The Last One(28)

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.

“Wait!” calls Banker. But Tracker’s gone. The fittest cameraman scuttles to follow.

What will the rest of the team do? They’ve gotten on well until now. Banker wants to cooperate. Rancher’s torn; he’d assumed they would move on together, but with their leader gone his assumptions are shattered. Biology tops off her water bottle, then declares her independence: “Good luck, boys.” By the time she disappears into the trees Rancher and Banker are filling their packs, splitting the leftover food between them. They further weigh themselves down with plastic flatware and paper plates. Soon little more than the potato salad remains on the table, and the mayo-based dish is already looking a little off.

Partners for now, Rancher and Banker follow their maps and former teammates toward the waypoint. They’re moving east. No one from the other two teams realizes they’re on the move. They’re busy roasting a fish and some Queen Anne’s lace root, dropping iodine into bottles filled with river water. Many viewers will laugh: The chumps don’t know what’s waiting for them.

Carpenter Chick walks into camp, tightening the knot of her yellow bandana around her hair, no mention made of where she’s been, no footage taken: female maintenance. Zoo takes a careful bite of roasted root. She chews, considering, then says, “Could use a little seasoning, but other than that, not bad.” She offers the root to Engineer to taste.

Exorcist tells his teammates ridiculous tale after ridiculous tale with the air of total belief. He waves his green bandana for effect as he begins the umpteenth, “I don’t specialize in ghosts, but I’ve met a few. I was in Texas a few years ago—”

“Shut up!” bursts Cheerleader Boy. “My God, I can’t take it. Just shut up.”

“He’s my God too,” Exorcist replies, straight-faced. “More mine than yours, I suspect.”

Is this a gay slur? No one’s sure—not Cheerleader Boy, not the producers, not the editor. Cheerleader Boy errs on the side of offense. “I don’t want anything to do with you or your God,” he says. “Get away from me.”

Exorcist doesn’t move; he watches Cheerleader Boy intensely. Without his smile, he’s a little frightening. Black Doctor and Air Force both stand. Air Force’s ankle gives as Black Doctor moves to intervene, but intervention isn’t necessary. Cheerleader Boy sighs, says, “Whatever,” and moves to the far side of their camp.

The editor will twist the moment. For all viewers will know, Exorcist hasn’t spoken since his walk with Black Doctor much earlier in the day. Why did Cheerleader Boy explode like that, out of nowhere? What a huffy, irrational, hateful atheist. The spin declares that this—not his sexuality—is his fatal flaw. A politician can’t win the American presidency without declaring himself a God-fearing man, and a vocal nonbeliever can’t be put forth as a viable contender on a program striving for widespread popularity among the citizens of one nation under God. It’s just good marketing sense.

Tracker consults his compass, then eyes a pair of boulders indicated by solid triangles on his map. He’s on course and making remarkable time. His once-teammates are far behind. Biology stands below the more southerly of a pair of small cliff faces, thinking she’s at the northern one. Banker and Rancher have drifted apart; Rancher is ahead. In fact, he’s ahead of Biology too, though neither knows it. Viewers will know. They’ll be shown a map with funky little symbols: four-legged rakes that have lost their handles stand in for cliffs, and Rancher’s bumblebee dot chugs along, passing the northern cliff as Biology’s orange dot meanders to the south. Banker’s back a ways, about to cross a stream marked by a squiggling line.

Back at the camps, Black Doctor asks, “How’s your ankle?”

“Better,” says Air Force. He doesn’t think he’ll need the walking stick for much longer. He plans to be back in the game, soon. Cheerleader Boy sulks on the opposite side of the fire.

Zoo has enlisted her teammates in attempting to filter water. She’s read about it, watched online how-tos, but never tried it. Carpenter Chick helps her set up a tripod of sticks, from which three bandanas hang like stacked hammocks: maroon with brown stripes, neon yellow, and light blue. Nearby, Engineer is grinding charcoal to ash. This could have been Waitress’s role, but she objected to getting her hands all black, so Zoo asked her to fill their bottles with water from the river instead. That’s where she is now. Kneeling, Waitress swears softly; the rocks hurt her knees. “Let’s see Miss I’ve-Got-an-Idea carry her own stupid water for her own stupid filter,” she mutters. Her violet bandana holds back her hair.

Zoo drops handfuls of dirt into the yellow bandana, then she and Carpenter Chick join Engineer in grinding charcoal—they need a lot. When Waitress reappears with their bottles hanging heavily from her fingers, the others take handfuls of fine black ash and pile it into Zoo’s blue bandana.