Battle Royale (Remastered)

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Battle Royale (Remastered) Page 37

by Koushun Takami, Nathan Collins


  Yutaka glared up at him. "Why, Shinji? Why did you kill him?"

  Shinji stood motionless and answered, "I was worried he had another weapon besides the knife. I aimed for his arm. I didn't mean to kill him."

  Hearing this, Yutaka started to check Keita's body. Then he made a show of looking through the boy's daypack. Then he said, "There's nothing! How could you, Shinji? Why didn't you trust him?"

  Shinji suddenly felt weak. But I had to do it. Didn't I, Uncle? Didn't I?

  He didn't say anything. He just looked down at Yutaka, who was looking back up at him. But. . . yes, that's right—we have to hurry. This is no time to dwell on a single mistake.

  But before Shinji could speak, something changed in Yutaka's expression.

  Yutaka's chin trembled in fear. "No . . . Shinji, you couldn't..."

  Not understanding, Shinji said, "What?"

  Yutaka scrambled backward, distancing himself from Shinji.

  More quaveringwords came tumbling out. "Shinji, you couldn't. . . on purpose ... it was really ..."

  Shinji pressed his lips together. He gripped the Beretta tightly in his left hand. "You think I—I shot and killed him on purpose because I was in a hurry? That's—"

  But Yutaka shook his trembling head. As he retreated by one step, then another, he said, "No . . . no . . . You . . . you ..."

  Shinji lowered his eyebrows and stared at Yutaka. What, Yutaka? What are you saying?

  "You . . . you . . . this whole escape is . . . is . . ."

  Yutaka was incoherent, but the CPU inside Shinji's skull ran as fast as anyone's, and it had worked out what Yutaka was thinking.

  He can't think that. . .

  But that's the only answer that fits.

  Yutaka was accusing Shinji of really playing the game—and of having no intention of escape. And so Shinji shot and killed Keita.

  Shinji must have looked flabbergasted. His mouth might have even dropped.

  But then he shouted, "Don't be stupid! Then why the hell would I be with you?"

  Yutaka shook his head. "Because . . . because . .

  Yutaka didn't finish, but Shinji knew what he was going to say anyway. Probably something about my needing someone to keep lookout while I sleep, or anyway, that I'm using him just so that I can stay alive. But wait, didn't I use that computer to take on Sakamochi, and when that got disrupted, haven't I gone to all that trouble to put this plan in motion? Does he think that since I'm smart, this was all some secret plot—that I faked everything with the laptop and the phone just to gain his trust, and that the gasoline and fertilizer are just for my own protection? And that, added to my one pistol, these custom explosives will give me a powerful advantage on my way to being the last man standing? And that my plan is to stop and say, "Actually, let's not, "just as we're about to bomb the school? Just like when I was hacking their network, only to say, "It's no good," and gave up? No, really, wait a second here—then what the hell's the point of that kite string I ran all the way around the school? Do you want to tell me I saw all the phones disconnected on this island and thought to myself, hey, why don't I start up a tin-can-and-string telephone company and make big money? Or had that too been a fiendishly clever ruse? Maybe I have some other use for it that your mind can't begin to fathom. Is that it, Yutaka?

  But when you said you would get revenge for Izumi Kanai, and I said I'd help you, didn't you cry? Was that another one of my tricks?

  You're over-thinking it, Yutaka. Once you begin to doubt, you can suspect everything. But you're over-thinking it. That's stupid. Really, it's hilarious. Even funnier than your jokes. Are you so exhausted now that you're starting to lose it?

  Such were Shinji's thoughts on a rational level. And if he were able to explain them step-by-step, even Yutaka would have realized how foolish all his suspicions were. And maybe none of this was what Yutaka was trying to say to him. Maybe with his exhaustion, and the shock of seeing his close friend Keita die right in front of his eyes, a single thought lurking in the back of Yutaka's mind had suddenly raised its head above the surface. But for that to have happened, the thought had to have existed there in the first place—a single hint of mistrust. And all the while, Shinji had never doubted Yutaka in the slightest.

  The feeling of weakness that had washed over his body instantly redoubled, hitting him like a flat-twelve engine, turbocharged. This class of fatigue will leave all the others in the dust. A real bargain if I do say so myself, sir.

  Shinji uncocked the hammer of his Beretta and tossed it toward Yutaka, who hesitated but picked it up.

  Exhausted, Shinji put his hands on his knees and said, "If you don't believe me, then go ahead and shoot me, Yutaka. I don't care. Shoot me."

  Yutaka looked at him, eyes wide.

  With his head down, Shinji continued, "I only shot Iijima because I felt I had to protect you. Damn it."

  For a second, Yutaka looked stunned. Then, tearfully, he blurted, "Oh, oh," and ran to Shinji. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Shinji. I was just. . . so shocked when Iijima died, that. .

  Yutaka put his hand on Shinji's shoulder and started bawling. Shinji stared at the ground with both hands still on his knees. He realized that tears were filling his eyes too.

  Somewhere from his subconscious, a part of Shinji was saying, Hey. This is no time for that. Don't you see that while you're bickering, you're leaving yourselves wide open? Have you forgotten that you're surrounded by enemies? Look at your watch, man. You're out of time. The voice sounded like his uncle's.

  But, blocked by Shinji's frazzled nerves, exhaustion, and the shock of Yutaka doubting him, the voice didn't reach into his consciousness.

  Instead, Shinji only cried. Yutaka. I was trying to protect you. How could you suspect me like that? I trusted you . . . Oh, but maybe this is exactly how Keita felt—when someone he trusted didn't trust him back. I did a terrible thing.

  Amid this jumble of emotions—grief, exhaustion, regret—Shinji heard a brattattattattattattat sound, like from some old typewriter.

  An instant later, he felt as if pierced by scorching-hot pokers.

  Though these wounds were fatal, their pain brought him back to his senses. Yutaka, who had his hand on Shinji's shoulder, slumped to the ground. Beyond him, at the far end of the parking lot, Shinji saw a figure in a school uniform. The figure was holding a gun—something larger than a pistol, it looked more like a tin box. Shinji realized what had pierced his body—bullets, of course, fuck—and that they had penetrated through Yutaka before hitting him.

  His body felt warm and stiff (Well duh, I did just catch a bellyful of bullets}, but he reflexively fell to his left and picked up the Beretta Yutaka had taken and dropped. He flipped over, stood, and aimed for the figure—Kazuo Kiriyama (Boys #6). He fired several shots at the killer's stomach.

  But Kiriyama had already shifted to the side and out of their path. With another brattattattattattattat, his hands radiated an out-of-season firework show.

  The impacts in Shinji's right side, left shoulder, and left chest dwarfed those before, and the Beretta slipped from his hand.

  But Shinji had already started running for the co-op building. For a moment, he staggered, but he ducked, kicked out his legs, and dove headfirst through the doorway. The stream of bullets chased after him, but he had managed to elude them. Or so he thought, when the tip of his basketball sneakers blew apart. This time true pain pierced through him.

  He had no time to rest. He grabbed the jerry can from behind the sliding door, and crawling nearly by his left arm and leg alone, dragging the jerry can along in his right hand, he retreated into the darkness where the tractor and combine waited.

  Blood filled his mouth. He figured his body had taken more than ten bullets. Despite the unrivaled pain shooting up from his right foot, he glanced down to where the tip of his sneakers should have been and thought, I won't be playing basketball anymore. It's impossible now. Even if I did, I'd never be a star player again. The legend is over. The end. Full stop.

/>   But Shinji was more concerned over Yutaka. Yutaka, are you still alive?

  Kiriyama, Shinji thought, as the blood bubbled from the side of his mouth. He gritted his teeth. Well look at you. So you've decided to play the game. Then come and get me. Yutaka can't move now, but I can. You can finish him off later. Come get me. Please come get me.

  As if in response to his silent plea, a shadow passed into the slash of pale moonlight coming in through the sliding door. Shinji saw it through the tractor's undercarriage.

  The next moment, that brattattattattat sound came with strobelike flashes of light, and the bullets scattered throughout the building. A part of some piece of farm equipment blew apart, and a window across from Shinji shattered.

  Then it stopped. The submachine gun had run out of bullets. Kiriyama wouldn't take long to replace the magazine.

  Shinji picked up a nearby screwdriver and threw it off to his left, where it clanged against something and fell to the concrete floor.

  He assumed Kiriyama would shoot that way next, but instead, Kiriyama fanned bullets around the screwdriver. Shinji shrunk himself and hoped he wouldn't be hit. Then it stopped. Shinji raised his head.

  Kiriyama was inside the building now.

  That's right. Shinji twisted his bloody lips into a smile. I'm over here. Come here.

  Shinji lifted the jerry can with his right hand and placed it atop his stomach. Then, careful not to make any noise, he slid backward with his left arm and leg. His back struck some hard, boxlike object, and he slid around it and continued to retreat. He knew Kiriyama could hear him. Kiriyama already knew he was hiding in the shadows. Besides, with the trail of blood, Shinji had no hope of sending the killer astray.

  Kiriyama was ducking down, peering beneath the farm equipment and the raised-up mini pickup truck and everything else. Each time he did, he got a little closer to Shinji.

  Shinji looked around himself. On the opposite wall, he could make out the outline of the second-floor space and the metal staircase leading up to it from the entrance. If his body had been up to the task, he could have tackled Kiriyama from there as he'd entered. But it was too late for such things now.

  Over near the eastern wall was a hand truck with a platform and four tiny wheels. Beyond it, the corner of the building had been partitioned off into an office space, beside which was a side door leading outside. The main sliding door was large enough, when fully opened, for a vehicle to pass through, but this one was only for people. It was closed.

  That door. I locked it, like I did all the windows and everything. How long would it take me to unlock it?

  He didn't have time to think. He dragged himself toward the hand truck. When he reached it, he quietly lifted the jerry can on top of the cart. He removed the cap from the spout. Then he took the hollow rubber plug that had been dangling from a piece of packing string and stuffed it into the spout.

  He took the detonator from his pocket. With his injuries, he had trouble moving his fingers, but he managed to peel off the electric tape from the side of the battery case. The lead coming from the detonator dangled freely, and Shinji connected it to the end of the cord coming from the capacitor board. He removed the plastic insulation pull tab from the battery case, and the capacitors quickly charged, emitting a faint, high-pitched hum. His fingers more sure now, Shinji pulled off the tape from the electric conductor's switch and stuffed the detonator deep into the rubber plug in the spout. Everything else—the conductor, battery case, and circuit board—he left on top of the jerry can. He didn't have any time to secure them in place. Kiriyama's feet had appeared to the right of the threshing machine.

  Shinji knew this was a long shot. But he and Yutaka were both injured, and they would not be crawling their way up the mountain now.

  I've got a special present for you, Kiriyama.

  Shinji kicked the cart from behind with his left leg as hard as he could. Without waiting to see if the hurtling cart avoided the piles of junk between him and Kiriyama, he flung himself at the doorknob of the side entrance.

  He unlocked it in two tenths of a second. He pushed with his legs—even the one that had lost its toes—and body-slammed the door open, diving through it and outside the building.

  Behind him the corrugated metal wall suddenly swelled. Then a roar shook the night, far more terrible than the blasts from Kiriyama's grenades that had temporarily deafened Shuya. Shinji thought, Well, there go my eardrums.

  Shinji had hit the ground, but the blast propelled him a fair distance across the dirt, scraping skin from his forehead. Fragments and detritus blew past him, but Shinji nonetheless looked over his shoulder and saw, where one of the walls had been, the pickup truck floating upside down in the air. The force of the explosion must have built up beneath the raised jack and sent the car flying amid the swarm of shards of glass, corrugated metal, and even concrete (Shinji thought he felt several of the fragments spear him—not the ones that had blown straight out, but the ones that had flown up into the air). Slowly rotating in the sky, the vehicle traced a parabolic curve before slamming onto its side in the middle of the parking lot. Then it fell over another ninety degrees, once again completely upended, and stopped. Half its rear bed had been torn off, and what remained had twisted like a wrung-out dishrag. Somehow, its tireless wheels spun around and around.

  Shrapnel showered down. Within the billowing smoke, nothing remained of the Northern Takamatsu Agricultural Cooperative Oki Island Branch Office aside from its skeletal frame. Only a fraction of the northern wall stood, with the second floor, but beyond the smoke, the second floor had been left bare. Most of the roof and the southern side had been blown away, and the farming machinery and various equipment had been scattered, toppled over, and charred blacker than the night. A few flames burned brightly wherever something had caught on fire. The side door from which Shinji had made his exit still clung by its lower hinge to the walks remains. It had bent over in Shinji's direction, as if making a bow to the boy. The partitioned-off office was gone without a trace. Nothing of it remained—well, except for the desk. Propelled by the blast, the combine had rammed into it, pinning it against a part of the wall that had survived the blast.

  One piece of shrapnel had been sent soaring high into the sky. Finally it fell into the smoke, landing with a metallic clang, like a punchline delivered with bad timing—though Shinji could hardly hear it.

  When he came back to his senses, Shinji sat up from under the pile of fragments of paneling and everything else. He stared at the building's remains and said, "Huh."

  His homemade jerry-can bomb had turned out well. With that much force, it would certainly have wiped out the school.

  But that was all over now. At least he had defeated the enemy before him. But more than that. . .

  "Yutaka," Shinji said. Slowly, he rose. He put his right knee on the debris. When he opened his mouth, blood spilled over his teeth, and incredible pain shot through his chest and his stomach. He was amazed that he was still alive. But he pushed with both hands, brought his right heel beneath his leg, then extended his left leg, and he managed to stand. He looked to where Yutaka had fallen in the parking lot.

  And then . . .

  And then he saw the flipped-over truck's door groan open (the door must not have survived completely intact). (That Shinji could hear the sound meant his hearing had started to return.)

  Kazuo Kiriyama hopped out onto his feet. He held that tin-box submachine gun as if nothing had happened.

  Hey. . .

  Shinji felt like he should be laughing. Those blood-soaked lips of his might even have been smiling.

  You've gotta be kidding.

  By then Kiriyama was already firing. Shinji took the 9x19mm Parahelium shower straight on and reeled backward onto the debris-covered ground. Something pressed into his back—the front of the parked minivan, not that it mattered anymore. The car had been thrown back by the blast, its rear plowing into a now-canted wooden telephone pole. Shrapnel had struck its windshield, spid
erwebbing the glass.

  Framed by the bright light of the flames inside the building, Kiriyama stood calm and still. Shinji saw behind him Yutaka lying on his face, half buried in the debris. Directly beside him, Keita Iijima was on his back, his head listed to the side, pointing right at Shinji.

  Shinji thought, Kiriyama. Damn, so I ended up losing to you.

  He thought, Yutaka, I let my guard down for a moment. I'm sorry.

  He thought, Uncle, how lame, huh?

  He thought, Ikumi, fall in love and be happy. Big bro won't be finding true love now. Big bro wo—

  Kazuo Kiriyama's Ingram spouted fire once more, and Shinji's thoughts ended there. A bullet had torn through the language center of his brain. All around his head, the cracked windshield shattered. Most of it fell inside the car, but a mist of tiny fragments fell onto Shinji's already dust-covered body.

  Then Shinji slumped forward onto his face, and a piece of debris bounced away. The rest of his brain died not even thirty seconds later. Smeared with the blood pouring out of his left ear, the memento of his revered uncle—the earring that had once belonged to a woman the man had loved—reflected the flames of the building, glistening bright and red.

  And like that, Shinji Mimura, the boy known as The Third Man, left the game.

  17 STUDENTS REMAIN.

  Part Three

  The Endgame

  17 STUDENTS REMAIN.

  Inside the bushes with her blanket over her shoulders, Noriko sat with her head down and her knees clasped to her chest. Deep within the heavy darkness, insects hummed like a fluorescent bulb moments before burning out.

  Shortly after she and Kawada had returned here, Sakamochi gave his midnight announcement. He read only one name—Hirono Shimizu (Girls #10), who had fled after Shuya saw her kill Kaori Minami, though Noriko hadn't witnessed it herself. The forbidden zones were F-7 from one o'clock, G-3 from three, and E-4 from five—no mention of C-3, where she and Kawada were hiding. And he hadn't said Shuya's name, but. . .

 

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