The Last One(21)

“I agree,” says Engineer. Yesterday, he wondered at his luck, ending up on a team with three women. He didn’t know if it was good luck or bad. He’s thinking good now. He likes how Zoo’s mind works; he thinks they have a chance.

“Whatever,” says Waitress. She’s hungry, but this is a sensation she’s used to. Her current crankiness stems more from fatigue and a caffeine-craving headache.

Zoo hands her the guide. “Some of these are easy. We can all look for dandelions and chicory and pine, but how about we each focus on one or two of the others?”

“You’re the boss,” says Carpenter Chick.

Tracker’s team is off to a strong start; Biology has already collected a handful of mint. She found the patch last night, chewed some this morning after finishing her portion of rabbit. In addition to teaching life science, Biology advises a gardening club. Between her and Tracker, her team has an obvious advantage.

Air Force’s ankle hurts more today, and is swollen enough that he can barely fit it in his boot. “You should rest,” says Black Doctor. “We can handle this.”

Cheerleader Boy lurks behind them, hair mussed, eyes red and exhausted as they run over the pamphlet. “What’s a basal whorl?” he asks, trying.

“It means coming from the base,” says Black Doctor. “So all the leaves or petals would be coming from the same spot on the base, not scattered along the…” He pinches his thumb and forefinger and runs them up and down in the air, as though drawing a short line.

“Stem?” supplies Exorcist.

“Like a dandelion?” asks Cheerleader Boy.

“Exactly,” says Black Doctor. “What do we have to find that has a basal whorl?”

“A dandelion.”

Exorcist laughs and slaps Cheerleader Boy on the back.

And now, a montage:

The teams trekking through the trees, searching.

Air Force sitting with his foot in the icy water of a small brook, poor wounded bird.

Banker crouching by some growth at the base of a mossy boulder. “I think this might be purslane.”

Zoo tearing a leaf, sniffing it. She holds it out to the others and says, “Smell this.” They pass it around. “Smells like…” Engineer cannot decide. “Carrot,” chirps Carpenter Chick. “Bingo,” says Zoo.

In the bottom corner of the screen, a timer races from thirty toward zero. Some believe that time is its own dimension—a sequential continuum—others argue time is an incalculable, untravelable construct of the human mind—a concept, not a thing. The producers and editor care little about physics, or philosophy, and they will travel the half hour, leaping so that minutes disappear in irregular chunks. They will bring the viewers with them.

Cheerleader Boy swats at a needled branch. “All these plants look the same,” he says. Exorcist grabs the same branch and tells him, “Pine.”

“Pine,” says Carpenter Chick.

“Pine,” says Biology. Her statement came fifteen minutes earlier but will be presented as a triangle’s third side at nine minutes remaining.

Tracker leads in silence, pinching leaves, smelling his fingers, searching.

“You can really eat this?” asks Waitress, holding the bit of root that Zoo handed her. “I think you’re supposed to cook it first,” Zoo replies.

A gong echoes through the woods; everyone stops to listen. Five minutes blinks the timer.

“I guess we should head back?” says Banker.

“We don’t have them all,” says Biology.

“We have enough,” Rancher answers. Beside him, Tracker nods.

Air Force’s team collects him. “I found mint by the stream,” he says.

Black Doctor helps him up. “Great. We didn’t have that one.” Even though they did.

The teams reassemble in the field. The host is waiting, and he’s not alone. At his side stands a large bearded man who needs only an ax to look like a Halloween lumberjack.

The Expert.

He nods his massive head without smiling and looks over the contestants. His flannel shirt and red-tinged beard flutter in a gust of wind. Zoo barely suppresses a laugh—the giant has descended the beanstalk, she thinks, and he looks like he’s choosing whom to roast as his next meal.

The host lists the Expert’s credentials, which slide over the contestants just as they will slide over viewers, simultaneously impressive and obscure. He’s a graduate, an instructor. He advises law enforcement and emergency rescue teams. He has survived for months alone in the Alaskan wilderness, much harsher than here. He has tracked panthers and bears and endangered gray wolves, as well as humans of both the lost and homicidal variety.

In short, he knows his shit.

The team leaders present the Expert with their collections. Zoo is first.

“Dandelion, sure. Mint, pine. You got the easy ones,” says the Expert. His voice is gruff, but not unfriendly. He projects an ultimate confidence that doesn’t cross the line into hubris. He has nothing to prove. Tracker feels the simultaneous push and pull of shared characteristics.

“Chicory,” says the Expert, “very good. Burdock. Hawthorn. Queen Anne’s lace. And…what did you think this one was?” He holds out a large, glossy leaf.

Zoo looks at her pamphlet. “Mayapple?”