Read The Last One Online

Authors: Alexandra Oliva

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Literary, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Suspense, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Post-Apocalyptic, #Literary Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #Psychological, #Dystopian, #TV; Movie; Video Game Adaptations

The Last One (10 page)

BOOK: The Last One
13.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

I also remember approaching my mother weeks or months later, asking her to please not make me go back. Not because the classes bored me or scared me, but because even at that young age I knew something wasn’t right. Never mind that I didn’t yet know the word
hypocritical;
just as with
rhetorical,
I learned the meaning without the word. I could sense the pride of my teacher. I was an imaginative child, happy to declare a house inhabited by ghosts or to see Bigfoot’s tracks in the mud, but if I sometimes allowed myself to become lost in a game I still knew I was playing. I knew it wasn’t real. Watching a cartoon of Adam and Eve falling for the ridiculous whisperings of a snake and then being thrown out of their home by God was one thing. Acknowledging this cartoon not as fantasy but as an accurate representation of history was another. Even as a ten-year-old, I was repulsed. When I was introduced to the ideas of Charles Darwin and Gregor Mendel in school several years later, I experienced the closest thing I’ve ever known to a spiritual revelation. I recognized truth.

It is this truth that has shaped my life. I lack the aptitude for higher sciences and mathematics—I figured that out in college—but I understand enough. Enough not to need platitudes. I’ve heard believers speak of the coldness of science and the warmth of their faith. But my life has been warm too, and I have faith. Faith in love, and faith in the inherent beauty of a world that formed itself. When my foot was caught, my life didn’t flash before my eyes; I saw only the world. The majesty of atoms and all that they’ve become.

This experience might be the horrible construct of some production team, and I might regret some of the choices that led me here, but the choices were
mine
to make. And even if I’ve made mistakes, that doesn’t change the fact that the world itself is beautiful. The scaly spirals of a conifer’s cone, the helicoidal flow of a river’s curve biting away the bank, the flash of orange upon a butterfly’s wings warning predators of bitter taste. This is order from chaos; this is beauty, and it’s all the more beautiful for having designed itself.

I step out of the woods; the road stretches before me like smoke.

I couldn’t have expected the attack, and yet I should have expected something like it. A farce. The more I think about it, the clearer the truth becomes: The coyote was animatronic. It was too big to be real; it moved too stiffly. It didn’t blink and its marble eyes never changed focus. I don’t think the mouth even opened and closed, though perhaps the lips moved a little. It didn’t bite my foot; they wrapped a snare around my boot as I slept. I was surprised and scared. It was dark and I didn’t have my glasses. That’s why it seemed alive.

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 slip 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.

BOOK: The Last One
13.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Getting Things Done by David Allen
Poisoned Petals by Lavene, Joyce, Jim
The New Policeman by Kate Thompson
Tides of Honour by Genevieve Graham
Lethal Exposure by Kevin J. Anderson, Doug Beason
Green Girl by Sara Seale
Rigged by Jon Grilz
Mick Jagger by Philip Norman
Sinners of Magic by Lynette Creswell