Word Count: 72,079
Summary of Events:
Oakley canvassed the fourth floor looking for people willing to ambush Mr. Meyer and although he got some support, he was frustrated at the fact that other people were consumed with fear. Charlie, Chrissa, and Orelia watched more news, which informed them that lots of people were getting disgruntled with the silence coming from the governing body of snowboarding in the US. Oakley, having been forced to sit between the two women who'd been killed at supper the other day, decided that they needed to be moved, and undertook to do so, surprisingly without opposition from Mr. Meyer; in fact, he was able to get so far as to post a note on the window informing the outside world the two women were dead without seeing Mr. Meyer . . .
Excerpt of the Day:
""As much as the tidying up is appreciated," Mr. Meyer's voice startled Oakley, who turned around. "That isn't."
"They deserve to know who you're murdering," Oakley said.
"They can find out later," Mr. Meyer spat. "Back to your room."
Oakley crossed his arms and stared at Mr. Meyer defiantly.
"You hear me," Mr. Meyer said. "Obey me."
"No," Oakley replied. "You have no right to exercise authority over me. I am my own person, and I will do what I want."
"You are my hostage," Mr. Meyer said, levelling the gun at him. "You will do what I demand."
Oakley didn't move. He could stand like this all day if that was what it took, although he was sure that Mr. Meyer wouldn't appreciate that.
Mr. Meyer stepped closer, his gun's position unwavering until it was driven into the left side of Oakley's ribcage.
"This is a fully loaded firearm," Mr. Meyer said. "I can kill you six times over."
"But you won't," Oakley replied.
"Oh?" Mr. Meyer asked, raising his eyebrows with intrigue. "And why won't I?"
"Because this isn't the first chance you've had, and every single previous time you've not," Oakley replied. "You want me to suffer. Nobody makes me suffer."
"You're rather simple-minded to think that," Mr. Meyer said.
"It's proved true to this point," Oakley said. "Why shouldn't it now?"
Mr. Meyer cocked the pistol. "Because you're simple-minded."
Oakley clenched his jaw as Mr. Meyer shoved the barrel of the pistol into his ribcage harder. The constant shrill pain made him want to writhe, but he refused to show any signs of weakness.
As subtly as he could, Oakley shifted his weight off his right leg, which he carefully shifted forward slightly.
"You have the gun cocked, shoot me," Oakley said. "Or don't you have the balls to do it?"
Mr. Meyer's face contorted with rage.
Oakley fired his right knee upward, squarely between Mr. Meyer's legs, turning the contortion of rage into a contortion of pain.
The gun went off and a searing pain ripped through Oakley's side worse than the gun barrel's unrelenting pressure. He clutched at his side and threw another knee at Mr. Meyer; this one caught him in the stomach and knocked him backwards.
Dropping to his knees, Oakley grabbed for the gun, releasing his side.
Mr. Meyer fired off another shot. Oakley struggled for control while trying to neutralise Mr. Meyer's free hand to prevent another stabbing, but the struggle to neutralise both hands was a losing fight.
Oakley soon found himself with the knife at his throat and the gun at his temple in spite of his best efforts to force them away.
"You're not as strong as you seem," Mr. Meyer said, an evil smile coming over his face.
Rage boiled in Oakley, who pulled his head back and forced both of Mr. Meyer's hands down to the floor.
Oakley braced himself above the floor on all four spreadeagled limbs.
"You don't have the balls to kill me," Oakley spat. "Or you would've killed me long ago.""
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