New Year Island

by Paul Draker

  “I’m pulling the plug, then.” She grabbed the edges of the screen and thrust her face toward his, feeling her features stretch in an unfamiliar snarl. “We’ll build a raft if we have to—”

  “I can’t hear you now,” Julian said, interrupting her. “I can’t see you either. After getting to know you all, this is a bit awkward to be speaking to a blank screen.”

  What?

  The room fell into a shocked silence.

  Camilla’s legs went loose and rubbery beneath her, and she grabbed the wall for support. Julian was right there in front of her, but she couldn’t even talk to him. They couldn’t even beg him for help.

  “Over the last few days,” he said, “we’ve come to realize that it’s insufficient to merely isolate our cast of actors and hide the behind-the-scenes workings of my production crew. We’ve learned we also need to isolate the production staff, including myself, from you.”

  Camilla turned away and pressed her forehead against the wall. They were trapped, buried alive on this tiny island. Chest heaving, she sucked in breath after breath, unable to get the air she needed. She was buried alive all over again, trying to escape, unable to find a way out.

  Get a grip. What Veronica had said to her last night—she needed to get a grip now, before she lost it totally. She rolled her body against the wall to face the monitor again, forcing her breaths to calm, making herself listen to what Julian was saying.

  His face changed, becoming serious.

  “You see, we chose you well indeed. You are an amazing group of individuals—true survivors all. You’ve proved you can thrive even under these adverse circumstances. I am honored to be hosting this show with you. Deeply honored.”

  He looked thoughtful. “And therein lies the problem. I myself, as well as the other crew members, now risk being influenced by you. We all have our favorites—I definitely have mine.

  “Each of you has…”—Julian waved a hand to indicate something off-screen to either side of him—”…fans here on the production crew, rooting for you to win. This makes it hard to keep the contests fair. We needed a way to make sure that none of us, deliberately or inadvertently, provide cues or hints or make biased contest rulings, giving someone an unfair advantage. And this was the only way to be sure. So from here forward, until we’ve declared our winner, this show will be run double blind.”

  Spreading his hands, Julian gave them another rueful smile.

  “As you can imagine, this decision was disappointing to me, but I understand the reasons. To make up for it, the producers have authorized me to share some good news with you. First however, we must talk about yesterday’s unfortunate disqualification…”

  “Disqualification?” JT said. “She died, motherfucker. And so will you. Very soon.” He looked at Juan. “I’m getting up. Now.”

  Juan gave him the “okay” sign, and he stood up.

  Watching them, Camilla had missed some of what Julian was saying.

  “…legal department reviewed yesterday’s events in detail, engaged outside counsel, and heard multiple legal opinions consistent with our own. We’ve received assurances that the show can continue. Legally. The release that each of you signed was clear and explicit about individual responsibility and assumption of risk.”

  Mason’s eyebrows went up. “He’s saying it was Lauren’s own fault.”

  “I’ll kill him.” JT’s voice was flat calm. Like a robot’s voice. It sent fingers of ice down Camilla’s back. “All of them are dead. All of them.”

  Oblivious, Julian grinned at them, his eyes filled with excitement. A bitter plug jammed Camilla’s throat. Julian really couldn’t hear them.

  “For today’s game,” he said, “we move up to the fourth level of Maslow’s hierarchy. After the basic physiological survival needs, after security, after love and belonging, comes the need for esteem. To survive, we must earn respect from others—and, most importantly, from ourselves. Today you will demonstrate self-reliance, competence, and control in what is, naturally, an individual competition rather than a team one.”

  He reached off-screen to pick something up.

  “The actual game is one that was popular in high schools and colleges during the more innocent pre-Columbine era. You may even have played it before: assassin.”

  Julian held up a black gun shape. It was larger and bulkier than the gun in Juan’s hand.

  Camilla knew that even if she destroyed the monitor, Veronica and Natalie were watching this on the screen in the other house. She bit her lip, fighting the tremors in her legs that ran up her body and made her nose ache. They were on their own here. There was no help coming. None.

  “The game of assassin is a game of stealth and strategy. You will earn esteem by proving your mastery over your fellow contestants, until only one winner remains: the last assassin standing. Given the outdoor venue, our version of this classic game will be played with paintball markers.”

  Turning, Julian fired a shot against the wall behind him, leaving a starburst of gray paint.

  “The rear wall of the storage shed is false,” he said. “Behind it, you will find your own personal paintball guns. The eye protection provided is not optional—it’s mandatory for everyone.”

  He held up a small blue envelope in his other hand.

  “Each of you will also find an envelope addressed to you. It contains a single name: the name of your first target. But while you are stalking him or her, don’t forget that someone else has your name and is stalking you.”

  Controlling her breathing, Camilla studied her fellow contestants. Mason was staring at the screen, unsmiling. Could she count on him? Or not? She didn’t like the speculative look on his face.

  “Any paint on your target counts as a successful kill,” Julian said. “Kill your target, and your score increases by five points. Your target loses five points and is eliminated from today’s game. You take their envelope, and their target becomes your new target, and so on. The circle closes until only two assassins remain, stalking each other. The last assassin standing is the winner of today’s contest, earning a bonus score of fifteen points with his or her final kill.”

  JT’s eyes were still on Juan, taking his measure in that scary, calm way, ready to explode into violence the moment Juan lowered his guard. Not good.

  “Assassin is meant to be a game of stealth. There can be no more than one other witness to each kill. If there are multiple witnesses, the target is still eliminated—dead, after all, is dead. However, the assassin’s cover is also blown, and you become a free target. Anyone can kill you to earn five points.”

  Juan’s fingers flexed and tightened on the grip of the real gun he held, his gaze locked on Julian. Camilla felt a dull ache spread through her chest. Juan wasn’t going to look out for her, or anyone else. None of them were responsible for each other, he had said.

  “Kill the wrong person, and you become a free target for everyone.”

  Jordan stood with one hand curled around Juan’s bicep, watching Julian with icy composure. Whatever doubts had troubled Jordan earlier, they weren’t on display anymore. Calculations ticked behind her cold green eyes. Camilla’s “sister” didn’t spare her so much as a glance.

  “Kill your own assassin—the person stalking you—and you earn ten points. Your assassin loses ten. But listen carefully, because this is important.” Putting down the paintball gun, Julian held up a finger. “He or she must shoot at you first. No preemptive strikes. No guessing. Or else, you become a free target.”

  Brent sat slumped against the back wall, his head down. Camilla frowned. Was he all right? He tucked a hand into his vest pocket, and his fingers moved beneath the fabric, patting the contents against his chest as if for comfort. His drugs. Saddened and angered, Camilla looked back at the screen.

  “The rules are simple,” Julian said. “But the game is as complex as the creativity and ingenuity you bring to it.”

  Their host’s face turned serious again.

  “We und
erstand that keeping you so completely in the dark has its downside. Uncertainty can be paralyzing. Right now you are wondering who Vita Brevis Entertainment really is. What kind of show this is. What we all stand to gain—or lose—through our continued participation. You want answers. You deserve them.”

  Julian steepled his fingers before his lips again.

  “And if you dedicate yourselves to playing today’s game well, I will give them to you. Tonight. The answers to all your questions. Together, right after the game, we will strip away the mystery—but only if all of you participate. I promise you that what I have to reveal will surprise you.”

  Why had they been selected? Why were they being subjected to this ordeal? Camilla stared at him, needing it to make sense somehow, desperately wanting the answers he promised, but knowing they could never trust his word.

  But had Julian ever actually lied to them? She thought back and couldn’t come up with a single instance where something he said turned out to be untrue.

  “For those of you growing tired of our lovely island home, keep this in mind, also,” he said. “Today’s game is the penultimate challenge. There is only one more after this one. If you all participate, play hard, and focus on beating these last two challenges, we will be going home tomorrow, with one of you crowned as our grand prize winner.”

  Camilla tried to force away the hope blooming unbidden in her heart. Her little apartment in the Marina, her job, her coworkers and friends, her normal life—it all seemed like a memory from long ago. And her kids—she had to get back. She heard Avery’s sobbing again, saw his face instead of Julian’s, and understood at last that Veronica was right. Avery and the rest of her kids—they didn’t need Disneyland.

  What they needed was Camilla herself, to teach them that life was possible again, that they could be happy again. She straightened up, jolted by the sudden, awful realization of what would happen if she died here. She would be doing the worst thing she could to her parentless kids: abandoning them.

  “And now for the good news that I promised.” Julian walked a few steps to the side, and the camera followed him to reveal a waist-high stack of green bundles, the size of a large hay bale. He laid one hand on the bale, and she realized she was looking at money: a massive stack of currency—much more than he had shown them aboard the ship.

  “In recognition of unforeseen events that have made this competition more difficult than we originally anticipated, we are increasing the grand prize,” Julian said. “Doubling it, in fact. The overall winner, the person with the highest point total at the end of the final competition, will receive ten million dollars. Tax free.”

  Pulling a bundle off the bale, he thumbed through it. “But even if you don’t win the grand prize, you won’t be leaving empty-handed. Second place earns three million dollars. Third place earns one million. The rest of you will receive three hundred thousand dollars. Each.”

  He tossed the bundle of money back onto the bale.

  “As I said, this new policy of double-blind isolation was a keen disappointment to me personally. I had looked forward to sharing this experience with you, just as I have so far. So I made a request, and our producers granted it.

  “The final game has been kept a secret even from me. I can’t give anything away. So I asked our producers if I could join you on the island tomorrow, and they agreed.”

  Julian looked humble now, as well as excited. Camilla searched his face for the lie. She couldn’t see it.

  “Play well today, my friends, and tomorrow we finally get to meet in person. I look forward to hosting our final game live, together with you, there on New Year Island.”

  CHAPTER 120

  Juan was the first to break the silence. “He’s coming here.”

  Camilla stared at him. Juan’s eyes were distant, remorseless. The eyes of a shark. The sorrow had been set aside, buried again.

  “Maybe,” Brent said, raising his head. “If Julian isn’t lying. And if we’re stupid enough to stick our necks in the noose again today. But we aren’t.”

  “I want to ask him something personal.” Juan didn’t brandish the gun he held. He didn’t have to. His meaning was clear enough: if he didn’t like Julian’s answers, their host would die.

  “I have some questions for him myself,” Mason said. “Ones that I really doubt he plans to address tonight, up on that screen.”

  “Man’s got to answer for Lauren. For the scientist girl.” JT pointed to his eye patch. “And for this.”

  “I’d like to interview him.” Jordan’s eyes were green ice. She held a sheathed dive knife in her hand. “Do some ‘cutting-edge’ journalism.”

  They all knew the cameras were rolling, Camilla realized. But none of them cared who heard them anymore. And she didn’t, either—not now.

  She had to get back to Avery, no matter what.

  What were her alternatives? She could try to swim, like Lauren had done. They could try to build a raft, even though she had seen the shark smash a wooden platform to pieces to get at Dmitry. They could simply refuse to play—her original plan—but that was no good, either. It meant languishing for days with a chained-up murderer on their hands, losing strength until they were helpless from dehydration, getting more and more desperate, terrified the whole time that Veronica would do something bad to them. Or that they would do something bad to each other.

  Camilla was not going to die here, like that.

  Not of thirst.

  Not afraid.

  She pictured Julian’s smug smile, heard his sarcasm, his taunts, those awful profiles of Brent and Veronica. No doubt there was one of her, too, ready to be shown, mocking her childhood tragedy and those of the children who needed her help.

  She thought of the things they had done to one another here, while he sat there, so smug, laughing at them. And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? He had made them do this to themselves. He had made Camilla betray what she believed in, do things she was ashamed of. He had made her think less of herself.

  How arrogant and cruel did somebody have to be, to do this to people?

  She remembered Lauren. Dead. Heather. Dead. They would never know what that poor woman had suffered at Travis’s hands, all because Julian had refused to send help. Camilla would never be able to forgive herself for not warning the scientists about Travis, and Julian was the one who had put her in that position.

  She had been so scared here. He had made her afraid all over again. Camilla hated being afraid more than anything in the world. As a child, she had spent years drifting in and out of the darkness inside her head, too terrified to live. Last night’s dream came back to her: Julian’s gaping shark jaws. It made perfect sense now. He had done the worst thing possible to Camilla, a woman who had to confront her childhood terror every day of her life, refusing to back down: he had made her feel helpless and afraid again.

  And now he was smiling at them like he was their friend, claiming he would join them, as if this were some fun adventure? A hard knot formed in her chest. Whatever the others wanted to do to Julian was fine with her. He deserved it.

  But they had to get their hands on him first.

  If he did come, she knew he wouldn’t come alone. Still, no matter how many bodyguards he brought with him, if there was any chance they could lure Julian to them, they had to take it.

  Camilla was sick of being afraid.

  “Let’s play the game,” she said.

  CHAPTER 121

  The scoreboard reappeared.

  “Camilla, I expected more from you,” Brent said. “The money’s a lie, and so is everything else. Julian is toying with us.” He took a deep breath. “Look at the psychology of this. We’re all sick of feeling like victims. It’s not our nature, given who we are, what we are. He’s using our own survivor mind-set against us.”

  She didn’t respond. What was Brent’s answer, then? To sit around taking drugs while their situation got worse and worse? Sometimes you had to decide to risk everything, she knew. It was s
omething that all survivors knew. You had to choose to push forward while blackness closed in all around you and the ceiling pressed down overhead. You had to accept the risks and the danger and make them your own. You faced the darkness on your own terms, instead of waiting to be dragged into it, because to do otherwise was to die.

  The scoreboard blinked.

  The score in one cell spun through a change.

  CHAPTER 122

  Standing alone with Natalie in the blue team’s Greek Revival house, Veronica watched her own score climb. Her eyes widened as the digits spun past, faster and faster, to stop at 45—a forty-point increase. Her score cell slid left, switching places with the others. She was no longer in last place.

  Julian had rewarded her for destroying the beacon.

  She was in first place now.

  If she could hold on to it, she would win ten million dollars.

  Veronica drew a deep breath through her nostrils. She would pay off those vultures from the bank. Pay off the lawyers. She would buy outright the property that Safe Harbor occupied. She would open a South Bay shelter, and one in the East Bay, too. With so much travel to do between the offices, she also would need to get a new car: one of those nice little Mercedes SLK’s would be just right. She’d pay off the Platinum MasterCard. She would…

  “There’s no way the others will go along with this,” Natalie said. “Not after how the last game ended. Not after Lauren.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Veronica said. “Of course they’re going to play. They can’t help it. It’s who they are. It’s who we are. Survivors. And now you’re going to help me win.”

  CHAPTER 123

  Camilla looked at the scoreboard, where Veronica’s score now dominated them all.

  “Oh hell no.” JT said. He chuckled—a hollow sound—and shook his head slowly, eye patch gleaming white against his dark-mahogany skin. “That’s not going to happen.”