Chapter 4.
Jack
Off the Coast of Chile
Jack and the other contestants headed for El Fin del Mundo, the End of the World, have been given their instructions.
Once they reach the island, they are to make their way through a forest teeming with deadly snakes and spiders as large as his fist. If they survive, next comes a steep climb of more than a thousand feet to the highest point on the island.
Then back down La Montana Serpiente—Snake Mountain—and through the forest, before heading in small boats to the main ship.
First, they have to deal with the friggin’ sharks.
Jack wonders if the sharks were part of the test all along. What should that tell him about this dangerous game and how to play it to win? What does that tell him about the people who set this up?
He had been prepared as a Ranger to adapt when the situation on the ground changed. Now it was about to change, before he even set foot on the End of the World.
“Is that the ocean I smell, or just the stink of fear coming off you, McHenry?” Jack hears from behind him.
He doesn’t even need to turn his head to know who the speaker is: Ant Tipton, player #3, a former British Royal Marine, now running his own private outfit, treats Jack’s Army Rangers as members of junior varsity.
He’s taunted Jack every chance he’s gotten since they’d nearly squared off back in Ohio.
“I’m good,” Jack says calmly. “How about you?”
“Best worry about yourself,” Tipton says. “In a few minutes those sharks will be swimming away from me. Out of respect. Maybe then I’ll send them in your direction. So they can give you a little kiss.” Tipton loves this part—the shove, the spark, the moment people turn on each other.
Jack smiles at him. “I’ve got a better idea,” he says.
“What’s that, mate?”
“You can kiss my ass,” Jack tells Tipton, who actually coughs up a laugh.
Since Ohio, The Host’s voice has been everywhere, dropping rules that shift like sand. Everything a veiled threat. Too clean. Too even. Like it’s coming through a machine first, and a man second. At present, it’s coming through speakers at the back of the boat.
“There are two minutes before you assemble on the platforms,” The Host says.
“They’ll be lowered near the water. You’ve been presented your first surprise—our hungry friends.
Swim through them to the island. Make your way to the top of Snake Mountain.
Return to the ship without being bitten, or poisoned, or otherwise injured.
If you can. And understand this: We’re not only measuring what you can do.
We’re measuring what you do to each other.
Every word. Every choice. Every hesitation.
Consider this your calibration.” There is a pause before, “Individual feats are meaningful. Team stability is scored. We will assemble for a pleasant and well-earned group dinner back on the ship this evening.”
Jack feels himself smiling. Not because it’s funny. Because something in him clicks into place.
“Something amusing?” Tipton asks.
“Only to me,” Jack McHenry says.
He knows it’s because of the edge he’s always carried around inside him, an essential part of his code. He glances at the tattoo on his left forearm:
“I never lose.”
And I’m not going to start now, Jack thinks, right before he hits the water.