The Last One(47)

“Right,” I say, emphasizing the word with a swing of my fist.

I remember watching a show with a similar premise on the Discovery Channel, years ago. It was billed as an experiment; people who “survived” a simulated flu outbreak had to build a little community before finding a way to safety. They got to do cool stuff like wire up solar panels and build cars. All I get to do is walk endlessly and listen to a rambling kid tell a bullshit story. Plus, they knew what they were getting into. They didn’t know how hard it would be, maybe, but they knew the premise. But this, this was supposed to be about wilderness survival.

I glance at Brennan, who’s still blathering about his little made-up church.

The contestants on the Discovery Channel show were contained: X number of city blocks in season one and a section of bayou in season two, if I remember right. I’ve already covered the equivalent of hundreds of city blocks. Thousands, maybe. And I’m not the only contestant. How do they do it? How do they clear the way?

The answer is as obvious as the question: money. Reality shows are famously cheap to make, but this one has a blockbuster’s budget. They made that clear in the application process, called this an opportunity to participate in a “groundbreaking entertainment experience.” An opportunity. They could empty hundreds of homes, repair and reimburse dozens of outdoor gear stores, and it’d be a drop in the bucket for them. It’s exorbitant, but it makes sense. The how of it all makes sense.

“When there was no one left but me,” says Brennan, “I started walking.” This isn’t his best performance; there’s a matter-of-factness to his tone that is out of sync with the story he’s telling. I’m not sure why I find this incongruity irritating, but I do.

There was supposed to be a third season of the pandemic show, but it was canceled before any episodes aired. All that cool stuff the cast got to build? They also had to protect it. One of the season three contestants—experimentees?—was hit in the head by a fake marauder during a fake attack and died, which I suppose means the attack wasn’t so fake after all. At least that’s the explanation a particular cluster of websites provided for the cancelation. Grain of salt. And yet our contract was very clear about not hitting anyone in the head.

Is that why they’re airing our episodes so quickly? In case someone dies?

I doubt that’s their primary concern, but it makes sense that they would anticipate the possibility of a production-halting accident. I think of how sick I got. That was close, not to stopping the show, but my role in it. And they’ve already populated this pretend world with a handful of dead-body props, a screeching baby doll, an interactive cameraman. A marauder isn’t such a far next step. In fact, I’m surprised all I’ve had to fend off so far is a bout of beaver fever and an animatronic coyote.

And this prattling boy, no matter his pretending, is on their side. Their side, not mine. I can’t forget that.

“I wanted to get away,” he says, swinging his plastic bags at his side. “Go somewhere I’ve never been before. And then I found you.”

Like our meeting was fate. But it wasn’t fate, it was casting.

“So,” I say, “I take it your mother’s dead?”

He breathes in sharply and nearly trips.

“I mean, she must be,” I reason. “The two of you jammed into a church with hundreds of others, everyone coughing and puking and shitting their pants. You’re clearly a mama’s boy, and you’re here and she’s not. So that means she’s dead, right?”

He doesn’t answer. I’d thought to prod him into putting some emotion into his performance, but this is even better. Silence.

As we walk, thoughts of my family slide forward in my consciousness. The family I chose and the family I was born to. My indifference toward the latter. My fear that if I have a child she will someday feel that same indifference toward me.

Odd how my dreams are always about a baby boy, but the possibility of having a girl is what scares me most. A daughter: It seems impossible to raise one well.

“Everyone you know is dead too,” says Brennan.

I turn to him, surprised. His face is so close to mine, his eyes are red, and tears are trickling down his scrunched-up cheeks. Snot runs from his nostrils over his lips. He must be able to taste it.

“Your family,” he says. “Your rafting friends. They’re floating down the river. Fish are probably eating their faces right now.”

“That’s…excessive,” I say. There’s something in his voice I can’t quite define. It’s not malice. I don’t think he’s trying to hurt me. I don’t know what he’s trying to accomplish.

“Facts are facts,” he mumbles. He shifts his plastic bags to the crooks of his elbows and crosses his arms. The watch face winks at me.

He’s sulking, I realize. The thought is laced with amazement. Then again—why not? He’s probably homesick. He probably didn’t know what he was signing up for either. I feel a little sorry for him, but mostly I’m thankful that he’s being quiet again.

What if my mother were dead? It’s a question I’ve pondered before; she’s only fifty-six but looks much older, mostly because of her skin. Forty miles each way twice a week to maintain her out-of-season hue, puffing on carcinogens all the way. Winter, summer, that deep tan is always out of season in Vermont when it lacks the sharp line of a farmer’s sleeve. Factor in her diet—a typical meal being frozen waffles topped with sausage patties doused in syrup and followed by a maple creamie—and she’s pretty much guaranteed an early grave.