The Last One (13 page)

Cheerleader Boy is on the move, he’s the first to leave.
Northeast,
he thinks. He’ll just follow his compass northeast until he finds the stream above the waypoint, and then he’ll cut south. Easy as pie.

“Look,” says Engineer, “there’s a road, half mile south. It’s out of the way, but it passes right by the waypoint.”

“Genius,” says Zoo. “That’ll be much easier to follow in the dark. Let’s do it.” Carpenter Chick agrees, and Waitress is along for the ride.

Air Force watches them go. “I bet they’re making for the service road,” he says.

“Should we do that too?” asks Black Doctor.

“Pah,” says Exorcist. “Too far out of the way.”

Air Force is torn. He’s trying to maximize his decision—what’s worth more: shorter distance or easier terrain? If his ankle were healthy, the answer would be easy. Bravado and practicality war within him.

“The road seems like our best option to me,” says Black Doctor. “I don’t want to be tripping over roots and sticks in the dark.”

Exorcist jiggles his flashlight tauntingly, but Air Force allows his new friend to guide him to the better decision. “You’re right, let’s take the road.”

“That’s like two extra miles,” says Exorcist. “I’m out. See you at the finish.” He takes a quick measurement with his compass, then starts walking east. There’s a trio of boulders a quarter mile away. He’ll find those and then turn north toward a pair of cliff faces, he decides. It seems so easy. That’s why they’re doing it at night, he thinks—to add an element of actual challenge.

The map, now shown to viewers in a darker shade to indicate night. Dots of color and pattern creeping along: a cluster, a pair, and two singletons.

“What do you think happened to Cooper and the others?” asks Zoo.

“Maybe they left already?” says Engineer.

“Or got a ride,” says Waitress.

“Does it matter?” asks Carpenter Chick.

Their maps are tucked into pockets, and they pick their way through tangled brush. Zoo consults her compass every few minutes.

“They’re following us,” says Engineer. The others look back, see two beams of light behind their cameramen, who have multiplied. One per contestant for this Challenge, in case they split up.

“We need to get the Chinese kid on our team next time,” says Air Force. “Secure the fishing line, get some protein.”

“I’d gladly trade Josh or Randy for him,” says Black Doctor. “Or both.”

Cheerleader Boy crashes through the trees. His pink dot is wildly off course—he hasn’t checked his compass since leaving the field. He rubs at his burning eyes, then keeps walking, flashlight aimed at the ground. His cameraman pauses a moment. To rest, Cheerleader Boy thinks; the cameraman is carrying so much equipment, he must need to rest. He pauses too, and slaps at a late-night mosquito. Though he will not admit as much, the cameraman’s presence gave him the courage to head off into the woods alone. It’s only pretend alone, he thinks.

But the cameraman didn’t pause to rest. He paused for a discreet close-up, which viewers will be treated to now: Cheerleader Boy’s pink-dotted compass lying in the leaves. Motion ejected it from his shallow jacket pocket. He should have put it around his neck or wrist. Too late now.

Zoo’s team finds the road: a scraggly, unpaved path rich with recent tire tracks. “So, we follow this east for a couple miles then turn north,” says Zoo. “There’s a bridge about halfway there, that should be obvious. After that…” She’s looking at the map, considering.

Engineer steps up. He’s never used a map quite like this, but is familiar with schematics. “It looks like the best place to turn is about equidistant between this tree cluster and the end of this ditch,” he says.

“Perfect,” says Zoo. “So after we cross the bridge, we’ll watch for the…third ditch, then halfway between that and”—she laughs lightly—“some trees, we’ll turn north.”

“Some trees,” repeats Waitress.

“We’ll figure it out when we get there,” Carpenter Chick assures her.

A couple miles away, Cheerleader Boy walks through a spiderweb, swats at his face, and drops his flashlight. He wipes away the webbing, muttering curses that will be mostly censored, then bends to retrieve the flashlight. “This is ridiculous,” he says. “I’ve gone like ten miles, I should be at the stream by now.” He’s gone less than a mile. He’s nowhere near the stream, but he is close to learning just how alone a man can be with only a mute observer at his side.

Exorcist, conversely, is making good time. He’s at the base of the short cliff face Biology visited hours earlier, but he’s correctly identified it as the more southerly of two. The northern cliff is his next goal. He checks his compass and proceeds, nimble in the dark.

Air Force and Black Doctor reach the road. They can see Zoo’s group ahead. Air Force’s ankle is sore but stable. He’s still using the walking stick.

Time compresses: Hiking boots clonk over a wooden one-lane bridge, Exorcist whistles a familiar tune, Cheerleader Boy stumbles over a rotting log.

“This must be the ditch,” says Engineer. “The tree cluster should be about a hundred feet ahead.” Zoo takes Waitress with her to scout. The cluster is easy to identify, a group of seven deciduous trees standing together at the side of the road, an expanse of grass separating them from the larger forest.

“Found it!” Zoo calls. The teammates converge on the midpoint and then strike north. A straight shot. They consult their compasses often, and when an obstacle—brush too thick to cross, the occasional boulder—presents itself, they stagger their advance to maintain the proper direction of travel.

The host is waiting for them on the porch, seated on a swinging bench. He waves.

Black Doctor and Air Force’s exit strategy is different. “If we go north from this ditch, to this wall here, from there it’s almost directly northeast to the waypoint,” says Air Force.

Far ahead, Exorcist steps into the clearing before the cabin. He’s earned the final bunk. Biology shushes his stomping entrance from her bunk and turns to face the wall.

The host greets Air Force and Black Doctor next, with a pitying “Hello” as he steps to block the cabin’s door. “I’m afraid our bunks are full,” he says, and he points to a ratty lean-to about thirty feet away. The floor is lined with sawdust and one corner of the roof has collapsed.

“At least it’s not raining,” says Black Doctor.

Air Force asks, “Who do you think is still out there?”

Cut to Cheerleader Boy, exasperated in light of moon and camera. “Where’s my compass?” he asks, patting at his pockets. He sits on a rock. The beam of his flashlight illuminates his muddy boots. “That cretin must have stolen it,” he says, though he knows that’s impossible. He hasn’t seen Exorcist since he left the group, and he had his compass with him then. He knows he lost it himself. “The stars,” he says, looking up. “I can navigate by the stars.” The canopy hides the sky, but even if it didn’t, Cheerleader Boy would be unlikely to correctly identify the North Star, much less navigate by it. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay, okay. I can do this.” He glances imploringly at the cameraman, who stares in turn at his view screen. When Cheerleader Boy looks away, the cameraman turns off his radio, then taps one of the many accessories clipped to his belt.

Cheerleader Boy’s flashlight sputters. “No,” he says, slapping it against his palm. “No no no.” The light dies. The cameraman switches to night vision as Cheerleader Boy stands and throws the dead flashlight to the ground. Cheerleader Boy’s grainy, green face tips from frustration toward fear. For about thirty seconds, he’s stuck staring at the flashlight. Then he thinks,
If I leave now, I won’t miss this semester.

“Ad…”
he says. “
Ad tedious…
shit.” He addresses the cameraman directly, “I’m done.” The cameraman adjusts the frame. “I don’t remember the phrase, but I quit.” Cheerleader Boy jams his hand into his pocket—the notecard! He unfolds it and holds it close to his nose.
“Ad…Ad…”

It’s too dark to read.

He sits again and cradles his face in his hands. “Fuuuuuuuck,” he says. The viewer will hear a long, haunting note. Morning can’t be far, thinks Cheerleader Boy. All he needs is a little light to read the phrase. Hours, that’s all. He’ll wait it out.

The cameraman taps at his belt again. The trees begin to creak, a wind-borne sound that gradually morphs into a cry and back again. Cheerleader Boy thinks he’s hearing things that don’t exist, but it’s not his mind that’s playing tricks. After forty minutes—ten seconds—of this creeping cycle, he begins to shake.

A scream, blood-curdling, from behind him. He leaps up, turns in a circle, sees nothing. The trees around him weep, louder.

Cheerleader Boy turns again to his cameraman. “Come
on,
” he says. “That’s enough, I’ve had enough. I quit.”

Silence as complete as the darkness. Night’s unnatural sounds have paused to consider and reject his plea. The sudden absence of sound strikes Cheerleader Boy like a blow.

“Please,” he says, and the first of his tears fall. He gropes toward the cameraman. “Get me out of here, please.”

He’s about to make physical contact.

This cannot be allowed.

A tiny light on the underside of the camera flips on. Cheerleader Boy freezes. The light is dim, but it’s bright enough to illuminate a phrase printed sleekly beneath the lens. Cheerleader Boy nearly falls to his knees.

“Ad tenebras dedi,”
he says, breath shuddering.

The screen goes black.

The host materializes, leaning against an exterior wall with his hands in his pockets. “One down,” he says, and the first episode of
In the Dark
will end with his smirking face.

9.

I’m passing driveways more frequently now, the occasional farm. I still don’t see any people; it’s just me and the cameras. They told us this was going to be big—unprecedented—but still, the scope of the production astounds me.

They never said we’d be moving through populated areas, even rural ones.

There’s a lot they never said.

Movement in my peripheral vision. I know instantly that it’s animal movement. I turn toward a small white house obscured by deciduous trees. A brownish blur disappears into the side yard. I should keep walking. I shouldn’t need to see, but something about yesterday’s discovery has made me bold, or reckless.

I creep down the driveway and into the house’s front lawn, then turn the corner and squint.

Three cats coil away from me, hissing. One calico, one white, and one all or mostly black. I think the white one wears a collar—I see pink on its neck. I step closer. The calico leaps through an open window in the side of the house. The other two scatter into the backyard.

My curiosity leads me to the window and I peer inside. A bedroom painted pistachio green. Bright clothing and a few stuffed animals strewn over milky white carpeting. I can’t make out the details of the many posters on the walls, but two look like they’re for bands and I recognize the pattern of a third as belonging to a werewolf romance movie that came out last year.

The cat bounds up from behind the bed and pads across the rumpled comforter. It watches me as I watch it. Then it creeps forward and ducks its head. The head comes back up, then ducks again. It looks like the cat’s eating. I blink a few times to refocus. The cat’s definitely eating. As I watch, I’m able to make out its meal: a pale, bloated hand with dark fingernails. The cat nips between the thumb and forefinger, tearing away a small fleshy patch that does not bleed.

For a few seconds, I’m stuck, staring.

It’s not a hand. It’s
not
a hand. Of course it’s not a hand, I know it’s not a hand, but I’m sick of having to tell myself the obvious. I’m sick of it not feeling obvious.

I close my eyes and breathe, slowly. I need to stop letting them get to me.

I open my eyes and turn away. I start walking. When I notice movement a few minutes later, I don’t investigate. All I can see is the puffy road, and I follow it around a curve and into the trees.

Hours later, it’s time to make camp. I build my shelter and collect my firewood. I strip some bark for tinder, then reach for my belt loop.

It’s empty.

My guts turn cold. My fist clenches.

My fire starter is still clipped to my old pants, discarded on the Trails ’N Things bathroom floor.

The loss makes me woozy. I rock backward to sit; the world rocks with me. I can’t go back. I can’t go through that town again. I can’t lose two more whole days; this is a race and I’m already behind. My throat is so tight I can barely breathe. I cup my mouth and nose with my hands, bracing my jaw with my thumbs. Proximity turns my fingers translucent. The crumbled tinder is soft and sharp against my skin. The worst part is that this loss is wholly my fault—not a failed Challenge, just stupidity.

I had no idea it would be like this. They didn’t say anything about a fake pandemic or props shaped like dead people. About animatronics or feral cats. Empty towns and abandoned children. They didn’t say anything about being so alone for so long.

I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

Three words and it’s over.

I close my eyes and rub my fingertips into the ridges of my eye sockets. My skin shifts with the pressure, skimming along the bone of my brow.

I thought this would be fun.

Ad tenebras dedi.
I cannot speak it. I will not speak it. The journey’s too hard only if I’m too soft. I don’t want to be too soft. I don’t want to be hard. I don’t know what I want to be. I made it past the night hike. I made it past the cliff. I made it past the blue cabin and the doll. I made it past the coyote. This will not be the moment that breaks me. I will not quit, I
will
not. I can survive one night without fire. I can. And tomorrow? I have the multi-tool. I can make a spark with one of its attachments. I don’t need to resort to the desperate rubbing of sticks. My blunder is not the end. Day-by-day, step-by-step, I will make it home.

I crawl into my shelter without eating and clutch my glasses lens in my palm. My stomach is as knotted as my hair. I sleep fitfully and dream of a baby, our baby, crying endlessly.