The Last One (11 page)

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 teriyaki 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.

“We could share,” he says.

Rancher shakes his head. “Nah, we won, fair and square.”

“It’s not like they’re starving,” says Biology. “It’s just a game.”

Her last comment will be struck. The on-site producer will approach her later, remind her not to call their situation a game. “We’re trying to maintain a particular
feel,
” he’ll say, and his eyes will drift toward her chest.

“Sure, sorry,” she’ll reply, too tired to call out his wandering gaze.

As Tracker’s team digs in, Zoo and Engineer head to the river, fishing kit in tow. Carpenter Chick and Waitress sit by the ashy remains of their fire, poking still-hot coals with sticks.

“Having a good time?” asks Carpenter Chick.

The day is warm, but Waitress remembers the cold of last night. Smudged mascara accentuates the exhaustion under her eyes. “The best,” she replies, deadpan.

Carpenter Chick’s lipstick has faded, but some of the eyeliner remains, giving her lids a smoky sheen. Her first impression of Waitress was rather contemptuous, but she’s beginning to pity the sad, beautiful girl. That’s how she thinks of her now—a girl, no matter that only two years separate them and Waitress is nearly a foot taller than she. “What do you think the next Challenge will be?” she asks.

“I don’t know, but I hope it involves caffeine.” Waitress grinds her stick into an orange coal. “I’d kill for a skim cappuccino.”

Carpenter Chick gave up caffeine a month earlier; it surprises her that another contestant didn’t think to do the same. She wonders if Waitress did
anything
to prepare.

Zoo sits on a rock by the river, above a pool about a dozen yards from where Tracker crossed yesterday. Engineer crouches beside her. Behind his glasses, his eyes shine—he’s confusing respect for attraction. Zoo doesn’t acknowledge the look, but the editor dwells on it, a swell of music exaggerates it: infatuation. Viewers will notice, and Zoo’s husband will too, watching. He won’t blame the geeky young man—he understands his wife’s appeal—but he will be jealous of him. The simple envy of a man who misses his wife. Of course, by the time this first episode airs, almost a week will have passed since his wife jabbed a hook through a cricket and tossed it into the river. By the time Zoo’s husband sees this, the world will be on the cusp of great change.

But for now—Zoo catches a fish! She tugs it from the water, winding the line around the handle. The eight-inch trout flops on land, gasping, while Zoo and Engineer cheer. Engineer moves to hug her. She gives him a high five instead, and then smacks the trout’s head against a rock. It takes her three strikes to kill it. For all her love of animals, for all her work with animals, she feels little remorse. She is comfortable in her knowledge that humans are omnivores and that securing reliable sources of protein is what allowed the species to evolve its current intelligence. She will not kill to kill, but she will kill to eat, and she sees little difference between the eyes of a dead fish and a live one.

“Crickets,” she says to Engineer. “Good call.”

Exorcist and Black Doctor are walking to check Air Force’s snares. If any animals are near, Exorcist scares them away with his prattling.

“Last true demon I saw was about a year ago,” he says. “It was inhabiting this sweet little girl, eight, nine years old. The day I arrived, I waited for her on the front stoop of her house. The girl was at school, where the demon mostly left her alone. Anyway, I was waiting out front of her house with her mom when the girl got off the school bus. She took a few steps and then—BAM!” He smacks his hand against a tree trunk. Black Doctor jumps. “I saw it enter her,” says Exorcist, “right there in the driveway. Her whole body shuddered, and then she—she grew. Not so you’d notice if you weren’t looking, but I was looking. I took a step toward her”—he crouches slightly and edges forward as he speaks—“and the demon roars. It takes this girl’s body and commands her to exhibit its rage. She stomps”—he stomps—“to her mom’s car, a giant SUV—an Escape, I think, something like that, anyway, a
big
car—and with her tiny little hands she grabs the underside of the vehicle, right under the driver’s door, and
wham,
flips it upward.” He throws his hands into the air. “The SUV somersaults through the air, then lands with a crunch on its roof, right in the same exact spot where it’d been parked.” He holds his index finger and thumb about an inch apart. “Not this far from where the girl stood. And she didn’t move. The demon didn’t
let
her move. I’ll tell you, that was a humdinger of a job there. Four days to get the demon gone, and more vomit than I care to recall.” Exorcist pauses. “A scorpion crawled out of her throat, I shit you not. That was the demon, making its escape.” He smashes his boot against the earth, grinding a leaf with his heel. “I crushed it dead.”

“You killed a demon,” says Black Doctor, flatly. He’s having a hard time deciding just how much of his own story Exorcist believes. The fact that he might believe any of it makes Black Doctor uneasy.

“Well, no.” Exorcist laughs. “I don’t have nearly that kind of power. I simply interrupted its manifestation. Demon’s back in Hell, probably planning its next trip Earthside.”

Black Doctor doesn’t know what to say. Exorcist is used to this reaction and takes comfort in the silence.

They reach the first of Air Force’s deadfall traps. It’s triggered but empty.

“Maybe the wind set it off,” says Exorcist.

Black Doctor glances at him and replies, “Or a demon.”

As Tracker’s team finishes their lunch, the host approaches. “In addition to this grand meal,” he says, standing at the head of the picnic table, “you get an advantage going into the next Challenge.” He pulls four maps from a pack. As soon as he sees the maps, Tracker fills his Nalgene from a water pitcher. The host continues, “I said it takes place tomorrow, and technically it does. The start time is twelve-oh-one a.m. Your advantage is a head start in daylight, and these—just in case.” He hands each of them a flashlight. Tracker looks at his. It’s more cumbersome than the flashlight he won in the first Challenge, and he won’t use either—in his experience, with his skills, artificial light only disrupts night vision. He hands it back. The host stares at the flashlight for a second, then jokes, “Aren’t
we
the confident one,” before returning to his script. “Remember, this is a Solo Challenge. That doesn’t mean you
can’t
cooperate, but there will be rewards corresponding to the order in which you finish.” With that, he distributes the maps and says, “Good luck.”

Rancher unfolds his map and addresses Tracker, “What do you think—”

But Tracker is already moving, wrapping three leftover chicken breasts in a wad of paper napkins.

“We should stick together, at least at first,” says Banker.

Tracker stuffs the chicken and his Nalgene into his backpack, then pulls on the pack and wraps the lanyard of his compass around his left wrist. He opens his map and considers it briefly. He looks at his team and without a word leaves them.