The Last One(32)

Air Force asks, “Who do you think is still out there?”

Cut to Cheerleader Boy, exasperated in light of moon and camera. “Where’s my compass?” he asks, patting at his pockets. He sits on a rock. The beam of his flashlight illuminates his muddy boots. “That cretin must have stolen it,” he says, though he knows that’s impossible. He hasn’t seen Exorcist since he left the group, and he had his compass with him then. He knows he lost it himself. “The stars,” he says, looking up. “I can navigate by the stars.” The canopy hides the sky, but even if it didn’t, Cheerleader Boy would be unlikely to correctly identify the North Star, much less navigate by it. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay, okay. I can do this.” He glances imploringly at the cameraman, who stares in turn at his view screen. When Cheerleader Boy looks away, the cameraman turns off his radio, then taps one of the many accessories clipped to his belt.

Cheerleader Boy’s flashlight sputters. “No,” he says, slapping it against his palm. “No no no.” The light dies. The cameraman switches to night vision as Cheerleader Boy stands and throws the dead flashlight to the ground. Cheerleader Boy’s grainy, green face tips from frustration toward fear. For about thirty seconds, he’s stuck staring at the flashlight. Then he thinks, If I leave now, I won’t miss this semester.

“Ad…” he says. “Ad tedious…shit.” He addresses the cameraman directly, “I’m done.” The cameraman adjusts the frame. “I don’t remember the phrase, but I quit.” Cheerleader Boy jams his hand into his pocket—the notecard! He unfolds it and holds it close to his nose. “Ad…Ad…”

It’s too dark to read.

He sits again and cradles his face in his hands. “Fuuuuuuuck,” he says. The viewer will hear a long, haunting note. Morning can’t be far, thinks Cheerleader Boy. All he needs is a little light to read the phrase. Hours, that’s all. He’ll wait it out.

The cameraman taps at his belt again. The trees begin to creak, a wind-borne sound that gradually morphs into a cry and back again. Cheerleader Boy thinks he’s hearing things that don’t exist, but it’s not his mind that’s playing tricks. After forty minutes—ten seconds—of this creeping cycle, he begins to shake.

A scream, blood-curdling, from behind him. He leaps up, turns in a circle, sees nothing. The trees around him weep, louder.

Cheerleader Boy turns again to his cameraman. “Come on,” he says. “That’s enough, I’ve had enough. I quit.”

Silence as complete as the darkness. Night’s unnatural sounds have paused to consider and reject his plea. The sudden absence of sound strikes Cheerleader Boy like a blow.

“Please,” he says, and the first of his tears fall. He gropes toward the cameraman. “Get me out of here, please.”

He’s about to make physical contact.

This cannot be allowed.

A tiny light on the underside of the camera flips on. Cheerleader Boy freezes. The light is dim, but it’s bright enough to illuminate a phrase printed sleekly beneath the lens. Cheerleader Boy nearly falls to his knees.

“Ad tenebras dedi,” he says, breath shuddering.

The screen goes black.

The host materializes, leaning against an exterior wall with his hands in his pockets. “One down,” he says, and the first episode of In the Dark will end with his smirking face.





9.


I’m passing driveways more frequently now, the occasional farm. I still don’t see any people; it’s just me and the cameras. They told us this was going to be big—unprecedented—but still, the scope of the production astounds me.

They never said we’d be moving through populated areas, even rural ones.

There’s a lot they never said.

Movement in my peripheral vision. I know instantly that it’s animal movement. I turn toward a small white house obscured by deciduous trees. A brownish blur disappears into the side yard. I should keep walking. I shouldn’t need to see, but something about yesterday’s discovery has made me bold, or reckless.

I creep down the driveway and into the house’s front lawn, then turn the corner and squint.

Three cats coil away from me, hissing. One calico, one white, and one all or mostly black. I think the white one wears a collar—I see pink on its neck. I step closer. The calico leaps through an open window in the side of the house. The other two scatter into the backyard.

My curiosity leads me to the window and I peer inside. A bedroom painted pistachio green. Bright clothing and a few stuffed animals strewn over milky white carpeting. I can’t make out the details of the many posters on the walls, but two look like they’re for bands and I recognize the pattern of a third as belonging to a werewolf romance movie that came out last year.

The cat bounds up from behind the bed and pads across the rumpled comforter. It watches me as I watch it. Then it creeps forward and ducks its head. The head comes back up, then ducks again. It looks like the cat’s eating. I blink a few times to refocus. The cat’s definitely eating. As I watch, I’m able to make out its meal: a pale, bloated hand with dark fingernails. The cat nips between the thumb and forefinger, tearing away a small fleshy patch that does not bleed.

For a few seconds, I’m stuck, staring.

It’s not a hand. It’s not a hand. Of course it’s not a hand, I know it’s not a hand, but I’m sick of having to tell myself the obvious. I’m sick of it not feeling obvious.