The Last One Read online

  Waitress and Cheerleader Boy see him, and for an instant Tracker is surprised. He cannot believe that these two have beaten him. And then Cheerleader Boy says, “You’re kidding me,” and Tracker realizes they haven’t yet left the field at all.

  “Well done,” says the host, returned from the off-camera netherworld. He shakes Tracker’s hand. “You will learn your reward when everyone has returned. For now, you have a choice. You can relax, or you can help others in need.” He nods toward Waitress and Cheerleader Boy. Waitress is mired in gloom, and Cheerleader Boy is frustrated to the point of anger.

  “Uh,” says Tracker, his first word on camera outside of pre-taping interviews. He doesn’t want to help his competitors, but they both look so pathetic he finds it difficult to believe either could ever become a threat. “Count two steps as one and keep the compass flat,” he tells them, familiar with the mistakes of beginners. “And look straight ahead, not at your feet.”

  Waitress’s eyes widen as though her mind has been truly, fully blown; Cheerleader Boy rushes to his pink stick.

  Air Force steps into the field. About a hundred feet to his right, only a few seconds behind, so does Zoo. Both hold their colored boxes, dueling shades of blue.

  “First one to me!” calls the host. Zoo and Air Force dart toward him.

  Air Force takes an easy lead, and then his right foot strikes a depression and he jolts into a hop-skip as pain shimmies through his turned ankle. He slows, favoring the foot. Zoo does not see this; she is in an all-out sprint. She reaches the host well ahead of Air Force.

  “I found it!” calls Waitress from the far end of the field. A moment later Cheerleader Boy has found his first flag too.

  “Those two are just starting?” asks Zoo, breathing hard and pushing her glasses up her nose. Tracker nods, looking her over. She looks fit enough. A contender, perhaps. He’s noted Air Force’s sudden limp, and while he hasn’t dismissed the man, he’s moved him down a notch in his consideration.

  Zoo’s microphone pack is prodding the small of her back uncomfortably after her run. She fixes it, then turns to Air Force. “You okay?”

  Air Force mutters that he’s fine. The host is trying to decide if he should call for an EMT. Air Force is clearly in pain, but he is just as clearly trying to ignore that pain. And he’s still on his feet. The host was told to reserve medical assistance for emergencies. This, he decides, is not an emergency. He unnecessarily informs Zoo and Air Force that they are the second and third to finish, then stands his post, waiting for the others while the first three exchange names and make small talk that will not be shown. Zoo does most of the talking.

  Rancher is the next to arrive, an oak leaf speared on his right spur. He’s followed closely by Biology. Five minutes later, Engineer appears, and then Black Doctor, who blinks at the field in surprise. He hadn’t realized his instructions were effectively taking him in a large circle. Asian Chick and the red-haired man race for eighth place.

  The red-haired man wins, and he hunches over to catch his breath. He’s dressed in plain outdoor clothing with his lime-green bandana tied above his elbow like a tourniquet. But he’s wearing Goth-style boots, and a heavy gold cross dangles on a chain next to his compass. The camera zooms on the cross, and then—a pre-taped statement, because the current shot cannot express this man’s essence.

  He is dressed in what appears to be—what is—a black graduation gown with a hand-stitched white collar. His coppery hair is gelled, and curls upward like flames. “There are three signs of demonic possession,” Exorcist says. His voice is a grating, self-important tenor. He pokes his index finger toward the ceiling and continues, “Abnormal strength, like a little girl overturning an SUV, which I’ve seen.” A second finger flips up to join the first. “A sudden understanding of languages the individual has no right knowing. Latin, Swahili, what have you.” Three fingers. “Having knowledge of hidden things…like a stranger’s name or what’s locked in a safe you’ve got no reason to know about.” He retracts his fingers, reaches down the neck of his robes, and pulls out the golden cross. “Aversion to the sacred is a given, of course. I’ve seen flesh smoke at the touch of the cross.” He rubs his thumb tenderly along the charm. “I’m not an official exorcist, just a layman doing the best I can with the tools I got. By my reckoning, I’ve sent three true demons from this mortal plane, and I’ve helped some two dozen folks who thought they were possessed banish an inner demon of a more metaphorical nature.” He smiles and there’s something in his eyes—some will think he doesn’t believe himself, that he’s playing a part; others will think he’s truly delusional; a special few will see their own reality in the one he’s projecting.

  “It’s my calling,” he says.

  In the field, Exorcist huffs, rubs some sweat from his brow with his sleeve, and stands. He looks ordinary enough here, but he’s been cast as the wild card, the one whose antics will be used for filler as necessary, and to test the patience of the other contestants. He knows this, has embraced this. He is counting on viewers appreciating the brand of crazy he does best. His uniqueness will be revealed to the others in about an hour, and each and every one of the other contestants will have a thought—not an identical thought, but close enough—a thought along the lines of: I have to be in the woods with this nutjob for how long?

  A few minutes after Exorcist’s big finish, Banker comes in, the last of the contestants to receive a close-up. He has dull brown eyes and hair, and a nose like the host’s but bigger. His black-and-white bandana is a wide headband, and askew. Banker has been cast as filler; his job alone means most viewers will root against him, thinking he doesn’t need the money, doesn’t deserve it, that his presence on the show is proof of the endless greed systemic to his profession. He’s a swindler, a parasite, as scrupleless as a carpetbagger.

  Banker can be crammed into this stereotype, but it doesn’t fit him. He grew up the eldest son of middle-class Jews. Many of his childhood peers spent their adolescence in a haze of pot and apathy, but Banker worked hard; he studied; he earned his admission to the Ivy League. The company he’s worked for since finishing his MBA thrived through the recession, was not a cause. They match a large portion of Banker’s charitable giving, of every employee’s charitable giving, and not just for the tax break. Banker is tired of defending his career. He’s here on sabbatical, to challenge himself and learn new skills, to escape the anti-elitist ire of those who say they want their kids to get into the best schools and choose rewarding careers but then resent any adult who is the grown outcome of a child who accomplished precisely that.

  Twenty-eight real-time minutes after Banker finishes, Waitress finds her way back to the field. The host is napping under an umbrella. Most of the contestants are chatting, bored and hot in the sun. They acknowledge Waitress’s arrival tepidly. “I was expecting this to be more exciting,” says Asian Chick. “Same here,” agrees Biology. Tracker’s eyes are closed, but he’s listening. About five minutes later, Cheerleader Boy sulks into the field with his pink box. No one greets him. Even Waitress feels like she’s been waiting forever.

  The on-site producer rouses the host, who straightens his shirt, runs a hand through his hair, and then stands sternly before the contestants, who are quietly arranged in a line reflecting the order in which they finished. “Night is approaching,” says the host. A true statement, always, but it strikes Tracker as odd; he has a strong sense of time. He can feel that it’s only three o’clock.

  The host continues. “It’s time to talk supplies. There are three main concerns in wilderness survival: shelter, water, and food. Each of you has a wrapped package marked with the symbol for one of these.” In succession, viewers will be shown etchings of a minimalist tent—like a capital A, but without the horizontal bar—a water droplet, and a four-tined fork. “The rules of the game are simple: You can keep your package or trade it for someone else’s—without knowing what’s inside.

  “Except for our winner,” says the host, indicating Tracker
, “who gets the advantage of opening three items before making his choice. And our loser”—he turns to Cheerleader Boy—“who will have no choice at all.” A white-elephant gift exchange, more or less, except that a contestant’s life could depend on which item he or she chooses—or so the producers would have viewers believe. The irony being that while no one will believe this, it will in at least one case become true.

  “Another bonus for our winner is this,” says the host, as he lifts a folded silver-and-red thermal blanket from a table—how did that get there? the unsung intern hustles away—and hands it to Tracker. “Yours to keep, no stealing allowed. Let’s begin.”

  Tracker opens the following items: Zoo’s iodine pills; Black Doctor’s Nalgene-brand water bottles (two, filled); Engineer’s emergency fishing kit. He takes the Nalgenes, relinquishing his shelter-stamped package to Black Doctor, who accepts the swap good-naturedly. Black Doctor fears pathogens; he wants the iodine, which would net him far more than two quarts of drinking water.

  Zoo is next. She chooses Exorcist’s small shelter-marked package. Her flippant tone as she does so makes the choice seem arbitrary, but it’s not. She guesses—correctly—that most of the others will focus on food and water. She knows how to purify water and also guesses—again, correctly—that there will be more opportunities to secure sustenance in the future. No one will steal the stolen, still-wrapped fire starter she now holds.

  Air Force is confident he can survive with what each contestant already has: a compass, a knife, a one-quart Nalgene, a personal first-aid kit, a bandana in their assigned color, and a jacket of their own choosing. He keeps his fork-marked dark blue box. Rancher steals Waitress’s item, marked as water. Asian Chick takes Air Force’s food, though her package is about the same size and also marked with a fork—flirtation, plain and simple. Engineer quietly keeps his fishing kit, thinking of what he might build. Black Doctor claims the iodine pills with covetous excitement; no one cares. Exorcist takes Tracker’s two bottles, returning Tracker’s original, unopened package to him. Tracker now has a blanket and a mystery. Biology keeps her food. Banker trades his triangular water item for the filled bottles. Waitress’s turn, and she’s thirsty. She too steals the Nalgenes, handing her pocket-sized shelter package to Banker. Cheerleader Boy is left with the item with which he entered the field. It’s flat and rectangular, and crinkles when he presses it. He wonders if it’s another blanket. If so, it’s thinner than the other.

  All this compressed into thirty seconds. Not fair, think the viewers who bother to think. The contestants who finished earlier actually had a disadvantage, and the second-to-last-place finisher was assured her pick of items.

  Don’t worry, the twist is coming.

  The contestants are ordered to unwrap their items. Zoo releases an excited “yes!” upon revealing her fire starter. Asian Chick smiles over a twelve-pack of chocolate bars. Rancher nods noncommittally at a metal cup with foldable handles; it’s large enough to double as a small cooking pot. Cheerleader Boy blurts an exhausted expletive at his short stack of black trash bags. Air Force shrugs at a package of freeze-dried cabbage. Biology flips her box of cookie-dough-flavored protein bars and frowns at the long ingredient list. Waitress leans over her shoulder and asks, “Do those have gluten in them?” Biology’s eyebrows lift, but Exorcist forestalls her reply with a cackle like snapping flame. In his hands is a three-pronged dowsing rod. He holds out the rod, steering through the air. He looks directly into the viewers’ eyes and says, “How fitting.” The other eleven contestants recoil, visibly and as one.

  The dowsing rod was Banker’s initially. He thought it might be a slingshot, but now he understands, though this slight is more subtle than most. He nods toward the dowsing rod, then shakes the box of waterproof matches he just unwrapped. “These are looking pretty good,” he says.

  The host steps up, front and center. “While you all will ultimately have to build your own camps and survive as individuals,” he says, “tonight is group camps and tomorrow will be a Team Challenge. To pick our teams—our first three finishers. Captains, your team members each come with whatever supplies they now hold, and while they will retain ownership of their supplies come tomorrow, for tonight they’re yours.” He pauses to let meaning settle, then elaborates with a creeping smile, “Contestants, if your captain wants to use, eat, or drink your item, you cannot say no.”

  “No way,” says Waitress. The shot zooms in on her shocked face—her water, she doesn’t want to share.

  Tracker, Zoo, and Air Force step forward and pick their groups, one by one. Tracker holds an unwrapped and unwanted flashlight. His first choice confounds: Rancher and his metal cup. A metal cup, when he could have extra water, or matches, or the iodine pills? This needs to be explained. Later, Tracker will be told to sit. He will face a single question, the answer to which will be spliced into the viewers’ now: “I don’t like the taste of iodine. I’d rather boil water for drinking.”

  Zoo chooses Engineer and his fishing kit. No explanation needed; the river’s insides glisten with trout. Air Force chooses Black Doctor because he looks competent, and while he’d love Waitress’s clean, clear water, her incompetence seems too steep a price to pay. The selections continue and in the end the teams are presented to viewers with their supplies as subtitles.

  Team One: Tracker (thermal blanket, flashlight), Rancher (metal cup), Biology (protein bars), and Banker (matches).

  Team Two: Zoo (fire starter), Engineer (fishing kit), Waitress (filled water bottles), and Asian Chick (box of chocolate bars).

  Team Three: Air Force (dried cabbage), Black Doctor (iodine pills), Cheerleader Boy (heavy-duty trash bags), and Exorcist (dowsing rod).

  It’s too much information; few watching will be able to remember who has what. The host doesn’t even try. He’s tired, anxious for a break. “Great,” he says. “Your home base for tonight is this field. You can build your camps here, or in the woods nearby—your choice. I will see you all at first light for your first Team Challenge.” He nods gravely, then intones, “Make camp.”

  As the three groups disperse, the drone buzzes the field. Everyone but Tracker looks up. Exorcist winks and swings his dowsing rod over his shoulder. Tracker leads his team to the north end of the field. Zoo takes the west and Air Force the east. Black Doctor notices his leader’s limp and asks to see his ankle. “A sprain,” he announces, and he sets off to scavenge a crutch. Of the actual process of building camp, little is shown. Tracker and Air Force know what they’re doing, and their teams’ camps come together quickly as they assign roles.

  Zoo is less accustomed to being a leader. Her first command is a question: “What do you guys think—” but no one is listening. Waitress is complaining about being cold; Asian Chick berates her, “You should have worn a shirt.” Engineer is investigating his fishing kit: a kite handle wrapped with line instead of string. Its contours don’t fit his hand; it’s sized for a child. Three hooks, two weights, two little clips called swivels that Engineer doesn’t yet understand. Zoo watches as he unspools a stretch of line and tests its strength. Her question hangs, unfinished and unanswered.

  Tracker’s team has a fire within TV seconds, which is about twenty real-time minutes. Air Force’s team has a shelter moments later, after a commercial break, and Cheerleader Boy is flabbergasted to learn that his garbage bags are key to waterproofing the shallow lean-to.

  Zoo tries a new approach. She crouches next to Engineer. “Why don’t you test that out at the river?” she asks. “See if you can get it to work?” Engineer looks at his leader’s entreating smile and sees his own excitement reflected in it. Zoo turns to the others. “I’ve got the fire starter,” she says, “so I’ll take care of that. Why don’t you two work on a shelter?” Asian Chick waves away Waitress, saying, “I got this.” Prodded to action, she reveals an expanded identity: Asian Carpenter Chick. Skilled at woodworking, she assembles their shelter with confidence. Though the structure lacks nails and none of its components were
measured, it projects sturdiness. More than that, it projects beauty, for the human brain is adapted to see beauty in symmetry. Even the off-site producer, who is so sour his sense of beauty has shriveled like a dehydrated lemon, will recognize that the slender, symmetrical lean-to has a certain bucolic appeal. Identity contracts, sloughing off one defining feature for another, and Carpenter Chick joins the cast.

  For dinner, Tracker distributes one of Biology’s protein bars to each of his team members. Biology doesn’t appear to mind, and in this case appearance reflects reality. The bars are indeed gluten-free, but they contain sucralose, which turns her stomach. She eats one only because a turned stomach is marginally better than an empty one. Tracker leaves Rancher in charge of finishing their shelter and then jogs off, fading into the woods like a specter. A very fast specter; the cameraman cannot keep up. Recording devices mounted on trees every hundred feet catch snippets of his carving and setting a series of small deadfall traps. Tracker hopes to catch breakfast overnight. He too dislikes the protein bars; he thinks they taste of industrialization.

  At the river Engineer ties a hook to the line, and baits it with a worm he finds under a rock. The worm is quickly tossed and lost. Engineer takes a sinker and one of the clips out of his pocket, cuts off the hook, ties in the swivel. Attaches both hook and sinker. It doesn’t look right to him, the weight and hook together like that, but he tries it.

  Well after their shelter is built and the sun beginning to set, Zoo finds him at the riverside, still trying, adjusting. There’s several feet of line between the swivel and hook now. “Wow,” she says. “You actually turned that into something you can fish with.”

  Engineer feels a swell of pride. His knuckles are scraped raw from the too-tight handle. “I think the next variable to adjust is the bait.”