The Last One (26 page)

Is that why I haven’t had my period yet?

No. I’m not pregnant. I know I’m not pregnant. This is my body’s reaction to physical stress—all this hiking, and how long did I go without eating when I was sick?

But. What if?

My last period was a week or so before I left for the show. We had sex after that, but with protection—I’ve never been on the pill; sex without a condom is nigh inconceivable to me—but maybe something went wrong. Maybe after all these years something finally went wrong.

I remember being so scared that I’d get my period while here, anticipating it, fearing a cameraman would get something incriminating on film. As if menstruation were shameful. As if it were a choice. Now I just want it to happen so I can know, so I can be certain of something.

I think of the doll in the cabin. Its sunken, spotty face. Its mechanical kitten cries.

I’m
not
pregnant.

I want to think about something else. I need to think about something else.

“So, what’s with the zebra print?” I ask Brennan.

“Shh!”

I forgot we were whispering. I mouth an apology, just to get him talking.

It works. After a moment he says, so quietly, “Reminds me of Aiden.”

The brother. I don’t remember if he’s supposed to be dead or alive. Wait—Brennan said something about calling him, about phones not working. He doesn’t know. “If you survived, he might have too,” I try. “Immunity could be genetic.”

“My mom didn’t survive.”

“What about your dad?”

He shrugs. “He was in the Army. Died when I was little.”

I’m trying to decide what to say next when a loud
snap
to our left interrupts my thoughts. I pivot toward the sound; Brennan jumps behind me. Hurriedly, I find my lens and hold it to my eye. I close my other eye and scan the woods.

This is it, I think. Everything is about to change.

A flash of white, a curled tan body on stiltlike legs, big dumb eyes. An eastern white-tailed frozen in our presence. I take a step toward it and the ice cracks. The deer scrambles over a log, then bounds away, its snowy tail erect.

“What was that?” asks Brennan, voice trembling.

“A deer,” I tell him. I hear anger in my voice, but all I feel is tired.

Soon a driveway sprouts to our right. I take out my lens. The driveway is a semicircle leading past a gas station, a minimart, and a motel, and then back to the road. There’s a black pickup truck by the pumps, and the windows of the minimart are boarded. One of the motel room doors is open. There’s a vending machine by another.

“I bet this is their base,” says Brennan.

Of course the marauders have a base. I’m anticipating a Challenge, but this place looks abandoned and it’s out of the way. There is no blue that I can see.

“Do you think we should check it out?” Brennan asks, suddenly bold.

“You didn’t want to cross the tree,” I say, “but you want to go in there?”

He shrugs.

Something about that open door strikes me as far more menacing than a banner stretched across a fallen tree.

“We don’t need anything,” I say. “There’s no reason to.”

“The vending machine’s open,” he says. “I’m going to check.” He dashes toward the motel. I almost call after him.

I keep my lens to my eye and watch as Brennan jogs up to the vending machine. As he said, its front is ajar. He pries it fully open—the metallic screech makes me cringe—and reaches in. He’s taking bottles of something, I can’t see what. When he’s done he creeps toward the open door. I hold my breath as he steps inside. I expect screams, I expect gunshots, I expect silence. I expect everything, nothing. This might be where we part ways, because no matter what happens, I’m not going in there after him.

Brennan steps back outside. He jogs toward me, leaving the door open.

“I got some water,” he says. “And Fanta.”

“Terrific,” I deadpan, slipping my lens back into my pocket. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t you want to know what was in the room?” he asks.

“No.”

“Well, let’s just say—”

“No!” I snap. I don’t need to be told what’s in that room. I already know. More props, more games. A reward if I can hold my breath long enough to cross the room and reach a safe, or a briefcase, or a bag. But there is no blue. If it’s a Challenge, it’s optional, and I choose not to participate.

Over the next few hours, we pass a handful of houses and see several more deer. When we stop to make camp, I notice Brennan acting squirrely. He keeps looking at me, then looking away. He clearly wants to say something. About halfway through building my shelter I can’t take it anymore. “What?” I ask him.

“That piece of glass in your pocket,” he says.

“I wear glasses,” I tell him. “They broke shortly before we met and that lens was all I could salvage.”

“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t know.”

Because I didn’t tell you, I think.

We finish our shelters, then sit together between them and split a bag of trail mix. As the sun sets I feel heavy and anxious. I don’t build a fire and Brennan doesn’t ask for one. He chugs a warm soda. I sip my water. I can’t stop thinking about the motel, about what was behind the open door. If it was what I thought, then why isn’t Brennan upset? Why does he no longer seem to care about the
NO TRESPASSING
sign? I don’t want to ask.

The moon’s waning and the sky is clouded. There’s very little light. My vision is a checkerboard of grays implying trees, implying a boy. I need to close my eyes. I back into my shallow shelter, snuggle into dry leaves, and pull my hood over my hat.

“Good night, Mae,” says Brennan. I hear rustling as he settles into his own shelter.

That night in my dreams I knock a crying baby off a cliff and then run to catch it, but I’m too late and my husband’s there, watching, and no matter how much I apologize to him it can never be enough.

When I wake up, it’s still dark and I’m shivering. I remember my dream too well, variation on a theme. My hood is off and I’ve squirmed partway out of my shelter. At first I think the cold woke me—ever since the rain, it’s as though Mother Nature flipped a switch to turn summer into autumn—but as I push back into my shelter, I realize there’s a sound overhead. Another airplane. I look up, but can’t see its lights through the canopy, the clouds. It sounds far away, but it’s there. That’s all that matters.

The next time I open my eyes, it’s light out. From the sun’s position I know it’s later than I usually sleep. I’m still cold—not shivering, but chilly. My fingers are stiff. It might be time to find some warmer clothing. But we should reach the river—if not today, tomorrow. From there it can’t be more than another two or three days. I can last that long. Then I’ll be able to sleep in my own bed with the covers tucked up to my chin, my husband a furnace at my back. I hope Brennan won’t put up too much of a fuss about being cold. That is, if he even feels it. He might not, if he’s anything like I was at eighteen. My freshman year at Columbia, I often wouldn’t bother putting on a coat while rushing between buildings for class in the winter. My friends would shiver beside me, incredulous, and I would shrug and say, “Vermont.”

I glance toward Brennan’s shelter as I crawl from mine. His zebra pack leans against the exterior. I start pulling apart my debris hut, figuring the noise will wake him, but every time I look in his direction I see only stillness. I toss the last of my framing branches aside. It crashes into leaf litter and strikes a rock. He sleeps through the racket, somehow.

“Hey,” I say, approaching his shelter. “Time to get up.” I crouch by the opening.

The shelter is empty.

“Brennan!” I shout, standing. “Brennan!” And then I’m hyperventilating and can’t call his name again. I turn in a circle, the forest suddenly ominous. I know he’s part of the game and I’ve been wishing him gone since he first appeared, but I can’t do it, I can’t be alone. There’s not enough of me left to survive being left alone again.

Four words come, like ice down my back:
VIOLATORS WILL BE GUTTED
.

I turn to the north, where the road waits. He’s there, out of sight, I know it with horrendous certainty. He’s hanging from a tree, rope around his neck, entrails dribbling from his abdomen. Some psychopath appeared in the night to drag away my only companion. He jabbed a knife into his belly, twisted and sawed with a palm over Brennan’s screams. That’s what woke me, not the cold, not a plane. I see Brennan kicking and throwing useless elbows. The red of his blood flowing through the red of his sweatshirt. Dead, like everyone, waiting for me who is still here—why? I can’t do it, I can’t push forward anymore, knowing what’s waiting, knowing he’s gone, it’s too much and I—

“Mae?”

I spin toward the voice and see him, staring at me. For a moment I can’t make sense of his appearance or what he said—who’s Mae? But as he steps forward and I see the concern written across his face, I remember.

“Where were you?” I ask. I can barely speak. I feel the cool wind on my hot face.

Brennan looks away shyly. “I had to go to the bathroom,” he says. “It took a while.”

I bite my bottom lip, readjusting. My body feels cold and tight. I release my lip and say, “You were off taking a shit.”

He nods, embarrassed. “Sorry if I scared you.” He walks by me without making eye contact and begins to take apart his shelter.

I feel ridiculous. For a second I thought he was really gone.

It doesn’t matter what I thought. He’s okay; he’s still here. He’s still in the game.

And so am I.

In the Dark
—Why sign up for this?

Two episodes in and I have to ask—why would anyone go on this show?

submitted 31 days ago by HeftyTurtle

283 comments

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[-] NotFunnyWinger
31 days ago

Million bucks to the winner. $250,000 to second and $100,000 to third. What other incentive do you need?

[-] MachOneMama
31 days ago

Don’t forget fan favorite! Another quarter million there. I’m voting for the carpenter. She’s the only woman who’s not useless and/or annoying.

[-] MuffinHoarder99
31 days ago

Preach-er! Preach-er! (For the hair alone.)

[-] MachOneMama
31 days ago

Are you kidding? Someone needs to punch him in the balls, stat.

[-] HeftyTurtle
31 days ago

Agreed. Mactress aimed too high.

[-] BeanCounterQ
31 days ago

Keep an eye on Albert. I know him from college and he’ll surprise you. Smart guy. Good guy.

[-] FStokes1207
31 days ago

What about the pilot? They’re ignoring his heroism. This show is unpatriotic.

[-] LongLiveCaptainTightPants
31 days ago

Wrong thread. Add-a-Flag Campaign can be found
here.

[-] LostPackage04
31 days ago

They’re attention whores, every last one of them. That’s the only reason anyone would go on a show like this.

[-] 501_Miles
31 days ago

Maybe they just want an adventure, or a personal challenge. I think it’s brave. Really brave.

[-] LostPackage04
31 days ago

Adventure my ass. If you want an adventure go cliff diving. Don’t prance about for a prize.

[-] Snark4Hire
31 days ago

I’d do it! Just for that boulder! *Cue Indiana Jones theme*

[-] NoDisneyPrincess
31 days ago

It’s too bad they didn’t actually get someone with one of those. That would have rocked. Rocked! Get it?

[-] CharlieHorse11
31 days ago

Pretty sure Coop’s there just to show how much everyone else sucks. I mean, holy shit. Did you see him inflate the lungs?!

[-] Velcro_Is_the_Worst
31 days ago

Because blowing into a severed esophagus is a useful life skill.

[-] CharlieHorse11
31 days ago

[content deleted by moderator]

…

16.

The morning after the bear-tracking Challenge, the cameramen don’t reappear, and for the next four days the contestants rarely see anyone except for one another. The host is gone, and gone are the milling producer and busybody interns. Over the course of these four days, the contestants tiptoe toward competence. They are not quite thriving, but they are more than surviving—largely because Tracker has become a mentor to the group as a whole. On the second day, within range of one of the many cameras and microphones mounted around their camp, Black Doctor jokingly refers to him as “the village elder.”

A cameraman arrives with the third morning, silent and distracting, too close with his lens as he weaves through the group and taps Tracker on the arm. Time for a confessional. He seats Tracker on a log in the sun, in sight but out of hearing of the others. “Yes, I could just go off and live on my own,” says Tracker. Stubble has grown across his chin and cheeks, and even on his head, shading in a hairline that is not at all receding. “They’d probably get by. They’d make do. They’d learn, they
are
learning, she—I’m just helping them learn a little faster.” He pauses, glances past the cameraman, to the others laboring in the distance. “Why? It’s
right.
And it’s more interesting. I still don’t think any of them can beat me in the long run, but this way at least there’s an element of challenge. This way, I won’t become complacent.”