Battle Royale

by Косюн Таками

  Toshinori decided to move over there.

  He crouched down and walked cautiously along the field ridge of the farm. But he was appalled at the sensation of dirty soil. The dull pain he felt from Hirono Shimizu's shot in the stomach area of his bulletproof vest only infuriated him more. Why did he have to be thrown into this coarse game and writhe around on the ground with the "vulgar masses"? (This was an expression his father, who ran the largest food company in the eastern part of the prefecture, often used at home, but it was a favorite phrase Toshinori himself used to express his scorn for the "vulgar masses." Of course, he was well bred, so he could never say it out loud.)

  Whether he had a right to claim it or not, it was true he possessed a unique gift, unique even among his talented classmates who ranged from being star players of their teams and clubs to being leading delinquents, or even being queer (this one was dead now, he was a very vulgar queer too). In fact, it was unique to the entire school.

  He'd started private violin lessons when he was four years old, and now he was one of the leading junior high school players in the entire prefecture. He wasn't a genius, but he wasn't mediocre either. Arrangements were made for him to enter a highly distinguished high school in Tokyo that had its own music department. As for his future career, he thought he'd at the very least become the prefectural government symphony conductor.

  This gave him—so he believed—all the more reason not to die. He would attain the status of conductor, marry a beautiful, refined woman, and mingle with rich, elegant people. (His older brother Tadanori was going to inherit the company. Of course, the thought of making a lot of money as president was attractive, but I don't need to deal with food products, yuck. I'll let my vulgar brother deal with that.) He was different from his loser classmates. Their deaths wouldn't mean a thing, but he was gifted. He was precious. And even in biological terms, the superior species was destined to survive, right?

  At first he only had this bulletproof vest, oddly supplied as a weapon, so all he could do was sneak away and hide, but now he had a gun. He was going to be merciless. What's this about the noble soul of a music lover? That's totally naive! It was true he was only fifteen, and he hadn't seen much of the world, but he knew what the music world was like. For those who weren't geniuses it was all about money and connections. It was all about crushing other competitors to survive.

  Whether this was objectively true or not, this was what Toshinori Oda believed.

  Of course, he had no close friends in Third Year Class B that was filled with the vulgar masses. In fact, he despised his vulgar classmates. Especially Shuya Nanahara.

  Toshinori did not take part in the Shiroiwa Junior High Music Club, which was filled with vulgar masses who were especially vulgar. All those losers played was popular music (apparently the club office was cluttered with music sheets of illegal foreign music). That's right. Especially Shuya Nanahara.

  Toshinori was vastly superior to him in term of music ability, given his ear training and understanding of music theory. And yet, in spite of that, the vulgar bitches in his class would scream out indecently at the sound of Shuya Nanahara plucking out kindergarten-level chords on his guitar (I mean come on those bitches who listen to Shuya Nanahara playing during the short break before music class, they might as well have printed on their foreheads in thick Gothic font: "Oh, Shuya, do me now, right here"). In contrast, they'd only politely applaud when Toshinori finished playing an elegant passage from an opera at the music teacher's request.

  For one thing, those loser bitches could never appreciate classical music, and for another, it was only because Shuya Nanahara was good-looking (although Toshinori would never admit it, deep down inside he couldn't stand his own ugly face).

  Fine. That's what women are like anyway. They're just a different species. Just a tool to produce children (and of course to provide pleasure for men when they need it), and if they were good-looking then they were just ornaments to place beside successful men. Yes, it all came down to...money and connections. And my talent is worth the investment of money and connections. Therefore...

  ...I deserve to be the survivor.

  He heard gunfire at times throughout the night, and there was that amazing explosion to top it all off, but now the island was immersed in darkness and silence. Toshinori quickly circled the first house, passed it, and approached the second one. He could tell it was pretty old even though he could only make out its silhouette. The house was surrounded by a circle of trees, and on the west side in front was an extremely large broadleaf tree, its branches spread out. Its circumference was four to five meters, and it was seven to eight meters tall.

  There shouldn't be anyone...here.

  Toshinori gripped his gun and slowly moved forward, cautiously checking the house as well as the tree. Of course he didn't forget to stop and look in all directions. You never knew where the vulgar masses might show up. Just like cockroaches.

  After spending a full five minutes passing by the side of the house, he looked over his shoulder and checked the house, which was surrounded by trees of various sizes. There were no suspicious movements that he could see through his open helmet's square window.

  All right.

  He could see the third house, the one he wanted, nearby.

  ...

  Toshinori turned around one more time.

  He thought something round and black stirred near the ground between the trees surrounding the house. It was...

  ...someone's head, he realized, but by then he was aiming his gun over there. But this one was wandering in an area that would become a forbidden zone soon. Who could it possibly be?...

  It didn't matter.

  He pulled the trigger. Holding the Smith & Wesson Military & Police's wooden grip, he felt a sudden jerk in the palm of his hand. The gun popped with an orange flash, sending a sting down Toshinori's spine. Although he despised the ignorant, vulgar masses, he had a hobby that wasn't so refined, much less refined than playing the violin. He still had his model gun collection. His father owned several hunting rifles, but he was never allowed to handle them, so this was the first time he'd ever pulled the trigger of a real gun. It was real. Damn, I'm shooting a real gun!

  Toshinori shot twice and his opponent crouched down, unable to move, it seemed. The person didn't shoot back either. Of course not, if he had a gun he would have shot me from behind. That's what let me pull the trigger in the first place.

  Toshinori slowly approached the figure. It shouted, "Stop!"

  He could tell from his voice it was Hiroki Sugimura (Male Student No. 11). That tall guy (Toshinori by the way hated tall guys too. His height was only 162 centimeters and next to Yutaka Seto he was the shortest guy in their class. He couldn't stand: [a] good looking guys, [b] tall guys, and [c] all-around vulgar guys) who practiced that vulgar karate-like sport. He was supposedly going out with Takako Chigusa who tastelessly dyed her hair and wore all that gaudy jewelry—oh, that's right, she was also dead now. She wasn't bad looking though.

  Hiroki continued, "I'm not fighting this game! Who are you? Yuichiro?"

  Hiroki had guessed it was Yuichiro Takiguchi (Male Student No. 13), who was the next shortest guy to Toshinori. Yes, since Hiroshi Kuronaga had died a while ago, the only ones left alive who were his height were Yuichiro and Yutaka. In any case, Toshinori wondered for a moment, what's this about not fighting? Impossible. Not playing this game would be tantamount to committing suicide. Is he trying to fool me? Even if he was, as long as he doesn't have a gun... Toshinori changed his course of action. He lowered his gun. With his left hand he pulled down on the chin guard of the helmet and said, "It's Toshinori." Then he thought, oh, I should probably stutter a little. "S-sorry I did that. A-are you hurt?"

  Hiroki Sugimura slowly got up, revealing his large frame. Like Toshinori he had his day pack on his right shoulder. His right hand held a stick. His right sleeve was missing, maybe it was torn or maybe he'd torn it off. His shirt was missing underneath and his right arm
was bare. A white cloth was wrapped around the shoulder. With his bare right arm holding the stick he resembled a naked primitive tribesman. A vulgar naked tribe.

  "I'm all right." Then he asked, looking at Toshinori's head, "Is that a helmet?"

  "U-uh yes." As he answered, Toshinori came forward, stepping onto the farm soil. All right, three more steps.

  "I-I've been so scaaaared." Before he finished saying "scared" Toshinori raised his right hand. Five meters away, he couldn't miss.

  Hiroki's eyes opened wide. Too late, too late, you vulgar karate bastard. You're going to die a vulgar death, end up in a vulgar grave, and I'll offer you the most vulgar flowers I can find.

  But Hiroki wasn't there at the end of the muzzle of the exploding Smith & Wesson. A split second before the shot, Hiroki had unexpectedly ducked to his left—Toshinori's right. Toshinori of course had no idea Hiroki had used a martial arts move, but in any case...he was incredibly fast.

  From this crouched position, Hiroki held up, instead of the stick in his left hand, a gun in his left hand (Toshinori also had no way of knowing that—although, in contrast to Shinji Mimura, he had "fixed" it—Hiroki was originally in fact left-handed). So he already had a gun...then why didn't the fool use it in the first place? Before this thought barely crossed his mind a small flame exploded.

  The gun was suddenly gone from his right hand. The next moment he felt a searing pain and his right ring finger exploded. Toshinori shrieked. He fell on both his knees and held the painful stump with his left hand...and realized his ring finger was gone. Blood spurted out. He might have been wearing a bulletproof vest and a helmet, but his fingers were unprotected.

  Argh...that bastard...my finger...my right finger that elegantly guides the violin bow is!...that can't be...in the movies fingers never get blown away in gun fights!

  Hiroki approached him, gun in hand. Toshinori held his right hand and gazed at it, his eyes inside his helmet terrified and delirious. His face was getting clammy from the sweat breaking out under his helmet.

  Hiroki said, "So you're totally up for this. I don't want to shoot...but I have no choice. I have to."

  Toshinori had no idea what Hiroki meant at all, and although he was in terrible pain, he still felt confident. Because...the gun was pointed at his chest. Of course, it would be. He wore the helmet not so much because it was bulletproof but because it would force his enemy to aim at his body instead. And under his school coat he was wearing the bulletproof vest. As long as his vest stopped the bullet, then all he would have to do is wait for a chance to retrieve his gun and then—since his index finger was still working— he could pull the trigger and win. His gun was by his feet.

  With Toshinori glaring at him, Hiroki Sugimura still paused a few moments...but Hiroki pursed his lips tightly and calmly squeezed the trigger. Toshinori recalled his fight against Hirono Shimizu and considered how he should play "dead."

  But it ended much more than abruptly than he'd expected. Hiroki's gun only made a small metallic click.

  Hiroki looked confused. He nervously cocked the gun and pulled the trigger. Again, click.

  Toshinori's lips twisted into a smile hidden under the helmet. Karate bastard. That was a dud. With that automatic you'll have to pull the breechblock and reload the chamber.

  Toshinori went for his gun by his feet. Hiroki immediately responded with the stick in his right hand but instead—maybe he thought it was too far—he turned around and ran toward the mountain beyond the house.

  Toshinori picked up the gun. His crippled hand ached, but he still managed to hold it. He fired. Because his hold on the grip wasn't tight he couldn't fix his aim on Hiroki, but he could tell he hit him in the thigh, right near his butt. Did it only scrape him? In any case, Hiroki suddenly tottered, but he didn't fall. He continued running. Toshinori also started running and fired another shot. This time he missed. The recoil of the gun so pleasurable only moments ago now sent a sharp pain through his injured hand which infuriated Toshinori. He shot again. He missed again. In spite of being shot in the leg, Hiroki was faster than him.

  Hiroki disappeared into the woods at the foot of the mountain.

  Damn it!

  Toshinori deliberated whether he should chase him—and decided not to. His opponent was injured but so was he. The gun grip was slippery from the blood pouring from the stump of his former ring finger. Besides, if he entered the mountains now, Hiroki would reload his gun and shoot back. In that situation, it'd be too dangerous to expose himself like that with nothing to hide behind. He nervously crouched down.

  He had to get to the first house—the house he'd decided to enter. And he had to make sure Hiroki wouldn't see him enter it.

  Toshinori clutched his right hand, which was still holding the gun, and staggered over there, enduring the pain. As he traveled down the footpath the pain became more and more excruciating. He felt dizzy. First thing was his hand. He had to treat it. He had to come up with a different strategy. Oh, but, damn, even if he were able to play the violin after rehabilitation this crippled hand would stick out during a performance, especially if they televise it and zoom in. So now I'm going to be joining that lame group—the disabled. What a nice melody, how he's overcome his disability. How lame!

  He was approaching the house. Toshinori looked over his shoulder again. He looked closely, but didn't see any sign of Hiroki. He was safe now. Hiroki wasn't coming after him.

  Toshinori looked back at the house.

  He saw a guy standing on the farm field six to seven meters away, right in front of the house he wanted. The guy had appeared suddenly out of nowhere. He had slicked-back hair that reached a little too far behind his neck and cold, gleaming eyes.

  By the time he realized it was Kazuo Kiriyama (Male Student No. 6) (another guy he couldn't stand, category [a] good looking), a heavy burst of fire came out of his hands along with a rattling sound, slamming against Toshinori's torso. Toshinori was blown back and fell backward. Because his grip on the gun had loosened from the pain he'd been feeling in his right hand, he dropped it and heard it knock against something. His back scraped against the dirt. His head wearing the helmet hit the ground.

  The echoing gunfire faded into the night air. All was quiet once again.

  But of course Toshinori Oda wasn't dead. He held his breath and lay down, frozen, trying his best to restrain his urge to snicker. Now that he was overwhelmed by this wicked pleasure, the agonizing pain from his right hand, not to mention his anger at letting Hiroki Sugimura escape, or his anger at being suddenly attacked by a guy in category [a], his emotional faculties were a complete mess, but his body (with the exception of his right ring finger), just as it had been with Hirono Shimizu, was completely intact. So he was right to wear the helmet. Kazuo had aimed at Toshinori's torso, which was protected by the bulletproof vest. Just as Hiroki had done, Kazuo probably assumed Toshinori was dead.

  His eyelids nearly shut, his field of vision resembled a widescreen movie. He could see at the far end of his field of vision the S&W flash faintly against the moonlight. And now he could feel the stiff shape of the kitchen knife (which he found in the house where he'd killed Hirono Shimizu) he had tucked in back. It would take less than a second to unwrap the cloth around it.

  As he continued to sweat, which was the one thing he couldn't hold back, Toshinori thought, all right, now pick up that gun lying over there. Then I'll slash that vulgar windpipe of yours. Or will you turn around and leave? Then I'll pick up the gun and dig a nice tunnel through that vulgar skull of yours. Come on. Make your choice. Just hurry up and choose.

  But for some reason, instead of approaching the gun, Kazuo came straight at Toshinori.

  ...

  He was coming straight at him. Staring at him with those cold eyes.

  Why? Toshinori wondered. I'm supposed to be dead. Look how good I am at playing dead.

  Kazuo didn't stop. He kept on approaching. One step, two...

  But I'm supposed to be dead! Why!?

&n
bsp; The faint sound of his steps on the soil became louder and his field of vision was now filled with the figure of Kazuo.

  !...

  Suddenly overcome with panic and fear, Toshinori frantically opened his eyes.

  Kazuo's Ingram once again let out a burst of fire into Toshinori's shielded head. Some of the point-blank shots turned into colorful sparks from scraping against the reinforced plastic shell of the helmet while others, after exiting Toshinori's skull, ricocheted inside his helmet, rattling Toshinori's head along with the helmet (his body was dancing a strange boogie. Toshinori himself would have been irritated by this kind of vulgar dancing). And of course by the time it was all over...Toshinori's head was crushed inside his helmet.

  Toshinori no longer played dead. He remained frozen. Blood dripped out from under the helmet, which resembled a bowl of sauce.

  And so this boy who despised the ignorant, vulgar masses, foolish Toshinori Oda, had overestimated the value of his bulletproof vest and underestimated Kazuo Kiriyama's calm actions. As a result he died easily. If he'd thought about how Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano had died yesterday morning, he would have realized that his assailant would have followed up on his enemy to deliver a coup de grace, but he wasn't so perceptive. Furthermore—it was quite irrelevant now—he had no idea his killer, Kazuo Kiriyama, had, in his mansion that was much larger than Toshinori's home in Shiroiwa-cho, mastered the violin at a level far superior to Toshinori's a long time ago (and then tossed his violin into the trash).

  16 students remaining

  55

  Some chatting. The sound of someone moving. She'd even settle for the faint sound of someone desperately trying to hold his or her breath. Instead, Mitsuko Souma (Female Student No. 11) ended up hearing the sound of liquid running through grass. She could tell it was someone pissing in the grove nearby (unless there was a dog on the island). Dawn was approaching. She glanced up and saw a faint blue beginning emerge in the dark sky.