Chapter 19
If she got off this island alive and returned to the real world, Geri was never going to look at a boardroom the same again.
Sitting around this bloodstained table, her mouth metallic and her stomach sick as bruises throbbed all over her battered body, she had no idea what awaited them now. Or how much more she could take. They’d already spent the whole fucking day shoveling sand again. Wet, heavy sand. Her back hurt. Her soul was raw. Hope seemed as far away as the land she couldn’t see from this cursed island.
Quinn had a black eye and a split lip. So did Geri. God, they were a mess, and for what? To be right back here, still playing this fucked-up game.
The one thing that gave her hope was that while Rich had destroyed her phone, the booster was still out there. If she could get back to the place where they’d been apprehended, she could find it again. While the men had been manhandling her toward the Humvee, she’d surreptitiously dropped the device in the sand. She wasn’t worried about it being damaged by the elements; it was, after all, designed for warzones, so it would take more than sand and salt to destroy it.
She just needed to find it again and use someone’s phone to reach out. Quinn still had his, didn’t he?
In the meantime, though, she was stuck at this table again. And if they were in the boardroom, that meant only one thing—shit was about to get worse.
Rich stood at the head of the table, looking entirely too gleeful about being here. “How many of you are familiar with the trolley problem?”
Geri’s insides twisted. She remembered the problem from a class in college. How it had been an abstract concept and an interesting way to see how people approached ethics. Somehow, she didn’t imagine it would be a benign thought exercise this time.
“Everyone’s familiar?” Rich asked, eyebrows up. “It’s a pretty common ethical question, is it not?”
Nods and murmurs all around.
“Good. Let’s proceed.” Rich snapped his fingers. The boardroom door opened, and two suited men wheeled in something that resembled a table turned on its end and draped in a black sheet.
Geri swallowed. Whatever was under that sheet, it couldn’t be good. Nothing that happened in this room was ever any variety of good.
“For your next challenge,” Rich explained as tablets were placed in front of each competitor. “Every one of you has three options. First, you can cast a vote for one of your opponents to lose. One vote gives that opponent two points.”
Geri caught Quinn’s eye across the table. He squirmed as if he were trying not to shudder. She could relate.
“Your second option,” Rich continued, “is to choose to not cast a vote. In which case…” He pulled the sheet off the upturned table, revealing a board that reminded Geri of a Plinko game. There was a slot at the top, then a number of evenly spaced pins all the way down the board above ten larger slots. In each slot was a name and photo representing one of the people sitting at the table. “If you don’t vote, then we’ll drop three balls, and let them land where they will.”
He pulled a ball out from behind the board and dropped it into the top of the board. The room was silent except for the thunk, thunk, thunk of the ball bouncing between the pins, changing directions randomly until it dropped into a slot—the one indicating Dan.
Dan made a choked sound, his chair squeaking as he shifted uncomfortably.
“Three balls,” Rich said, “landing randomly on any one of your competitors. Including a one-in-ten chance of landing on yourself.” He pulled the ball out of the slot and tossed it up in the air and caught it like a kid playing with a baseball. “Each ball is a point. In the end, whoever has the most points loses.” His lips peeled back. “And I think you all know by now what happens to losers in this game.”
“You said—” Paul cleared his throat and tried again. “You said there were three options.”
“I did.” Rich caught the ball, and this time, he held on to it. “You have the option to vote for yourself. You gain no points, and everyone else”—he made a sweeping gesture indicating all the players—“loses one point.” He paused as if to let everyone crunch the numbers. Then, “In the end, if everyone has zero or negative points… no one loses.” He shrugged. “You all live to fight another day.”
Geri’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She looked from one of her fellow competitors to the next.
“Take your tablets”—Rich gestured at them—“and return to your rooms. You will have three hours to make your decision. Submit your vote, and when ordered, return to the boardroom.” He paused, and his voice hardened as he added, “Do not discuss your votes or your intentions with anyone else.”
Everyone nodded solemnly. No one spoke.
Rich motioned toward the door. “I’ll see you in three hours.”
Geri paced in her suite, wringing her sweaty hands and eyeing the tablet on the bed like a coiled snake.
She had almost no time. She’d been so exhausted after last night’s ordeal and this morning on the beach, she’d fallen asleep when she’d come back to her suite. When she’d woken up, she had less than thirty minutes to make her decision. At least the brief nap had recharged her brain a little; she’d take what she could get at this point.
The trolley problem, at its core, was a question of passively allowing something to happen versus actively causing it. A person had to decide if they would rather do nothing and allow five people to be run over by the runaway trolley, or flip the switch and be the reason the trolley ran over one person.
It had always been easy in her mind: flip the switch and kill the single person, saving the other five. The answer was always to minimize casualties.
It should’ve been easy now, but it wasn’t abstract anymore, and not just because her answer could be the reason a fellow competitor died a horrible death.
All the images of her company’s weapons destroying, maiming, and killing were burned into her mind. Those people—those civilians, those children—suffering and dying were the minimized casualties. They were the people who died while hundreds or thousands or more survived because the weapons were more precise than their predecessors, allowing for targeted destruction instead of a shotgun “spray-and-pray” approach.
But each of those people had a life and loved ones and pain and fear. They were the person tied to the track who’d die if the switch was flipped, and they weren’t as faceless and anonymous as they were supposed to be in the thought exercise.
She recalled a girl in her class who’d innocently and naively asked, “Can’t we talk about all the ways we could keep a trolley from losing control in the first place?”
Geri and some of her classmates had snickered and rolled their eyes. The professor had kindly pointed out that this was a thought exercise, and she was overthinking the situation. The girl had insisted that problems like this didn’t exist in a vacuum, and perhaps it was worth discussing how to prevent them from happening.
“For that,” the professor had said with a chuckle, “I would recommend a class on engineering, not ethics.”
The girl had been flustered and embarrassed in that moment, and Geri had pitied her for struggling to stomach the idea that, yes, there were times when these decisions had to be made. Even if every possible safeguard were implemented, shit happened and trolleys malfunctioned.
Sitting here in this hellishly hot hotel room, an impossible decision pressing down on her aching shoulders, Geri wasn’t laughing at that girl anymore.
It hadn’t once dawned on her in that fluorescent-lit lecture hall that she would be the trolley manufacturer. That she’d help lay the tracks, build the trolleys, and cut the corners that allowed for problems to arise that led to questions of killing a few to avoid letting the many die. Her entire company existed to sharpen the tools of war and make victory as quick and clean as possible with minimal casualties and collateral damage.
But those casualties and collateral damage were no longer numbers on paper or stick figures tied to cartoon tracks. Especially now that she understood her father’s role—and her company’s role—in persuading people in power to keep those trolleys coming so they could keep profiting off flipping switches.
She understood now. Not just that abstract question presented by her ethics professor, but her role in diverting trolley after trolley of her own company’s making onto people whose only crime was being on the wrong track. She had ever since the horror show of her first night in this room.
All this time, everything she and her family had done to get rich and stay rich, had been… wrong. Destructive. Evil.
And she’d had a chance to get off this island with her life, but she’d stupidly passed it up. All the wealth she’d chosen to hold on to over escaping—even if she hadn’t known in the moment that she was choosing to potentially die, it was a painfully foolish decision. Out of greed, she’d passed up the opportunity to get out of this not only alive, but uninjured and untraumatized.
All she could do now was hope she survived long enough to start putting things right when she got home.
She had to survive. The trolley was barreling toward all of them, and she had to make a decision.
She had to vote, and her vote would count toward someone dying. She needed someone else to lose this game. The only way off this island was to win, and that started with making sure someone else got more points than her in this challenge. It would be simple enough to drop two points onto another player. Or let the three single-point balls land where they would.
Eric and Lynette’s final moments flashed through her mind, and she swallowed bile. There was no telling how the loser of this game would die, but she doubted it would be quicker or less painful than those two.
Geri rubbed her eyes and swore into the silence of the room. It was one thing to flip the switch and cause someone to die to save the others. It was another to pick someone out of the crowd and say, “You.”
In the end, the one and only vote her flayed conscience could stomach was for herself. While it wouldn’t add any points to her score, it would drop everyone around her by one, potentially putting her ahead. Not ideal, but the alternatives…
Fuck. She just couldn’t do it.
Not even if it meant putting her own survival in the hands of people who needed her to die so they could win.
She took a deep breath. Then she picked up the tablet off the bed.
And she cast her vote.
The boardroom was deathly silent. Everyone had returned. They’d handed over their tablets.
Now they were alone. Ten competitors sitting around the bloodstained boardroom table. No security. No Rich. Just the table, the players, and the Plinko board with their names on it.
There were no cameras in the room. Geri couldn’t decide if they were hidden, or if Rich had just dropped the pretense of this being an actual reality show. Now that he had their metaphorical balls in a vise, there was no need to continue pretending they were filming as agreed.
This wasn’t a reality show. It was reality .
Bloody, violent, horrific reality.
And only one person at this table would leave the island alive. Someone sitting here right now would be dead before this challenge was over.
Maybe.
“In the end,” Rich had explained, “if everyone has zero or negative points… no one loses. You all live to fight another day.”
As she looked from one face to the next, Geri wondered if anyone else had voted for themselves. If they all did, then everyone would have negative points and no one would lose.
Did any one of you vote so that I’ll also lose points?
Her heart sank. Everyone here wanted to save their own skin. Was any one of them willing to risk themselves to help the others at the table?
Forget letting the trolley passively run someone over. There isn’t a person at this table who wouldn’t throw someone else under the trolley to save themselves.
Fuck.
She hated herself for wishing she could take back her vote and take a more mercenary approach. She couldn’t have picked someone by name, but she could’ve gambled. Let three balls fall into place. Let fate take it from there. Passively increase the odds of someone dying, even if there was a chance that someone would be herself.
All she’d done with her vote was decrease the odds of her nine competitors losing. Which increased her own odds. With each passing second, she felt worse about that decision because she just didn’t have faith that anyone else sitting here had done the same.
And there was nothing she could do about it now.
Rich strolled in a few minutes later. At the head of the table, he put on his game show grin as he picked up his remote and a tablet. “The votes have been tallied. Let’s find out the results, shall we?”
He clicked the remote, and on the large screen, all of their faces appeared with red zeros beneath them.
Geri wasn’t religious by any means, but she sent up a plea for help to anyone who might be listening. At this point, it couldn’t hurt.
Rich glanced at the tablet in his hand. “Three players voted for themselves—Geri, Quinn, and Kit.”
Under each of their names, a -2 appeared. Under everyone else’s, -3 .
On the right of the screen, a leaderboard appeared. The three of them were shown as tied for second place. Everyone else tied for first.
Geri gulped. So much for everyone working together so they could all survive this thing.
“Mr. Woolman.” Rich looked right at Dan. “Why don’t you tell us who you voted for?”
Dan blanched. “We—I didn’t realize these would be… We’re all going to announce our votes?”
“Well, yes.” Rich grinned. “How else did you think it would go?”
Dan gulped. Everyone else glanced at each other wide-eyed as if they too had expected this to be a secret ballot. And the votes had been submitted electronically, so it wasn’t like anyone could backpedal at this point.
Across the table from Geri, Quinn rolled his shoulders and exhaled. She could relate; she didn’t like being in last place, but being spared the experience of saying her vote for someone else out loud was a plus. Somehow even if she’d voted for the passive choice, she’d still feel scrutinized and guilty for being the reason the balls landed on other people’s names.
Christ, this game was a mindfuck.
“Mr. Woolman.” Rich inclined his head. “We’re waiting.”
Dan cleared his throat and fidgeted in his chair. Elena was watching him, and he pointedly did not meet her gaze. Not even when she put a hand on his leg.
After a moment, he took a deep breath. “My vote is for Charlie Simmons.”
Elena’s lips parted and she subtly withdrew her hand.
Charlie slammed his fist down on the table. “You son of a bitch. A vote for me so you can keep fucking my wife while—”
“Your ex -wife, Charlie,” Elena snapped, and she emphatically put her hand back on Dan’s thigh. “You don’t own me.”
Dan put his hand over hers, but he didn’t look at anyone.
On the board, two points appeared beneath Charlie’s picture. On the leaderboard, he went from -3 to -1, bumping him to last place.
Geri hated herself for how relieved she felt. She wasn’t out of danger yet—no one was—but the sharks were currently nipping closer to Charlie, and she gladly stole the opportunity for a few relieved breaths.
“Mr. Simmons.” Rich looked at Charlie. “How did you vote?”
Charlie worked his jaw, glaring daggers at Dan and Elena. He was probably wishing he could change his vote. Then he squared his shoulders and met Rich’s gaze. “I voted for Elena.”
That sent a ripple of shock through the room, and Elena shouted, “Oh, fuck you! You’re just upset that I’m screwing Dan, and now you want me dead?” She stood, sending her chair toppling onto the floor at her feet. “Well, guess what, Charlie?” With that, she grabbed Dan’s face and kissed him hard. Dan made a surprised noise, but he didn’t pull away, and everyone else stifled uncomfortable laughter as they averted their eyes from the bawdy display.
Above their heads, the numbers changed. Elena dropped on the leaderboard, tied with her husband at -1 .
Dan and Elena separated, and she took her seat again, glaring defiantly at her ex-husband while Dan’s red face was a mix of surprise and smugness.
“Well.” Rich laughed dryly. “In the interest of keeping things interesting—why don’t you go next, Ms. Simmons?”
Elena crossed her arms and continued glaring at Charlie. “For as much as that son of a bitch can rot and die, I voted for…” She gestured at the Plinko board.
Rich nodded. At his order, Tyson stepped up to the Plinko board and, one after another, dropped three balls through the top slot.
The whole room was dead silent except for the thunk, thunk, thunk as the balls bounced this way and that. They came to rest on Kyle, Art, and Kit.
Everyone else voted for the Plinko option. As each ball fell, Geri had to wonder if Rich had chosen to do this with an analog system—rather than having the points distributed randomly by a computer—to ensure it truly was random. That the only control the voters had was if they voted for themselves or someone specific. By leaving it up to chance, anything was possible. No one’s wealth, influence, philanthropy, family name, or even pleading could stop points from racking up beneath their names.
And in the end, no one could claim bias because they’d left it to chance and gravity.
When the last three balls were dropped into the machine, Art and Elena were tied with the highest scores. Kit was a point behind both of them.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Dan. Alan.
Elena.
The ball had barely landed behind her name before she collapsed into tears, screaming and sobbing and begging and pleading not to be killed.
Tyson and Kevin were coming around the table toward her, and she trembled so bad she nearly tumbled out of her chair.
Dan threw an arm around her shoulders. “Baby. Baby, listen to me! Listen—look at me!”
She froze and stared at him, eyes huge and red.
“Your pass,” he said. “Remember your pass!”
She faced him with tears streaming down her face, but then something must have clicked. She snapped her head toward Rich and slapped her palm on the table. “My pass—the one, I—to get out of losing. The elimination pass! I want to use it!”
Tyson and Kevin halted, and they watched their boss with an unspoken “what do we do now?” on their faces.
Rich didn’t seem the least bit surprised. “Are you sure?”
“Yes! Please!” Elena said. “I don’t want to die!”
“All right.” Rich tapped his tablet screen. Elena and her score vanished from the screen and the leaderboard.
And in her place, Art was the new loser.
Tyson and Kevin changed direction and headed for Art’s side of the table, each moving the opposite direction so there was no escape. As they closed in on him, he balked, showing his palms. “Whoa, whoa! This isn’t fair! This isn’t right! She lost, so she should be—”
He stopped when Rich pulled a handgun out from under the table.
“Mr. Price,” he pleaded. “Please. Please, you don’t need to…”
“Go on, Mr. Keller.” Rich reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a few bullets. “Do tell. Why shouldn’t I kill you? Because if I don’t kill you”—he swung the muzzle of the gun toward the other competitors—“I’m going to kill one of them. So, speak up.” He raised his eyebrows and started loading a magazine. “Why should one of them die in your place?”
Art’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. He looked from one competitor to the next. “I… Well, I mean, this is ridiculous! We shouldn’t have to die! You’ve made your point, Mr. Price. Can’t we just go home and try to course correct and—”
“No.” The word was simple and flat. Rich aimed the gun at Art’s center of mass. “You lose, Art. So unless you’ve got a reason why—”
“My company helps people!” Art bellowed. “We’re on the cusp of curing cancer! These people”—he gestured wildly at his fellow competitors—“they’re destroying the environment! Blowing people up! I help people .” He flailed his hand at Paul. “His company destroys the environment and helps spread lies! He’s the—”
“Your company hired mine for advertising!” Paul threw back. “Now we’re destroying—”
“You’ve seen the videos he’s showed us!” Art pointed at the screen. “It’s your fault he got us here! It’s your fault he—”
“Mr. Keller.” Rich sounded bored. “This is about why you shouldn’t die.” He thumbed another round into the magazine. “Not why Paul is responsible for harmful disinformation and environmental destruction.”
Paul turned a little green, but he stayed quiet.
Art swallowed. “My company helps people,” he insisted again. “I told you—we’re on the cusp of curing cancer!”
“Mmhmm.” Rich arched an eyebrow. “And how much is that cure going to cost the average citizen?”
Art stammered a bit. Then he shook his head. “This is insanity! You’re a goddamned serial killer, not—”
Tyson slapped Art on the back. Hard .
Art lurched forward, then whirled around, knocking his chair to the floor as he rose. “What the fuck?” he demanded.
But everyone at the table gasped.
On his back, where Tyson had hit him, something had stuck to him—a small sheet of white plastic about six inches square. Blood was starting to seep out around the edges.
“You might want to sit down,” Tyson said coldly. “It’ll be a long fall once that kicks in.”
“Once it—once what?” Art flailed, trying to reach for the thing on his back. He cried out in pain as he kept trying and failing to reach it. “Oh God. What have you done to me?”
Kevin righted Art’s chair. Tyson grabbed the screaming man by the shoulders and shoved him down into it.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Rich said mildly. Tyson and Kevin nodded, and they stepped back from the table. “Mr. Keller, if you have anything you’d like to say to anyone”—Rich made a show of checking his watch—“I’d get it out now. You’re probably going to be preoccupied in the next five to ten minutes.”
“‘Preoccupied’?” Art stared at him in horror. “What did you do to me?”
“Well, it’s less what we did to you.” Rich grinned. “And more what the venom of the Irukandji is about to do to you.”
Quinn sucked in air, his eyes widening.
“What?” Art grabbed Quinn’s arm. “What’s he talking about? What does that mean?”
Quinn gulped. “Irukandji. The box jellyfish.”
Art blinked. He stared at Quinn, then at Rich. “What does it do? What does—God, tell me what the fuck it’s going to do!”
“We could do that.” Rich gave an evil laugh. “But why ruin the surprise?”