The Last One Read online

  This is not the first time they’ve pretended a child, but this is the first time they’ve pretended an abandoned child.

  “All right,” I whisper. “This shit is getting old.”

  But it’s not; each prop is as horrible and startling as the last. That’s four now—five, if I count the doll—and I don’t know why, how they fit, what they mean. I slam the door shut, and this, the sound I associate with triumphant arrival, stirs my anger further. I’ve hit the child-sized prop’s head, caught the brown hair in the door.

  Is it real hair? Did a woman somewhere shear her head thinking her keratin threads would bolster the confidence of a child fighting cancer, only to have them end up a part of this sick game? Is the donor watching, and will she recognize the hair as hers? Will she feel the impact of the car door against her own head?

  Stop.

  I make my way to the other side of the car, take a deep breath, hold it, and open the door on that side. I yank the cooler from the car and slam the door shut. The sound echoes in my skull.

  Cooler in hand, I ease myself to the ground in front of the car and lean against the bumper. My teeth feel as though they have fused together, top to bottom, and they tremble with the strength of their connection. I sit with my eyes closed, working to relax my jaw.

  The first fake corpse I saw was at the end of a Team Challenge. The third, I think. Maybe the fourth—it’s hard to remember. It was me, Julio, and Heather, following the signs: red drips on rocks, a handprint in the mud, a thread caught in some thorns. We got turned around, lost the trail when it crossed a brook. Heather tripped and got wet, then bumbled into a stump or something and started whining about a stubbed toe as though she’d broken her leg. We lost a lot of time and, ultimately, the Challenge. Cooper and Ethan’s group got there first, of course. That night, Cooper told me that they found their target with a fake head wound sitting near the top edge of the rock face. I remember the anger in his voice, how surprised I was to hear it. But I understood.

  We watched our target tumble over the cliff.

  I saw the harness under his jacket; I saw the rope. But still.

  At the bottom we found a twisted mess coated in cornstarch blood. It didn’t look very real, not that first time, but it was still a shock. The latex-and-plastic construct wore jeans, from which we needed to retrieve a wallet. Heather cried. Julio placed his hat over his heart and murmured a prayer. They left it to me. After I got the wallet my nerves were raw and Heather’s hysterics sliced through them. I don’t remember exactly what I yelled, but I know I used the word “bimbo,” because afterward I thought, What an odd word choice, even for me. I remember everyone staring at me, the shock in their eyes. I’d worked so hard to be nice, to be someone to root for—to vote for. But enough was enough.

  Walking away from that Challenge, I thought I finally understood what they were capable of. I thought I understood just how far they were willing to go. And I knew I had to do better. I apologized to Heather—as sincerely as I could, considering that I’d meant everything I said and only regretted saying it—and I hardened myself until I was ready for anything.

  I feel myself getting harder every day. Even when I startle and soften, even when my façade breaks, it seems to me that it always comes back harder, like a muscle strengthening with use. I hate it. I hate being hard and that my hatred hardens me further. I hate that I’m already pushing the child prop from my mind, thinking instead of the cooler.

  I press the button, pull the handle so the top tilts away.

  A Ziploc bag stuffed with green and white mold. Beneath it, a juice box. Pomegranate blueberry. I fish out the juice box and then close the cooler. I feel as though I should return the cooler to the car, like how I spread out the components of my debris huts each morning, returning everything to its natural place. But this is different, there is nothing natural about the placement of this car, this cooler. I stand and shove the cooler against the front bumper with my foot. A moment later, juice box in hand, I am walking again.

  I wonder if I’ll make it home without hitting a boundary or finding another Clue—if they’ll let me go that far. Have they carved out a corridor for me all the way to the coast? Even this seems possible now. Or maybe—maybe I’m not even going east. Maybe sunrise and sunset have been reduced to parlor tricks. Maybe my compass is rigged, and my magnetic north is really a remote-controlled signal easing me into an oblivious spiral.

  Maybe I’ll never make it home.

  In the Dark—Predictions?

  I’ve never heard of anything like this show! They just started taping yesterday and the first episode airs Monday. Monday! And the production company that did Mt. Cyanide is behind it so you know the special effects are going to be INSANE. Their website calls it “a reality experience of unprecedented scale.” Sure, it’s their job to build buzz, but color me excited. What do you all think?

  submitted 38 days ago by LongLiveCaptainTightPants

  114 comments

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  [-] CharlieHorse11 38 days ago

  My money’s on this actually being Mt. Cyanide 2. The acid-spewing volcanoes are spreading! Ruuuuu­uuuuu­uuuuu­un!

  [-] HeftyTurtle 38 days ago

  From what I’ve read, they’ve got the budget like it is. We’re talking the realm of $100 million here.

  [-] CharlieHorse11 38 days ago

  Mt. Cyanide was twice that. I don’t want half as many acid volcanoes, I want ALL the acid volcanoes.

  [-] LongLiveCaptainTightPants 38 days ago

  Source?

  [-] HeftyTurtle 38 days ago

  Here. Unofficial, but seems legit.

  [-] LongLiveCaptainTightPants 38 days ago

  Whoa. Yeah. Now I’m even more excited!

  [-] JT_Orlando 37 days ago

  Have you all seen the legal releases that leaked yesterday? 98 pages! Cast had to sign some crazy shit. I couldn’t get through it all but of what I did read my favorite was that they had to accept “All risks arising from engaging in vigorous physical activity in wilderness areas not readily accessible to emergency services, where conditions vary and hazards may not be readily apparent, where weather is unpredictable and where rock falls occur.” Also, “Risks arising from poisonous flora and fauna, including risks arising from encounters with bears, coyotes, venomous snakes, and other indigenous wildlife.” Full text here.

  [-] DispersingSpore 37 days ago

  I like “Severe mental strain arising from solitude, prolonged periods of hunger and fatigue, and other psychologically trying conditions.”

  [-] Hodork123 37 days ago

  Standard boilerplate waivers resulting from our overly litigious society. Make it sound a lot more dangerous than it is, I bet.

  [-] DispersingSpore 37 days ago

  Love it or leave it, Commie.

  [-] Hodork123 38 days ago

  Another wilderness survival reality show? B/c that’s just what we need.

  [-] Coriander522 38 days ago

  Spoiler alert: It’s actually a singing competition.

  [-] CoriolisAffect 38 days ago

  My buddy’s a cameraman on the show. CaptainTightPants is right about the timing—it’s nuts. And my friend says they’ve got some seriously f*cked-up shit ahead. Stay tuned.

  [-] NoDisneyPrincess 38 days ago

  Zombies?

  [-] CoriolisAffect 38 days ago

  As the saying goes, I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.

  [-] NoDisneyPrincess 38 days ago

  ZOMBIEEEEES!!!!

  [-] LongLiveCaptainTightPants 38 days ago

  Rad! You should get your friend to do an AMA once it’s all said and done. I’d love to know what goes on behind the scenes.

  [-] Coriander522 38 days ago

  Seconded!

  [-] CoriolisAffect 38 days ago

  I’ll see what I can do.

  …

  4.

  “The rules for your first Cha
llenge are simple,” says the host, standing in the field in stark afternoon light. “You each have a bandana and compass marked with your assigned color, or colors. For the duration of this adventure, anything meant specifically for you will be marked with those colors. Starting with”—he swivels to indicate a series of short painted sticks spaced throughout the field—“these.”

  “Sticks?” whispers Asian Chick to no one in particular. “What do they do?”

  The host shushes her, squares his shoulders, and continues. “Using your compass, you will need to find your way to a series of control points, and ultimately to a box containing a wrapped package. Do not open the package.” He smiles and runs his gaze along the line of contestants, then sticks his thumbs into his front pockets, assuming a laid-back stance that implies he knows something the contestants do not, which, of course, he does. It is his privilege to know many things they do not. “Find your colors and take your places.”

  Waitress already has the compass in her hand, as do two others: Tracker and Zoo. Zoo didn’t need to use her compass to reach the gathering point, but she removed it from her pack the moment taping began anyway. She smiled as she did so, and she smiled as she walked with it unnecessarily in her hand, heading a few degrees right of north—following the footpath she was told would take her to the first Challenge. She is still smiling as she looks again to the spot of paint she noticed first thing—baby blue. It is this easy smile that endears her so to her coworkers and students at the wildlife sanctuary and rehabilitation center where she works—not a zoo, but close enough. It is this easy smile that the producers suspect will endear her to viewers.

  Zoo sees her stick. Her pace quickens; she’s almost skipping. She took an orienteering class a few months ago. She knows to “put red in the shed,” and to “plug in” the compass to her chest. She knows to count her first step as “and” and her second step as “one.” She thinks it will be fun to put her knowledge to use. For now, this experience is a lark. She hurries to collect her instructions from a plastic bag beside the light blue stick.

  A lanky young white man with wavy auburn hair cuts across Zoo’s path. “Excuse me,” says Cheerleader Boy in a snarky tone that betrays his unease. He hates the wilderness, hates that the color of the bandana he has tucked into his shirt like a pocket square is pink. He applied for the show on a dare from his squad’s flyer, who, really, should be the one here—she’s the bravest person he knows. Cheerleader Boy didn’t expect to be selected and accepted the offer for lack of a better way to occupy the summer between his sophomore and junior years of college—and because how could he reject a chance to win one million dollars, even a minuscule chance? By the time he realized taping wouldn’t start until mid-August and he would have to take a semester off from school, he was already committed.

  The creators of the show all agree that the hostile tone with which Cheerleader Boy spoke to the most upbeat of the contestants is the perfect introduction to the character they’ve assigned him: the effeminate male so far out of his element he’s more caricature than man. Confronted, the off-site producer will argue that they simply followed the story provided by this opening shot. Circular reasoning. They chose the shot, they chose the moment, this flash of one of the many facets of this young man’s self. He could have been many things—scared, helpful, inquisitive—but instead he’s a jerk.

  Settling into place at an orange stick not far from Cheerleader Boy is Biology, who wears her bandana as a headband with the knot above her ear. Biology is gay too—see, it’s fair, they’ll say: You’re allowed to root for her. But Biology, who teaches seventh-grade life science in a small public school, is the least threatening style of lesbian: a shapely, feminine one who holds her sexuality close. Her dark, spiraling hair is long, her light brown skin moisturized. She wears dresses to work as often as not, and tasteful makeup always. If a straight man were to imagine her with another woman, he would likely imagine himself there too.

  Air Force steps up to a dark blue marker between Biology and Cheerleader Boy. He looks Biology up and down and then watches as Cheerleader Boy sighs and tries to shake his nerves from his fingertips. It’s been years since the repeal of “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” and Air Force doesn’t assume that Cheerleader Boy will be inexperienced in the skills necessary for the coming weeks. In fact, his first thought is, I bet he’s a ringer.

  The contestants collect their instructions. The host waves to get their attention as cameramen creep into position carefully out of one another’s shots. Minutes are reduced to seconds. The host shouts, “Go!”

  Tracker lopes forward, his eyes settled on some distant object. Rancher strides his easy stride. Zoo grins and starts counting to herself as she walks with her compass held perpendicular against her chest. Cheerleader Boy looks around, then studies his map and compass, unsure. Waitress turns in a circle and makes brief eye contact with Biology, who shrugs.

  Watching the others is Engineer. He wears his maroon-and-brown-striped bandana around his neck like Rancher’s, but it looks very different on this gangly, bespectacled young Chinese American man. Engineer has never rushed into anything in his life, excepting a few nights in college when the liberal application of alcohol led to his breaking character. Once he streaked across campus. It was 4 a.m., and other than the friend who issued the dare, only two people saw him. Engineer prides himself on this memory, on his spontaneity in that moment. He wishes he could be spontaneous more often. That’s why he’s here—a long-pondered decision to put himself into a situation that will require spontaneity. He wants to learn.

  Engineer looks at his instructions: a series of bullet points. “One hundred thirty-eight degrees,” he says. “Forty-two paces.” He twists the compass housing, matches a small tick mark just shy of the 140-degree indicator to a line at the front of the compass. He doesn’t know how long a pace is supposed to be, but will experiment until the answer becomes clear, as it quickly will.

  The twelve contestants disperse like gas molecules to fill the space of the field.

  Tracker stops at the tree line and peers into the branches above, then launches himself into the air—grabbing a stout branch with both hands. He pulls himself up into the tree. All of the contestants who are facing his direction—seven of them—stop to watch, but Zoo and Air Force are the only ones who will be shown to viewers. Zoo widens her eyes, impressed. Air Force raises an eyebrow and shakes his head, less so.

  Tracker drops from the tree, landing softly on his feet in the grass below. In his hand there is a red flag. He doesn’t want to leave a trail, not even the trail he is intended to follow. He stands straight, tucks the flag into his pocket, consults his instructions and compass, and heads toward his second control point.

  Black Doctor struggles to find his first control point. His mistakes are twofold.

  His first mistake: After setting his compass to the noted 62 degrees and turning to face that direction, he sets his gaze to the ground and starts walking. He doesn’t want to miss his flag if it’s hidden in the long grass. A reasonable concern from a reasonable man. But it’s a proven if inexplicable fact that people are incapable of walking in a straight line while blindfolded, and Black Doctor is all but blindfolding himself by looking at the grass. With each step he veers slightly to the right, just far enough to take him off course.

  His second mistake: He counts each step as a pace, instead of following the and-one-and-two cadence of orienteering. When Black Doctor reaches what he believes is his intended stopping point, he finds nothing but more grass and a low-growing bush. He pauses to observe the others and sees Air Force and Rancher find their flags. He sees Zoo find her flag. He notes that all three did so at the edge of the field, whereas he is only halfway across. He takes his bearing, looks at a tree, and then walks straight toward it.

  He will find his mustard-colored marker not in that tree but one tree to the left, and he will double the amount of paces noted on his instructions for each of the following control points.

&n
bsp; Biology and Asian Chick will learn similarly, as will Engineer and two white men so far shown only in flashes—the tall one notable for his red hair, the other not notable at all.

  Waitress and Cheerleader Boy will not learn. They will putter about the field, growing increasingly frustrated. Four times, Waitress returns to her violet marker and stalks off in roughly the correct direction, first muttering, then yelling, “One-two-three-four…,” stopping at forty-seven, turning circles, and tossing her hands toward the sky. She’s worn a crop circle in the grass with all her pacing.

  She sits, and Cheerleader Boy, equally at a loss, leaves his path and approaches her. “I think we’re doing it wrong,” he says.

  “You think?” She waves him away. Cheerleader Boy seems like someone she might like in real life, but here he’s clearly a handicap. She knows no one will help her if he’s hanging about, needing help too.

  The host is conspicuously absent from the shot. He’s been told to step aside. He’s checking his phone, expecting an email from his agent.

  Tracker has reached his fourth flag and is in the lead. Air Force, Rancher, and Zoo have each found three. Biology stands beneath her second, looking, looking, and then with a smile seeing.

  Successes pass quickly; there’s much to cover in the premiere, and successes aren’t what viewers want to see.

  Engineer stumbles and catches himself against a tree; a branch slaps him in the face. He recoils and rubs at the sting.

  After twenty-three minutes—or, depending on one’s perspective, eight including a commercial break—Tracker finds his red box. He opens it, sees the red-wrapped package and a slip of paper. He reads the paper only as confirmation. He has deduced the Challenge’s finishing point from the path of the control points. Two minutes later, he steps for a second time into the field.