New Year Island

by Paul Draker

  “High stakes,” Lauren said. “Makes sense it’d be a tough game.” She looked at Brent with hostility in her eyes. “Doesn’t sound like you have the stomach for it, though. Shoulda’ stayed home.”

  “Not all of us are high-paid doctors,” Veronica said. “My shelter can use the money to help a lot of women—do some real good.”

  Camilla looked at Brent, wishing he would leave it alone. Instead, he stood in the center of the room, turning in a circle, looking from face to face. He scratched the side of his head. Then he pointed at Jordan.

  “What about her food situation? You think that’s an accident, too? They did profiles of us, remember.”

  “That’s just silly.” Camilla shook her head. “So they knew about Jordan’s allergy and they’re trying to poison her or something?”

  “Nah.” JT held up his half-eaten MRE. “Military puts peanut oil in everything. Know why? It’s the cheapest shit they can buy.”

  Brent ignored them both.

  “Jordan, look at me.” He dropped to a crouch in front of her and took one of her hands. “You’re smarter than this. You need to listen to me. When Julian shows up on that screen, tell him you’re out. They need to come pick you up before you get sick or collapse from malnutrition.”

  “No.” Jordan’s voice was quiet but firm. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m not quitting.” With eyes of green ice, she pulled her hand away.

  The sound of slow, deliberate clapping rose from the archway, and Camilla turned to stare.

  Travis leaned against the door frame, applauding, but his eyes were on Brent not Jordan. “Old man, I gotta hand it to you,” he said, grinning. “You had me going for a while there. Folks, this here’s a slick one, make no mistake.”

  He pushed himself off the doorjamb with his elbow and stepped into the room as Brent stood up to face him.

  “I may not have a medical degree,” Travis said. “Didn’t go to a fancy college like I’m sure most of y’all did. But I’ve been around some… Enough to learn how things really work.”

  He slowly circled the room as he spoke, never taking his eyes off Brent’s.

  “Seen lots of high-and-mighty folks—doctors, judges, lawyers—telling people how they ought to live. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy, don’t it? Knowing they care so much. Like Dr. Brent here, watching out for the rest of us.”

  Meeting Travis’s gaze steadily, Brent tucked his hands into his vest pockets.

  “But look a little closer, and you know what you find? Every single time?” Travis stopped near the monitor. “They got their own reasons.”

  The muscle in Brent’s jawline twitched. The air crackled with hostility, like dry static.

  Travis grinned. “And those reasons usually have something to do with money.” He reached behind him and tapped the scoreboard on the screen.

  Camilla’s eyes widened.

  Travis sounded amused. “Let’s say Jordan was to listen to doctor’s orders—pack it in and go home. Who’d be closest to winning the five mil then?”

  CHAPTER 58

  Full dark outside. The fireplace beneath the blank monitor screen was down to embers, softly pulsing their red-orange glow. Camilla had her space blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Leaning against her, Jordan had drifted off to sleep at her side. Camilla did the math: her friend hadn’t eaten for two days now. Opening the crinkling reflective blanket, Camilla wrapped it around Jordan’s shoulders, too. The room was growing cold.

  The other contestants were scattered about the edges of the room, also sitting or lying down, except for Brent. He had walked out after Travis’s accusation, shaking his head in disgust, but Camilla couldn’t help wondering. Five million was a lot of money for anyone, even a doctor.

  Nobody was talking. Everyone looked as exhausted as Camilla felt. Pulling out her iPhone, she slid the power switch and waited. The glow from the screen splashed her face, but there was still no signal. She had about a quarter of her battery left, so she switched the phone off again to conserve power.

  The glow from a larger screen lit the room. Camilla looked up at the monitor screen.

  “Good evening, my friends. What a day we had today!” Julian wore an immaculately tailored suit as usual, this one sharkskin gray. He stood against a backdrop of machinery: valves, vents and pipes, glass-fronted gauges. Everything looked old—rusty, decrepit, and out of date. Behind him, a six-foot metal wheel valve jutted into the camera’s field of view.

  Camilla felt Jordan shift beside her, suddenly alert. She sat up straight, eyes locked on the screen.

  “Physical survival,” Julian said.

  Camilla looked at Jordan. They needed to get some food for her. Clearing her throat, Camilla scooted forward. She opened her mouth to interrupt Julian’s speech, and felt a hard shove—almost a blow—to her ribs. Shocked, she turned to stare at the person she wanted to help.

  Green eyes burning, Jordan shook her head at Camilla. “No,” she whispered.

  “But…”

  “I said no.” Jordan pulled away from her and looked at the monitor.

  Camilla’s face flushed in anger, and she turned back toward the screen. If Jordan wanted to be stupid, it was her choice.

  “The famous psychologist Abraham Maslow characterized human survival needs as a pyramid,” Julian said. “Physical survival is the bottom level. We took care of those basic necessities yesterday and today: shelter, food, water, warmth. For tomorrow’s competition, we move on to the higher and more interesting levels of the pyramid. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves so let’s worry about that in the morning. You’ve all earned your rest tonight.

  “So instead, we’ll do something fun right now: a little getting-to-know-you activity. A social icebreaker that will help us bond with our fellow contestants as we participate in this game together.”

  Julian’s smile took on an unpleasant edge.

  “Tonight we’ll start with one of our key players, someone who had a lot to say today. He’s full of advice for all of us, so let’s find out a bit more about who he is, shall we?”

  Their host faded from the screen, replaced by a still picture. A smiling boy of about 6 years old held a toy stethoscope against the chest of a friend who lay on his back, arms at his side, also smiling. The picture looked old: the boys were outside, in a fenced backyard, wearing T-shirts and corduroy pants. The cuffs of their pants were wide, almost bell-bottoms.

  Julian continued to speak in voice-over, like a newsreel announcer. “Even as a young boy, Brent Wilson knew he wanted to be a doctor.”

  Just like a TV documentary biography—an A&E special, Camilla thought as the picture changed. Now a twenty-something Brent, his hair dark, stood in black cap and gown with a row of others dressed the same way. A commencement exercise.

  “Graduating fourth in his class from the prestigious Johns Hopkins medical school, Brent specialized in emergency medicine. His early career was spent in ERs throughout northern and southern California.”

  Images drifted across the screen: Brent in scrubs and white coat leaning over a curtained hospital bed. Brent in a group of other doctors and nurses, pushing a gurney.

  “Brent Wilson epitomized the American dream. He married his high-school sweetheart, and they had a son together, who was soon studying to follow in his father’s footsteps.”

  “Hey,” a deep voice rumbled from behind them. “What’s this?”

  Standing in the doorway, his face white, Brent stared at the pictures of himself up on the screen. “Wait a minute. I never said they could—”

  “But then tragedy struck,” Julian’s voice continued, talking right over the interruption. “Following a bout with a life-threatening illness, Brent spiraled into a pattern of narcotics dependency—a problem all too common in the medical field.”

  A picture of an angry Brent appeared on-screen, raising an arm to cover his face as he ducked back through the glass doors of a hospital.

  “Stop!” Brent shouted. “You can’t do this
. It’s wrong…”

  But Camilla thought he looked scared beneath the anger. And guilty, too.

  “Scandal followed when a patient’s family sued. Brent soon found himself defending against charges of medical malpractice. His problems with drugs and gambling worsened after a bitter divorce in 2005, when his wife of twenty-four years left him, and he became estranged from his son. But he would not give up his family. A court-mandated restraining order was necessary to ensure that they could resume their lives in peace.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Brent shouted, rubbing at his left shoulder. “I’ll sue you!”

  Julian’s upbeat newsreel-style narration continued over a still picture of a hospital entrance sign. “In October 2006, under a shadow of scandal, Brent was summarily dismissed from the staff at Highland Hospital. There were accusations of moral turpitude. In April 2007, the medical board permanently revoked his license to practice medicine, for conduct unbecoming a physician.”

  The MRE that Camilla had eaten felt like a brick in her throat, tasting of chemicals and grease. Julian had no right to do this to Brent. No right.

  Her breath caught. Did their host have a similar profile of her, too, cued up and ready to play? Oh god, what did hers say?

  “You son of a bitch…” Brent’s voice trailed off, weakening. He swayed, leaned against the doorjamb, and dragged a hand across his cheeks.

  Julian’s face reappeared. “I hope you’ve enjoyed this first contestant profile. Perhaps we’ll make these into a regular feature over the coming days. And now, I wish you all a pleasant night.”

  The monitor went blank.

  CHAPTER 59

  “That was illegal.” Brent spoke with a shaky voice. “Wrong, malicious, and illegal.”

  The others stared at him and he stared back, the silence stretching, filling the darkened room.

  Camilla stood up. Julian could take his stupid game and go to hell, for all she cared. Enough was enough. “Brent, we all want you to know that—”

  He held up a hand, stopping her. Running a trembling palm across his cheeks again, he reached back to grab the door frame behind him with his other hand and slid down into a seated position on the floor.

  “What he said is more or less true.” Brent cleared his throat. “A one-sided picture, granted. But it’s true I had some problems. In 2004, I was diagnosed with peritoneal mesothelioma, a rare and highly malignant form of cancer. The five-year survival rate is less than ten percent.”

  He looked out a window, into the darkness beyond. “When you’re a doctor, you can get to believing you’re above the laws of nature. You determine who is sick and who is well, who will live and who will die. It’s magical thinking, but you don’t realize that until afterward.

  “Now I was the patient. The chemotherapy was brutal. It took its toll on us all. I wasn’t very easy to live with. Mary, my wife, left me. She took my son…”

  “I’m so sorry,” Camilla said.

  “Are you?” Brent glanced at her and then looked away. “A five-year-old girl died on the operating table because I was high on Versed at the time and couldn’t see what I was doing.”

  Her gut tensed as if he had punched her. All she could think of was little Avery’s face, and her other kids. She had trusted Brent? Thought he was keeping them safe? She wanted to throw up.

  “The drugs I self-prescribed let me carry on with a semblance of normality,” he said. “After a while, they were the only thing that kept me going at all. My addiction spiraled out of control, but I kept it hidden—until I killed a little girl.”

  He stared up at the screen, defiant now.

  “Somehow, even with all of that, I found the will to survive. I beat the odds. I beat the mesothelioma. Then I beat the drugs. If your ‘profile’ of me was any good, you’d know that, Julian, you slandering son of a bitch.”

  The screen remained blank.

  Lowering herself to huddle against the wall again, Camilla turned away from the others and pressed her nose against her upraised knee. Everything was so ugly now. She didn’t want to listen to any more. She wanted to go home.

  “What about the gambling?” Mason asked.

  Just shut up. She rocked her forehead against her kneecap, not wanting to hear the answer. But needing to.

  “Doctors gamble with human lives every day,” Brent said. “Doing it with money instead was a poor substitute. Even so, I found the gambling harder to stop than the drugs, but I got control of that, too.”

  Heavy shuffling. She felt the floor creak as he stood up.

  “The mesothelioma almost took my life, but I’m a survivor,” he said. “I learned that about myself, the hard way. I made some terrible mistakes, and they cost me a lot. But they cost others more. I don’t blame my wife and son for never wanting to speak to me again.”

  Nobody else said anything.

  Heavy footsteps moved away, and Camilla looked up as Brent stopped in the doorway. He spoke with his back to them.

  “I’m sorry for misleading you about still being a doctor. Pride, I suppose, and God knows I don’t have very much to be proud about anymore. I’m going upstairs now. Tomorrow, I’m going home…” Turning toward the blank screen, he raised his voice. “…and getting a good lawyer.

  “I’m truly sorry I lied to the rest of you.” His eyes swept the room. “But you should be thinking about this: whose turn is it next time? And what’s Julian going to say about you?”

  CHAPTER 60

  Leaving her upstairs room in the Victorian house, Natalie found Travis leaning up against the wall outside her door. Dropping her eyes, she tried to scoot around him but he pushed off the wall, blocking her way.

  “Natalie. Hold up a minute. We need to talk.”

  She stopped and stood staring at her toes.

  “You saw the scores down there,” he said. “You and I, we’re not doing too hot right now.”

  She pushed at the floorboards with the toe of one black Converse high top. “Maybe things’ll get better tomorrow,” she said.

  “See, that’s exactly what I mean. You and I need to work together. Otherwise, neither one of us stands a chance of winning this thing.”

  She edged away. “I’m okay on my own.”

  Putting one palm against the wall, Travis leaned over her. He was much taller than she was. Feeling his breath on the top of her head, she put her hands in the pockets of her hoodie and went very still. He was going to touch her.

  “I got some ideas how we can turn this thing around together,” he said. “You need me, Natalie. I can help you.”

  Yeah, she needed him, like she needed that cancer Brent had. She had heard this one before—far too often.

  “Leave me alone.” Hunching her shoulders, she ducked past him and slipped down the stairwell.

  CHAPTER 61

  Lying on her back on her cot, Lauren stared at the ceiling in the semidarkness. She was thinking about earlier in the day, when the elephant seal had come charging back. She hadn’t meant to run, but instinct just sort of took over.

  Nobody said anything about it afterward, but later in the day she had caught a look between JT and Juan that she didn’t like. She was sure they had been talking about her.

  Thinking about it, she felt her abdominals tense. Tomorrow’s competition was probably going to be teams again, and she needed to make sure those two clowns didn’t get any ideas. Her red team needed a win.

  She pictured Jordan’s face and made a fist. So right now, that walking, talking Barbie doll was the front-runner of the overall competition? Tomorrow, Lauren would change that—teach the snotty cheerleader bitch what it felt like to lose. And if Jordan wanted to do something about it? Well, that would be fine with Lauren, too.

  She stuck her hands in the pockets of her cargo pants, surprised to feel something damp and crumpled. With a jolt, she remembered the letter she had found up on the wrecked tower. In all the excitement with the water and the food, she had jammed it in her pocket and forgotten all about it.
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  Christ. The letter had gotten soaked when she and Juan went after the water jugs. It was all wadded up in there, falling apart.

  Unzipping her pants, Lauren slid them carefully down her legs. She straightened the half-dry cargo pants on her lap and held the pocket open loosely, probing with her fingers. Easing the envelope out of her pocket, she gritted her teeth in frustration as chunks of paper came loose.

  She hoped all the ink wasn’t washed away, but it was too dark to see now anyway, and she would have to dry the letter before trying to open it.

  “Like a washing machine filled with rocks…” She remembered Juan’s description of the whitewater they had crossed. She had done this before—accidentally left papers in her pockets before when she put clothes in the wash. There was only one thing you could do when it happened.

  Spreading the closed envelope on the driest area of the floor, next to her cot, she smoothed it against the boards in the half-darkness. In the morning the letter would be dry. Or drier, anyway.

  But would it be legible?

  With a sense of growing unease, Lauren considered the return address she had seen on the envelope:

  Department of Corrections

  Day 4

  Monday: December 24, 2012

  CHAPTER 62

  “Security.” On the monitor, Julian held up two fingers. “Security defines the second level of Maslow’s hierarchy of survival needs, which come right after the first-level requirements for physical survival. Security is the focus of our next challenge. It’s a team competition.”

  A ray of pale sunlight filtered through a window, striping across the screen, making their host hard to see. The morning sounds of seals and birds filtered in from outside. Camilla glanced at Brent. She had tossed and turned all night, torn about what to do. She wanted to talk to him—to try to understand—but she was afraid she might say something they both would regret. Even now thinking about it made her stiffen with anger. She turned away.