The Last One(51)



Tracker hesitates before saying, “It sounded like—” The sound comes again, cutting him off. Then: scraping, tumbling, sharp rustling, some small clack clack clacks. Tracker puts out his arm toward his teammate and turns to scan the woods uphill. Zoo notices that their cameraman has hung back; he’s standing about fifty feet away, filming intently. The shot he gets now: her worried glance straight at the lens, Tracker’s protective stance, her light skin and hair, his darkness; the editor will love the contrast, the story being told in that moment. This shot will be heavily featured in promos.

“Go,” says Tracker. He urges Zoo ahead of him with a nudge. She turns, confused, glancing uphill, and then darts up the trail. Tracker follows.

They’ve gone only a few steps when the first small pebbles tumble down onto the trail. Most of the stones fall behind them, but not all. Zoo leaps over a fist-sized rock that rolls out in front of her—an overhead camera records her quick reflexes, and Tracker’s smaller, sleeker movements as he easily avoids tumbling debris. And then—crash—a huge sound behind them. Zoo slows and looks back. Tracker tells her, “Run!” but she sees it: a boulder nearly as tall as she bounding through the trees. It looks strange to her, it’s moving too lightly, ricocheting off tree trunks. Seconds later the boulder rolls across the trail behind them and the woods settle back into silence. Zoo pauses to catch her breath.

“That wasn’t a real boulder,” she says.

“No,” says Tracker.

“That’s messed up.” Viewers will not be given access to Zoo’s first comment, but they will hear this one, and then the show will cut to Biology and Air Force listening to the crashing sounds ahead of them.

“What was that?” asks Biology.

“I don’t know,” says Air Force. “Maybe a tree fell?”

At the base of the mountain, Waitress and Rancher outvote Exorcist to take the trail. Exorcist takes ownership of their decision by marching into the lead. Waitress is exhausted, her quads throbbing and weak, and she follows slowly. Rancher takes the rear. Once they find the trailhead he allows the distance between him and his teammates to grow. Looking at the ground as he hikes, he pretends to be alone and thinks about his children. After only a few minutes, the trio’s cameraman urges him forward. “Come on, man. I’ve gotta keep all three of you in frame.”

Far above and deep in brambles, Black Doctor slips. He catches himself on a rickety tree stump. A toothpick-sized sliver skims in just below the skin on his left pinky and he hisses in pain. Banker squeezes through the brush to help him up.

“It’s not deep,” says Black Doctor, inspecting his hand. He pinches the protruding end of the splinter between his fingernails and pulls it out. The wood slides free cleanly and the wound barely bleeds. Did you see that? the reasonable man writes on a forum within seconds of this airing. He’s clearly more dexterous than he looks. Within an hour, this man will be called a racist, a moron, an asswipe, and a fag, the last by a twelve-year-old girl who recently heard the derogative for the first time and likes the sense of power she gets from employing it anonymously.

Black Doctor tosses the splinter aside and takes out his first-aid kit. He dabs on some antibiotic cream, then wraps a Band-Aid around his finger. “Best I can do for now,” he says.

Banker’s hair is slicked to his forehead with sweat, and stubble bursts awkwardly from his cheeks and chin. It’s not a flattering look, but the day after tomorrow the stubble will hit its prime length and he will for a few days be striking. Hearts will throb; not as many as throb for Air Force, but enough that he will be recognized weeks from now, far out of context.

Banker’s not-yet-striking face is pursed with concern for his partner. “Did that list of plants say what they were good for? If we can find a natural antiseptic—”

“I’m fine,” Black Doctor interrupts. “It barely pierced the dermis.” He shifts his face into kindliness. “Besides, even the best plant isn’t going to be better than what’s in the kit. But thank you.” They resume their climb.

Zoo is still staring after the faux boulder. “We could have gotten hurt,” she says. “Really hurt.” She expected challenges and danger, but not like this. She didn’t think the creators of the show would roll a five-foot-diameter obstacle down a heavily wooded trail straight at her. Her dismay causes her expectations to shift: a small first step toward inconceivable eventual heights.

“We’re okay,” says Tracker. “And the top’s not far.” Zoo turns to follow him. She’s no longer smiling.

A quarter of a mile to their west, Carpenter Chick and Engineer push through the woods. Several small twigs are stuck in Carpenter Chick’s hair, and Engineer’s right sleeve is torn at the cuff and thick with brambles. They pause to consult their map and compasses.

“We’re so close,” says Carpenter Chick. “But all I see are trees.”

“It’ll open up any minute,” Engineer replies. “We have less than a hundred feet of elevation left.” He tucks the map away and leads them forward, then stops and says, “Whoa.”

“What is it?” asks Carpenter Chick. She ducks beneath a branch to stand beside him. Their cameraman hustles to their side to capture their drawn faces, then pans right to a sheer forty-foot cliff.

Lesson of the day: Contour lines can be deceptive when elevation gain occurs in the form of a cliff at the end of a wooded plateau.

Alexandra Oliva's Books