Amelia daren’t look round. She feels a dull ache in her chest and a flurry of hot fear coursing through her veins. She tries to take a deep breath, but it sticks in her throat. A stabbing pain starts above her left eye. She knows what this is.
She looks up at the console above her head, with its flashing lights and constant pinging, and waits for the little door to open.
The tannoy screeches. ‘Please remain calm. We’re currently experiencing a temporary drop in cabin pressure . . .’
The little door opens and the oxygen mask drops in front of her face.
Behind her she can hear the sounds of chaos and confusion. Whimpers of fear mingling with the excited squeals of Man-bun, who still thinks this is part of the adventure. ‘This is so cool,’ he says.
Amelia pulls the mask onto her face and snaps the elastic over her head. Too long, she thinks. The masks should’ve come down sooner. Already she feels woozy from the pressure drop, the oxygen not kicking in as fast as usual.
‘I feel weird,’ Man-bun says, his voice trailing off.
Me too, Amelia thinks. Her head swims. The pain in her chest disappears. She feels calm, despite the plane bumping and lurching. A strange feeling that she’s floating. As if the plane is descending, leaving her behind. Her eyes feel heavy and she lets them close. The choppy movements of the plane seem to stop, or maybe she just can’t feel anything anymore.
The sounds around her fade, until there’s nothing at all.
Amelia
T - 20
The door is wide open and a warm, gentle breeze drifts in, bringing a scent of engine oil and a hint of the sea. It wafts under her nose, making it twitch. But she has difficulty opening her eyes. They feel heavy, as if she’s been in a deep sleep for a long time. Images swirl around, fragments of a dream. Or something else. Something more real.
Where am I?
She lifts her arms to her face and they feel heavy. Her whole body feels weighted down. She blinks. Rubs her face with her hands, trying to wake herself up properly.
Eventually, her surroundings swim into focus and she remembers where she is. The plane. She jerks awake fully. Remembers the turbulence. The pinging. The oxygen masks. She touches her face again, confused. Runs her hands over her forehead, then over her whole head, patting at her hair.
No mask.
She looks up at the console and the little door is closed. The mask safely inside, presumably.
Did she dream it?
She unfastens her seatbelt and swivels round in her seat. The other passengers are still there. The couple directly behind are still out of it, heads leant against one another.
No masks on their faces either.
The American is awake, rubbing at his eyes. The redhead is starting to stir.
Amelia’s earlier feelings of being overwhelmed and inadequate are gone. She’s been in situations like this before. Emergency landing. Or did they crash? The blinds are still down. The curtain at the front is wide open. The pilot’s seat is empty.
What the . . . ?
The sound of footsteps on aluminium stairs makes her jump, and she turns just as Camera-guy appears in the open doorway, his face red. He runs a hand across his forehead and she can see that it’s slicked with sweat.
He stops. Looks a little startled for a moment. ‘Oh, at last . . . someone else is awake,’ he says, composing himself. He gives her a fleeting smile before sitting down on the empty seat across the aisle. ‘I . . . uh . . . I’ve had a look around, but there’s no sign of anyone out there.’
‘What happened?’ The American unclips his seatbelt and stands up. ‘Did we crash?’
Camera-guy shakes his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Where are we?’ Redhead says. ‘Did we turn back? What’s happening?’
Camera-guy stands up again and heads towards the door. ‘Probably better you come and see for yourselves.’
They leave the still-sleeping passengers and follow him. The smell of the sea hits her as she steps outside onto the top step, but what’s out there is not what she expected.
She’s not sure what she expected. But she’d thought at the very least they would be outside in the open air.
‘See?’ Camera-guy says. ‘Didn’t want to spoil the surprise.’
‘So we have turned back?’ Redhead says. ‘We’re back where we started. Is this some sort of elaborate stunt? I don’t have time for this. I’m getting out of here.’
She marches down the steps and turns towards the nose of the plane. Then she stops dead. ‘Woah.’
Camera-guy laughs. ‘Woah indeed.’
Amelia knew they weren’t still in the airfield they’d taken off from. The air feels different, and there’s that distinctive briny smell of the sea. But she hadn’t expected this.
They’re in a hangar. A curved metal roof arches over them. At the rear end there’s a wall. Various bits of machinery. Boxes. A small vehicle that looks like an electric golf cart, tilted slightly to one side due to its missing wheels. The smell of engine oil is stronger now that she’s down the steps.
But it’s what’s at the front of the hangar that caused Redhead’s ‘woah’. The front of the hangar is wide open. And straight ahead is the sea. Sun glints off the bright turquoise water as rippling waves draw in to the golden sandy beach in front of them. The sky is clear and blue, almost mirroring the water below. The view, framed by the arch of the hangar, is breathtaking.
The four of them walk away from the plane towards the stunning vista in silence.
‘Well,’ the American says, ‘I’m willing to forget about the chaotic bumpy hell-ride, if this is what it was all about.’
The creak of the aluminium stairs makes them all turn round, and the remaining passengers disembark.
‘This is awesome,’ Man-bun says, rubbing his eyes. ‘The fake turbulence and the sleeping gas were excellent touches.’
‘What?’ Redhead says. ‘No way.’
‘Is that really what you think happened?’ Helmet-hair says. ‘Because I’m personally not one for gimmicks. What if one of us had a medical problem? What if the gas had reacted with someone’s medication?’
‘It didn’t though, did it?’ the American says. ‘Gotta remember, we were selected for this. They musta checked us all out, right? Made sure there were no health issues . . .’
‘Without our consent?’ Headphone-girl says, her voice incredulous. ‘I’m not sure that’s legal, is it?’
Man-bun laughs and grabs her around the shoulder. ‘Relax, babe. It’s all part of the game, innit?’ Then he leans in close to her ear and whispers, ‘You did sign the consent, babe. Don’t you remember?’
Amelia looks away. Pretends she hasn’t heard. Just because she was told not to share anything about the selection process doesn’t mean everyone was told the same. Maybe these two have some sort of joint agreement.
It doesn’t matter right now.
She walks out to the edge of the hangar, breathes in the sea air. It’s been a while since she was near the sea. Most of her work lately has been inland. In landlocked countries with dried-up rivers. She’d been surprised to receive the invitation, especially as it had come to an old email address that she didn’t always check. But something had made her check it that day. She’d thought it was spam, at first. Then, that someone had hacked her old emails and dredged information – they knew so much about her and seemed to think she was the perfect candidate for this adventure. The money they’d offered had been hard to ignore too, especially in comparison to most other jobs – jobs that generally took a lot longer than a weekend. But presumably this is just the first weekend – to assess things on a high level. It was something she wanted to talk to them about at the end of the day, hopefully over a nice dinner with some decent wine.
She’d been wary, initially, about the non-disclosure agreement – secretive clauses have always made her nervous. But when they’d explained why – that what they were doing here was something that might one day help the many causes Amelia ch
ose to fight for – it had all slotted into place . . . and she’d decided that yes, a little break from the norm might do her good. Besides, she was intrigued. Most of her jobs were pretty straightforward – organisations contacting her after seeing her on a news item, or reading an article about her work. Word of mouth too, of course. The world might be huge, but the network of aid workers was surprisingly small, and she was never one to shy away from a challenge.
All things considered – despite the turbulence, and that brief moment when she was sure they were going to crash – she’s glad she decided to come.
Now they just have to figure out what happens next.
She steps outside the hangar and walks down the hard-packed mud road that leads to the beach. The others, with no reason to stay in the hangar, follow her out. Up ahead, there’s a small stone building with a pitched glass roof. A path lined with smooth white pebbles leads to a white-painted door. As she gets closer she can read the sign bolted to the wall next to the door.
VISITOR ORIENTATION.
Camera-guy catches up with her and she gestures at the building ahead. ‘So did you explore any further?’
‘Nah. Just walked to the edge of the hangar and then went back. I was still feeling a bit woozy. Then I got a bit spooked, actually. It’s so quiet here.’ He raises his hands, palms up. ‘Wherever here is. Besides . . . I didn’t know if anyone else was going to wake up.’
‘I am so thirsty,’ Headphone-girl pipes up behind them. ‘So much for our refreshments. I do hope we’ll be getting something soon, because I need to stay hydrated, you know. I—’
She’s cut off by the sound of the metal door rolling down on the open end of the hangar behind them. ‘Wait, my bag!’ she shouts. She starts to run back, but it’s too late. The door slides down fast, shutting the plane and all their belongings inside with it.
‘Neat,’ says Man-bun. ‘Now they’re isolating us from our possessions.’ He rubs his chin. ‘Standard survival game protocol. Luckily I’ve got my phone in my pocket, but you know . . .’ He takes out his phone and peers at it, then grins. ‘Yep, as I thought. No reception. Standard.’ He rocks back on his heels, pleased with himself.
‘How come you know so much, buddy?’ the American asks him.
Man-bun rolls his eyes. ‘It’s my business, man. I’m a games designer. Virtual reality, actual reality, survival, online treasure hunts. I’m Giles Horner. You might’ve seen my Insta?’
‘Instagram?’ Helmet-hair sniffs. ‘Please. Such nonsense.’
‘It’s the way forward. I can give you some pointers if you like. Or Tiggy can help you, if you prefer the female perspective. She does travel, mostly. Don’t you, Tigs?’
Headphone-girl grins and thrusts out a hand. ‘Tiggy Ramona. At your service. What is it that you do?’
The older woman looks slightly horrified. ‘Tiggy? What kind of name is that?’
Tiggy laughs. ‘Oh, everyone asks me that. It’s so funny! So my full name is—’
‘Never mind that now, Tigs.’ Giles raises an arm and everyone turns to see what he’s pointing at. A golf cart, like the one in the hangar, is making its way silently down the hill towards them.
‘Well . . .’ Redhead says. ‘Looks like we’ve got company.’
Amelia
The buggy stops in front of them and a man climbs out. He’s dressed from head to toe in white. Trousers smooth, with a crease down the middle, polo shirt neatly tucked in and buttoned to the top. There’s a gold logo on the right, with Timeo in a swirly embossed typeface.
‘Hello!’ He grins at them and his eyes crinkle at the sides. It’s hard to put an age on him. His skin is smooth and tanned. He’s in good shape. Late forties, maybe. He fits the demographic for this type of company, Amelia thinks.
He picks up a white plastic box from the back of the cart and walks towards them.
‘Well, don’t all talk at once,’ he says, still grinning. He heads along the pebble-lined path to the visitor orientation centre. Amelia tries to catch Camera-guy’s eye with a ‘who’s this?’ look, but he doesn’t notice; everyone is watching the newcomer with interest.
He holds his watch up to a sensor at the side of the door, and there’s a small click as the door unlocks and swings open.
He turns round and gestures to the group with one hand, the other still clutching the white box.
‘Come on in, then,’ he says.
They follow him into the building. It was hard to judge from outside, but it’s smaller than she expected. The glass pitched roof gives a feeling of space, but there are no windows. The walls are painted a pale lemon and lined with built-in sofas in the same colour. In the centre of the room there’s a glossy white table, empty except for a pile of white plates and a row of glasses at one end. Underneath the table is what looks like a long, low fridge. As the last person enters, the door swings closed and the room is silent, but for the hum of the fridge and the mild static charge of anticipation in the air.
The American breaks the silence. ‘So, are you going to tell us what’s going on? Are you in charge of this thing? What the heck happened in that plane? Can we get a drink or something?’ His words continue tumbling out on top of each other, his blurted frustration fuelled by the shock of what’s happened so far, the confusion about what they’re all doing here.
It’s clear that none of them is used to being kept in the dark – relinquishing all control. The American’s outburst has triggered that little niggle in her again. The NDA. The secrecy . . . and whatever it was that happened on the plane, it’s not exactly normal to have them all panic like that. If the aim was to unsettle them, then they’ve succeeded. Amelia wonders if it’s too late to back out. Ask to return to the plane. To her real life, where none of this stuff matters. Does she really care about this so-called luxury retreat? Not that there’s been anything luxurious about it yet. A fleeting thought crosses her mind. She remembers a festival that was supposed to happen in America – something with proper, no-expense-spared luxury – except it was all a sham. Or a scam – the organiser had gone to prison for fraud, hadn’t he? Hopefully this isn’t what’s happening here.
The American is still gabbling on, the anxiety clear in his voice. The man in white raises a hand, silencing him. ‘All in good time, my friend.’ He nods towards Tiggy. ‘I think you were after a drink too, is that right?’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘Yes. But how did you . . . ?’
He grins again and points to the fridge, ignoring her question. ‘Maybe you’d like to hand out some water? Then we’ll get started.’
She looks disappointed for a moment, then opens the fridge and sees the rows of designer mineral water, smiles as she hands one to each of them. ‘This stuff has purified charcoal crystals in it,’ she whispers as she hands a bottle to Amelia. ‘It’s a complete mind-and-body cleanser.’
Amelia smiles back, thinking of the filthy water she’s had to boil up and purify with iodine, and wonders if this stuff is going to change her life, or just hydrate her like any other water. The consumerist world is bad enough at the best of times, but it seems even worse when you’ve lived in the places that she has. The places where people die because they don’t have essential medicines. In Tiggy’s world, people get stressed when the composition of their mineral water isn’t to their liking, and excited by the prospect of an energy boost from purified charcoal. What a lot of nonsense.
Perhaps it was a mistake to come here. Her mind keeps flitting back and forth. It’s not like her to do something so frivolous, and she’s finding it hard to adjust. It’s never been money that’s attracted her to her job.
Low-level chatter has started now that everyone has had a drink and they’re feeling more refreshed.
The man in white clears his throat. ‘OK, guys. Let’s get down to business.’ He waves his watch across the side of the white box and there’s a click as the top pops open. ‘Right,’ he says, taking a small device that looks like a Bluetooth headset out of the box. ‘Who’s first?�
�� He holds it up for them to see, and Amelia notices a thin metal prong protruding from the back of the piece that hooks over your ear. She’s about to ask about it when Giles stands up.
‘Me?’ He places his empty water bottle on the table.
The man in white nods, then runs a finger across the surface of his watch. ‘Hmm . . . hang on.’ He looks at Giles and grins again. ‘Nope.’
Giles blows out a breath and sits back down. ‘Right then,’ he mutters under his breath, clearly annoyed at not getting his own way.
‘Sorry,’ the man in white continues. ‘I’m afraid I’d forgotten that there’s an order here.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m just following instructions.’
‘Can you just tell us what’s actually going on?’ Redhead says. ‘I’m sure I’m not the only one getting a bit impatient.’
‘Yes. Of course. Sorry. Please bear with me. This is the first time we’ve had a group here and we’re still working it all out.’
‘So we’re guinea pigs?’ the American asks. ‘I mean, that’s fine . . . but we were promised luxury, right?’ He stands up and turns to the group, raising his palms. ‘We’re not too impressed so far, buddy.’
There’s a rumble of agreement from the group.
‘Sorry. Sorry,’ says the man in white, sounding a bit flustered now. ‘OK, first up is . . . Lucy De Marco.’ His eyes scan the group. ‘Which one of you is Lucy?’
‘That’s me,’ Redhead says with a grin. ‘Go first for what?’
The man in white holds the device aloft. ‘To get this set up. Once we—’
‘What even is that?’ Giles butts in. He steps forward to get a closer look, but the man pulls it back, covering it with his palm. ‘Are you checking how far we walk around the island?’ Giles continues. ‘Assuming this is an island – which, by the way, is very Agatha Christie and all. But could you tell us what we’re doing in here?’ He surveys the room, lets his gaze land on Tiggy. ‘We were kind of expecting a champagne reception. Weren’t we, babe? Under the palm trees kind of thing—’
The Last Resort Page 2