Harry is shouting. I hear his tears for his brother. He inches toward us, a throbbing, uneven blur.
“Mae.” Brennan’s arm slips around my waist, and I allow it because I feel enormously unstable.
“Stop!” Harry yells. We pause for this word that used to mean something, mean everything. I wish for Harry to stand with a flourish, to grab Cliff’s hand and lift him to his feet, for the two of them to bow and say “Gotcha.”
How badly I wish.
But neither brother can stand and Harry doesn’t seem to know what to say; maybe he didn’t think we’d wait. He’s just staring at us and thoughts of the show keep pounding my awareness even though I know they’re false and a baby’s cries echo through my skull.
Harry continues to stare at us—or maybe at his brother, I can’t see his eyes—and I hear Cliff’s breath, ragged, as his body fights for every last second of existence, despite the pain, despite the inevitable end. Clinging to a useless life, as the human body is wont to do.
Listening to his rasp, understanding strikes like a blade through my heart.
My husband.
If. Then.
The outcome of this logic puzzle is inescapable.
Harry has pushed himself up onto his good knee. He grabs a shopping cart and yanks himself upright. His ascent looks staged, the way the light is rising behind him, and I need it to be. The sky is so bright; I’m searching for a drone. Then understanding reasserts itself, fast and crushing, and Brennan’s tugging on my arm with urgency, taking a step. All I can think is maybe I’m wrong again, because I want to be, and I’m confusing myself and I don’t know which memories to trust. I’m searching for something concrete and my thoughts settle on a pot of lentil stew. I made it, I know I made it, it’s sitting inside, and for a moment the existence of that half-full pot is the only thing in my recent memory that I know to be true.
Absurdly, I find myself wanting to offer the lentil stew to Harry and Cliff, as though by sharing this one true thing with them I could undo the world and transport myself home; I’d be there with my husband and he’d be alive and I’d be the me I used to be, and the last month would become less than a dream, less than a thought—it never would have happened. But then Cliff begins to scream and there’s liquid in the scream; blood or bile, gurgling beneath. Harry takes a step toward us, then falls back to the ground at his brother’s side. My throat is paralyzed, I have nothing to offer, and Brennan’s leading. We turn our backs on the maimed brothers and hobble together toward the road, in the only direction I know to go.
In the Dark—Week One Down. Reactions?
Why did they make her get the wallet? That was twisted. Admittedly a bit of a slow start, but it’s official: I…can’t…stop…watching!
submitted 29 days ago by LongLiveCaptainTightPants
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[-] HeftyTurtle 29 days ago
There’s some interesting stuff going on, I’ll give them that much. I’d like to see a little more attention paid to the science teacher next week. I think she’s the dark horse.
[-] HandsomeDannyBoy 29 days ago
Agreed. I bet she makes top three. Preacher’s going to run off the rest.
[-] MachOneMama 29 days ago
How do they get away with all the killing? I’m surprised PETA hasn’t stormed the set.
[-] BaldingCamel 29 days ago
I’m sure they have all the necessary permits.
[-] CoriolisAffect 29 days ago
Maybe they have. It’s not like they’re showing us everything. I texted my friend who’s on set but he keeps replying “confidentiality clause.” Lame.
[-] Coriander522 29 days ago
It was fine for staying in on a Friday with the beginnings of a cold. Don’t know that I’ll go out of my way to keep watching once I feel better.
…
20.
Exorcist, Biology, Engineer, and Banker trickle into camp long after dark, limp with exhaustion. They failed the last Challenge so badly they had to be picked up in a van and driven back to the others. Their ride will be edited out, their failure will not. If the fourth episode of In the Dark were ever to air, it would have opened with a shot of fictitious Eli Schuster limping through the woods, a bloody rag tied around his forehead. A reminder, fading to mystery.
All of the remaining contestants are gathered around a fire.
“I wonder what happened to him,” says Biology.
Zoo feeds a stick to the flames. “Ours fell off a cliff,” she says.
Biology stares at her and asks, “Really?”
Zoo’s reply is clear: a look that says, no, not really, remember where we are. A look that cannot, will not, be shown, though the editor loves her for it. Loves her despite the exhaustion rolling over him as he watches.
Exorcist is tying a squirrel tail around his wrist. “We’ll find him,” he says. He takes an end of the tail in his teeth and pulls the knot tight. Speaking around the hair, he adds, “If not in this world, then in the next.”
“Shut up,” Waitress tells him, but her heart’s not in it. Exorcist is tired too. He pretends not to hear.
Tracker is sitting off on his own, a shadowy figure far from the fire. As Waitress starts complaining about her aching foot, Zoo stands and walks over to Tracker. She sits next to him so that their knees touch. “You okay?” she asks. Tracker slips a hand over his microphone before replying, “No.”
That night the contestants sleep crowded together in a ramshackle last-minute shelter. In the morning, they gather before the host, wary.
The host greets them from beside the elimination post, then pulls a neon-yellow bandana from his pocket and stabs it in beside Cheerleader Boy’s pink. The most surprising thing about the action this time around is the reminder that only one night has passed since Carpenter Chick quit. Banker thinks of the strong, beautiful shelter at their last camp, then glances back at the ugly collection of downed branches they slept under last night.
“Yesterday,” says the host, “was a tough day for us all.”
Us all? mouths Zoo.
“What do you know?” whispers Waitress.
The host continues, “But as you know, it was too much for one of your companions, who quit before even undertaking your most recent Challenge.” He begins pacing before them, holding Carpenter Chick’s backpack. “Today I have only one item to distribute.” He pulls a full water bottle out of the bag.
Had he ever seen this footage, the editor would have cut now to Carpenter Chick, riding away in the back of a car with tinted windows. “There’s only one other woman I think has a chance of winning anything,” she says. “So I guess give my water to her. Girl power and whatnot.”
The host hands the water bottle to Zoo.
“Thanks,” she says, not especially surprised. She thought she had about a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bottle, with the other fifty percent going to Engineer. Engineer had reckoned about the same, though he gave Zoo the edge—sixty-forty, he’d thought.
The host stalks back to his centered position. “Today promises to be even more challenging than yesterday.”
A cameraman interrupts with a loud, hacking cough. Everyone turns to him. He’s to the group’s left, the same cameraman who interrupted yesterday. Zoo’s silently and secretly given each cameraman a name and she thinks of this one as Bumbles. “Excuse me,” says Bumbles. “Sorry.” His voice sounds weak. He coughs again, doubling over. He can’t stop coughing. The producer walks up to him and the two speak quietly between loud coughs. The host keeps his distance, openly disgusted. After a moment, the cameraman walks away with the producer, who motions for the host to continue.
“Good thing they have redundancy,” says Engineer to Zoo, motioning toward the half dozen other cameramen currently milling about. In Zoo’s internal parlance: Marathon Man, Slim, Wallaby, the Plumber, Goat Face, and Coffee Breath, whose breath only smelled like coffee once, but that was enough. A fraction of the crew.