All of a sudden the one thing that had disturbed Mitsuru from early on returned with full force. Mitsuru thought it wasn’t such a big deal, so he’d done his best to ignore it all this time: Kazuo Kiriyama never smiled.
Mitsuru’s next thought might have been touching on the truth: and it always seemed like a lot was going on in his head. Which was probably the case. But maybe there’s something incredibly dark going on in Kazuo’s mind, something so dark it’s beyond my imagination? Maybe it isn’t even something dark, maybe it’s just an absence, a kind of black hole—
And maybe Sho Tsukioka had already sensed this about Kazuo.
Mitsuru had no more time to think. He was completely focused on his index finger (one of the fingers broken that fateful day) on the trigger of the Walther PPK in his right hand.
A sea breeze blew in, mixed in with the odor rising from the puddle of blood. The waves kept crashing in.
The Walther PPK in Mitsuru’s hand quivered slightly— but the school coat draped over Kazuo’s back was already moving by then.
There was a mildly pleasant rattling sound. Sure, it was different, but something about the pulse of 950 bullets ignited every minute resembled the tapping of an old manual typewriter you’d find in an antique store. Izumi Kanai, Ryuhei Sasagawa, and Hiroshi Kuronaga were all stabbed, so these were the first gunshots to echo through the island since the game began.
Mitsuru was still standing. He couldn’t see under his school uniform very clearly, but there were four finger-sized holes running from his chest down to his stomach. His back for some reason had two large can-sized holes. His right hand holding the Walther PPK was trembling by his waist. His eyes were staring up towards the North Star. But given how bright the moon was tonight, the star probably wasn’t visible.
Kazuo held a crude lump of metal resembling a tin dessert box with a handle. It was an Ingram M10 submachine gun. He said, “If the coin came up tails, I decided I’d take part in the game.”
As if he’d been anticipating these words, Mitsuru crashed forward. As he fell, his head hit the rock and bounced back up five centimeters only once.
Kazuo Kiriyama sat still for a while. Then he got up and approached Mitsuru Numai’s corpse. He gently touched the bullet ridden body with his left hand, as if checking for something.
This was no emotional response. He didn’t feel anything, no guilt, no grief, no pity—not a single emotion.
He simply wanted to know how a human body reacted after it was shot. No, he merely thought, “It might not be such a bad idea to know.”
He removed his hand and touched his left temple—to be more accurate, a little further behind his temple. Any stranger would have thought he was merely straightening out his hair.
But that wasn’t it. He did it because of a strange feeling he had—not pain, not an itch, but something elusive and infrequent, occurring only several times a year, when he’d reflexively touch the spot which, along with the feeling, became quite familiar to Kazuo.
Kazuo’s “parents” had provided him with a special education. But in spite of learning what there was to know about the world at such a young age, Kazuo himself had no idea what caused this feeling. It was inevitable. Any trace of the damage had almost completely disappeared by the time he was old enough to recognize himself in the mirror. In other words, he knew nothing: the fact that he’d almost died from a freak accident which caused the damage when he was still inside his mother’s womb, of course, the fact that his mother was killed by the accident, the conversation his father and a highly reputed doctor had concerning the splinter digging into his skull right before his birth, the fact that neither his father nor the doctor who boasted the operation was a success knew that the splinter had gouged out a cluster of very fine nerve cells. Every one of these facts were from another time. The doctor died from liver failure, the father, or more accurately, “his real father,” also died from complications. So there was no one left to share these facts with Kazuo.
One thing was absolutely certain—it was a given for Kazuo. Although he might not have particularly realized it, or more appropriately, perhaps because he was incapable of coming to such a realization, this was what it came down to: he, Kazuo Kiriyama, felt no emotion, no guilt, no sorrow, no pity, towards the four corpses, including Mitsuru’s—and that ever since the day he was dropped into this world the way he was, he had never once felt a single emotion.
12
On the northern side of the island, opposite from where Kazuo and the others were, a steep cliff hung over the sea. It was over twenty meters high. On the cliff was a small field with a crown of wild grass. The waves crashed against the cliff and exploded into mist that drifted into the mild wind.
Sakura Ogawa (Female Student No. 4) and Kazuhiko Yamamoto (Male Student No. 21) sat together at the edge of this cliff. Their legs hung over the edge. Sakura’s right hand gently held Kazuhiko’s left hand.
Their day packs and bags, along with their compasses, were scattered around them. Just as Kazuo had assigned the others to meet at the southern tip of the island, Sakura had scribbled “at the northern tip” on the piece of paper (right beside “We shall kill each other”) she passed on to Kazuhiko. At least they were lucky enough to meet somewhere that didn’t coincide with Kazuo’s meeting place. Despite their circumstances, they were lucky enough to spend some time alone. There was a Colt .357 Magnum tucked into Kazuhiko’s belt, but he already knew he wouldn’t be using it.
“It’s quiet,” Sakura murmured. Beneath her hair, which was cut short for a girl, her pretty profile, beginning with her wide forehead, seemed to be forming a smile. She was tall, so she looked slim, and as always, she sat up straight. Kazuhiko had only recently arrived. As they hugged each other, her body trembled slightly like a wounded little bird.
“Yeah, it is,” Kazuhiko said. Aside from the bridge of his nose, which was slightly wide, he was good looking. He turned away from her to look at the view. The dark sea spread out under the moonlight, the black outlines of the islands scattered, and beyond them there was land. The lights were shining brightly on the islands and what appeared to be the Honshu mainland in the distance. It was a little before 3:30 a.m. In between those lights floating in the dark most people were sleeping peacefully. Or maybe there were kids like him studying late into the night for their high school entrance exams. It didn’t look terribly far, but it was a world beyond their reach now.
Kazuhiko confirmed the existence of the small black dot approximately two hundred meters out at sea. It appeared to be one of the ships “there to kill anyone attempting to escape by sea” that Sakamochi had mentioned. Although the Seto Inland Sea was always busy with boat traffic, even at night, not a single ship passed by to send out its lights. The government prohibited all traffic here.
It was chilling. Kazuhiko peeled his eyes off the black dot. He’d seen the corpses of Mayumi Tendo and Yoshio Akamatsu when he left the school. He also heard the sound of gunshots in the distance before he arrived here. The game had begun, and it would continue until the end. He and Sakura had already observed this, and this too no longer seemed to matter anymore.
“Thank you so much for this.” Sakura was looking at the tiny bouquet of flowers in her left hand. On his way over here Kazuhiko had found several clover-like flowers which he then bundled together. At the top of the long, thin stems, the small petals were bunched together like a cheerleader’s pom poms. They weren’t the most impressive set of flowers, but this was all he could find.