The Kill Factor, page 11
Again, Emerson was perplexed as a good portion of the contestants excitedly joined in with the countdown. She looked at Never, who was just as confused as she was.
“… three, two, one, zero!”
There was a bright flash of light from the screen, and the numbers beside each name stopped moving.
“Congratulations to today’s Kill Factor leader, Imelda Fleet!” the Producer called out in his best game-show host voice.
Fireworks exploded in the dark sky above them, and Imelda began to cry and hold her chest in an overdramatic display of delight.
“Imelda, how does it feel to be today’s winner?” the Producer asked, still keeping his distance from the crowd.
“Oh my God, it feels amazing. To know that there are so many people out there who watch my silly antics and think that I deserve their time and attention is so humbling, and I just want to say thank you and I love you to each and every one of you! It means the world.”
“Imelda,” the Producer continued, “we all know why you’re here. You committed a very serious crime. You let yourself down, and you hurt many people. Can you tell us what you have learned so far in The Kill Factor?”
“Sir, I just want to say that I am so, so sorry for the mistakes I have made in the past. I am not the person I was when I … did what I did. I want to thank you and everyone working so hard behind the scenes for this amazing opportunity. Whether I win or lose, I have already learned so much. I am a better person, and I want to keep getting better. You have given me that chance and I’ll never forget it. Thank you.”
“Imelda Fleet, folks,” the Producer said, and then turned to face the scoreboard. “Now, with the pleasantries out of the way, it falls on me to announce the loser of the first day of The Kill Factor. Viewers, I will remind you that whoever you choose to vote off will spend the rest of their life behind bars. The consequences are real, so think carefully before you make your choice. Ladies and gentlemen, the loser of today’s edition of The Kill Factor is … Emerson Ness.”
A drone carrying a high-powered spotlight flew up above Emerson and lit her in a blinding light.
“She will face Zach Dobler in the public vote!” the Producer yelled, and a second spotlight exploded into life, illuminating the fetal figure of Zach as he lay injured on the beach.
“Mr. Dobler,” the Producer said. “Are you well enough to take part, or would you like to forfeit and be escorted to the maximum-security prison?” As he said this, he gestured to the huge building in the center of the island.
Emerson felt a moment of merciless hope as she stared at her competitor.
Zach stirred, got to his knees, and croaked, “I’ll take part … I’m okay …”
He clambered to his feet, sweat dripping from his pale face, and hobbled over to the group.
“A valiant effort; that alone should be worth some votes,” the Producer said, and gave the limping boy a round of applause. This time even more of the contestants joined in.
Emerson sighed. It was going to be almost impossible to beat this kind of bravery.
“Please, take your place on the stage,” the Producer said, gesturing toward the small stage in the center of the beach.
Zach lumbered toward the stage, and Emerson followed. As Zach’s foot hit the first step, he stumbled, and Emerson grabbed him to keep him steady.
“Get your hands off me,” he hissed. “I know what you’re doing!”
Emerson let go, confused by what he meant.
Zach took his place on one side of the stage, and Emerson stood on his right. The spotlight drones stayed steady above them.
“Your task,” the Producer said, opening an envelope and reading it, “is to demonstrate your greatest skill.”
“What?” Emerson asked, caught off guard by this announcement. “I thought the viewers were just going to vote?”
“Oh, they will vote, Ms. Ness, but you must earn their vote!” the Producer exclaimed. “Remember, our wonderful viewers are watching on TV, on 3D, on Immersion, online, and however else they consume their media. It is up to them to choose who earns their freedom for another day, and who goes to prison for the rest of their lives. The stakes are high, as high as they go, so think carefully about how you are going to perform. The viewer vote opens in ten seconds, and will remain open for three minutes. Good luck.”
The screen flashed brightly once again, and the ten-second countdown commenced.
“What are you going to do?” Emerson asked Zach.
The boy was breathing heavily and sweating profusely. “I … I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t have any talents. What are you going to do?”
Emerson shook her head.
The countdown hit zero, and the contestants who had gathered around the stage started calling out the names of the two who were supposed to be performing for their lives.
“Come on, Emerson!” Tiger screamed.
“You can do it, Zach,” someone called from the middle.
Emerson’s mind was blank. What was her greatest skill? She could break into buildings pretty effectively; she could run from the police … what else?
She glanced over at Zach, who looked indecisive for a second; then he jumped off the stage and searched around in the sand. He found a large rock and hauled it up onto the stage. He tried to climb up after it, but was too weak and had to walk around and use the stairs.
Emerson forced herself to stop focusing on Zach. Think, Emerson! Think! she demanded of herself. She looked at the timer and saw that forty seconds had passed already. Zach made it to the stage and bent down to pick up the rock.
Suddenly, the screen split into three panels. In the middle a simple bar graph showing the viewer votes appeared, but on either side of that, faces began to appear, and Emerson realized that they were the faces of viewers, watching them from all over the world. There were about a hundred faces on each side, and they periodically changed to show others. These constantly changing faces seemed fascinated, impatient, bored, delighted, demonic, angelic, worried, excited. Emerson felt like she was shrinking under their gaze.
Think, Emerson! she demanded. Ignore them, ignore the faces … You made it all the way here, survived the first task, just to fail on the first day! You let Kester down.
And at the thought of Kester, she realized what her skill was: She could speak another language. She doubted whether the public would find it impressive, and it wasn’t visually spectacular, but it was all she had, and at least she could speak to Kester one last time if nothing else.
She raised her hands in front of her and was about to speak when she heard a wet cracking sound and a gasp from the gathered crowd. She turned her head to see Zach holding his rock in both hands and slamming it into his face over and over again.
Smack.
His nose broke and blood began to stream from it.
Smack.
His front two teeth shattered and he spat shards into the sand before …
Smack.
A huge cut appeared along a welt on his forehead.
Emerson looked at the screen: The bar chart leaped in favor of Zach. The faces that filled the sides of the screen looked amused and horrified in equal measures. She forced herself to look at the timer: only ninety seconds left. She used her hands to speak to her brother.
“That is so cool!” Delilah Scattergood squealed. Emerson looked at her and saw the sadistic joy in the girl with gothic-style eyes.
Kester, I’m so sorry—I wanted to do better, I wanted to get as many followers as I could so that I could transfer brand credits to you. You’re going to be so great. You’re going to do amazing things. Please don’t ever lose that thing that makes you special. Don’t become like me. Don’t become skeptical and jaded. Keep on believing in the goodness of people and the potential of this world. I honestly believe you can make a difference. I love you, Kester, and I’m sorry.
That was all she had to say. Her hands fell back to her sides. She waited for the countdown to finish as she reached into her back pocket and felt comfort emanating from the bottle lid there. Emerson sighed and took one last look at the screen. The bar chart had almost evened up, but Zach was still in the lead. Suddenly, with ten seconds left on the timer, the graph disappeared. They would have to wait to find out who had won.
The contestants who surrounded the stage continued to cheer and scream and clap. Zach—exhausted now, sweat and blood dripping from his lumped-up face—could no longer lift the rock. He let it fall to the stage. Emerson saw the welts on his forearm where the jellyfish had stung him over and over again. She saw the cuts on his hands where he had gripped the rock. She saw the mess that was his face. All that to get people to follow him. This poor boy didn’t have whatever natural magic that the social media stars had, so he had been forced to hurt himself, humiliate himself to get people to watch him.
“Three! Two! One!” the crowd screamed, and Emerson realized that time was up. The three minutes were over, and now they would learn who was going to their cell for the rest of their life, and who would remain in the games.
One by one the faces of the viewers disappeared. The last one to go seemed to be laughing maniacally.
Emerson looked toward the Producer, as did every person in the crowd.
The Producer only smiled back at them.
“Who won?” Never asked.
“There’s a one-minute delay on all footage,” the Producer said. “So we can edit out anything we deem unfit for air.”
“Surely, self-mutilation is unfit for air,” someone called out. Emerson thought it was 38, Vintage Patel, and she could hear the disgust in her voice.
“Oh, no,” the Producer replied, smiling wryly. “I believe that will make the broadcast.”
Emerson wondered what they could possibly be editing out if they had just shown more than a dozen children dying on their show, and then she remembered the video diary drone telling her not to mention the Producer or anything that could give away the location of the games.
Silence fell over the beach. Emerson looked once again to the cruise ship sitting on the ocean’s surface like a sentinel, watching them. She turned her eyes up to the stars that now shone brightly around the glowing moon. The light from above turned the rolling waves into glittering diamonds, and despite how fake the entire island was, it still looked beautiful.
Time passed slowly and yet far too fast. No one said a word. There was not even the slightest breeze. Silence.
Finally, the Producer spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, the results are in, and it is very, very close.”
The Producer put a hand up to his ear as the information was being fed to him.
“Good luck, Em,” Never said, and blew a kiss. Emerson could only nod in reply. It was all suddenly too real to fully comprehend; she was about to be put into a cell where she would live out the rest of her days in solitary confinement.
“I can now reveal that the contestant in second place got 409,366 votes when the lines closed, but the person in first place got 422,950 votes. Ladies and gentlemen, the person leaving the show tonight is …”
The pause seemed to go on forever. Waves crashed on the beach, the bonfire crackled and sparked, the crowd held their breath.
“… Emerson Ness.”
“No!” Tiger yelled.
Emerson felt as though the world was spinning around her, like she might faint at any second.
“Congratulations, Mr. Dobler,” the Producer was saying as he shook Zach’s hand, but that was all very far away to Emerson. The Producer’s voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
Emerson breathed heavily, feeling like the air around her was thin and useless.
“Ms. Ness,” the Producer said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You played a wonderful game, but unfortunately it was not to be. You have five minutes to say goodbye to your friends.”
She had failed. She had been voted off in the first round, and had not gained enough followers to help Kester in any way at all.
She fought off the panic attack that was wrapping its arms around her, and her wide eyes found Never in the crowd. As their eyes met, she couldn’t stop the tears spilling down her face.
Never climbed onto the stage and embraced Emerson. “I’ll help your brother, don’t you worry,” she whispered, and Emerson felt her heart fill with gratitude. She held her friend tight and cried into her shoulder.
Beside them, Zach Dobler fell limply forward, like a marionette with its strings snipped. He slumped, half on and half off the stage.
The Producer bent down and checked his pulse. The camera drones spun around, filming everything as the Producer got to his feet, held a hand to his right ear, and spoke quietly.
“Dead,” he muttered. “Reset or keep what we have?”
Emerson felt Never’s hand squeeze hers.
The Producer put that blinding smile back onto his face and addressed the contestants. “Zach Dobler is dead. We mourn his passing.” He then turned his attention to the camera drones that encircled him. “Due to the death of Zach Dobler, Emerson Ness will remain on the show! Congratulations, Emerson Ness!”
Never looked into Emerson’s eyes with a kind of relieved determination, and she hugged Emerson. Emerson could only stare in disbelief as two large drones came out of the plastic forest and picked up Zach’s body, carrying him out to sea.
The Producer came onto the stage and shook Emerson’s hand. “Congratulations, Ms. Ness! How does it feel to have survived the first game?”
Emerson couldn’t answer. This was all so bizarre, all so nonsensical.
The Producer laughed. “Looks like you’re speechless. Well, I don’t blame you, and I don’t think our audience will either.”
Emerson looked out to the contestants and saw Kodi shaking his head as though this all made sense to him, and he was disgusted by it.
“He died,” Emerson said. “He killed himself for entertainment.”
“Yes, he did,” the Producer said. “Remember to join us tomorrow for the next live installment of The Kill Factor, where anything can happen!”
The Producer stood waving at the camera drones for such a long time that Emerson thought for a moment that he had lost his mind, but he suddenly snapped out of his game-show host persona and turned to the contestants.
“I advise you all to get a good sleep. Today you took your first steps toward rehabilitation; you learned Self-Worth. Tomorrow begins game number two, which will teach you Empathy. Good luck, contestants, and good night.”
And with that he left, walking away from the confused scene, following the curvature of the beach until he was gone.
“What the hell just happened?” Emerson asked.
“What happened?” Teller repeated, clambering up onto the stage. “You just got through to the next round!”
Teller tried to hug Emerson, but Emerson pushed him back. “A boy had to die for me to stay in this competition. Why is no one doing anything about it? We have to stop this show. We have to refuse to take part!”
“Oh, come on,” Imelda Fleet said, pushing her silver hair behind her ears. “You’re just saying that because you’re in last place! I’m not quitting now; I’m winning.”
Emerson looked at her and shook her head in disbelief. “You saw what happened to Juliette, to Jorgensen, to Zach! What use is being top of the leaderboard if you die tomorrow, or the next day?”
“Think of the followers, 16,” Imelda replied with a smirk. “Think of the sponsorship deals, think of all those people watching you. Your brand-credit value is going to skyrocket.”
“I don’t get it,” Emerson tried again. “What don’t you understand? These games are designed to kill us!”
“These games are designed to help us!” Imelda shot back. “You heard the Producer: We’re criminals, our brains are broken, and he’s trying to save us!”
Others were nodding in agreement now. Everyone who was in the top half of the leaderboard except Never, Tiger, Kodi, and Alasdair seemed to agree with Imelda on some level.
“You’re crazy,” Emerson said, looking around at the top-halfers who had slowly gathered around Imelda.
“Listen, 16,” Imelda continued. “They’re not stopping these games for you or anyone. I wouldn’t worry about it anyway. You’ll be voted out of here by tomorrow if you survive that long.”
This caused Imelda’s new group to laugh, and Emerson could already see the high school politics beginning to form.
“Whatever,” Emerson said, stepping down from the stage and walking toward her bedroom. “I can see I’m not going to convince you, but don’t forget how close you came to dying tonight. Don’t forget that for a moment you stood up to the Producer, and we all saw it. We all know how you really feel deep down.”
“You’re boring me now,” Imelda said, and again, her eight or nine cronies laughed.
Emerson, Tiger, Never, Teller, and Alasdair walked back to the rows of bedrooms and sat down in Emerson’s room.
“I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up,” Never said. “Every time I think things can’t get more horrible, they do. That group of people actually wants to stay here and compete.”
“Well, they have a point,” Alasdair said, staring down at his feet.
“No, they don’t!” Tiger hissed.
“They’re all brainwashed,” Teller added.
“Oh, they’re brainwashed, but you might as well go crazy when there’s no other choice,” Alasdair muttered.
“What do you mean?” Emerson asked, still fighting with her anger and frustration at the conversation she had just had.
“They’re going to make us compete one way or another. You saw what happened to 36. If we don’t play the game, they’ll poison us, so you have three choices: convince yourself that this really is the opportunity of a lifetime that will rehabilitate us terrible criminals; just try to hang on and make it to prison without dying; or refuse to take part and die a painful death like 36. Those guys over there”—Alasdair nodded toward the group gathered around Imelda—“they chose the easiest option, that’s all.”
