Survival of the Unfit

Chapter 11

April

I got Brandy’s weapons from her hiding place in a tree by her house. I went out and bought myself a leather jacket afterschool one day. I used my baking money and got an entire night wardrobe, actually, including black combat boots and black pants, everything black. I went to the gym six out of seven days a week. And I trained.

I didn’t have fighting ability magically bestowed upon me, so I did it the right way and built it up myself. Stupid Levi Wolfe, infamous “hero” of the North. He became my scapegoat for everything. He was the blame for Brandy, for me being so lonely now, because he had stopped being a hero for far too long. Three deaths was way too long in my book and if he was resigning, someone had to sign up. Who better than the loner, and what better motive than revenge?

Because god, did I miss Brandy. I had no one to talk to at lunch. I had no one to visit afterschool, and the absence of a person is hard to explain. They just…aren’t there anymore. It’s simple. Very simple, but I just didn’t know what to do when that person was a lot of what I had. Maybe not everything, but a lot. I missed our late night talks with dry wine and fruit salad more than anything.

I thought about why Levi would be at her funeral a lot. And her death in general, because she was found more towards the North side of town, which is a good twenty five minute walk from where she lived. The island is really long shaped and you can drive across the entire thing in about thirty, but with everything so close no one usually bothers to travel too far. And why do a suicide, when they had already done that once? You’d think it’d be over used. What was Brandy even doing out? Was she taken from her house or walking the streets? It made no sense. And of course, why in the world would Levi show up to her funeral. That one bothered me.

Mostly because it was his fault, partially. If he had been doing what he was supposed to be doing, she wouldn’t be six feet under. I saw with my own two eyes how well he can fight. He took out three guys, and you’re telling me he couldn’t take out one killer who’s taken three lives? God, it was such bullshit and it angered me to wit’s end. There was no reason to come to her funeral except to see what he’s done. What he’s let happen.

And maybe I’m being too harsh on the kid, but god. He had one job; it’s the reputation he brought upon himself for heaven’s sake! Brandy was right—heroes don’t just stop being heroes. They don’t stop helping people, why would you? And I suppose survival wasn’t always of the fittest either, because the fittest here are the best pickings. The fittest here excel, and are therefore more desirable. More desirable, a bigger target, a better prize for the brave and sadistic. The phrase didn’t make sense until then, after three months of growing unbearably attached to her. Survival is never of the fittest. It’s of the weak, the undesirable. Darwin would’ve loved to study us.

As soon as I felt prepared enough, I got ready to go out. I’d go on a Wednesday to start, and I didn’t know how Levi worked his schedule, but I was going to start myself out slow in the middle of the week and not get killed. My leather jacket, with asymmetrical zipper in glistening chrome, two zipper pockets, and thinly pleated panels running down the arms for some extra protection was the number one item. Combat boots with a thick rubber sole were good for running and kicking, laces guaranteed to stay tied. The pants I got were stretchy and flexible. I already had a black shirt to wear under the jacket. It actually had The Neighbourhood logo on it, but with my jacket zipped you couldn’t tell. I had a pocket on the inner lining that I stuck some band-aids in, just in case. I pinned my bangs back in a functional bump and swept everything else up into a tight ponytail.

I put my gear on at one in the morning and looked in the mirror, admiring the reflection. My mint eyes were a bit bright, brown would be more functional, but that’s something I couldn’t change. Well…I could. But I am not going to kill someone. I am not going to have to kill someone. I was just tough. Strong. Functional. And most importantly, kickass. I clicked the magazine into the handle of the handgun, putting it in the holster on my belt. I took the knife and slipped it into its sheath strapped to my thigh, all black, undetectable unless you were up close. Ready.