The reform school at Hillworth wasn't working, so they were trying something different: they were going to round them all up and make them kill each other. The reform school at Hillworth wasn't working, so they were trying something different -- they'd already emptied out the school, all the teachers were gone, and they put bombs in all the students' chests if they tried to run. Dylan knew his was there because he had a thin chest and when he breathed too deep he felt it knock against his ribcage, ba-dunk, ba-dunk, like his heartbeat.

They put bombs in their chests and gave them guns and set them loose to kill each other in Hillworth. The government had issued a permit. After all, the reform school, they said, wasn't working.

He and Jesse were in the downstairs bathroom at the end of the hall, the one that smelled like piss all the time and nobody used, except apparently to make it smell like piss. They'd torn out some of the toilets, like they did in The Boondock Saints, and used them to block the door.

Franz St. Germaine was on the floor too. Jesse had blown his head off; the grenade he'd been holding did for the rest of his body. Taylor Monroe was lying on top of him. Elzo and Marlo Xanis too, a few other kids -- they were using those to block the door, too, because, well, they were already dead, something had to block the door didn't? That was Dylan Rasmussen's reasoning. It was pretty fair reasoning coming from someone whose gun didn't shoot bullets, it just shot noise: he discovered that pretty early on, and he was sure he was done for, but Jesse had put his arm through his arm and tied their hands together with a plastic tie and said, I'll protect you. And it had worked because, you know, Dylan was a leftie. They were twins. Mirror reflections.

The thing was, the game didn't work like Jesse thought. They all had to kill each other at the end. But Dylan hadn't told him that.

Jesse stood by the door -- someone from outside wedged it open and Jesse stuck his gun through, blam-blam, and blood splattered. Dylan stood behind him, back to back, and flinched at the gunshot and again at the blood as it splattered Jesse; while he shivered Jesse tied another plastic tie around their wrists, click, and zipped it shut. "You okay, Alex?"

"I'm fine." His voice came out thin and raspy, or had it always been like that? "Who was that?"

"Parker Damnhait," said Jesse -- "it's okay, I think that's nearly everyone."

"Everyone?" Click. Another tie.

"Yeah --"

"Bryce and Cleve?" Dylan raised his gun to eye level and pointed it at the opposite wall, pulled the trigger, but all it shot was noise: he flinched and dropped the gun, and it fell to the ground clattering around letting off more noise-blasts while he backed up against Jesse even closer. "You really -- Bryce and Cleve?"

Jesse nudged him with his elbow. His shirt was soaked through with blood: some of it was getting on Dylan. "Of course Bryce and Cleve," he said, sounding impatient, "quit playing around with that, you've never been good at arms, Alex. All right. Listen really close. Can you hear anyone?"

He couldn't, but he could hear the sound the bomb made when it clacked against his chest. "Jesse --"

"Shh."

"Jesse, you don't --"

"Shh," said Jesse, and he tied their arms together again. It was getting hard to move apart.

Dylan moved, awkwardly, so they were facing each other again; it was a strain on the ties and cut circulation-breaking ribbons into his arm. He winced. Jesse put his fingers to his mouth and then to the ties, like that would do something, but it didn't.

"Hector," Dylan said, "we're supposed to all kill each other, that's the thing: or we all die. I'm sorry. I didn't tell you."

Jesse didn't say anything. Dylan took the gun out of Jesse's left hand with his right hand, and Jesse didn't stop him: and he pushed the barrel to Jesse's chest, and Jesse didn't stop him, and he pulled the trigger, and Jesse didn't stop him. He expected to set off the bomb in Jesse, and kill them both. He just heard a metallic crunch and the splatter of Jesse's guts, and Jesse slumped against the wall and strained the plastic ties.

"Very disappointing," said the evaluator. Where had he come from?

They were all lined up against the walls. "A tragedy," said Mr. Bertolucci from Algebra, "to strike Hillworth Grammar."

"You boys failed," said Mr. Killingworth from Gym with a brisk shake of his head.

"It was a social experiment," said Mr. Johanssen from Meadowview -- what was he doing here? But he was walking out and shaking his head anyway. "A social experiment -- you didn't have to kill anyone, any of you," he said with a cluck of his tongue. "You could've gone the whole thing without killing anyone. And look what's become of you, Mr. Rasmussen. A dubious achievement."

Dylan stared, and he had to argue his case: "But the bomb," he said. "I can feel the bomb."

"What bomb?"

"I can feel the bomb," he snapped.

"What bomb, Mr. Rasmussen? All I see is a dead Mr. Alvarez."

"The bomb," said Dylan, and he turned Jesse's gun on himself and pulled the trigger: but it just blasted the world into a mess of white noise, and he woke up.