The Valley

by Rick Jones

  It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. No contest at all.

  And the cameras, from every angle, would capture everything.

  As little as Stan Tremblay thought of Peter Haynes, he had to admire the man for his creative genius. As far as Stan was concerned, Peter had no equal.

  Returning to the console, Stan toggled the switches and pressed buttons, the hanger doors closing until a metallic clang rang out the moment they joined.

  The creatures were once again secured behind locked doors.

  But soon, very soon, one would get its taste of freedom.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Life, without a doubt, truly sucked for the survivors.

  They kept on a forward trek, deviating little, hoping for a clearing soon. Inside the thicket they had come across snakes, some poisonous, but slithering off into heavier foliage for cover.

  When they had taken a break so that Ben could recoup, Suki Yakamoto took the second machete with Ben passing off the mantle to the Asian in Sommers’ honor. And Yakamoto bowed his head in honor of this action. The killer had earned his trust. And honor certainly outweighed yakuza tradition, which also had roots in honor, but widely different.

  Yakamoto took lead. Albright continued to take rear, the man mistrustful and was mostly in a comfort zone when he could see those ahead of him from a safe distance.

  And the rain abated little.

  As they day wore on so did their stamina.

  There would be no clearing to camp out tonight. Instead, they would find refuge in the jungle brush. They would make camp. They would gather and talk of escaping the valley, that they would be the first to do so. To live one more day, one more night, with Cheryl leading the charge with the insight of hope.

  But this only played out in Ben’s mind.

  He knew they would set camp and sit apart.

  Blackness would consume them, a lack of spiritual faith, each wondering when their time would come or how painful it would be, and under what set of jaws that would be strong enough to steal away their lives with a single bite.

  When the sun set, the rain finally subsided, leaving a mugginess in the air. Ben and Yakamoto cut a small open area in the thicket with Cheryl clearing the brush aside. Albright watched from the fringes.

  They cut down branches to create pongee sticks and set them along the camp’s periphery, providing a sense of security. If anything charged them, then it would impale itself, giving it cause for consideration to proceed any further.

  So they built a fire, another creature deterrent, that was warm, inviting and a luxury. They bathed within its glow, felt its heat, the warmth thawing them from a long chill. Not only did the flames soothe flesh, bone and muscle, it also defrosted the thickness of futility and hope. There was a rekindling, a spark that flourished and fanned because for that short, brief moment in time, comfort had found them once again. Warmth begets warmth, and faith will find a way.

  “It feels good,” said Cheryl, warming her hands against the fire. “Real good.”

  They began to thaw, slowly. And in time the silence was broken with a question of faith.

  “Tomorrow,” said Ben, “the sun should be out. We can use it to go north, to the Gates of Freedom.”

  Albright clucked his tongue. “We’ve been following you ever since this all began,” he said. “Now eight of us are dead, and we don’t appear to be any closer to the gates than when we started out.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Yakamoto. “We’re at the center of the valley, we’re half way through. And we know from the map that the Gates of Freedom was directly centered against the north wall. Tomorrow, as Mr. Peyton says, we will get our bearings and move north in a straight line, the shortest distance between two points. We will find the north wall, and we will find the Gates of Freedom.”

  “You live in Fantasy Land, Yakamoto. If it’s one thing that this place has taught us, it’s that there’s no such thing as a straight line.”

  “Mr. Albright, you seem misguided by the fact that a journey in a man’s life is to be a straight path with no obstacles. Maybe this is true for some but not for most. Maybe we will find that direct path tomorrow, maybe we won’t. But knowing that we are close to the valley’s central point, and with the sun moving from east to west, going north another twenty miles is better than going thirty miles, or forty.”

  “And how do you know that we’re close to the valley’s central point? We’ve been lost all day.”

  “By the tops of the tallest palm trees,” Yakamoto answered. “The tallest palms with the thinnest trunks always lean to the east to catch the rise of the sun, it’s a telltale sign that nature provides if you read her well enough. While cutting a path, I redirected our position. We’re east of our last position. But only by a few miles. Though working through the jungle thicket may be time consuming, it has also proven to be much safer than the open fields. Here we have a chance of survival against much smaller predators with the weapons we can carry. But out there where the creatures are much larger—” He shook his head. “No way. We have no chance at all. If we can stay in the thicket for as long as we can, then we will. But there will come a time when we will have to leave it. And I’m afraid that tomorrow may be the day when we journey north.”

  “And how do you know that?” asked Albright.

  “Because of the map,” said Ben. “There was a red X in the middle of the map, some kind of reference point we assumed to be the valley’s center because the legend never expressed what it pertained to. But the X was in a wide clearing. There were no trees or brush for miles in every direction.”

  “And the central point, gentleman, and lady, the red X on the map I believe is no more than a few hundred yards east of our position. We should see the clearing soon enough once we hack our way through. The journey from there will be one of peril, but one that can be met with caution. We can do this.”

  Albright could feel the gun sitting firmly against the small of his back. All he had to do was outrun his associates, not the bear. And if he had to, he would gladly put a bullet into a leg of his associates to slow them down with absolutely no remorse because remorse was never a part of his makeup; therefore, having no concept of what remorse even was. He would be reacting on the premise of survival of the fittest or self-preservation, or whatever bullshit that would best serve his needs at the time.

  And since he held the scepter of rule with the Smith & Wesson, he commanded. First, he would put a bullet in Peyton, crippling him, and watch the power of the valley’s residents dine and feast on his bones, and give him enough time to race to the finish.

  Dalton and Yakamoto would be next as sacrificial offerings, the morsels that would slow the bear in its tracks. Even though in the valley the bears came in different shapes in sizes, they also shared the need to feed by going after those who were less capable of putting up a struggle.

  Albright was confident that he could make it to the Gates of Freedom.

  But he needed his enemies close to see this through.

  Inwardly, Albright could feel a sense of obscene amusement, a pre-pleasure he always felt a moment before he was about to throttle the throat of his victim.

  And yes. The shape of the gun felt good against his backside.

  Secondly, he really couldn’t wait to use it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The following morning, the production crew reported early for a day that promised to be full of excitement. They were informed by Peter Haynes that he would marvel them with something new and fabulous, something never seen before.

  “All right, people, listen up.” Haynes stood before the monitors with hands raised, and waited for conversations around the studio to die down. “Outside these studio doors,” he began, “the four remaining contestants are closing in on our grid. So today, I’m going to unleash a new specimen. Something wonderful. And I want all of you to be a part of this introduction.”

  The room erupted in cheers.

 
; “I want every camera in operation. All of them. I want angle shots. Panoramic views. I want shots from cameras posted on our relay tower. Zoom shots. Close ups. In other words, and especially the cameramen, I need you at your best. We’re going to wrap everything up today. So I want the kill shots as if they were happening right in front of me and in high-definition. I want the gore, people. I need to see the pain in their eyes. I need to see the terror in their faces. I want the audience to see everything up close and personal. In other words, I want this to be perfect.” Haynes stepped away from the screen. “All right, people, man your stations. And remember, be at your best. I’m counting on you.”

  Haynes went to his co-producer, whose station was on the opposite side of the studio room, and held his hand out to receive his headgear. After donning the earpiece and lip mic, he motioned to his co-producer to link him up with Stan Tremblay, who came online immediately.

  “Yeah, Pete.”

  “Stan . . . Stan the Man. Good morning.”

  “Morning.” Stan sounded flat.

  “Are you ready for the debut?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Good, good. That’s very good. Keep your mic open. I’ll let you know when to unleash the male.”

  “Good enough.”

  Haynes signed off and waited, watching the sunrise on the monitor.

  All he needed now was a little cooperation from the four remaining contestants.

  #

  After Haynes signed off, Stan returned to the console, flipped the toggles and pushed the buttons, and watched the partitions open. Both dinosaurs were pacing, the male obviously hungry since Stan had been ordered not to feed him. Don’t worry, Haynes informed him. He’ll find food.

  “Of that I’m sure of,” Stan said to himself and out loud.

  He checked the monitor. The sky along the eastern horizon was beginning to lighten from dark shades to hues of early-morning sunshine. The jungle’s fringe sat at the top of a neighboring hillside, the brush thick and plush with enough vegetation to hide anything well.

  Stan tapped the tip of his finger against the glass of the monitor’s screen. “Come on,” he said softly. “I ain’t got all day.”

  He continued to tap the screen with nervous tension.

  Behind him the great lizards continued to pace. Especially the male, who needed to feed.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  By the time Ben and Cheryl awoke, Yakamoto was clearing a path through the jungle thicket. Albright was sitting close by with his elbows resting on his knees, and watched Yakamoto swing through with the machete’s blade, back and forth from left and right, then right to left, all perfect arcs.

  The night had been one without restless sleep with the fire and pongee sticks providing adequate defenses. And everyone felt refreshed, at least enough to move on with rejuvenate legs and spirits.

  And it appeared that Yakamoto was eager to lead the way.

  After spending a good ninety minutes clearing a path, they had come to the edge of the jungle’s forest. Behind great leaf fans and palm fronds, everyone could see the valley floor with mild hills and rolling terrain. A few trees dotted the area, ones often found deep in the Serengeti.

  “Will you look at that?” said Yakamoto, pushing aside a palm frond to give them a view.

  Cheryl nodded. “I guess X really does mark the spot.”

  “Now I know why there was nothing on the map’s legend about it,” said Ben.

  At the bottom of a slight incline that was bowl-shaped, sat a large concrete compound surrounded by lines on horizontal cables highly-charged with electricity. It had communication towers equipped with satellite dishes and speakers, and a small motor pool of Jeeps that bore stenciled logos of the show The Valley, the image of a Spinosaurus with the word The above it, and Valley below it, the words and images surrounded by a red and yellow ring.

  “Will you get a load of that,” said Yakamoto. “The studio actually sits right in the heart of the valley.”

  “If we can commandeer a Jeep or two,” Ben said, his face lighting up. “We can be at the Gates of Freedom in thirty minutes. We can stay in the open fields all the way. Even more of a plus is that the Jeeps are faster than those creatures, more maneuverable too.” He nodded. “We can do this.”

  “And how do you suppose we get in and out?” asked Albright. “You see the signs along those cables. They’re electrified. You’re an idiot if you think we can breach that line of defense.”

  “That’s something we’ll figure out when we get down there,” Ben said. Then he turned to Albright and looked at him squarely. “But if you want to stay here, then I’m more than willing to leave you behind. We’ll say our good-byes right now. In fact, I insist on it. I’m really getting sick and tired of your constant negativity.”

  Albright returned a hard and challenging stare. Keep popping off at the mouth, Peyton. You’ll get yours soon enough.

  “Yeah. I didn’t think so,” Peyton returned. “You’ll be right behind us as always because we’re all you’ve got.”

  Back to Yakamoto, Ben said, “The Jeeps are electric, auto start, speeds up to eighty-miles per hour. Problem is, we’ll need to get in and take down the gate somehow.”

  “And those gates,” said Yakamoto, “I’m sure are heavily fortified.”

  “If there’s one thing I’m a fan of,” Ben stated with confidence, “is that there’s a solution for everything. If there’s a will—”

  Cheryl nodded. “Then there’s a way.”

  “That’s my girl,” he told her. “Keep that spirit of faith alive. It’ll get us all through.”

  Yakamoto forced the fronds further back, giving them passage. “I find it odd that I see no cameras.”

  “I’m not complaining,” said Ben. “The studio is off the beaten path, however.”

  Yakamoto extended his free hand toward the compound. “After you,” he told Ben.

  And Ben Peyton took the initial step forward and out in the open.

  Chapter Thirty

  Cheers erupted inside the studio the moment Ben Peyton stepped foot outside the thicket and onto the plain.

  “We have our contestants, people! Now it’s time to go live on Prime Time’s . . . The Valleeeeeeeeeeeey!”

  Peter Haynes was dressed in a black tuxedo with a frilly white shirt and black satin bowtie. His hair was perfectly styled, not a fiber out of place, but his makeup was overly garish with a deeper hue that was more copper than flesh tone, wanting to go with the more suntanned look, young and healthy. But he looked the part of the world’s number one MC for the world’s number one show, fresh and overly upbeat.

  The producer angled the number Two camera in Haynes’ direction, with Haynes standing on a small stage with a blue screen behind him.

  “In Three,” the producer said, counting down. “Two . . . One.” You’re live.

  The red light in Camera Two went on.

  “Good day to the worldwide audience. Welcome to a very special showing of . . . The Valleeeeeeeeeeeey!” After allowing for the studio applause to die down, Haynes then raised the mic to his lips and began to speak in a manner to elicit excitement. “As you know, folks, we’re down to four contestants, four cast members seeking salvation by reaching the Gates of Freedom. Can they do it? Do they have the commitment to go on? Can they defeat the challenges ahead of them? All these questions and more will be answered on today’s special edition of . . . The Valleeeeeeeeeeeey!”

  More applause.

  And from his position, Peter Haynes could see the viewership board, the global audience numbers were climbing at an astonishing rate, people were turning in as fast as they could press the buttons on their remotes.

  Haynes then took on a more, but theatrical, sense of approach. “The Group of Four, as I would refer to them as, has floundered as of late, having lost key members, the map, food, water, all the essentials necessary to live. Yet they persevered, the human condition to survive strong, the human spirit very much
alive. But today, folks, today we have something new and wonderful to introduce to you—our fans, our audience—something that will take your breath away. But first, let’s go to a live feed of the four remaining contestants.” Haynes tapped his lip mic and called on his co-producer. “JJ, you there?”

  “I’m right here, Peter.”

  “I hear our contestants are making a bold move against the studio compound. Is that correct?”

  “That’s correct, Peter. They’re approaching the grounds as we speak.”

  “If we can, are we able to possibly get a live feed on their approach?”

  “We sure can, Peter.”

  “Then let’s go live.”

  The monitor screens winked off a split moment, then brought up an image of four people moving toward the compound.

  Haynes smiled. Keep coming, you stupid bastards.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Yakamoto took lead with Ben and Cheryl behind him, and Albright behind them as they advanced down the hill toward the compound.

  They looked worn, their suits soiled with filth, their faces smudged with greasy sweat and dirt. But they moved with a new swagger in their step, a rejuvenation.

  Around them numerous cameras popped up from the ground like periscopes, the cameras heads turning in their direction, the lenses zooming in, then out, obviously focusing and tracking them as they moved.

  “Well, so much for stealth,” said Cheryl.

  “Did you really think that they wouldn’t see us in such openness?” Albright offered.

  “You still have the other gun?” asked Ben. “The one we can’t see—maybe it’s in the backpack.”

  Albright seemed to weigh the question a moment before answering. Then: “I lost it,” he told him. “When that thing came up from the water and took the raft.”