The Last One(71)

Yes, thinks Zoo, then: No. She almost says, “Fake blood,” before thinking better of it. She doesn’t know if it’s possible to be disqualified for professing disbelief, but she doesn’t want to chance it. So instead she says, “He must have fallen.”

“And then he went that way, look,” says Rancher, pointing downstream, where another rock is smeared with mud and dabbed with more red.

Far behind them, Exorcist finally finds the threads that are intended to lead his team to their blood mark. But the quartet is moving slowly, bickering. Attempting to act as the voice of reason, Biology twirls to the others and claps her hands—clap, clap, clap-clap-clap—a trick she uses to get the attention of unruly students. “Get it together!” she demands. Her teammates are all looking at her, but one’s vision is centered noticeably below her face. She stalks up to Exorcist and he meets her eyes, surprised. “That’s better,” she says.

“She’s right,” says Banker, stepping between Biology and Exorcist before the latter can respond. “Let’s focus on finding Eli.” His foot lands on their next clue—a scuff—and obliterates it. More subtle clues abound, but no one in this group sees them. Tracker would have; even Zoo or Air Force would likely have caught the general sense of the trail. But this mishmash of a team will from this moment on fail. Engineer’s eyes fall on a disturbance: the combination of natural erosion, a deer’s passage, and imagination. He and his teammates want to see tracks, they need to see tracks, and so they do. Soon they’re following a trail that doesn’t strictly exist, and they’re following it in the wrong direction.

Tracker’s group is on course, moving swiftly after their target, who has covered more ground than they anticipated, nearly four miles already. Tracker has two thoughts: first, neither of the other groups will find their target before sundown; second, perhaps they’re not meant to.

But Tracker’s moving faster than the production team anticipated. When his team is a quarter mile away from the endpoint they have to hustle. The actor portraying Abbas Farran is hurried away from coffee and texting and into makeup, and then back to where he ended his trail.

That’s where Air Force, Tracker, and Black Doctor find him. The actor they think of as Abbas is sitting on a rock toward the top edge of an eroded cliff face. He’s moaning and holding his head in his hands. The contestants cannot see the ledge, they do not know how high it is—or even that it is a ledge, though the topography beyond the actor suggests at least a steep slope.

“Abbas!” calls Black Doctor. “Abbas, are you all right?”

The actor moans a little louder and lurches to his feet. “Who’s there?” he asks. He turns toward the group. Red is dripping down his forehead and has been smeared all over his face and hands.

From the cameraman’s nonreaction Tracker knows the blood is fake, that there is no true danger. He’s disgusted—he has been in real emergencies, has rescued hikers who were truly lost and hurt—and he wants no part of this mockery. But he needs the money. He notices that Black Doctor seems genuinely concerned; this is his moment, thinks Tracker, taking a step backward.

The actor playing Abbas stumbles toward the ledge.

“Whoa!” says Air Force. “Careful, man.”

Black Doctor is walking forward, with purpose but also caution. Air Force follows his friend. He and Black Doctor reach the actor together. Air Force snags the young man’s arm to steady him, and Black Doctor says, “Have a seat, son.” The actor allows them to lower him onto the rock where he was sitting before, and Black Doctor kneels, looking into his eyes. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asks.

The actor is moving his head about dizzily. “I…I don’t know,” he says. “I…thank you.”

And then the on-site producer strides out of the woods, shouting, “Nice work! Everyone come this way!” and suddenly the actor portraying injured Abbas is standing, steady, his eyes clear. He wipes at his forehead with his sleeve and then walks toward the producer, asking, “Can I get a wet wipe?”

Air Force stiffens; Black Doctor stands and looks his way. “Well,” says Air Force, “I guess that answers that.”





17.


Brennan and I emerge from the woods mid-morning and skirt another town whose residents have been paid to vacate. From what I can see, this area is run-down and has been for a long time; we pass a decaying barn and a years-abandoned gas station with the pumps removed. The kind of place in desperate need of television money, the kind of place easily dressed for the show’s needs. As we walk, Brennan yammers about evacuations and bioterrorism, fast-acting transmittable cancer and other inanities, until I shush him.

I’m still days from home, but there are only so many ways to cross the river and we’re nearing the bridge my husband and I most often use, a crossing surrounded by woodland and small towns. The Army’s premier training ground for kids Brennan’s age is just north of here. I wonder briefly what would happen if I continued in that direction instead of crossing the bridge. Brennan would probably find a way to stop me, or there would be another bus blocking the path, this one with no way around. Or maybe they’d finally have to break scene—a producer stepping out from behind a tree, nodding his head east.

I could test them, but I’d rather just go home. I’m beginning to believe that’s my true destination, not just a direction, that they’ve actually done it: cleared a path for me all the way home.