New Year Island (17 page)

“What I really need is water,” Camilla said. “We all do.” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She felt light-headed.

“And I’d like a spinach-and-gruyere omelet
and
a basket of croissants,” Jordan said. “I’ve never been so hungry in my life.”

Jordan looked as if she were coming downstairs for brunch in a five-star bed-and-breakfast, instead of standing barefoot in a ruined house on an island covered with noisy, smelly wild animals. Her hair was pinned up, and her short-sleeved knit shirt and capri pants looked crisp and ironed. How could she be so fresh and clean with no running water? Camilla looked down at Jordan’s bare toes, pink against the waterlogged floorboards, and wished she had a pair of shoes to lend her.

Most of the contestants from both teams were gathered around them now, standing in the central room of the red team’s house and glancing at the blank monitor screen above the fireplace, waiting. Mason looked clean and presentable, too. Wow, he had even shaved somehow! Camilla swept her limp and tangled curls behind her ear, thinking of how she had dry-brushed her teeth just minutes ago. She felt like a dirty street urchin again. With no visible crew or cameras, it was easy to forget they were being recorded. She really ought to try harder to look more presentable.

Brent and Veronica came in from outside, and the morning sounds of the island’s yelping, squawking, barking animal population filtered in behind them. Elephant seals rumbled in the distance, accompanied by the soft thump of waves.

The monitor screen crackled to life.

“Good morning, folks,” Julian said. “I trust you enjoyed your breakfast?” He grinned at them. “Just kidding.”

“Son of a bitch…” JT’s voice trailed off in surprise.

“You’re no doubt feeling hungry and thirsty,” Julian said. “These are good feelings to be having right now. Invigorating.
Motivating
. They’ll give you the drive you need to excel in this morning’s challenge, where we finish filling out the bottom level of Maslow’s hierarchy.”

Camilla remembered Maslow from freshman psych—a psychologist who had defined and categorized human survival needs. She leaned forward, listening.

Julian swept a hand about him. “We draw our inspiration from the island’s wild residents as they go about fulfilling the requirements for survival. The first requirement is shelter, which we addressed yesterday. Today we must focus on the next few basic requirements: food, water, warmth.”

He paused with a chuckle. “Sex is usually considered another basic survival requirement in Maslow’s hierarchy. I must tell you, though, we have no challenge planned for that one—you’re on your own. The only advice I can offer on the topic is this: make sure you don’t forget about the hidden cameras—they’re everywhere.”

As if
, Camilla thought. But she couldn’t help sneaking a glance at Juan.

“Back to today’s event,” Julian said. “This is an individual challenge—a scavenger hunt, if you will. Scattered across the island, vital supplies and other necessities of life have been cached.”

He smiled. “Yes, there is water. Yes, there is food.”

Camilla exchanged an excited glance with Jordan. She could see the same urgency on the other faces around the room.

“There are thirty caches in total,” Julian said. “Some are plainly visible; some are hidden. Each is worth from one to twenty points.

“In the storage shed outside, you will find ten handheld supermarket-style scanners. They are labeled with your names. There are no teams today.

“Each of the thirty supply caches is tagged with an electronic identity tag. Find a cache, scan its tag, and the points are added to your individual score. The supplies you find inside the cache are yours and yours alone, to use any way you see fit.”

Julian’s face sobered. “For this challenge, there is only one new rule, or prohibition. It pertains to the buildings on the other side of the island. These buildings are off limits. None of you may enter them under any circumstances, either during the challenge or afterwards.”

Camilla thought of how she and Jordan had rattled the doors of the crew’s factory buildings. Was Julian’s prohibition because of their actions? Or had Juan done something over there last night to earn his displeasure?

The digital scoreboard once again replaced Julian on the screen. Both rows of scores were now outlined in gray rather than the red and blue team colors. An additional square box appeared in the center, labeled “Caches” and displaying the number 30.

“And now, you know the drill,” Julian’s voice said. “I wish you all happy hunting. Grab your scanners. Go!”

T
he impact came from behind, knocking Mason off the porch steps of the Victorian house and sending him sprawling face-first on the rocky ground. His glasses flew from his face. He got up on his knees and scrabbled frantically through the dirt, trying to find his glasses. His fingers closed around a yellow construction boot, its heel planted, its toe held an inch or two off the ground.

“Sorry, bro.” JT’s weightlifter muscles bulged under another colorful Hawaiian shirt. He didn’t look very sorry.

Mason glanced around and saw the backs of the other contestants crowding through the door of the storage shed. No one was looking in his direction. Beneath JT’s raised toe, he could see a wire curve—the earpiece of his glasses. All JT had to do was roll his weight forward, and they would be crushed.

Mason looked up at him. Waited.

JT stared impassively at him for a beat. Then disgusted amusement spread across his dark face, and he said, “Piggy.”

Mason was amused, too. He nodded. “Jack.”

“Aw, hell.” JT blew out a breath and shook the toe of his boot, jarring Mason’s fingers loose. He swept the glasses aside with his boot and ran toward the shed.

Mason crawled in the direction JT had kicked his glasses. He wiped them on his sleeve, slipped them on, and stood up. Then, dusting off his torn slacks, he jogged to the shed.

Contestants streamed out, each holding a yellow pistol-shaped scanner in one hand. As he pushed through them, Mason thought he heard, coming from inside the shed, the crunch of something breaking.

Stepping inside, Mason looked down. The shed was now almost empty of people. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make out a scattering of yellow plastic shards on the floor of the shed, with a crushed scanner in the middle. Unsurprisingly, the scanner was labeled with his name.

He turned toward the doorway to see Travis stop halfway out.

Travis turned his head to the side, revealing a mirthless half smile. “Well that’s a damn shame,” he said. “I guess yours was defective.” He continued out, disappearing from sight as Mason watched.

• • •

Fifteen minutes later, Mason threw a leg over the seal barricade and climbed over. Under his arm, he held the aluminum cylinder he had found under a scrap of plywood. It looked something like a large can of spray paint. The seals seemed more agitated today, perhaps because of all the human activity yesterday. He knew he probably looked ridiculous, tiptoeing and high-stepping around all those yelping animals in his slacks and pinstriped shirt, but he needed to find some water now, and some food.

Moving along the remains of the boardwalk, he spotted Juan, squatting in front of a semicircular opening where the rim of an underground culvert stuck out of the thin, rocky soil.

Juan reached inside, pulled out a small bundle wrapped in black plastic, and scanned the attached tag. Then he put the scanner on the ground and tore the plastic open. His eyebrows rose, and he looked up at Mason with dry amusement. He pulled a stack of green U.S. currency out of the bundle and riffled through it with his thumb. It was half an inch thick.

Mason laughed. Ten thousand dollars, if the bills were hundreds. But here, it was just paper.

Juan raised the back of his shirt, shoved the money under his belt, and walked away.

Mason went the other direction.

He came across Camilla, crouched near a jumble of broken concrete slabs a few yards from the barricade. She reached one arm into a crevice to ease a large backpack from between two slabs of stone, and he heard a clink of metal. Curious, he stepped over a nest, ignoring the bird that darted out to peck at his ankles, and walked closer.

Camilla looked up, eyes wide with alarm.

“Just me,” he said.

She smiled. “What do you have there?”

He pulled the cylinder out from under his arm and turned it so she could read the label.

“Bear spray?” Her expression of concern was funny. “What are we supposed to do with
that
?”

“I can guess, but I’m hoping I’m wrong. What do you have?”

He crouched alongside her, and she unzipped the backpack. Coils of blue nylon rope, maybe a third of an inch thick, took up most of the space inside. She pulled it out to reveal a jumble of bright, shiny metal underneath. Mason leaned forward as she spread the pack open. The bottom was a nest of climbing gear: carabiners, cams, and belay devices piled haphazardly along with a harness.

“Lauren might have a use for it,” she said.

“Not much to climb around here,” he said. “I’m beginning to like Julian’s sense of humor.” But he had spotted something else, about fifty feet away.

“Happy hunting,” he said, and left her repacking the climbing gear.

The triangular pennant stood a foot high. Its plastic flag was colored a muted gray that blended into the background, instead of the usual bright orange. He pulled it up and inspected the attached package.

A dozen shiny space blankets were wrapped in individual bundles inside, each one a sheet of gold-colored aluminum material folded in a package no bigger than a candy bar. He tucked the package under his arm with the bear spray and stood up.

From the other side of the barricade, Jordan waved to him.

“I know there are no teams today,” she said. “But can I talk to you for a minute?”

He sauntered over and threw a leg over the barricade to join her on the seal-free side.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Bear spray.”

“Oh. Anyway, we’re both at a disadvantage here. You don’t have a scanner, and me, well…” Jordan linked an arm through his. She lifted a bare foot to point at the sole, where blood was spreading from a cut on her arch. “…this is slowing me down some.”

Mason guessed where she was going with this. He nodded for her to continue.

“How about we work together? Whatever we find, I’ll scan the points but you keep the stuff.”

“Sorry, Jordan,” he said. “I don’t really see what’s in it for me. I’ll be able to move faster on my own.”

Her face fell. “I guess you’re right. Well, if I see a chance to help us both anyway, I will. Good luck.”

He patted her on the arm, slid his own arm free, and grinned.

“If I can help us both, I will, too,” he said. “But you don’t need to worry. After yesterday, you’re leading the pack in points, and closest to the five million right now.” With another friendly pat, he walked away. But he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

Jordan paced to the edge of the bluff, near the wooden staircase. She didn’t seem to be limping. She looked down at the beach, and Mason followed her gaze to where the larger elephant seals shuffled back and forth. He studied her face surreptitiously. Jordan’s jaw was set, her green eyes steeled in fierce concentration.

She looked as if she was struggling with a decision.

JT
hopped from rock to rock along the breakwater, paralleling the high-tide waterline and surveying the cracks in between the rocks, yellow scanner in hand. So far, he had found a heavy pair of leather gloves—useful, but not very.

He squatted to probe at a large tangle of rotting kelp, whose outline looked too regular to be natural. A dense cloud of small black flies rose buzzing into the air, and he waved a hand to disperse them. Parting the rubbery stalks of kelp, he exposed the corner of a black plastic case with a familiar-looking waterproof shell. He pulled it out of the squishy brown knots and scanned the attached tag.

A “3” lit the scanner’s small gray screen. Hell, another forty points and he might actually start to catch up with the leaders.

Popping the latch on the case, JT lifted the lid. A pair of shiny green lenses stared up at him from the contoured foam padding inside, their short stalks projecting from a black visor with rubber straps. JT grinned at the night-vision goggles—he had used them frequently in the field. A third-generation NVD like this cost several thousand dollars—hopefully the goggles would give him an edge in an upcoming challenge.

Carrying the case, he angled up toward higher ground.

Reaching the flat section of dirt, he spotted something yellow about forty feet away. Juan had seen it, too. His eyes flicked up to meet JT’s, and he exploded into a sprint, scattering seals as he ran for the yellow thing.

JT was closer to it, though. With a curse, he burst into a run, also.

Juan reached it first.

JT slid to a halt a few yards away, and he and Juan stood eyeing each other. Juan held the cache—a yellow plastic case about the size of a briefcase.