The Last One(24)

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, L?rabars 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.