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.
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 encouragin
g 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."
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 f
elt 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."
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