Season 20, Episode 4 Come Hell… and High Water
“Come Hell… and High Water”
Fire danced across the Tuscan hillside as PB and I hit the mat.
Zara granted permission from the golf cart trailing us, cuing Solana to clumsily lower her torch, igniting our latest woodpile.
The other Devils began feeding the flames with the nearby hay bales as Melange squinted at the burgeoning flames.
“This is straight-up barbarian nonsense.”
We’d arrived at sunset for Ecklund to debut the “Highway to Hell” Tribulation, where the winners would receive a cryptic “advantage.” Each team would run a five-mile course through the dark countryside bearing a single torch.
Every half mile, we’d stoke a fire until the flames burnt through a rope seven feet above, tied taut between two columns that framed the fire.
When each rope snapped, it would release a ten-pound burlap sack containing sharp mystery contents.
One guess who’d become the Devils’ pack mule, loaded with all the sacks we’d secured thus far. My back was not happy.
Shawn sprinted in with the Angels’ torch, hollering for them to hurry. His comrades trudged up, a heaving Fortune in the rear and Troy’s camera crew trailing in another cart. This entire Tribulation we’d been in the lead… which was exactly what we didn’t want.
The Devils needed to lose tonight. My new alliance of PB, Melange, Erika, and Shawn had all agreed.
With a women’s Trial next, we knew both teams would likely vote Erika thanks to Greta’s politicking.
No one doubted Erika could beat any Devil girl, but we had to protect Melange.
PB suggested throwing the Tribulation so the Angels won, allowing Erika to volunteer for the Trial and then request her opponent.
Imogen would naturally back her, making the other Angels look like assholes if they didn’t agree.
Ideally, she’d eliminate Chrissy, which made Melange absolutely giddy.
More importantly, it would strike a major blow against Hartt’s alliance—but only if the Devils lost.
We hustled another half mile to the final pyre, and I almost ran smack into Aspen when I rounded the corner… Spotlights shot heavenward in the distance, and I stifled my gasp. The Arena was dead ahead.
“We’re going straight to the Trial,” I whispered to PB through ragged breaths, indicating the lights nobody else seemed to notice amid the frenzy of building the last bonfire.
“Will you two stop slacking off?” Hartt bellowed.
PB pivoted seamlessly with the only ammunition available. “Maybe we could if someone else lugged these fucking bags!”
I eyed Melange, uncertain she’d take the cue, but she didn’t miss a beat. “He’s right! I’m done! You bitches try winning this without Melange!”
As the lagging Angels caught up, Shawn rallied his team, throat hoarse from yelling. “They aren’t even working! Hurry!”
Amid the Devils’ argument, I fought for Erika’s attention, but it was Imogen who glanced in my direction. I nodded intently toward the Arena, and her face fell with understanding. “Tell her,” I mouthed, turning away before anyone from either team could see.
The Angels soon bolted with their sack as Shawn cheered, “We can do this!”
Their advance prompted Hartt to lunge at PB, and I instinctively leapt between them until Aspen, the unlikeliest diplomat, parted us. “Hey, hey, hey! We carry bags, okay?”
Once we had a few feet separating us, Melange rounded on me and PB. “So why did I just sit my ass in the dirt?” She winced as PB pointed to the Arena. “Shit balls.”
Everyone else was finally gleaning the Trial was nigh, prompting panic amongst the women.
Erika somehow was managing to stay cool as we trailed final Angel Fortune into the searing lights of the Arena.
I saw the sprawling chain mail curtain from Episode 1 was back, now concealing a tall structure—and whatever torture awaited.
“Angels, you win this Tribulation!” Ecklund announced. “And as you can see, our next Trial starts… Right! Now!” The heavy curtain dropped, unveiling a huge tank of water at least ten feet deep. A thick platform encircled the rim, ladders on each side.
No doubt this was where we’d go to commercial.
“But that’s not the only surprise… Tonight’s a double elimination!”
Never mind, that’s where we’d go to commercial.
“One woman and one man leave tonight!” Legitimate gasps. Double eliminations had happened occasionally in my day, but never so early in a season. I helplessly looked at poor, spent Shawn. Erika wasn’t the only ally we’d jeopardized…
“With winning, the Angels get that special advantage. Dare I say… a Devil’s bargain?
” Ecklund inserted the appropriate pause so a collection of overworked editors in Simi Valley could eventually cut to our sweaty, dusty faces.
“Will this Trial proceed as usual—Devil versus Angel—or will you forgo the Trial entirely and pit four Devils against each other?!”
My stomach bottomed out, suddenly much less worried about Erika and Shawn and way more concerned about myself.
“Do we pick which Devils?” Camdon asked.
Ecklund shook his head. “No, the Devils would iron that out themselves.”
I turned to my right, stunned to find PB looking inexplicably satisfied. “Why are you grinning? They’ll put you and me against each other.”
“Stay cool,” he purred.
“So, Angels: guaranteed control or guaranteed safety?” Ecklund asked.
Shawn’s hand limply rose to offer an alternative, but I shot him an adamant silencing look. In his current state, he’d lose opposite anyone. I couldn’t let him do that.
“We’ll stay ‘Angels Strong’ and let the Devils pick each other off,” Camdon said, meaning my newfound alliance was—officially—totally doomed. I’d leave or PB would.
Ecklund commanded the Devils to elect their first man, my name echoing like a chorus of bells, until a shockingly serene PB broke rank. “Hartt.”
Hartt erupted in jeering laughter. “You know you’re next.”
“So what do I have to lose? Besides,” he responded blithely, “I can’t fucking stand you.”
“I’ll also vote for the douchebag boning my dumbass cousin,” Melange added.
Ecklund regarded me, last in line. “Luke, the votes are against you, but chime in.”
No point in pretending otherwise, my aching feet stepped forward. “Put me in, Coach,” I said before clapping PB on the back. “I hate it came to this.”
“Save the apology until you owe me one,” he replied, still unbothered.
As I took my place, I saw Shawn shaking his head in disbelief, but it was Imogen who snagged me, silently mouthing, “Sorry…” I blinked quick, refusing to let emotions get me now.
Melange unsurprisingly was picked for the women, but her head was high when she joined me. “Chin up, tits out,” she repeated.
“Amen,” I answered, steeling myself for battle.
Unless it was some crazy brain teaser or sprint, I’d best the comparably slight PB at anything physical.
If the producers had gone to the trouble of orchestrating this twist, I suspected a beatdown was in store to conclude the episode, and the last thing I wanted was to send PB home black and blue.
He might be a smug prick, but he was kind of my smug prick now.
Plus, who’d have my back with him gone? I’d be the prize stag on the last day of hunting season, desperately banking as much appearance-fee cash as possible before my head hung above a mantel.
“Now our second victims!” Ecklund abruptly whipped to me and Melange. “Who do you two want to go against?”
“Bitch, are you serious?!” Melange crowed, cacophony erupting from both teams.
“Bitch, I am.” Ecklund grinned.
I was speechless—when had they ever just skipped a vote?—but Melange was howling to the heavens. “Baby, I’m gonna drown me a rat!”
“I take it you want Chrissy?” Ecklund asked.
“Christina Estelle Motherfucking Big Bitch Dixon, come on down!”
Ecklund glanced at me, along with every eye and lens there. “Luke?”
I saw PB wink, as if he’d suspected this outcome all along. Clash of the Titans…
“Hartt.”