Chapter 44.
They don’t get a long speech. They don’t get comfort. They don’t even get a real explanation.
The Host gives them a verdict, not a rationale.
“It’s not just that you lost,” The Host says. “It’s how you lost.”
He lets his words walk through the room.
“The lack of creativity for some of you. How quick some of you were to surrender. How badly you mismanaged time. How predictable you were. How little imagination you showed under pressure. Those are the real losers today.”
The guards open the doors.
“Now will the losers please get out of my sight.”
Jack McHenry was right, Wyatt thinks as he watches nearly half of the people in the ballroom file out of it, some with their heads down, all of them stunned at this turn of events: I feel like we’re back on the field in Ohio.
And as much as he wants to feel badly about the ones just dismissed, his overpowering emotion is relief, knowing that he’s still here and they’re not. No survivor guilt whatsoever.
When he tries to explain his mixed emotions to Reg Drummond, after this reckoning no one knew was coming, Reg says, “There’s an expression about selfishness we’ve got in Australia that covers the feeling you just described: I’m all right, Jack.” Reg grins then. “And I don’t mean Jack McHenry.”
The Host’s voice returns, perfectly steady.
“For those of you who didn’t do a quick head count, there are now thirty left in the competition,” he says. “You will all convene back here shortly for a pleasant lunch, at which the next tests—and the setting for them—will be revealed.”
He pauses.
“And all I can tell you for now is that one of those settings is Death Valley,” he continues. They hear that familiar and grating chuckle now.
“Enjoy your meal,” The Host concludes.
As their phones are handed back to them by the guards, Reg says, “I feel like we all just survived a qualifying heat none of us even knew was a heat.”
“They just keep making up the rules as they go along,” Wyatt says.
“The golden rule, evidently,” Reg says. “The person with the gold rules.”
Wyatt and Reg have just stepped back outside and into welcome sunlight, when they hear Alek, several yards ahead of them, scream.
“No—”
It’s not a scream of fear.
It’s a scream of recognition.
They see her staring at the phone in her hand as she drops to her knees.
By the time they’ve rushed to her, Alek is rocking back and forth, still staring at her phone.
“Please, no,” she moans.
“Alek . . . what is it?” Wyatt asks her.
Her eyes find his, wet and wild.
“My mom,” she says.