to kill her with her stare. Any awareness of the game, and concerns over who were her friends and who were her enemies, had vanished from her thoughts. If anyone was her enemy, it was Mitsuko Souma, who had stolen from her the one she loved.

“Why did you kill him?”

Yoshimi’s words sounded hollow to her own ears. She had nothing left inside⁠—she felt like an empty pit in the shape of a human. Yet still she managed to speak. Humans were capable of such strange things.

“Why? Why did you kill him? You’re cruel! You’re too cruel! You devil! Why did you have to kill him? Why?”

Mitsuko scrunched her lips in dissatisfaction. “He was about to kill you. I saved your life.”

“No! Yoji understood. He understood me! You’re the devil. I’ll kill you! I’m going to kill you! Yoji understood me.”

With a shrug and a shake of her hand, Mitsuko pointed the Colt at her. Yoshimi’s eyes widened.

And so Yoshimi heard that dry firecracker pop one more time. She felt as if an entire car had crashed into a single point high on her forehead. That was all there was.

Yoshimi Yahagi fell onto her beloved Yoji Kuramoto and moved no more. The .45 caliber bullet had demolished half of the back side of her head. But her mouth remained intact, open, as if to scream, blood oozing from the corner, soaking a dark patch into Yoji’s school coat.

Mitsuko Souma lowered the smoking Colt and shrugged again. She’d thought she could have used the girl for a little while at least, to soak up a bullet or two.

Then she said, “Yeah, I guess he did understand you.”

She bent over and brought her mouth next to Yoshimi’s ear. The girl’s head had been half obliterated, and a gray, gelatinous mixture of blood and brain matter formed a sinister layer of topping on her earlobe.

“It seemed like he’d decided not to kill you. That’s why I killed him.”

Then she got back to pulling the sickle out of Yoji’s skull.

25 students remain.

31

The wind carried a faint sound to Shuya and the others. He looked up. Then the sound came again. He listened for a while, but that had been it. The only noise in that deep thicket belonged to the treetops rustling in the breeze above.

Shuya looked over to Kawada, who was sitting by his side. “Was that⁠ ⁠… gunfire?”

“That was gunfire,” Kawada said.

Noriko began, “That means another⁠—”

Kawada shook his head. “We don’t know that.”

The three had been silent for several minutes, but prompted by the gunfire, Kawada opened his mouth to speak. “Okay, listen up, you two. It’s good that you trust me, but it’s like I said⁠—we need to survive until the end. So there are a few things I want to set straight.”

He looked at Shuya. “Are you prepared to be merciless, Nanahara?”

Shuya gulped. “Who to? The government?”

“Them too, of course.” Kawada nodded. “But I’m asking if you’re ready to kill your classmates⁠—not if but when they attack us.”

Shuya lowered his head a little, and when he spoke, his voice sounded feeble. “If it comes to that, I won’t have any other choice.”

“What if it’s a girl?”

Shuya’s lips tightened. His eyes went to Kawada and then back down. “I won’t have any other choice.”

“All right then. Just as long as we’re clear.”

Kawada nodded and gripped the shotgun resting on his crossed legs. Then he added, “If you’re too busy getting all upset every time you kill someone, someone else will come along and kill you.”

Shuya debated whether or not to ask Kawada something. He decided it wasn’t right to ask, but the question came tumbling out against his will.

“What about you? Were you merciless⁠—one year ago?”

Kawada shrugged. “Yeah. Do you want to hear the details? How many guys I killed? How many girls I killed? All the way until I won?”

Noriko crossed her arms in front of her chest and clutched her elbows.

“No⁠ ⁠… never mind.” Shuya shook his head. “Hearing that won’t help anything.”

They fell silent for a time. Then, uncharacteristically apologetic, Kawada said, “I couldn’t help it. Some of them had gone half insane⁠—and some had no problem with killing as many of the others as they could. The ones who were more like my friends died right away, and I wasn’t able to team up with anyone. But I couldn’t accept letting myself get killed as an option.”

He paused, then added, “I also had something I needed to do. And so I couldn’t die.”

Shuya lifted his head. “What was that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Kawada smiled a little, but a fierce sparkle flickered across his eyes. “I’m going to tear down this fucked-up country⁠—this country that dropped us into this fucked-up game.”

Seeing Kawada’s lips twist in anger, Shuya thought, Oh, him too. Shuya had also been wanting to strike back against the bastards running the game⁠—the bastards who had no qualms about running this sadistic game of musical chairs, this bullshit game that turned the students against each other. He wanted to smash them straight to the bottom of hell.

And what about those friends Kawada had mentioned, who had died right away. He’d said it in passing, but maybe they were as important to him as Yoshitoki was to Shuya.

Shuya thought about asking Kawada about it but decided against it. Instead, he said, “You told us you did a lot of studying⁠ ⁠… Is this what you studied for?”

Kawada nodded. “It wouldn’t have been long before I did something against this country.”

“Like what?”

“Beats me.” Kawada grimaced and shook his head. “Bringing down a system that’s already been built up is easier said than done. But I would have done something. I think I would have. And I still mean to. That’s why I’m going to survive this time too.”

Shuya looked down, between his upraised knees, at the revolver hanging limply in his hands. Another question flitted into his mind, and he looked back up and asked, “If you know this one, can you clue me in?”

“What is it?”

“What’s the point of this game? Is there a point to all this?”

Kawada’s eyes widened a little, but then he looked down and let out a chuckle. He must have found the question pretty funny. Then finally, he said, “Of course there isn’t.”

“But,” Noriko interjected, “don’t they say it’s necessary for national security?”

Keeping the amused smile, Kawada shook his head. “That’s crazy talk. Although with how crazy this whole country is, maybe that’s what passes for rational.”

“Okay, fine.” Shuya felt his anger rising. “Then why is it still happening?”

“That’s simple. It keeps happening because nobody speaks up.”

Seeing that Shuya and Noriko were at a loss for words, Kawada added, “Look, the government is run by nothing but idiots. Not only that, but you can’t get into the government unless you’re an idiot in the first place. I think whenever this lovely little game was concocted⁠—probably by some lunatic military theorist⁠—nobody said a word against it. Butting in on the business of the experts only brings trouble. And in this country, it’s terribly difficult to discontinue something once it’s been established. Stick your nose into something that doesn’t concern you, and you’ll be out on your ass. Or maybe you’ll be sent to a labor camp on charges of deviant ideological tendencies. Even if nearly everyone is against it, nobody says anything. And so nothing changes. There are a lot of screwed-up things in our country, but they’re all structurally the same. It’s textbook fascism. And⁠ ⁠…”

Kawada looked at both of them. “You two⁠—and the same goes for me⁠—even if we feel that something doesn’t make sense, we can’t speak out. Your own life is too important, right?”

Shuya couldn’t respond to that. The anger that filled him had lost its fire.

Noriko said, “It’s shameful.”

Shuya glanced at Noriko. Her sad eyes were looking down. Right, he thought. Absolutely right.

Kawada said, “You know how there used to be a Republic of South Korea?”

Kawada was staring straight ahead, where a single pink azalea flower bloomed between the leaves on a nearby tree.

The sudden change of subject puzzled Shuya, but he answered anyway. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. It was the southern half of what’s now the DRKP.”

Their textbooks had explained the long-running war between the two nations of one people⁠—officially, the People’s Republic of South Korea and the Democratic Republic of the Korean Peninsula⁠—on the other side of the sea to the west of their Republic of Greater East Asia. The textbooks read, “Though we regarded the Republic of South Korea as a friendly nation, the sovereign state was forcibly annexed by the DRKP in 1968, following a scheme hatched by the American Empire and a segment of the DRKP’s imperialist class.” (Naturally, this passage was followed by this: “For the sake of the freedom and democracy of the entire Korean people, our nation must quickly drive out the DRKP imperialists and annex their territory, and advance one step further toward the ideal of coexistence between all peoples of Greater East Asia.”)

“Right.” Kawada nodded. “The Republic of South Korea was a lot like our country. Tyranny, utter submission to the Leader, indoctrination, isolationism, information control, and encouraging domestic informants. But after only forty years, the state failed. And yet our Republic of Greater East Asia cruises along with nothing to stop it. Why do you think that is?”

Shuya considered it, though he’d never really put much thought into that kind of subject before. Regarding the defeat of the People’s Republic of South Korea, his textbook had said it was “entirely due to the devious schemes of the American Empire and other imperialists.” (And in vocabulary clearly beyond the level of a junior high student.)

Okay, so, how then does our Republic of Greater East Asia continue to thrive? Of course the Republic of South Korea shared a land border with the DRKP, but there had to be more to it than that⁠ ⁠… 

Shuya shook his head. “I can’t figure it out.”

Kawada looked him in the eye and gave him a small nod, then said, “First of all, it’s a matter of keeping balance.”

“Balance?”

“Right. The Republic of South Korea was totalitarian, while we⁠—well, for sure in our country, oppressive social control is the rule. But where they were clever was⁠—and who knows if this was intentional or not, but by now the result is clear. The really clever thing was, they left us a few scraps of freedom. Meanwhile, they tell us, ‘Of course freedom is a natural human right, but for the common good, we occasionally need to observe limitations.’ Sounds legit, right? At least as far as the statement goes.”

Shuya and Noriko quietly listened to what Kawada had to say.

Kawada added, “And so our country took off. That was seventy-six years ago now.”

Noriko cut in. “Seventy-six years ago?” As she hugged her knees through her pleated skirt, her head tilted quizzically.

“What,” Kawada said, “didn’t you know?”

Noriko looked at Shuya, who gave her a little nod and then said to Kawada, “I heard a little something about that. The history in our textbooks is one huge lie, and the current Leader isn’t the three hundred and twenty-fifth Leader, but rather only the twelfth.”

Shinji Mimura had educated him on that. Noriko’s not being aware was only natural. They didn’t teach that at school, and the adults typically kept their mouths shut. (Besides, some of them might not even know.) When he heard it from Shinji, Shuya was astonished. Not even eighty years ago, before the emergence of the first Leader⁠—and there must have been some grand-scale revolution⁠—their country had been entirely different, in name and structure and all. (Shinji had explained, “Before the revolution, this was a feudal state, and everyone had this tripped-out hairstyle called chonmage. There was also a discriminatory caste system, but frankly, it was a lot better than what we have now.”)

Shuya glanced at Noriko’s surprised face, but his own eyebrows shot up when Kawada added, “Well, that might not be true either.”

“What do you mean?” Shuya asked.

Kawada smiled, then offered, “There is no Leader. He’s just a fictional character⁠—at least that’s what some say.”

“What?”

“That can’t be,” Noriko gasped. “I’ve seen him on the news. And on New Year’s he appears at his palace, in front of a crowd of normal people⁠—”

“It seems that way.” Kawada grinned. “But who are those ‘normal people’? Have you ever met any of them? What if they were merely actors, just like the Leader himself?”

Shuya considered the possibility. He immediately felt sick, with the nauseous, uneasy feeling that everything was a lie, and truth was nowhere to be found.

Dejectedly, Shuya asked, “Is that really true?”

“I don’t know. It’s just something I heard. But it’s certainly a plausible theory.”

“Where the hell did you hear something like that, anyway?” Shuya asked. Then, remembering Shinji, he added, “Did you get it from the Net?”

Kawada smiled again, but only with his mouth. “Unfortunately, I’m no good with computers, but there are ways to find out if you care to look. Anyway, I think it’s certainly plausible, because that way, they can avoid making a supreme figure of authority. Then, everyone in the government’s inner circle would be equal⁠—with equal freedom. And equal responsibilities. No unfairness. No one to complain. There’s just that one ingenious ruse. Because as long as they had that central unifying figure, they wouldn’t be forced to inform the common people what was really going on.”

Kawada let out a deep breath, then continued, “Anyhow, that’s not important. To get back to what I was saying, this country took its first successful step. And its successes built, and built, and built. But when I say it succeeded, I mean as a modern industrial nation. Even with the policy of partial seclusion, we slowly drew into our economy the neutral countries, not aligned with ourselves or the Americans, importing raw materials and exporting manufactured goods. And our products sold well. But that’s only to be expected, since the products we make are all high quality. On that point, we rival America. The only sectors where we lag a hair behind are space technology and computers. But that high quality is the result of the individual’s obedience to the group, and the coercive directions of the government. But still⁠ ⁠… ” He stopped himself, then shook his head. “And once the system begins to succeed, the people are going to begin fearing any change. When it becomes successful enough, and the people enjoy a high quality of life, the idea of completely upending everything might seem preposterous. So what if there are little problems here and there⁠—a few small sacrifices are inevitable.”

Kawada looked at Shuya and gave him a sardonic smirk. “Of course one of those ‘little problems,’ and ‘small sacrifices,’ is this happy little game. Sure, it’s bound to be hard on the participants and their families, but sadly, they’re too few. Given time, even most of the families move on. You know that old phrase, ‘Those who’ve gone become more distant with each day.’ ”

Kawada’s winding explanation had come full circle, back to this bullshit game of which the Republic of Greater East Asia was so proud. But now, noticing Shuya’s contorted frown, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m going to puke,” Shuya said. He’d finally begun to understand what Shinji Mimura had meant when he said, “This is what successful fascism looks like. Is there anything as evil anywhere in the world?” Shinji must have been long aware of everything Shuya had just now learned.

“Well. How about I give you another one that’ll make you sick?” Kawada seemed to be enjoying this. He continued, “I’ve been thinking that another difference between us and the Republic of South Korea might be ethnic.”

“Ethnic?”

Kawada nodded. “Yeah. In other words, I think the system used by our government has been tailor-made to fit its people. Obedience to our superiors. Following blindly. Dependence on others and following the herd. A conservative nature and avoidance of conflict. That hopeless stupidity that enables a person, who, say, snitched on someone else, to convince himself that he did the right thing, provided someone else offered the noble-sounding rationale that it was for the good of the group. And so on, and so on. Have they no pride? Have they no reason? They can’t think with their own heads. They just follow, like little baa-baa-ing sheep. Just makes me want to puke.”

Shuya agreed, and so did his stomach.

But then Noriko cut in. “I think you’re wrong.”

Shuya and Kawada looked at her. From the way she sat, hunched over, hugging her knees, Shuya thought the fatigue was starting to catch up with her. But she returned their gazes and spoke clearly. “I didn’t know any of this. I’ve heard a lot of things for the first time just now. If everything you’re saying is true, and if everyone knew the whole story, they wouldn’t stay silent. Things must be the way they are because everyone is kept in the dark. I don’t want to believe that we’re all fundamentally bad people as you say. I’m not saying we’re an especially noble people, but I know we’re just as capable of rational thought as anyone else on the planet.”

As he listened to Noriko, Kawada smiled. It was a deeply tender smile. Then he said, “I like the way you talk, Noriko.”

Meanwhile, Shuya regarded her anew. She hadn’t stood out that much in class, and he’d always figured her as the kind of girl who rarely expressed her opinions as openly as she had done just now. As strange as it was, he felt like he was seeing more and more of a different side of her since the game began. Maybe he had just been too foolish to see it before. And maybe Yoshitoki had seen that side of her all along.

Either way, hers was a far more admirable view than the one that made him “want to puke.” But more than that, he thought she was right. No matter what, this was their country, where they were born, and where they grew up. (Though given the circumstances, he couldn’t be sure how much more growing up was left for them.) Maybe someday the American Empire, or America, or whatever it was called, would liberate them, but the future was up to themselves. They couldn’t rely on others⁠—and ultimately, perhaps they had no one on whom they could rely.

Shuya returned his gaze to Kawada and asked, “Hey, Kawada, do you think we can really change this country?”

But to his disappointment, Kawada simply shook his head. Shuya had expected a more encouraging response from the guy who swore he’d “tear down this fucked-up country.”

Sounding a little foolish, Shuya said, “But didn’t you just say you’d tear down this country?”

Kawada took out a cigarette, his first in a while, then lit it and crossed his arms. “Shall I tell you what I think?”

Shuya nodded.

Kawada folded his arms, took the cigarette from his lips, and exhaled a puff of smoke. “I think that history moves in waves.”

Not quite understanding, Shuya was about to ask what he meant. But before he could, Kawada continued, “Come a certain time, and come a certain set of circumstances, this country will change, whether we do anything or not. I don’t know if it’ll be a war or a revolution. And I don’t know when that time will come. Maybe it never will.”

Kawada took another drag and exhaled it. “But in any case, right now, it’s impossible, as far as I can tell. Like I just said, this country has gone insane, but it’s also well designed. It’s extremely well designed.”

Kawada pointed at the other two with his cigarette. “Okay, here we have a nation that’s rotting. If you can’t stand the smell, you should take the wisest action⁠—to throw it away and go someplace else. There has to be some way to flee the country. Do that, and you’ll be able to live free from the stench. You might get homesick every now and then, but you’ll go every day, free from hardship. But that’s not for me.”

Shuya rubbed his hands on his thighs. This was what he’d been waiting for⁠—for Kawada to echo his thoughts, that this is his country, so he wanted to do what he could. Hadn’t Bob Marley sung about this?

“Why not?” Shuya asked.

But Kawada’s answer came from a somewhat different place.

“I want satisfaction. I want revenge. Even if the only result is getting to feel self-satisfied, I want to strike a blow against this country. That’s all. As for whether that’ll bring about any reform, well, I have major doubts.”

Shuya took in a little breath, then said, “The way you talk, it sounds hopeless.”

“It is hopeless,” Kawada said.

25 students remain.

32

When he heard the two distant gunshots, Yutaka cowered. Shinji interrupted his keystrokes.

“That’s⁠—” Yutaka said.

Shinji nodded. “More gunfire.”

Then Shinji quickly resumed his work. He might have been a little brusque, but he couldn’t afford to be concerned with others.

Yutaka looked down at Shinji’s fingers, while his own towel bandaged hands held the Beretta his friend gave to him to look after.

“Hey, Shinji,” Yutaka said impatiently, “what are you doing with that computer, anyway? Can’t you tell me yet?”

After rebooting the communications software and dialing up through his cell phone, Shinji had started banging away at the keyboard, occasionally exclaiming, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” or “Oh, shit, oh, right,” or “Okay!” But he hadn’t given Yutaka any explanation at all.

“Hold on. Almost⁠ ⁠… done.”

Shinji was typing again. Inside a window near the center of the monochrome display, English words streamed by, interspersed with special characters like “%” and “#” and so on. Shinji typed in response.

“All right,” Shinji said.

Having initiated the download, Shinji’s hands rested. He had performed the basic operations in Unix (natch), but since this was a Mac after all, he’d set up a graphical download progress meter that popped up in a separate window. Shinji stretched his arms over his head. All that remained was to wait for the download to finish⁠—though once it did, he still had to overwrite the log entry to erase his tracks. Then he’d use the data to come up with a plan. He could simply overwrite the data, or possibly put together his own program to outwit his opponents. The latter would take some doing, but he figured half a day would suffice.

Yutaka repeated, “Shinji, tell me what’s going on.”

With a grin, Shinji backed away from the laptop and leaned against his old tree. He still felt a little keyed up, so he took a deep breath to calm himself. His excitement was only natural; after all, when he’d revealed the PowerBook 150 to Yutaka, he hadn’t yet known for sure, but now he did. Victory was as good as his.

Slowly, he opened his mouth to speak. “The thing is, I’ve been thinking about how to escape from here.”

Yutaka nodded.

“But this, you see,” Shinji said, pointing to his neck. He couldn’t see the collar there, but it was probably identical to the silver band around Yutaka’s neck. “I wanted to get these off, no matter what. Thanks to them, that bastard, Sakamochi, knows where we are. Right now, he knows we’re here together. And if we try to escape, these will make it easy for them to capture us⁠—or, they could send a signal to the explosives inside and kill us in an instant. I wanted to get them off.”

He opened his hands, then shrugged. “But I gave up. As long as I don’t know how they’re built on the inside, I can’t mess with them. Sakamochi said they would explode if we took them apart, and I doubt he was bluffing. The detonating cord is probably lining the inside of the outer casing. If the wire gets cut, the explosives will go off. Why cross a collapsing bridge? I thought about sliding a metal plate between the collar and the neck, but to fit, the metal would probably be too thin to stop the explosion.”

Yutaka nodded again.

“So then I had an idea. What about getting that computer inside the school, the one that supervises our capture and operates the detonation signal, to work for us? Do you get what I’m saying?”

Shinji had learned the basics of how to use a computer from his uncle. But when his mentor died, leaving him his computer, Shinji worked at mastering it with the same level of passion he applied to the basketball court. From time to time, he infiltrated the restricted international line to access the real Internet (what this country called the “Internet” was in reality nothing more than a closed network⁠—the laughably named “Greater East Asia Net”), where he acquired even more advanced techniques along with the latest news from around the world. This was of course illegal, and though the punishment didn’t go as far as execution, a child Shinji’s age would get two years in a juvenile detention center for ideological criminals.

For that reason, Shinji honed his skills at avoiding detection, and he never told anyone what he was doing⁠—though he did show Yutaka some pictures he’d downloaded (dirty pictures, mostly, but what else would you expect?). By any measure, Shinji had acquired considerable hacking skills.

“So I went looking for a computer,” Shinji said. “I already had my cell phone, you know. I guess we were allowed to keep all of our stuff in this stupid game, so it’s too bad I didn’t bring along my own laptop. Anyway, I found this baby, so it worked out. I still needed power, so I took that battery from a car. I had to mess with the voltage, but that was no big deal.”

As Shinji explained, Yutaka began nodding. He seemed to be finally coming to grasp, if vaguely, what those objects on the ground in front of him were up to. But then, as if a thought suddenly came to him, he interrupted. “But, but⁠ ⁠… didn’t Sakamochi say that we couldn’t use the phones? So then do cell phones work?”

Shinji shook his head. “No. That’s a no go. I tried a number⁠—the weather information⁠—and Sakamochi picked up. ‘Fair weather at the Shiroiwa Junior High Program Headquarters,’ he said. I hung up right away, ’cause I was so pissed that I felt sick. Anyway, that means that they’re controlling the nearest cell tower. I don’t think a phone with any provider would work.”

“So⁠—”

Shinji held up a finger, cutting him off. “Think about it. They must have some way to reach the outside. And their computers must be connected to other government computers⁠—for their own security, among other reasons. So how do they communicate with the outside world? It’s simple. The mobile networks selectively allow only the calls originating from military numbers.”

“So we can’t⁠—”

Shinji cut him off again, then grinned. “But⁠—there’s always a ‘but.’ I thought that even with those measures, wouldn’t they have set it up so that someone from the phone company, at the very least, could operate the system in case something went wrong?”

Shinji reached for the cell phone on the ground and said, “I never told you this, but my phone’s a little special. Its ROM has two sets of phone numbers and network IDs. You can’t tell by looking at it, but I can switch between them by turning this screw ninety degrees. As for that second number, I programmed it when I was playing around with making phone calls for free.” He let go of the phone. “It’s the number used by phone company technicians to test phone lines.”

“So⁠ ⁠… that means⁠ ⁠…”

Shinji winked. “Exactly. The rest is simple. Well, connecting the landline modem to the cell phone was a little tricky. I don’t exactly have the proper tools out here. But I managed it. And I reached the network. Then I accessed my home computer. Hacking isn’t just like regular network access⁠—you need special tools, like password-cracking software, so I needed to download that stuff before I could do anything else. Then my first target was the prefectural government’s site. The national systems like Central Processing must be well guarded, but I figured down at the prefectural level security would be softer. I was right. Then I figured that no matter how directly the Program is managed by the central government, they would have to be in some level of contact with the local prefecture. I was right there too. I saw unfamiliar addresses in the communications log files. Reading through the mailbox, I found an e-mail to the superintendent notifying him that the game had begun. So I broke into the sender’s site next⁠—the provisional server in that school. The next part was a bit of a pain in the ass, but I looked around as best I could and found a backup of a work file someone had screwed up and left behind. I nabbed it. I’ll spare you the details, but I found a piece of encrypted text that looked like it might be important. The Mac’s been working at breaking it for me since before I met up with you. And here’s what it found⁠ ⁠…”

Shinji reached for the PowerBook. Leaving the connection status window open, he summoned a text file written in a gigantic 24-point font and showed Yutaka the display. Yutaka leaned in to see.

kinpati ⁠— sakamocho

“Sakamocho⁠ ⁠… ?” Yutaka asked.

“Yeah. I think it’s Spanish or something. Just a stupid little vowel change to make it harder to guess. But that’s the root password. Now I can do whatever I want. That’s what I’ve been up to now. I’ve just scraped every bit of data from inside the school computers. After I poke through the files, I’ll be able to log back into those computers and disable these collars locked around our necks. They think they’re all safe inside the forbidden zone, where we can’t come near. We can attack them by surprise. We’ll have a chance against them. Then, once we’ve taken over the school, we should be able to help the others. And if not, we’ll fake our deaths, and the two of us can wave this island goodbye.”

Shinji paused to catch his breath, then grinned again. “What do you think?”

Yutaka wore an expression of astonishment. “Incredible.”

Pleased by his friend’s reaction, Shinji smiled. Thanks, Yutaka. Whatever else is happening, it’s always nice to have my skills appreciated.

“Shinji,” Yutaka said, still looking astonished.

Shinji raised his eyebrows. “What’s up? Do you have a question?”

“No.” Yutaka shook his head. “I was just⁠—I was wondering⁠ ⁠…”

“What?”

Yutaka dropped his eyes to glance at the Beretta in his hand, then looked back up. “Well⁠ ⁠… why are you friends with a guy like me?”

Shinji didn’t understand what Yutaka was getting at. His mouth hung open, then he said, “What are you talking about?”

Yutaka looked down again. “It’s⁠—it’s just⁠ ⁠… you’re really incredible. I get how you could be friends with someone like Shuya. He’s just about as good at sports as you are, and he’s awesome at the guitar. But⁠ ⁠… but I’m nothing. So I was wondering why you’d be friends with someone like me.”

Shinji watched Yutaka’s downturned face. Then slowly and softly, he said, “Don’t talk nonsense like that, Yutaka.”

Yutaka looked up.

Shinji continued, “I am who I am, yeah? And you’re who you are. Even if I’m pretty good at basketball, or pretty good at computers, or pretty popular with girls, those kinds of things don’t determine a person’s worth. You have the ability to make people laugh, and you’d never hurt anyone. And when you get serious, you can be far more serious than me⁠—like with girls, for one thing. And I’m not jerking you around with some garbage about how everyone has some good side to offer. I’m telling you there’s a lot about you I like.”

Shinji shrugged, then offered a grin. “I like you. We’ve always been together. You’re an important friend. Just so we’re clear⁠—my best friend.”

He could see the tears coming back to Yutaka’s eyes. Then Yutaka said, “Shit,” like he had when he was tearing up just before. “Thanks, Shinji. Thanks.”

The boy wiped his tears and laughed, then said, “But if you stick around a crybaby like me, you’ll end up drowning before you can escape.”

Shinji was forming a grin when⁠—

Beep.

Shinji frowned with his eyebrows and hurriedly sat up. That was the Macintosh’s default alert sound.

Shinji knelt in front of the PowerBook and peered at the screen.

His eyes went wide. The message on the screen said that the line had been disconnected, and the download interrupted.

“Why?” Shinji groaned. Frantically, he typed on the keyboard. But he couldn’t repair the connection. He closed the Unix communication software and tried a different program to dial the modem.

This time, the message read no connection. No matter how many times he tried, the result remained the same. The connection between the modem and the cell phone seemed fine. To test it, he disabled the link and dialed directly with the phone’s touch pad. He tried the weather report. He put the phone to his ear.

The phone was silent. What, so is the phone⁠—no, the battery still has plenty of charge⁠ ⁠… 

Impossible. With the phone still in his hand, he stared blankly at the PowerBook’s screen, which was now black on standby. They couldn’t have noticed my hack. They can’t⁠—that’s why it’s called hacking. Shinji was more than skilled enough.

“Shinji, what happened? Shinji?”

Yutaka’s voice came over his shoulder, but Shinji couldn’t respond.

25 students remain.

33

When Hiroki Sugimura (Boys #⁠11) saw the star-shaped blip appear at the edge of the handheld device’s LCD screen, his eyes widened. This mark matched another that had been at the center of the display since he’d first held the gadget.

He was inside the village on the island’s eastern shore. The area would soon become one of the forbidden zones, so he moved quickly, though extremely cautiously, between the houses. Meanwhile, he kept a close eye on the device, which looked like one of those PDAs often used by salarymen. And now, finally, the display had changed. This was the first such response since booting it up sometime past six in the morning, when he’d finished flipping through the instruction manual included with it inside his daypack. He’d prioritized searching the impending forbidden zones, as announced by Sakamochi, but the device had remained silent as he dashed from sector J-2 on the southern shore to sector F-l on the western shore, to here, sector H-8.

The device couldn’t really be called a weapon, as such. But right now, depending on how he used it, it could be far more effective than even a gun⁠—though he wasn’t sure if he was currently using it effectively or not.

Hiroki made sure he had a good grip on the long stick in his other hand and stepped away from the clapboard wall at his back. (The weapon was the handle from a broom he’d found in a shack off the north side of the residential area. If he’d wanted some kind of blade, he could have had his pick, but having studied kempo since he was in elementary school, he knew how to wield a staff, so he thought this would be both easier to use and more useful.) He spurred his large, one-hundred-eighty-centimeter-tall body to speed, and soon he had pinned himself against the wall of the house diagonally adjacent. The star icon at the side of the screen moved closer to its pair in the center.

He thought back to what the manual had said about how the display worked, then he looked over his shoulder. It’s inside a house. This house.

The house had a small yard with a vegetable garden where tomato stalks grew waist high, and vines of sweet potatoes or some such covered the ground alongside onions and the multicolored blooms of pansies and chrysanthemums. A children’s tricycle sat in front of the garden, its chrome handlebars gleaming in the near-noon sunlight.

The storm doors on the veranda were closed. Worried that opening them might make a loud noise, Hiroki went around the right side of the house.

There was a window⁠—a broken one. No doubt remained. Someone had gone inside. And if the instruction manual was worth the paper it was printed on, that person was still there.

With the forbidden zone deadline approaching, he could reasonably assume that anyone alive would have left the sector by now. The odds were strong that only a corpse awaited him. But he had to know for sure.

Hiroki stuck his head through the broken window and looked inside. The room appeared to be a living room with tatami-mat floors.

He cautiously slid the window open. To his relief, it made no sound. Keeping the stick in one hand, he grabbed the window frame with his other and, in one catlike motion, climbed inside.

The room had a decorative alcove, and in the center of the room sat a low table. A large-screen TV was situated in the corner next to the window where Hiroki had entered. Taking care to silence his footsteps, he slipped out of the room.

As he entered the hallway, he smelled something mixed in with the air, as if he’d put his nose up to a rusted scrap of iron.

Hurrying now, he moved down the hall. The smell grew stronger.

It was coming from the kitchen. Hiroki stood at the side of the doorway and peeked inside.

On the floor behind the kitchen table, he saw a pair of white sneakers and socks and, above them, legs, nearly up to the calves.

Hiroki’s eyes widened and he ran to the other side of the table.

A girl in a sailor fuku was lying facedown. Her face was turned away from him. She had a petite body, with shoulder-length hair, and blood had formed a pool across the wooden boards of the floor with her face at its center. It was an incredible amount, and its surface had already started to coagulate and turn black.

She was dead all right. But⁠ ⁠…

That petite body. That shoulder-length hair.

She could have been one of the two girls he was searching for. He couldn’t say which of the two was more important to him, but this could have been one of the two. Think. Did she wear sneakers like these?

Hiroki set aside his stick and daypack and slowly knelt beside the body. He reached a trembling hand for her shoulder. After a moment of hesitation, he clenched his teeth and flipped over the corpse, and revealed fresh, red, and still liquid blood underneath. The smell was intense now.

The body was gruesome. Above her collar (which was what had led him here), her slender throat had been slit open. The blood had long since drained out, and for a second, the open, hollow gash seemed an infant’s toothless mouth. The blood had left a downward trail, staining the collar’s silver surface before continuing down toward her chest. Blood stuck to her mouth, and the tip of her nose, and her left cheek, where they had been submerged in the pool of blood after she fell. Around the edges of her gray, vacant eyes, drops of now-hardened blood had formed in the tips of her eyelashes.

She was Megumi Eto (Girls #⁠3).

She wasn’t who he’d feared she might be.

Though deeply shaken by the horrific sight, he felt relieved. He closed his eyes and let out a breath. Then, feeling guilty over his relief, he gently picked up Megumi’s body and moved her out of the pool of blood and rested her on her back some distance away. Rigor mortis had begun to set in, and he felt a little like he was posing a doll, but when he was done, he softly closed her eyelids. He thought for a moment, then tried to fold her arms over her chest, but her body was too stiff now, and he had to give up.

Reclaiming his stick and his daypack, Hiroki stood back up. He gazed down at Megumi for a time, then turned and hurried back to the living room. It was almost eleven a.m.

25 students remain.

34

Time quietly passed. Beside Shuya, Kawada continued to smoke without a word, and Noriko too remained silent. Now and then birds exchanged their calls through the thicket. Overhead, leaves swayed in the breeze and cast their mesh of sweeping, pendular patterns of light over the three students. If Shuya listened hard enough, he could hear the sound of waves from the sea. He had grown comfortable in this space in the grove and its convincing illusion of tranquility.

The hope of escape, from his conversation with Kawada, doubtlessly provided this feeling. And the plan called for them to do nothing but wait. Despite Noriko’s injuries, they were safe as long as they kept up their guard. After all, they were three with two guns.

But Shuya couldn’t stop thinking about the distant gunshots that had come an hour before.

Has someone else died? If so, it could have been Shinji Mimura or Hiroki Sugimura, though Shuya hated to admit it. Even if it hadn’t been one of his friends, it could have been another of his innocent classmates. He and Noriko might be saved thanks to Kawada, but everyone else could be terrified in this moment, and dead in the next.

As Shuya thought this, he couldn’t help but feel distressed. Of course, he hadn’t forgotten what Kawada had said⁠—remaining still was the best strategy. Shuya knew Kawada was correct. And with Noriko’s injury, if they went on the move, they’d make for prime targets. Again he knew Kawada was correct.

But was remaining there, just the three of them in peace and safety, really the right thing to do? Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano decided to have faith in the others, even when they had no expectation of escape. His group, on the other hand, had a means of escape⁠—at least if Kawada was to be believed. So shouldn’t they at least take a chance?

Certainly one person had already killed⁠⁠—willfully killed. Shuya had witnessed Yumiko’s and Yukiko’s execution. And other such murderers might be among his classmates. Possibly like the ones he’d encountered⁠—Yoshio Akamatsu, Tatsumichi Oki, and Kyoichi Motobuchi. He could never expect someone like that to join his group. Or a person like that might act friendly, only to kill them when the right moment came.

At the very least, shouldn’t they do something to find the ones they could trust?

But even if they did, knowing exactly who they could trust was impossible. If they tried to save everyone they could, one of their would-be enemies might slip into their group. That would mean certain death⁠—and not just for himself, but for Noriko and Kawada as well.

In the end, all Shuya could do was sigh. His mind was chasing itself. No matter how many times he thought it through, the conclusion was the same. He couldn’t do anything. The best he could hope for was to stumble across Shinji Mimura or Hiroki Sugimura by chance. And what were the odds of that?

“Hey,” Kawada said as he lit up another cigarette. Shuya looked over to him.

“Don’t think about it so much,” Kawada said. “Thinking’s no use. Just concentrate on yourself and Noriko.”

Shuya raised his eyebrows. “What are you, a mind reader?”

“Sometimes. Especially when the weather’s nice like today.” Kawada took a drag from the cigarette. Then, as a thought suddenly came to him, he looked at Shuya and said, “Was that true?”

“What?”

“What Sakamochi said⁠—that you have ‘ideological problems.’ ”

“Oh.” Shuya dropped his eyes, then nodded. “That.”

“What did you do?”

Kawada’s eyes took on a hint of mischief, and Shuya returned the look.

He could think of two possibilities as to what Sakamochi had meant. The first was that when he graduated to junior high, he joined the music club and the baseball team, but was turned off by the baseball team’s underlying militaristic discipline and obsession with winning. (This was no surprise, as baseball was the Republic’s national pastime, with performances in international tournaments putting the country’s dignity on the line. Unfortunately, the sport was also popular in the hated American Empire, and when the Republic’s Olympic team lost to the imperialists in the finals, the league’s managers would have to prepare themselves to commit harakiri.]

Their coach, Mr. Minato, had repeatedly harassed the kids who joined because they loved baseball but weren’t any good at it. And when Shuya announced he was quitting two weeks later, he lost his temper, and slipped and cursed out Mr. Minato and the Republic National Baseball League.

And so this former golden rookie of Shiroiwa Junior High embarked on his path to becoming (according to himself) a rising rock star. This left a giant black mark on his school record. But Kawada might have been referring to a certain something else⁠ ⁠…

“Nothing,” Shuya said, shaking his head. “He was probably just talking about how I like rock. He must have had a problem with me being in the music club.”

Kawada chuckled and gave him a knowing nod. “That’s right, you play guitar. That’s what got you into rock?”

“No, I listened to rock, which got me into the guitar. When I was in the orphanage⁠ ⁠…”

Shuya recalled the handyman, in his forties, who had been employed at the House of Mercy and Love until three years back. He was upbeat, with thinning hair that turned up at the back of his neck (he’d called it a ducktail). Now, he was in a forced labor camp up in South Karafuto. None of the children, not even Shuya and Yoshitoki, knew why. When he said goodbye to them, he didn’t explain. He only said, “I’ll come back, Shuya, Yoshitoki. I’ll just be swinging my pickaxe, singing ‘Jailhouse Rock’ for a little while first.” He gave his old, self-winding watch to Yoshitoki, and his Gibson electric guitar to Shuya⁠—Shuya’s first guitar. Shuya wondered if the man was still doing all right. He’d heard that people sent to the forced labor camps often died from overwork and undernourishment.

Shuya explained, “Someone gave me a tape. He also gave me his electric guitar.”

“Hmm.” Kawada nodded. “Do you have a favorite? Dylan? Lennon? Or maybe Lou Reed?”

Shuya stared at him, somewhat surprised. “You know a lot.”

Getting hold of actual rock music in the Republic of Greater East Asia wasn’t easy. An organization called the Popular Music Judgment Society strictly monitored foreign music. Most anything even resembling rock and roll never made it through customs and was treated like an illegal drug. (He’d even seen a poster in the town hall with a staged photo of a long-haired, sleazy-looking rock-and-roller plastered over with that diagonal slash from a no parking sign and the text stop the rock. Nice one, guys.) Supposedly, the Peach Government didn’t much care for the rousing beat, but Shuya thought it was the lyrics more than anything. The aforementioned Bob Marley was one example, but a classic example would be the chorus of Lennon’s “Imagine,” about dreamers. How could this nation not consider lyrics like that a threat?

In the record stores, nearly all the albums for sale were of the vapid, domestically produced pop idol sort. The most extreme imported music Shuya had ever seen was Frank Sinatra⁠—that was the extent of it. (Well, maybe this country could stand to give “My Way” a listen.)

For a while, Shuya had thought the ducktailed handyman had been sent to the labor camp because of this, and he regarded the tapes and guitar the man had left behind as objects to be feared. But it seemed that he had been wrong. When he moved up to junior high and entered the music club, a fair number of the others also liked rock music and had electric guitars. (Kazumi Shintani was a huge rock fan, of course.) Through his new connections, Shuya was able to obtain dubs of The Times They Are-a-Changin’ and Stand!

But this all remained within only a trusted circle of friends. If all the students in Shiroiwa Junior High were asked if they had ever listened to rock music, more than nine in ten would likely say they hadn’t. (Actually, every one of them would say they hadn’t, since even those who had heard rock music would obviously never admit it.) With Kawada’s previous displays of his extensive knowledge, Shuya wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d had some mere passing familiarity with rock music. But Dylan and Lennon were extremely serious stuff.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Kawada said. “I’m a city boy from Kobe. I’m no Kagawa hick. I’m going to know something about rock.”

Shuya showed him a sneer and said, “You just had to go there.” His gloominess had lifted just a little. “I like Springsteen. Van Morrison’s not bad either.”

Without skipping a beat, Kawada said, “ ‘Born to Run’ is a good one. As for Morrison, I like ‘Whenever God Shines His Light.’ ”

Shuya’s eyes widened again, and he felt himself grinning. “You know a lot!”

Kawada smiled back. “I told you. I’m a city boy.”

Shuya noticed that Noriko had been keeping quiet. Worried that she might be feeling excluded, he asked her, “Didn’t you say you’ve never heard rock music?”

Noriko gave him a small smile and shook her head. “I’m not that familiar with it. What’s it sound like?”

Shuya grinned. “The lyrics are wonderful. I’m not very good at describing it, but it’s a kind of music where people really express their troubles. Sometimes it’s about love, of course, but other times they sing about politics, or society, or the way we live our lives, or even life itself. They have the words, and use the melody and beat to express them. Take Springsteen’s ‘Born to Run’⁠ ⁠…”

Shuya knew the song’s ending by heart.

Then he added, “It goes like this,” and sang the last line softly.

He looked at Noriko and said, “We’ll listen to it together some time.”

Her eyes went a little wide and she nodded. Another time, and she might have been beaming at him, but all she could offer was a frail smile. Shuya was too exhausted himself to notice something was wrong.

He told Kawada, “If everyone listened to more rock and roll, we’d be better off. This country would never last.”

He thought back to what Noriko had said earlier, that the people didn’t stand up to the government because nobody knew anything. He figured that all those important things that were kept from the people were inside rock music, and that was precisely why the government banned it.

Kawada’s Wild Seven cigarette had burned down to the stub, and he leisurely rubbed it into the dirt. Then he lit a fresh one and said, “Hey, Shuya.”

“What?”

He let out a slow puff of smoke and said, “Do you really think rock has that kind of power⁠—power enough to be feared by the government?”

Shuya nodded deeply. “It does.”

Kawada gazed into the boy’s face, then looked away and shook his head. “I’m not so sure. I get the feeling it’s just a way for us to vent our frustrations. Sure, it’s illegal or whatever, but anyone who wants to listen to rock can find a way. It’s an outlet. This country’s crafty like that. Who knows, they might start to encourage it one of these days⁠—as a tool, you see.”

Shuya felt stunned, like he’d been slapped in the face. Rock was Shuya’s religion. Music was his Bible, and Springsteen and Van Morrison were the apostles. Granted, he had gotten used to being shocked thanks to the indiscriminate killings of his classmates, so this was a comparatively minor blow.

Deflated, Shuya slowly said, “You think?”

Kawada nodded several times. “Yeah. But what bothers me is that rock isn’t something to be banned or encouraged. It’s not that kind of thing. People who want to listen to rock will listen to rock when they feel like listening to rock. Right?”

Shuya pondered this for a while, then said, “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But I can see where you’re coming from.” Then he added, “You’re something, Kawada. You’re really perceptive.”

Kawada shrugged.

They fell silent for a while.

Then Shuya said, “But⁠ ⁠…”

Kawada, who was unwrapping a new pack of cigarettes, looked at him.

Shuya continued, “I do think rock has power, after all⁠—a positive force.”

That was what Noriko had said about him.

Kawada grinned. He put a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and lit it, then said, “To tell you the truth, Nanahara, I think so too.”

Shuya returned his grin.

“It’s ironic,” Kawada said. “We’re in that exact situation.”

“What’s that?” Shuya asked.

“All we can do now is run. We were born to.”

25 students remain.

35

Kaori Minami (Girls #⁠20) lifted herself to a crouch when she heard the faint rustling noise. She was slightly to the east of the island’s center (sector F-8 on the map), within the mixed woodland near the base of the northern mountain.

She adjusted her grip on her pistol, a SIG-Sauer P230 .380 ACP. Despite its diminutive size, it felt large in Kaori’s hands.

Without knowing it, Kaori gnawed at her lip. Many times she had heard similar sounds since hiding here at the start of the game. Every time, after realizing the noise had been only a trick of the wind or from some small animal (maybe even a stray cat?), she had been able to calm herself down. But she hadn’t gotten used to it. The many scabbed-over wounds on her lip, from where she bit it, were joined by a fresh cut. This time⁠ ⁠… it might be an enemy. An enemy. Her classmates were coming to get her. The image of Mayumi Tendo’s and Yoshio Akamatsu’s bodies, seen at the moment she left the school, remained vivid in her mind.

And when she stepped out those doors, she heard a voice call to her from the woods ahead. She thought it sounded like Yukie Utsumi, the class leader. Kaori spied other shadowy figures beside Yukie in the darkness of the undergrowth. She thought she heard Yukie say, in a hushed yet sharp whisper, “Kaori! Come join us. We’re all girls. You’ll be safe with us!”

But joining them was out of the question. In these circumstances, no one could possibly trust anyone else. Once she was with them, she’d never know when they might catch her off guard. Ignoring Yukie’s appeals to stop her, she turned and ran in another direction. And that brought her here. But now, this time, was it an enemy? Was that the sound?

She gripped her pistol tightly in both hands and waited. But the sound stopped.

She waited a little longer. Nothing.

Kaori let out a sigh of relief and lowered herself back into the undergrowth. A crooked leaf brushed against her cheek, and annoyed, she shifted her position. With the palm of her hand, she rubbed at the spot where the leaf had touched her. Pimples were bad enough; the last thing she needed was some rash making her face all puffy. Even if she was going to die anyway, she didn’t need that.

Her thoughts sent a chill down her spine. Am I going to die? Me? Die?

The realization set her heart beating faster. It was almost enough to give her a heart attack.

Am I going to die? Am I going to die? She heard the words in the back of her head like a ringing in her ears or some second-rate CD player unable to read past the scratches on the disc, skipping over and over. Am I going to die?

Almost frantically, Kaori reached into the top of her sailor uniform and clutched at the brass locket she wore around her neck. She pulled it out and opened it, and the cheerful face with the long hair smiled out at her.

As she stared at the picture in the locket, her heart rate finally began to settle down, gradually returning to its previous pace.

The photo was of Junya Kenzaki, the most popular member of the boy band Flipside. The locket was only given to members of their fan club, and Kaori was proud to know she was the only girl in Shiroiwa to have one. (Of course, most girls these days would only shake their heads at it. If nothing else, lockets were passé. But Kaori didn’t think so.)

Oh, Junya. I’ll be fine, won’t I? You’ll protect me.

His picture seemed to be telling her, “You’ll be fine.” (“Of course you’ll be fine. Now, how about I sing your favorite song, ‘Galactic Magnum’?”)

Kaori’s breathing had steadied, and she asked the photo, Hey, Junya. Do you think I should have joined Yukie? Would there have been a way out for me? No, of course not.

Suddenly, she was crying.

Why was this happening? She wanted to see her mom. She wanted to see her dad and her sister and her kind grandma and grandpa. She wanted to take a bath and to rub acne cream on her face, and to sit on that comfy sofa in the living room and drink hot cocoa while she watched her VHS of Flipside’s TV special. (Even though she’d already seen it many, many times.)

“Junya,” she said, “protect me. Please. I⁠—I feel like I’m going crazy.”

Hearing herself say that aloud, Kaori thought she really was going insane. Freaked out, she felt nausea rising in her stomach. She cried even harder.

A rustling sound came from behind, and she jumped. This noise was far louder than before.

Her eyes still clouded with tears, she quickly turned.

A boy in a school uniform was peering at her through the bushes. It was Hiroki Sugimura (Boys #⁠11). He snuck up behind me⁠—without me noticing!

Overcome by terror, she raised her gun without thought and squeezed the trigger. Letting out a pop, the weapon kicked against her wrists. The brass shell spun through the air, glittering in the sunlight that filtered through the leaves.

Hiroki had already disappeared deep into the foliage. The rustling continued, then abruptly disappeared.

Kaori trembled as she held her pistol at the ready. Then she snatched up her belongings and ran into the brush in the opposite direction. As she ran, her mind formed disoriented thoughts. Hiroki Sugimura was trying to kill me. I know he was. If not, why would he have snuck up behind me without a saying a word? He must not have had a gun. And when he saw that I did, he panicked and fled. If I hadn’t noticed him⁠—and if I hadn’t fired so quickly⁠—he would have stuck a knife or something right into my chest⁠—a knife! I have to stay on my toes. I have to shoot the moment I see someone. If I show any mercy, I’ll be killed. Killed! Dead!

I’ve had enough of this. I want to go home. Bath. Acne cream. Cocoa! Videotape. Flipside. Junya. No mercy. Shoot. Shoot! Cocoa. Junya. Acne! Cream! No mercy. Junya.

Tears streamed from her eyes. The locket remained open, flopping against the chest of her sailor fuku, Junya Kenzaki’s bright face swinging wildly up and down and left and right.

No mercy. Junya. I’ll be killed! Shoot. Mother. Sister! Father. Shoot! Shoot! The new album debut!

Kaori was losing her mind.

25 students remain.

36

“… And that’s all the students who have died,” Sakamochi’s cheerful voice was saying for the noon announcement.

The new additions on the waiting list for their funerals were Tatsumichi Oki, Kyoichi Motobuchi, and of course, Yukiko Kitano and Yumiko Kusaka. Yoji Kuramoto and Yoshimi Yahagi had also died.

“I’ll now report the forbidden zones beginning this afternoon. Now please take notes. Take notes, now.”

Shuya took out his map and a pen. Kawada also had his map out.

“First off, from one o’clock is J-5. Then from three, H-3. From five is D-8. Did you get that?”

J-5 was on the southeastern shore, H-3 was near the southern mountain’s summit, and D-8 was the southeastern ascent of the northern mountain. Their location, C-3, hadn’t been announced. They could get by without moving for a little longer.

“Everyone, I know it might be rough having your friends die, but you have to keep your spirits up. If you’re too scared to spread your baby wings, you’ll never soar. Bye now!”

Having spewed out another round of blithe platitudes, Sakamochi ended his report.

With a sigh, Shuya put away his map and stared at his check-marked class roster. “We’re already down to twenty-five. Damn it.”

Kawada put a fresh cigarette between his lips and cupped his hand around its end as he put a light to it. Then he said, “It’s like I told you. They’re gonna keep on dying like they’re supposed to.”

Shuya looked up at Kawada, who exhaled smoke, returning the stare. Shuya understood what he meant. The more their classmates died, the closer the three came to their opportunity for escape⁠—and the farther they became from the time limit.

Shuya said, “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

Kawada merely shrugged. Then he averted his eyes. “Sorry.”

Shuya felt like saying more, but he made himself tear his eyes away from Kawada. He pulled up his knees and looked between them. A few tiny yellow flowers peeked out through the leaves. An ant crawled up one of their stalks.

What bothered Shuya was this: when they had been talking about rock, Shuya felt almost as if they had actually become good friends. But something within Kawada kept the boy from getting close. Was he simply aloof by nature?

Shuya let out a quiet sigh. Then he moved his thoughts to another subject. Of the six names Sakamochi had announced, the only ones whose deaths he hadn’t personally witnessed were Yoji Kuramoto and Yoshimi Yahagi. He was pretty sure they had been going out. Did that mean they were together on the island? And then there were those two gunshots he’d heard just past eleven. Had those shots done the couple in? Then who was the shooter?

He thought back to the sound of the machine gun that had killed Yukiko Kitano and Yumiko Kusaka. Was it the same person, or⁠ ⁠…

“Nanahara,” Kawada said, getting his attention. “You haven’t eaten breakfast yet, have you? The government bread is shit, but I grabbed some strawberry jam and coffee from the general store. Let’s eat.”

From his daypack, Kawada withdrew a squat glass jar, its contents shiny and deep red and its label illustrated with strawberries, along with a slim can (two hundred grams worth) of instant coffee. Shuya figured the coffee was destined for the empty can that Kawada had filled with water and left to boil over a fresh pile of lit charcoal. Kawada then took out a pack of plastic cups.

“You definitely loaded up.”

“Yeah.” Kawada nodded, then dug back into his bag and presented a rectangular box. “Look, a whole carton of Wild Sevens.”

Shuya decided to cheer up. He made a slight grin and nodded, then took the bread from his daypack.

He offered one of the rolls to Noriko, saying, “You should eat too.”

“Oh.” Still hugging her knees, Noriko looked up. “I’m⁠ ⁠… fine. I’m not that hungry.”

“You’re not hungry? What’s wrong?”

As she looked down again, Shuya noticed her pale face. Now that he thought about it, he realized she’d been keeping awfully quiet.

“Noriko?”

Shuya moved over to her. Kawada watched them as he continued working at the top of the coffee can.

“Noriko.”

Shuya put his hand on her shoulder. Her hands were clenched around her knees. Only now did Shuya notice her pallid face and her pinched lips, with only a tiny gap from which her pained breaths hissed out. Noriko closed her eyes and put her hands on Shuya’s arm, leaning on him a bit.

Her hand, and her shoulder, through the black fabric of her sailor fuku, felt hot. Shuya reached out with his right hand and gently lifted her bangs to feel her forehead.

She was burning up. Her cold sweat dampened his palm.

Flustered, he looked over his shoulder to Kawada. “She has a fever, Kawada!”

Feebly, Noriko said, “I’m⁠ ⁠… fine.”

Kawada rested the coffee can at his feet and stood. He traded places with Shuya and put his hand to her forehead. He rubbed his stubbled chin, then took her wrist and looked at his watch. He must have been reading her pulse.

“Sorry about this,” Kawada said, and gently placed his fingers to her lips and opened her mouth. Then he pulled down the skin under her eyes and examined behind her lower eyelid.

Then he asked her, “Do you feel cold?”

Her eyes were half lidded, but she managed to nod. “Yeah⁠ ⁠… a little.”

“Nanahara,” Kawada said.

Shuya had been watching, holding his breath. Distressed, he asked, “How is she?”

“Just give me your coat,” Kawada said, removing his own. Shuya hurriedly stripped off his own and handed it to Kawada, who carefully wrapped the two coats around Noriko’s body.

“The bread, Nanahara. And the jam and some water.”

Shuya hurriedly grabbed the roll he’d offered her, his bottle of water, and the jar of jam from atop Kawada’s daypack. He gave Kawada the bread and water, then opened the jar of jam and handed it over. Kawada wedged the roll into the jar and covered it with the red jam. He held it out to Noriko and said, “You need to eat this, Noriko.”

“Yeah, but⁠ ⁠…”

“No buts. Just a little bite.”

Noriko’s unsteady hand took the roll, and she took a couple nibbles. She seemed to have to force it down her throat. She gave the rest back to Kawada.

“Can’t have any more, huh?”

She gave a slight shake of her head. Even such a small gesture appeared to be an effort.

Kawada looked like he wanted her to eat more, but he gave up for now, setting the bread aside. He then took his pouch of pills.

“This is cold medicine,” he said. “Take it.”

He handed her a capsule different from the pain reliever he’d given her that morning. She nodded, and with Kawada’s help, she swallowed it with some water from the bottle. Some of the liquid spilled from her mouth, and Kawada gently wiped it away with his handkerchief.

“Okay, Noriko,” he said. “Now lie down.”

She bobbed her head and lay down on the grass, with the two coats still wrapped around her.

Anxious, Shuya asked, “What is it, Kawada? Is she okay?”

Kawada shook his head. “I can’t tell for sure. It might just be a cold. But her wound might have gotten infected. Just maybe.”

“What?” Shuya looked down at the bandana bandage around Noriko’s right calf. “But didn’t we do everything right?”

Kawada shook his head. “Right after she was shot, she did a lot of walking through the woods, yeah? Some germs could have gotten inside the wound during that time.”

Shuya stared at Kawada for a while, then knelt back down next to Noriko. He reached out for her forehead. “Noriko⁠ ⁠…”

She opened her eyes and gave him a feeble smile. “I’m all right. Just⁠ ⁠… a little tired. Don’t worry.”

But from her shallow breaths, Shuya didn’t think she was anywhere near all right.

Shuya looked over his shoulder at Kawada again. Somehow managing to restrain the anxiety in his voice, he said, “Kawada. We can’t stay here. We need to go someplace else⁠—like a house, or something, to warm her and⁠—”

Kawada interrupted him with a shake of his head. “Hold on. For now, let’s wait and see how she does.”

Kawada adjusted her makeshift blanket of coats so that no gaps remained.

“But⁠—”

“I told you before. Moving isn’t safe.”

Noriko cracked her eyelids open. She looked at Shuya and said, “I’m sorry, Shuya⁠ ⁠…” Then to Kawada, she said, “I’m so sorry.” She closed her eyes again.

Shuya pressed his lips together and watched her pale face.

25 students remain.

37

Takako Chigusa (Girls #⁠13) peeked out from behind the tree trunk. She was on the slope of the southern mountain, to the east of the summit, somewhere near the border of H-4 and H-5 on her map. A diverse mixture of trees both tall and short comprised the forest around her, though the trees gradually grew shorter up the ascent, in the direction Takako now looked.

She took a good grip on the weapon she’d been supplied, an ice pick. Crouching, she looked once more over her shoulder.

Obscured by the woods now, the house where she’d been hiding was no longer in sight. Dilapidated and overgrown with tall weeds, the house seemed to have been abandoned even before the island had been chosen for the Program. Attached to its side was a smaller structure⁠—a chicken shack, maybe⁠—and even its rusty metal roof lay beyond her sight. How far had she come? Two hundred meters? Or only one hundred? As the star short-distance runner on the Shiroiwa Junior High track team (she held the second fastest time in the prefecture for the Girls’ Junior High Two-Hundred-Meter Dash), she had gained an almost innate sense for that particular distance, but with the rolling mountainside and the vegetation⁠—not to mention the stress⁠—she could no longer tell.

After finishing her lunch of water and that awful government bread, Takako made up her mind to leave the house once her watch read one o’clock. Hiding herself in the corner of the abandoned structure, she had heard what she thought to be gunshots several times since the game began. But she decided that hiding would do nothing to improve her situation. She needed to find someone⁠—a friend she could trust⁠—and work together.

She knew that not everyone she trusted would necessarily trust her, but⁠ ⁠…

Takako was good-looking. Her long, tapered eyes may have seemed a little severe, but they suited her sharp chin, firm lips, and the well-defined profile of her nose. All together they gave her an aristocratic look. At first glance, her long, brown, highlighted hair might not have matched her appearance, but that along with her accessories⁠—two piercings in her left ear and one in her right, rings on her middle and ring fingers of her left hand, five bracelets between her two wrists, and a pendant fashioned from a foreign coin⁠—asserted her own look that accentuated her beauty. Her teachers didn’t seem to care much for her hair or her gaudy, B-grade accessories, but they had never once directly scolded the girl, who was sheltered by her good grades and, more importantly, her status as the track team’s star runner. Consequently, Takako was conceited and had a reputation for flouting those silly little school rules to which the other girls had to adhere.

Whether due to her beauty or her pride, or because she was simply shy, Takako had few close friends in her class. Her best friend, Kahoru Kitazawa, she’d known since elementary school, but she was in a different class.

She had one classmate, only one, whom she could absolutely trust. Not a girl, but a boy. Only one boy. They’d been friends since they were little.

That related to a subject that now weighed heavily on her mind.

When she was about to leave the school, Takako thought that one of her classmates who’d left earlier could have returned, weapon in hand. To be safe, she couldn’t carelessly stroll out through the sole exit. She had to act in a way that her supposed ambusher wouldn’t expect, and she had to get away from the school as quickly as possible.

So after Takako left the classroom and stepped into the hallway, she stood at the side of the entrance and surveyed the outside. Woods lay ahead, a mountain on her left, and a relatively open space on her right. The ambusher, if there was one, would be hiding in the woods ahead or the slope on the left.

She ducked through the doorway and sidled along the outer wall of the school, then sprinted off to the right, making a mad dash, unleashing the power of those prized track-runner legs. Moving purely on instinct, she ran along the road that passed through the village, threw herself into an alleyway, and dashed for the foot of the southern mountain. Her only thought was to hurry away from that school and to find a place to hide.

But.

What if in those woods in front of the school, or up toward the mountain, had been someone who wasn’t going to attack her? In other words⁠ ⁠… what if⁠ ⁠… he had been hiding in those woods or that mountainside, waiting just for her? When she ran away full tilt, had she lost her chance to find him?

…No.

Takako didn’t think so. That would have been impossible. Everyone would have known that lingering around that school was dangerous. They’d known each other their whole lives, but that was the extent of their connection. They were just friends, never too close or too distant. He⁠—that is, Hiroki Sugimura (Boys #⁠11)⁠—would never endanger himself to wait for her. That she had even considered he might have was only a figment of her arrogance, and nothing more.

For now, she needed to find someone. Ideally, that person would be Hiroki Sugimura, but she knew that was too optimistic. If not him, then the class leader, Yukie Utsumi, would do, or any of those other plain girls. If she was careful not to get shot right off the bat, she could talk to them. Takako hoped she would run into someone who was still calm. (Though she had the feeling that anyone too calm in a situation like this was the most dangerous.) But all she could do for now was search.

Even still, Takako knew not to shout. She’d seen the proof of that. From that abandoned house, she had watched Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano die atop the northern mountain.

Her idea was to leave her hiding place in the abandoned house and head for the top of the southern mountain. If she made it that far, she could spiral her way back down, all the while checking the bushes to see if someone was hiding inside. She figured that tossing handfuls of little rocks into the undergrowth would do the trick and had been doing so since she left the house. Once she saw who was there, she could decide whether or not to announce herself. According to Sakamochi’s noon announcement, the area around the summit would be a forbidden zone starting at three o’clock. But if everything went well, she’d be able to perform a complete survey of the sector by then. And anyone who was up there would have to leave before three. Someone on the move would be much easier for her to spot.

Takako checked her provisioned wristwatch, which read 1:20. With all the bracelets she typically wore, she hardly ever used a watch, but she didn’t have a choice now. She touched her hand to the shackle around her neck.

“And if you try to force it loose, it’ll explode.”

Not only did the collar dig into her skin and stifle her breath, its very presence pulled her down. The chain of her pendant clinked against the metal collar.

Takako pushed it from her mind and gripped her ice pick (not that she saw much use to a weapon like that). She took some pebbles from her pocket and scattered them into the undergrowth in front of her and to the sides.

The stones rustled through the leaves.

She waited. Nothing. She moved forward and let out her breath. She prepared herself to set foot into the next clearing on the way up the mountain.

Suddenly, she heard a rustling. Ten meters to her left, a head poked out from the bushes. She could see the back of his uniform coat and his tousled yet smooth hair. His head turned to the left, then to the right.

Surprised, Takako froze in place. This is trouble. A boy. Boys are always trouble. This thought was without any particular basis, but Takako felt that way about every boy aside from Hiroki Sugimura. And she knew this wasn’t Hiroki.

Takako held her breath and slowly stepped back into the thicket. Expecting this possibility did nothing to quell her trembling now that it had happened.

The boy swiftly turned. Their eyes met. The astonished face belonged to Kazushi Niida (Boys #⁠16).

Oh, shit. Of all people, it had to be him.

Her first concern was that she had left herself completely exposed to him. Regardless of anything else, that was a danger. She turned on her heels and ran back the way she’d come.

Kazushi’s voice came from behind. “Wait.”

She could hear him wading through the thicket after her.

“Hey, wait!” He was shouting now. “Wait!”

Ugh, that idiot.

For a few seconds, Takako weighed her options, then finally decided to stop. She turned to face him. She figured that if he’d had a gun or something like that and meant to shoot her, he would have already. That made his loud voice the biggest threat. Kazushi wouldn’t only get himself discovered, but her along with him. She glanced around but saw, as she had confirmed when she’d passed through moments before, no signs that anyone else was around.

Slowing, Kazushi descended the gentle slope.

As he approached, Takako noticed he was carrying what looked like a rifle with a bow attached to its end. He’s not pointing it at me, but if he does, can I dodge his shot and get away again? Was stopping a mistake?

No, she told herself. Kazushi Niida was a forward on the soccer team. Top ballgame athletes like him were often faster than top track runners. Even if she was the fastest among the girls, he would have eventually caught up with her.

Either way, it was too late now.

Kazushi stopped with around four or five meters between them. He was relatively tall and solidly built, with broad shoulders. His hair was long, as was popular with soccer players these days, and silky, though it was now disheveled, as if he’d just stepped off the pitch after an intense overtime matchup. Aside from bad teeth, his was a handsome face. And right now, it wore an ambiguous smile.

Takako watched him, wondering, What does this jerk want?

He might not mean her harm. He might be thinking he’d finally found someone he could trust.

But Takako didn’t have an especially high opinion of the boy. She hated his particular brand of chumminess. His cockiness didn’t help things either. The two had been classmates since seventh grade (Hiroki became her classmate in eighth), and he did fairly well in his studies and his sports without putting in much effort. Whether it was because of this, or completely unrelated, he possessed a striking lack of maturity. He was always trying to act cool, and whenever he screwed up, he’d always have some plausible excuse at the ready. And though it was hardly worth mentioning, back in seventh grade, for some reason, a rumor had spread that Takako and⁠—the admittedly handsome, as far as it goes⁠—Kazushi were dating. (Junior high kids liked to gossip. Well, let them say what they want.)

When that was going on, he had come right up to her desk, placed a hand on her shoulder (the nerve!), and said, “People are talking about us.”

Putting on a demure act, she had pivoted free of his hand and gently parried him, saying, “Oh, I’m flattered,” but on the inside, she was scoffing. Nice try, creep. How about you take another hundred years to work on your lines? But she had the feeling that that level of approach wasn’t going to cut it right now.

Now, Takako chose her words carefully. She needed to get away from this guy as quickly as possible. That was what it came down to.

“Don’t shout, stupid,” she said.

“Sorry. But I only had to because you ran off.”

“I’m sorry too,” Takako replied straight away. Keep it short and get to the point. That’s what I do best. “But I don’t want to be with you.” She fixed her eyes on his face and managed to shrug her tense shoulders. “Wouldn’t it be best for both of us if we just split?”

Not satisfied with that, Kazushi frowned and asked, “Why?”

Inside her mind, she clicked her tongue at him. Because you put on this naïve, little-boy act.

Aloud, she said, “I think we both know why. Got it? See you.”

Takako went to turn around, but her trembling knees told her how unsure she was.

She stopped.

Out the corner of her eye, she saw the weapon in Kazushi’s hand, pointing at her.

Slowly now, she turned back to face him. Her eyes were fixed to his finger on the crossbow’s trigger.

Takako asked, “What do you think you’re doing?”

As she spoke, she casually slipped her daypack off her left shoulder, taking the strap in her hand. Would the bag be able to stop one of those arrows?

“I don’t want to do this,” Kazushi said. The way he spoke to her was exactly what she despised about him. His words were apologetic, but in fact he was putting himself in a position of power over her. “So how about you stick with me.”

Now that pissed her off. But even in her anger, she noticed something. Back when she was hiding in the abandoned house, her skirt had snagged on a broken door and tore a long split up one side, like the slit on a Chinese dress. Kazushi had glanced down at her exposed thigh. She caught an unidentifiable gumminess in his gaze. It gave her the creeps.

She shifted her footing to hide her leg from him as best she could. Then she said, “You’ve got to be kidding. No way I’m going to stick with you when you’re pointing that thing at me.”

Typically arrogant, Kazushi said, “So you’re not going to run?” He hadn’t lowered the crossbow.

Takako summoned her patience. “Please just put that down.”

“And you’re not running away.”

“Are you deaf?” she said sharply, and Kazushi reluctantly lowered his weapon.

Then, taking an oddly smug tone, he said, “You know, I’ve always found you attractive.”

Takako raised her well-defined, elegantly arched eyebrows.

She’d had enough. What, you think I’ll just forget how you threatened me?

Kazushi’s eyes fell to her leg again. This time, his gaze lingered, a little brazen, looking her up and down.

Takako lifted her chin slightly and asked, “What of it?”

“It means I’m not going to kill you or anything. Just stick with me.”

She shrugged again, this time too angry for the gesture to feel stiff. Flatly, she said, “I told you already. I’m not interested.”

Then she said, “See you.”

She almost turned around again but thought better of it, instead keeping her eyes on him as she backed away. Kazushi immediately raised the crossbow. His expression was that of a child in a department store begging for a toy. Mom, I want it, I want it.

Quietly, Takako said, “Don’t do this.”

“Okay, then stay with me,” he repeated. The tilt of his head betrayed an attempt to rein in his escalating anxiety.

“I told you I don’t want to.”

Kazushi didn’t lower his crossbow. For a time, they glared at each other.

Losing her patience, Takako said, “What are you after? Come on, say it. You’re not going to kill me right away, and you’re insisting I stay with you even when I say I don’t want to. Why?”

“I⁠ ⁠…” Kazushi held her eyes with that lecherous gaze. “I want to protect you. So stay here. The two of us will be safer together, right?”

“You have to be joking,” Takako said, the outrage edging into her voice. “You can’t point that thing at me and say you’re going to protect me. I can’t trust you. Get it? Can I go now? I’m going.”

“Move and I’ll shoot.” He held the crossbow aimed straight at her chest.

By vocalizing the threat, Kazushi stepped free from the last shackle that held him within the bounds of reason (as far as the bounds had been pushed already). Keeping the weapon pointed at her, he said, “Know your place, girl. Women should listen to what men tell them.”

Takako was absolutely furious. But Kazushi hadn’t finished speaking yet.

Casually, as if asking her sign, he said, “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

Takako was speechless.

What? What did this dumbass just say?

“Am I wrong?” he asked. “Sugimura doesn’t have the balls to sleep with a girl.”

Kazushi must have mistakenly believed, along with most of their classmates, that she and Hiroki were dating. But what he said pissed her off on two levels: one, that he made that baseless assumption about her and Hiroki’s relationship; and two, the contempt that oozed from his voice when he said Hiroki’s name.

Takako felt her lips twist into a smile. She had the habit of grinning when she was furious.

Turning that smile on Kazushi, she said, “And you think that’s any of your business?”

Possibly misreading her smile, he gave her a twisted grin back. “Sure.”

Still smiling, she glared back at him. Yes, sir, you’re absolutely right, sir. Despite, as you can see, the way I dress, I am indeed a virgin, sir. A blushing fifteen-year-old virgin, sir. But what the fuck kind of business is that of yours, asshole!

Kazushi went on, “You see, both of us, we’re going to die anyway. Don’t you want to do it once before you die? I wouldn’t make for a bad partner.”

Though driven to the utmost extreme of rage, for a moment she just stared at him, dumbstruck. Her mouth might have hung open. If her disgust existed in an area around her, its field would have previously been within arms’ reach, but now extended beyond the horizon. Land ahoy, Captain Columbus. It looks like San Salvador Island. Okay now, there’re savages. Beware the savages.

Takako dropped her eyes. Then, without thinking, a quiet laugh slipped from her lips. This was ridiculous. No, really, it was the smash hit comedy of the year.

She raised her head. Despite the furious glare she leveled at him, Takako deigned to permit him one final chance.

“This is the last time I’ll say it,” she said. “I don’t want to be with you. Be a good boy and put that thing down, and leave me alone. If you don’t, I’ll have to assume you mean to kill me. All right?”

Kazushi didn’t lower his crossbow. To the contrary, he raised it as high as his shoulders and threatened, “And this is the last time I’ll say it. Do as I tell you, Chigusa.”

Maybe it was something in her innate personality that she felt something of a rush as their exchange reached this crucial junction. She couldn’t be held responsible for whatever happened next.

Whatever it took, it was time for her conversation with this shithead to end. She took one step forward.

“I see. So you want to rape me, do you? That’s it, right? You think you can do whatever you want just because you’re going to die anyway, yeah?”

He glared at her. “I never⁠ ⁠… said that.”

Didn’t you? On the inside, she sneered at him. Let me guess what’s next⁠—first you’ll say you don’t want to rape me, and then you’ll tell me to take off my clothes.

Still smiling at him, Takako calmly tilted her head. “You know, at a time like this, you might want to worry more about your life than your little dick.”

From his neck to his face, Kazushi turned crimson. His mouth twisted, and he exploded, “You think I’m joking? You really want to get raped?”

Takako grinned. “The truth comes out.”

“You think I’m fucking joking? I could kill you too, right now!”

He sickened her. Only moments ago, he’d tried cajoling her, saying, “I’m not going to kill you or anything.”

Kazushi paused before adding, sounding proud of himself, “I already killed Akamatsu.”

This startled her a little, but she raised her eyebrows and said, “Huh.” Even if what he said was true, the way he’d been cowering in the bushes, he’d probably bumped into the terrified boy and killed him. Then, worried that someone more capable than himself might come along, he hid. And if by running and hiding he survived to the end, and his only remaining opponent was weaker than him, he’d say something like, “I don’t have any other choice, do I?” and kill without a second thought.

What Kazushi said next confirmed her suspicions. “I thought it through and decided to consider this a game.” Then he added, “So I won’t hold back.”

Still wearing that smirk, Takako kept on staring at him.

Aha. Now she understood everything. So, with or without my consent, you were going to fuck me and then, when the time came, kill me⁠—when everyone else had been killed, and all I had to do was die for you to survive? I see. And did you work out how many times you could fuck me before then?

Her spine tingled with disgust and fury.

“A game?” Her lips curled into a wide smile. “But aren’t you ashamed to go up against a girl?”

For a brief moment, he looked as if he’d been struck, but his harsh expression quickly returned. His cold eyes flashed. “Do you want to die?”

“Go ahead, try and shoot me.”

Kazushi hesitated. Takako didn’t miss her chance. She threw the handful of pebbles she’d snuck from her pocket at his face. As he raised his hands to shield himself, she spun around, dropped her daypack, and sprinted back the way she had come, ice pick in hand.

She thought she heard him cursing behind her. Just as she thought she’d cleared fifteen meters with her star track-runner’s start, her right leg was blown forward, and she fell onto her face. Sliding on the dirt, she felt an exposed tree root scrape her cheek. This facial injury enraged her even more than the sharp pain from her leg that followed. This asshole ruined my face!

Takako twisted onto her back and sat up on the ground. A silver-colored bolt had pierced through the back of her skirt to impale itself on her right thigh. She could feel the blood coursing down her well-toned muscles.

Kazushi caught up with her. Seeing her sitting there, he dropped the crossbow, letting it clatter to the dirt. From his belt he pulled out two wooden sticks connected by a short chain⁠—nunchucks. As he wielded them in his right hand, their chain hung down, rattling in the air. (He had found the nunchucks inside Mayumi Tendo’s daypack after he’d killed Yoshio Akamatsu. His own weapon, for some bizarre reason, was an ordinary three-stringed shamisen of absolutely no use. It wasn’t even big enough to smash over somebody’s head, like a guitar. Takako knew none of this, however.)

Takako glanced at the discarded crossbow and thought, You’re going to regret dropping that.

A little out of breath, Kazushi said, “This is your fault. You provoked me.”

Still sitting on the ground, Takako glared up at him. Even now, he continued to search for excuses. She didn’t know how she’d put up with being classmates with him for more than two years.

“Please wait,” she said.

As Kazushi frowned at her, she rose to her knees, reached her hand behind her back, gritted her teeth, and yanked the bolt free. She felt her flesh rip and the blood begin to gush. Her skirt tore again. Great, now my skirt’s in two pieces.

She tossed the arrow aside and stood up, glaring at Kazushi. She was all right. The pain was fierce, but she could still stand. She shifted the ice pick to her right hand.

“Give it up,” Kazushi said. “It’s no use.”

Takako held the ice pick level and pointed it at his chest. “You said this is a game. Fine. I’ll be your opponent. I’ll never lose to some punk like you. I’ll give everything I have to stop you. You got that? You understand me? Or are you too stupid?”

But Kazushi’s expression remained confident. He probably thought he couldn’t lose against her, an injured girl.

“I’ll say it one more time,” Takako said. “Don’t even think about beating me half to death as a way to rape me. Look, little boy, you should worry more about your life than your prick.”

Kazushi’s face contorted, and he raised the nunchucks as high as his head.

Takako gripped her ice pick. Tension hung in the air between them.

He stood nearly fifteen centimeters taller than her and weighed probably twenty pounds more. Even as likely the best athlete among the Class B girls, she thought she had little chance of winning. Even worse, that gash in her leg was severe. But losing was not an option.

Suddenly, Kazushi made a move. He came forward, swinging his nunchucks down.

Takako took the strike with her left arm. One of her two bracelets sailed into the air (handmade by a South American Indian, the bracelet was a favorite, damn), and a wave of numbness shot from her upper arm to the middle of her brain. Undeterred, she raised her ice pick. Kazushi grimaced and dodged backward. Once again they stood two meters apart.

Her arm throbbed, but she was all right. Kazushi hadn’t broken anything.

His second attack came. This time he brought the nunchucks up in a backhand tennis swing.

Takako ducked her head and twisted to the side, dodging the blow. The nunchucks grazed her long, highlighted hair, tearing out several strands and sending them flying. Swiftly Takako swung her ice pick at his extended wrist. She felt it hit home, and Kazushi grunted and stepped back.

They were apart again. Takako saw a streak of red on the wrist holding the nunchucks. But he didn’t seem badly hurt.

The gash on her leg pounded. She felt the blood covering nearly her entire leg from the thigh down. She didn’t think she could last much longer. She heard the sound of panting breath, then realized it came from her own lips.

Once more Kazushi came swinging. Takako could see he was aiming for somewhere between the upper left side of her head and her shoulder.

She stepped forward. She had remembered something that Hiroki Sugimura, who attended a martial arts school, had once taught her: An attack aimed at the wrong distance will lose most of its effect. Sometimes you need to bravely step forward.

The nunchucks struck her shoulder, but only by the chain, which hardly hurt. Takako threw herself into Kazushi’s chest. His stunned, wide-open eyes were directly in front of hers. She swung the ice pick up.

Kazushi shoved her away with his off hand. Her injured leg buckled, and she toppled onto her back.

Rubbing his nearly injured chest, he looked down at her and said, “What kind of girl are you?”

When Takako slowly pulled herself up, he came rushing at her, swinging the nunchucks down. He aimed for her face.

Takako raised the ice pick to block the attack. With a metallic clang the ice pick was gone, rolling to a stop on the dirt beside her. Only the intense pain remained in her hand.

Takako bit her lip. Her eyes glaring at him, she backed away.

Kazushi twisted his mouth into a grin and took one step forward, then another. Shit, this guy’s a total psychopath. He showed no compunction about beating a girl⁠—with a weapon, even. Rather, he was enjoying it.

Again Kazushi swung the nunchucks. Swiftly, Takako bent back to dodge them, but they came after her. In a fluid movement, he had extended his reach. Maybe he was getting used to the weapon.

CRACK! The nunchucks struck the left side of her head. Her body lurched. A warm liquid began to gush from her left nostril.

Takako was about to drop. Kazushi’s expression might have been one of victory.

Still swaying, Takako narrowed her lovely, long, tapered eyes.

As she fell, she thrust out her long leg and kicked the outside of his knee as hard as she could. He let out a guttural moan and dropped onto that knee, losing balance, and pivoting halfway around on it⁠—leaving his back half exposed to her.

Had her thoughts only been on retrieving her ice pick, she might have lost. But that wasn’t what she did.

She leaped onto Kazushi’s back.

As if riding piggyback, she clasped her arms around his head. Her weight sent him toppling forward.

In that instant, she had a decision to make⁠—about her fingers. My pointer and middle finger? No, no, the thumb and middle finger are the strongest ones. Takako had always taken good care of her nails. No matter how many times her track coach, Mr. Tada, scolded her, she’d never trimmed off her sharp, pointed nails.

Mounted atop his back, Takako grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up. She couldn’t see exactly where to put her hands, but she could make a guess.

She felt him instinctively close his eyes. He must have realized what she was about to do.

It was futile. Takako’s right thumb and middle finger split through his clenched eyelids and plunged into his sockets.

“Aiiieeeeeeee!”

Kazushi screamed. He got up on his hands and knees, released his nunchucks, and tore at her arms. He thrashed around, trying to shake her off his back.

Wrapped tightly around him, Takako didn’t let go. She pushed her fingers deeper. Her fingers sunk down to their second joints. Suddenly, she felt something jolt her fingers and realized his eyeballs had popped. If anything about all of this came as a bit of a surprise to her, it was that the human eye socket was smaller than she’d expected. Unfazed, she curled her fingers inward. His blood, along with some viscous semitransparent liquid, made for a peculiar form of tears as they oozed from his eye holes.

Kazushi howled, rising to his feet, flailing his arms. He scratched at Takako’s hand and pulled her hair.

Takako sprang free, tearing off several strands of her hair⁠—or even a bundle⁠—in Kazushi’s grasp. No use worrying about that now.

She hunted for her ice pick and found it quickly. She picked it up.

Kazushi roared and thrashed his arms as if fighting an invisible foe (which, in fact, he was). Then he fell back on his ass with a thud. His eyes were wide open, but pure red, from his eyelids in, like those of an albino monkey.

Dragging her right leg behind her, Takako approached him. Then she lifted that injured leg and stomped it down onto his unguarded groin. Her white sneaker with purple stripes (she also used them for warming up at track practice) had already been soaked red with her own blood. She felt something squish beneath her shoe, like a flattened little animal. Kazushi moaned, moved his hands down to cover his crotch, and curled into a fetal position. Now she stepped on his throat with her good leg. She put her weight on it. Kazushi reached out with both hands, thrashing at her leg, trying to push it away, feebly punching and clawing at it.

“Hel⁠ ⁠…” Kazushi wheezed. With his throat crushed, the utterance came out like a draft of air through a door crack. “Help me⁠ ⁠…”

Fat chance, Takako thought. She realized her lips had twisted into a smile. I’m not even angry this time. I’m enjoying this. I really am. Well so what? I never claimed to be Pope John Paul the Second or the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, so what’s the problem?

She gripped the ice pick with both hands, knelt, and thrust it inside his mouth (she noticed he had a few fillings). Kazushi’s arms, struggling to pry off her leg, suddenly jerked, and then went still. Takako pushed the ice pick deeper. It plunged wetly into his throat with little resistance. From his chest to his toes, Kazushi convulsed like a backstroke swimmer doing an underwater dolphin kick. Then it stopped. His albino eyes remained open, surrounded by a spiderweb pattern drawn in the sticky poured-out paint of his blood.

With a sudden surge of pain in her right leg, Takako collapsed on her back beside his head. Her breath wheezed between her teeth, like it did after she ran time trials for the two-hundred-meter dash.

She had won.

But she also felt let down⁠—the fight might not have lasted but thirty seconds. She reminded herself that she wouldn’t have been able to beat him had the battle been prolonged. In any case she’d won. That’s what mattered.

Holding on to her blood-soaked leg, she looked down at Kazushi’s corpse, with the ice pick coming up out of his throat like it was in some sideshow magic act. Witness, ladies and gentlemen, as I bring up what I just swallowed.

“Takako,” said a voice from behind.

Still seated, Takako looked over her shoulder as she reached for the ice pick, plucked it from his mouth, and readied her grip. (When she did this, Kazushi’s head lifted from the ground before flopping back down.)

Mitsuko Souma (Girls #⁠11) was looking down at her.

Takako’s eyes jumped to Mitsuko’s hand, where delicate fingers held a large pistol.

Takako didn’t know Mitsuko’s intentions. But if she, like Kazushi Niida, was playing the game (and the odds of that were high⁠—this was, after all, the Mitsuko Souma), Takako didn’t stand a chance⁠—not against someone with a gun.

I have to run. I should run. Takako pulled in her injured leg and began to stand up.

Her voice oh-so-kind, Mitsuko asked, “Are you okay?” She held the gun pointed away from Takako. But Takako needed to remain cautious.

Takako scooted back, then put her hand on the trunk of a nearby tree and managed to get to her feet. Her right leg was rapidly growing heavier.

She answered, “I guess.”

Mitsuko studied Kazushi’s corpse, then glanced at the ice pick in Takako’s hand. “You killed him with just that? Wow. As another girl, I’m impressed.”

She spoke with heartfelt admiration. She seemed ebullient, even. Her eyes twinkled from that lovely, angelic face.

Again Takako replied, “I guess.” Having lost a substantial amount of blood from her leg, she felt woozy.

“Say,” Mitsuko said, “I noticed something a while ago. You’re the only girl who never sucks up to me.”

Still unable to get a read on the girl’s intentions, Takako stared at her. (The two girls vying for first and second place as the most beautiful in Shiroiwa Junior High stared each other down. It was just them, their jewelry, and a boy’s corpse with crushed eyeballs. My, how lovely.)

Mitsuko was right. Takako would’ve rather died than be a toady. When she talked to Mitsuko, she was never timid like the other girls. She was too proud for that, and besides, she wasn’t afraid of Mitsuko.

Then she recalled something an older teammate she’d had a crush on once (actually, until only a few months ago) liked to say. This wasn’t like her faint and indistinct feelings for Hiroki Sugimura; she was in love with this boy. He even said it that time he showed up before one of their meets in rough shape, his friend having gotten him into some fight: “Don’t fear a thing. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

He was charming, and he didn’t suck up to anyone. Takako had had her eye on him ever since she entered junior high. Much of her current style could be traced back to his influence. But he had had a girlfriend⁠—a beautiful girl, a little like Sakura Ogawa, with this serenity like a lake nestled deep within a forest. But that was all in the past now.

Then she thought, If something made me remember this now, and not when I was fighting Kazushi, does that mean⁠ ⁠… I’m afraid of Mitsuko?

“It’s been a little frustrating,” Mitsuko was saying. “You were so pretty. You were a better girl than me.”

Takako didn’t say anything. Something felt off, and she quickly realized what it was. Is she speaking in the past tense?

“But⁠ ⁠…” Mitsuko’s eyes twinkled playfully. She switched back to present tense for the rest. “I really like girls like you. Maybe I’m a little bi.” She laughed. “That’s why this is such⁠ ⁠…”

Takako’s eyes widened. She spun around and took off running. Her right leg dragged a little, but it was a respectable sprint for the track team’s ace runner.

“That’s why this is such⁠ ⁠…”

Mitsuko raised her Colt M1911. Three times she squeezed the trigger. Deep within the grove, already twenty meters down the gentle slope and rapidly distancing, the back of Takako’s sailor fuku opened in three places, and Takako dove forward like a baseball player sliding headfirst into base. Facedown, she slid along the ground. Her skirt flapped against her well-formed legs, the left one white and the right one red in vivid contrast, as they shot up into the air then fell right back to the earth.

Mitsuko lowered her gun and said, “Such a shame.”

24 students remain.

38

Noriko’s breathing was becoming ever more ragged. Kawada’s cold medicine hadn’t produced any apparent effect. Though hardly any time had passed⁠—Shuya’s watch read nearly two in the afternoon⁠—her cheeks seemed sunken in. Shuya used up one of his water bottles to moisten Noriko’s handkerchief, then wiped her sweaty face with it and placed the cloth back on her forehead. She kept her eyes closed, but nodded as if to thank him.

Shuya looked at Kawada, who was still sitting cross-legged at the base of a tree, smoking. The boy’s right hand rested near the grip of the Remington shotgun on his lap.

“Kawada.”

“What?”

“Let’s go.”

Kawada raised his eyebrows and exhaled smoke. “Where?”

Shuya’s lips tightened. “Come on, I can’t take this anymore.” He gestured to Noriko with his chin. “She’s getting bad.”

Kawada glanced at Noriko, who was still lying down with her eyes closed. “If it’s sepsis⁠ ⁠…” He paused. “Keeping her warm and letting her rest won’t make her better.”

“That’s my point.” Somehow managing to fight down his impatience, he continued, “There’s a symbol for some kind of clinic on the map. If we can get there, we should be able to find some better medicine, right? It’s a good ways north of the little town, and it’s not in any of the forbidden zones yet.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess I did see that.” Kawada let out a languid trail of smoke from the side of his mouth. “You might be right.”