The Last One Read online

  The world in which I now move is a deliberate human perversion of nature’s beauty. I cannot forget this. I must accept this. I have accepted this.

  With my vision, my missing boot, and my sore, stiff body, I probably make it only a quarter of a mile before I need to rest. It’s still early morning, I have time for a short break. I sit with my back against the guardrail and close my eyes. I keep hearing shuffling steps in the woods that I know don’t exist. I refuse to open my eyes to check.

  My thirst wakes me, an endless stretching dryness in my mouth. I paw for my pack, find a half-full water bottle, and guzzle all that’s left.

  That’s when I notice the sun is on the wrong side of the sky. Panic brushes against me—the world is wrong—and then my rational mind clicks into gear and I understand the sun is setting. I slept for the entire day. I’ve never done that before. But, I feel better. My head is clear, my chest looser. I feel so much better that I realize just how awful I must have felt before. My bladder is pinching and I’m starving, my stomach rumbling, begging. I’m so hungry I dig out the peanut butter and cram several tablespoons into my mouth, trying to ignore how disgusting it tastes and feels. I climb over the guardrail and squat among the trees. My urine is a deep amber color, too dark. I take out my second bottle and drink a few ounces. As dehydrated as I am, it has to last; night hiking is impossible without my glasses.

  While gathering wood for my shelter, I uncover a small red eft. I cup it in my palms, crouching low in case it squirms free. I admire the bright orange skin, the black-rimmed circles dotting the amphibian’s slender back. I’ve always loved red efts. Growing up, I called them fire newts. It wasn’t until embarrassingly late in life—well into my first year as a professional wildlife educator—that I realized the red eft wasn’t a species, but a life stage of the eastern newt. That these bright juveniles grow into dull green-brown adults.

  The eft grows used to my skin and starts creeping forward with a wagging gait, crossing my palm.

  I wonder how many calories I’d get from eating it.

  Fiery orange skin: bright toxins. I’m not sure how poisonous red efts are to humans, but I can’t chance it. I dip my hand to a mossy stone, let the eft saunter off, and finish building my shelter.

  That night I dream of earthquakes and animatronic toddlers with fangs. In the morning I break down my camp and creep east along the smoky road. I may not be able to focus my vision, but my thoughts are sharp. I need supplies. A new pack, boots, and food—anything other than peanut butter. I’m nervous about my water again; it’s like I’ve gone back in time—how many days, three, four? It feels like weeks—to just after the blue cabin, after I was sick, when I was able to start moving again but before I found the market. I have no food, almost no water, and I’m moving east searching for a Clue part of me fears will never come. It’s exactly the same except now I can’t see and I’m missing a shoe.

  I’m going so slowly, too slowly. But every time I try to move faster I trip or slip or step on something sharp. The sole of my left foot feels like a giant bruise covered in a giant blister.

  The morning is chilly and endless. This is worse than the coyote-bot, nearly as bad as the doll, this blurry monotony. If they want to break me, this is what they ought to do, send me walking endlessly with nothing to see, no one to talk to. No Challenges to win or lose. The safety phrase is creeping into my consciousness, teasing. For the first time I wish I weren’t quite so stubborn. That I could be like Amy—just shrug and admit I’ve had enough. That this is too fucked up to be worth it.

  What if—what if I were to walk quicker despite my eyesight? Maybe I’d trip for real. Maybe I’d sprain my ankle, worse than Ethan did, a real sprain—maybe even a break. Or what if I weren’t so careful with my knife? Maybe it would slip and the blade would cut into my hand, just deep enough that my first-aid kit couldn’t close the wound. Circumstances wouldn’t allow for continuing. I’d be forced to leave, and everyone would say, “It wasn’t your fault.” My husband would kiss the bandage and bemoan my bad luck, all the while telling me how happy he is for me to be home.

  The idea has a certain appeal. Not hurting myself intentionally—never that—but allowing myself the opportunity to slip. With every step the idea seems less ludicrous, and then I notice a blurred structure ahead; a few cautious steps and I make out a gas station with a hand-painted NO GAS sign secured to the pumps, large enough that even without my glasses I can read it from some hundred feet away. My attention snaps fully back to the game and unease clamps my chest. As I get closer to the gas station I see a speckling of buildings down a second road to my left.

  Bursts of color litter the intersection. Squinting and approaching, I realize they’re lawn signs. I see an ad for little league tryouts and some pro-NRA gibberish. One sign simply says REPENT! At the edge of the cluster, another is covered in bumper stickers—a dozen, at least. Prominent among the stickers: a blue arrow pointing to the left.

  The hue is off, darker than the color I was assigned. I’m not sure the arrow’s meant for me, I might be reaching, but I need supplies so badly, and Emery said they wouldn’t always be obvious to find. What’s the risk of following the arrow, just a short distance? If I’m wrong, they won’t let me get too far off track, I don’t think.

  I turn to the north. Walking, I’m tense and watchful, but I don’t notice anything out of the ordinary, except for the quiet. The first building I reach is a credit union; it seems closed. Maybe it’s Sunday, or maybe the staff is inside, crouching out of sight until I pass. I don’t see any blue. A few minutes later, I reach a second building, which is set back from the road. I cross the small, empty parking lot to investigate. I see display windows, figures inside. People? But I don’t think they’re moving. As I get closer, I realize the figures in the window are mannequins positioned around a tent. I squint to read the sign above the door. TRAILS ’N THINGS. I think of my ruined pack, my missing boot.

  The door is locked. This is a first. I stand on the steps, considering. The rules said not to drive, not to hit anyone in the head or genitals, and not to use weapons of any kind. They didn’t say anything about breaking and entering, not that I can recall. In fact, they said any shelter or resources found were fair game.

  One of the female mannequins is wearing a blue vest and a fuzzy matching cap. Sky blue, my blue.

  I slam my elbow through the lowest pane in the door’s window. The glass shatters and the pain I feel is nothing compared to what else I’ve felt these last few days. I reach through the broken pane and unlock the door from the inside. I take off my backpack and then my jacket, shaking it out in case any glass is lodged in the sleeve. I tie the jacket around my left foot. As I enter the shop, I step carefully to avoid piercing my makeshift slipper. Glass crackles under my right boot heel and I see a piece of paper resting on the floor. I pick it up, thinking it might be a Clue. I unfold the paper and read:

  INDIVIDUALS EXPERIENCING SYMPTOMS—LETHARGY, SORE THROAT, NAUSEA, VOMITING, LIGHT-HEADEDNESS, COUGHING—REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE OLD MILL COMMUNITY CENTER FOR MANDATORY QUARANTINE.

  I stare at it for a moment, uncomprehending. And then, like dominos falling, I understand. I understand everything. Taking my cameraman away, the cabin, the careful clearing of all human life from my path—they’re changing the narrative. I remember Google-mapping the area they told us we’d be filming in before I left home. I remember noticing a patch of green not far away: Worlds End State Park. I remember because I loved the name but cringed at the lack of an apostrophe. But perhaps the name isn’t a title, but a statement. Perhaps the park’s proximity to our starting location wasn’t coincidence. For all I know, it was our starting location.

  Those clever assholes.

  I drop the flyer to the floor. It’s a Clue, all right, telling me not where to go but where I am. The story behind their scattered props.

  Everything in this store is up for grabs.

  The first item I take is the fuzzy blue hat from the window. I sli
p it off the mannequin’s plastic head and over my tangled hair. Then I head toward the register, where I see a standing cooler packed with beverages, sponsored by Coke. A dozen bottles of water, at least. I grab one, suck it down. Fill my Nalgenes, take the rest. I move on to a rotating rack of energy bars. KIND bars and Luna bars, Lärabars and Clif Bars and a half dozen other brands. I stuff my pockets with flavors I know and then I eat one. Lemon. Dessert-sweet, but I don’t care; I inhale the whole thing and open a second. I stop after two, though, to allow my stomach to settle. Four hundred calories; it feels like a feast.

  Next I walk through the aisles, savoring, dragging my fingers along clothing and flashlights and camp stoves. This, I realize, is my reward for making it through the coyote Challenge. I’d forgotten there would be a reward.

  At the wall of footwear I see the ridiculous not-shoes that Cooper wears. Did he also face a coyote for his last Challenge? Maybe each of us got something different, something scaled to our abilities. Cooper got a bear, and he—I don’t know how he handled it, except that he was perfect; if he breaks, it won’t be because of panic. If Heather’s still in the game, she got a bat or a spider. It seems unlikely she’s lasted this long, though; she would have quit the second night if we’d made her go it alone. The Asian kid—I can’t remember his name—got a raccoon or a fox, something smaller than a coyote, but clever. A squirrel for Randy, of course; or, no, a bunch of squirrels—a whole scurry of squirrels, as a chart I once read and want to believe claims a group should be called.

  Whatever their Challenges, I hope they cried for help too. I hope everyone but me remembered the safety phrase and screamed it to the sky.

  I hope they’re okay.

  I find a hiking boot I like—lightweight and waterproof—and take the display tag to what I imagine is the stock room, a door to the left of all the footwear. The room beyond is dark, windowless. Only a trickling of daylight enters from behind me. It doesn’t smell.

  I return to the aisles, find a flashlight and a pack of AA batteries. My stiff fingers can’t open the packaging and my knife isn’t much better, so I go to the Swiss Army Knives and Leathermans. I hesitate briefly—no weapons allowed—but as I pick one that feels comfortable in my hand and flip out its longest blade I remind myself that they’re called multi-tools and are no more dangerous than the blade they gave me. I cut open the pack of batteries. This is beginning to feel like a scavenger hunt. Or a videogame. Find item A to gain access to item B, find item C to open item A. The sense of accomplishment I feel sliding the batteries into the flashlight is oddly intense, and this same sense of accomplishment makes me wary. They’re putting me at ease. Something is going to go wrong soon. Something is waiting for me in the stock room.

  But when I shine the flashlight inside, I see only inventory. The footwear is stacked on shelves along one wall. I find the boots I like in my size. They fit as though already broken in.

  Next I go to the women’s clothing section. I’ve been wearing the same clothing for at least two weeks, and they’re thick with filth. When I pinch the fabric of my pants it crinkles and I’m pretty sure there’s a little puff of dust. I select wicking undergarments, then a stack of tops and pants. I’m having fun, almost, as I take the goods into a changing room. I’m not sure why I bother with the changing room; they’re as likely to have cameras in here as anywhere else and my modesty is long since compromised. By now they not only have me squatting and shitting on camera, they could air an entire episode of just my bodily functions.

  I close the door of the dressing room. There’s no ceiling; dim light creeps in from above, dusklike. I put my armful of clothing down on a bench, then turn—and gasp, stumbling backward in abject panic. For an instant I’m convinced I’m being attacked by an emaciated drifter.

  A mirror. Like I’d forgotten they exist. But they do, and I’m surprised by the changes I see. I step close to the mirror to inspect my face. Below the bright blue hat, my cheeks are sunken. Giant bags hang under my eyes. I’ve never been this skinny. I’ve never been this dirty. When I take off my shirts, I see my ribs peeking from beneath my bra line. My stomach is concave. I don’t think it’s supposed to be. Sucking in my belly, I nearly disappear. Is this why I’ve been so cold? I step backward and my reflection becomes a smear of grime.

  My priorities shift.

  Leaving the clothing I’ve selected in the changing room, I search the store for soap, for cleansing wipes, for whatever I can find to rid myself of the filth that coats my skin. I’ve bathed a few times, kind of, and I’ve been rotating my underwear between two pairs. I clean each as best I can between uses, but it’s been days since I last switched, and both pairs are stained and sour smelling.

  I find the bathroom behind a door that reads EMPLOYEES ONLY. By the light of a camping lantern, I turn the faucet. Nothing. Unsurprised, I take off the toilet’s back lid and fill a collapsible dish with the water. I undress the rest of the way and give myself the most thorough washing I can, decimating a bar of organic hemp soap and turning three travel towels brown. I use the rest of the water from the toilet reservoir to rinse off. Afterward, I still feel a slick layer of soap residue upon the skin of my legs and feet. It’s not a bad feeling. My hair is still disgusting, but the rest of me feels nearly clean.

  I look at the filthy pants and bra on the floor and notice my mic pack resting in the folds. It’s tiny and light, and I’d grown so used to it I forgot it was there. The battery’s dead; it’s been dead for a while. But surely the store is miked and the coyote was too.

  I unclip the microphone just in case—it must be expensive, and I bet there’s some clause I can’t remember in the contract about keeping it—and carry it as I walk naked to the changing room, the blue hat in my other hand. I dress in clean underwear and a thin sports bra decorated with blue and green stripes. The first shirt I try on is a sack. The pants feel as though they’ll slip off as soon as I take a step. I’m no longer a medium. I return to the clothing racks and a few minutes later am fully clothed—everything size S. Each piece is baggy, but it all stays on.

  I knew I would lose weight during taping. Secretly, I considered it a bonus to being part of the show. But this degree of weight loss scares me; looking like this, it’s difficult to tell myself that I am strong. My last period ended about a week before the show started; I wonder if this frail body is capable of having another.

  I select a new jacket, a dark green one with a fleece-lined hood. It has zippers under the armpits, so I won’t have to take it off and on so often. I transfer my surviving glasses lens to the jacket pocket. Then a backpack, which I fill with supplies: extra underwear, my second water bottle, a few packs of water purification drops, biodegradable cleansing wipes, a small bottle of Dr. Bronner’s, the flashlight, extra batteries, a compact poncho, my dull knife and the Leatherman I used to open the batteries, my battered little pot, a new first-aid kit to replace my depleted one, two dozen protein bars of assorted brands and flavors, some granola and beef jerky, trash bags from behind the counter. I find myself drawn toward superfluous gear: a BPA-free plastic spork, binoculars, a pocket trowel, deodorant. Of these luxury items, I allow myself to keep only a collapsible mug and a pack of herbal tea. There’s no reason to weigh myself down now. Finally, I tuck the dead microphone into the media pocket at the top of the pack.

  I’m ready to move on, but the sun is setting. It seems stupid to leave now.

  It’s a store, not a house. Maybe it’s okay to sleep here. Maybe I’m meant to. I look at the tent in the window. Maybe this is still part of my reward.

  I drag the tent through the aisles, setting it between the footwear display and a rack of Darn Tough socks. I stack several camping pads and two sleeping bags inside, then toss in an armful of tiny camping pillows. I illuminate my indoor camp with battery-operated lanterns, then the ultimate luxury: I light a camp stove. I find a rack of just-add-water meals in the corner. All the varieties sound delicious. I take three—chicken cashew curry, beef stew, chicken ter
iyaki with rice—and place them on the floor. I close my eyes and slide the packets around, then choose one without looking. Chicken cashew curry. I boil water and pour it into the bag. After what feels like the required thirteen minutes, I devour the rehydrated food with the spork I’m still telling myself I won’t keep. It’s not fully hydrated; the specks of chicken are chewy and the green bits—celery?—have a serious crunch. But it’s delicious—tangy and slightly sweet. Softened by soaking heat, the cashews are an entirely new entity from trail-mix nuts. When I close my eyes I can almost convince myself it’s a freshly cooked dish. After I finish eating, I cram five of the meals into my new pack. That’s all that will fit.

  I crawl into the tent a few minutes later. I’m used to the prickling of pine needles, the crunch of dead leaves, the odd jabs of rocks and pinecones. The tent floor is uniformly soft. It’s strange, and I’m not sure I like it. It’s also warmer in here than I’m used to. I loosen the laces of my new boots and lie on top of the sleeping bags. As I lie there staring at the nylon sky, my muscles relax. This isn’t so bad, I think. I could get used to this.

  By morning I know better. I’m anxious to move on. I vaguely remember waking into uneasy semiconsciousness last night. How many times I’m not sure, but more than once. A tightness to my jaw and a lingering sense of fear tell me I had bad dreams, and though I can’t remember particulars, I think they involved coyotes. Yes, a sinuous pack of coyotes coalescing like water droplets as they run soundless through the trees.

  I shake off the sensation of being surrounded. I’ve been indoors too long, and I’m sore from sleeping on so much cushioning. I need to keep moving. I rehydrate a Denver omelet for breakfast, and then I go, returning to my road and hiking my way past the gas station, east.

  8.

  Rancher elbows Tracker and nods toward the picnic table that has appeared beside their fire pit. “Quite the spread,” he says. Tracker steps away from his arm. Banker and Biology are grinning; the piece of mint leaf stuck in Biology’s teeth will be wiped away in editing. There’s far more food on the table than these four can eat in a single sitting. Grilled chicken breasts, burgers, rolls, Caesar salad, asparagus, corn on the cob, potato salad, sweet-potato fries piled high in a wicker basket, pitchers of filtered water and lemonade. The feast could feed all twelve contestants, easily. Banker looks at the other teams across the field, walking toward their respective camps.