The Kill Factor, page 17
Sadio Sarr joined, then Tanya Moon, then Goodwin Goodhew, then Harlow Wozniak.
By now, Gamble was gasping in great lungfuls of air, no longer in a steady rhythm.
Steele Sawyer joined, still wearing those stupid shades even in the evening light. Decker Shimada was next, his tall Mohawk bouncing as he ran. Then Delilah Scattergood joined, smiling wickedly as she watched Gamble struggle near the front of the line. Gwen was the penultimate contestant, her pink hair tied up in a ponytail. Finally, Imelda joined. Everyone picked up their pace to make way for her while she joined effortlessly.
Emerson felt the pain in her legs growing with each stride. She could feel the effort in her chest as she began to breathe harder and harder. There were no thoughts of quitting in her mind. If she quit and fell, it was fifty feet to the ground. The Producer had said that the track would get lower with each person who dropped out. She had to hang on for as long as possible.
No one spoke. Everyone knew that conserving energy was the most important thing now. The only sound was the whirring of the track’s belt, the thumping of footsteps, and the sound of heavy breathing.
Again, Emerson noticed that there was no breeze at all up here, just still, warm air that felt unfulfilling as it entered her body.
Don’t think, Emerson told herself. Switch your mind off. This is going to go for a long, long time.
And that’s what she did. She let the steady beat of her own footsteps lull her into a kind of meditation. Cutting out the pain, the fear, the anticipation of it all.
Emerson had been deep inside her own mind, replaying the night of the burning school. Was there someone else in the school that night other than me and Marvin? She thought about the footsteps she had heard behind her, the sound of something falling in the classroom next to the science room, but all thoughts faded away when she heard Harlow begin to sob on the treadmill.
Emerson looked over to the girl with the shaved head and the tattoos beneath her eyes. She was crying and coughing, her face red with the effort of running.
“I can’t keep going,” she wheezed. “I can’t. It’s too hard! I can’t …”
And with that she stopped running. As the belt pulled her backward toward Steele, a shout went up through the group. If she had stayed where she was, she would have taken out everyone behind her, but the game was designed to not let that happen. As soon as she dropped below the six-mile-per-hour minimum, her section of the track tilted violently, pouring her off the fifty-foot-high platform. She was gone, falling off the edge with a cry of unadulterated terror.
“Harlow!” Gwen screamed, staring at the blank space where her friend and prank partner used to be.
Emerson could hear Delilah Scattergood clapping and cheering from behind her.
The platform rocked and a sense of light-headedness rolled through Emerson as the entire structure lowered five feet.
As though Harlow’s death acted as a trigger, Levi began to hyperventilate.
“I’m getting off!” said the boy who had once told Emerson she’d look “pretty hot” in a minuscule bathing suit. “I’m getting off, get out of my way!”
Levi began to speed up, pushing past people in his haste to make it all the way around the track and back to the platform they had started from.
But in his terror, Levi’s foot missed the edge of the platform, and he too fell, only he dropped in a complete silence that was somehow more terrifying than Harlow’s scream.
Delilah laughed again, and Emerson found herself filled with hatred toward the morbid girl.
For the next five minutes, the group fell back into an orderly line, and no one spoke.
It was Tanya Moon who was the first to successfully quit. She upped her pace by an almost imperceptible amount and made her way slowly around the track, carefully passing Sadio, then Never, then Levi, and all the others in front of her until she made it safely all the way around and onto the platform, where she collapsed into a shaking heap. Her short, bright red hair—that was normally so neatly styled—was now a matted, wet mass. The platform lowered another five feet as Tanya lay on the platform, sobbing and trying to catch her breath.
As soon as Tanya had tapped out of the race, everyone else knew they were safe to end the game. Immediately, there was a pileup at the back of the track as Imelda, Gwen, and Delilah all sped up at the same time. Decker and Steele came so close to falling that Emerson was certain one of them was going to go, but they held their balance.
“Listen,” Kodi yelled from the front. “We can all get out of here alive if we work together. We’re all going to up our pace a tiny amount. Keep the same distance from the person in front of you and do what I do.”
Kodi sped up and began to make his way slowly, carefully around the rotating track. It took around five minutes for him to traverse the whole distance. He didn’t speed up when he got to the platform; he didn’t panic. He kept his pace and, finally, stepped carefully off the treadmill and onto the safety of the platform. The track lowered another five feet—they were now around thirty feet in the air.
“No,” Asim said from two spaces behind Emerson. She looked back and saw that the tall, skinny boy who had spent the day staring into the fire was shaking his head. “No, no, no.”
“Asim, are you okay?” Emerson said through heavy breaths.
He looked at her. His big, sad eyes were full of sorrow. “There’s only one way off this island,” he said, and without hesitation he stepped off the edge of the platform and fell to his death.
“Oh no! Oh no!” cried Tiger, who was right behind Asim.
The platform lowered another few feet, and up ahead, Gamble stepped off the conveyor belt, followed by Nick.
Emerson was next, but the way Tiger was struggling to breathe concerned her. She slowed down until the gap between her and Tiger was only a few feet or so.
“Hey. We’re almost there, Tiger.”
“He just … he just gave up and died. He just gave up,” Tiger was saying to no one in particular.
“Yes, he did,” Emerson said. “And that was his choice, but we’re not giving up, are we?”
Finally, Tiger looked at Emerson. “No … we’re not giving up.”
“Good. Now come on, let’s get off this thing.”
Emerson took Tiger’s hand and they ran together onto the platform, both of them losing their balance as they made it to safety.
Teller came next. He too collapsed into a heap and lay on the platform sucking in air.
Emerson heard a gasp and a yelp and turned and caught sight of Cobalt Skiba losing his footing and falling off the edge of the descending track. The entire structure was between fifteen and twenty feet high, and as Cobalt hit the ground, Emerson saw his right leg snap at the shin and bend up so that his toes kicked his own kneecap. He screamed then, loud and astounded. The pain must have been tremendous, but the sight of his foot pointing in an impossible direction seemed to be his main area of concern.
Cobalt continued screaming and crying as the remaining contestants made it to the platform, and the treadmill lowered almost all the way to the ground, until there were only two left on the track: Imelda and Never.
“Just get on the platform,” Imelda breathed.
“You get on the platform,” Never replied, her arms pumping as she ran.
The two girls competed, sweating and pushing themselves onward. Gwen Perez was the first to climb down the eight-foot-high structure and run to Cobalt. Others followed.
Emerson watched Never as she began to falter.
“Come on, Never!” she called out, but it was no good. Never had been running for too long, and Imelda was too fit.
Never pushed herself one last time to draw level with the platform and then stepped onto it. Imelda grinned, and stayed on the track for another twenty seconds or so, just to prove that she could.
As soon as the platform met the ground, Emerson stepped off the stage and onto the sand, grateful for the feeling of solid, safe ground beneath her. She closed her eyes and lay down, running her fingers through the sand, but when she opened her eyes and saw the twisted neck and blank eyes of Harlow Wozniack, she scrambled to her feet and stepped away.
Emerson got up and walked over to Cobalt, who was now moaning in agony and holding his leg so tightly that his fingers had turned white. Gwen was trying to get him to breathe through the pain, but it was as if he couldn’t hear her.
The sight of Cobalt’s grotesquely twisted leg made Emerson look away. The sound of his raw-throated screams permeated the stillness of the night, and the contestants looked to one another, each of them hoping that someone else would do something to help this boy, but nobody knew how to relieve his pain.
Time passed. The remaining participants sat around Cobalt, who had settled into rapid breathing and the occasional sob.
“Contestants,” the Producer’s voice said as it echoed out of the hidden speakers. “Please meet me on the beach in one minute.”
For once there was a feeling of relief at the sound of the Producer’s voice. Surely he couldn’t leave Cobalt in this kind of agony. Surely he would do something.
He came strolling along the sand like a dark mirage, all swagger and teeth.
“Contestants,” he said. “You have completed game number three. Congratulations on taking another step toward rehabilitation. You learned about Work Ethic today.”
“He needs medical attention right now!” Gwen said, looking down at Cobalt, whose head rested in her lap.
“He will not receive it,” the Producer replied. “At least, not until the games are concluded.”
Emerson felt all her remaining reserves of hope evaporate.
“His leg is broken,” Kodi said, stepping close to the Producer with confidence, as if he knew that the poison wouldn’t be released. “You have to help him. You can’t leave him like this.”
“It’s contractual, Mr. Finch,” the Producer replied. “You of all people should know that. If you want to continue down this line of questioning, I’m happy to do so, but my patience doesn’t stretch very far, and I will remind you of the capsule implanted in your wrist.”
You of all people … Those words struck Emerson as strange.
“It’s okay,” Cobalt said, his blocked nose finally appearing to have cleared. “It’s not so bad, I’ll be okay.”
Gwen stroked Cobalt’s hair and told him to save his energy. The Producer continued speaking.
“It is time now to announce today’s winner, who will receive immunity from the public vote, and that winner is the person who was last to step off the track, Imelda Fleet. Congratulations, Ms. Fleet.
“Now,” the Producer said. “The first person to stop running, and the loser of today’s game, is Tanya Moon. Commiserations, Ms. Moon.”
Tanya had been a member of the latecomers, numbers 48, 49, and 50, who had joined the games last. The other latecomers, Sadio Sarr and Goodwin Goodhew, looked at each other with a calm kind of trepidation in their eyes. The three had developed a strong bond since the games had begun, and were rarely apart.
“I don’t care,” Tanya said. Her short red hair was still matted to her forehead with sweat. “I don’t care about any of this!”
“Fine, fine,” the Producer said. “That’s just fine. Now, follow me, and we’ll begin today’s video diary.”
The Producer beckoned, and then began walking around the circumference of the island, making his way to the living quarters.
“He can’t follow you!” Gwen said, and Cobalt tried to sit up, but pain rocked through him and he lay back down.
“Too bad,” the Producer said as he walked. “If he’s not at the living quarters soon, he’ll be relieved of his pain.”
Gwen, Tiger, Alasdair, Kodi, and Emerson all helped to lift the boy with the broken leg and carry him as carefully as they could back to the bedrooms. Every step sent a bolt of agony through Cobalt, but they had to keep up. They had to keep going.
They made it back to the other side of the island. More bedrooms had been disassembled and removed from the beach, and the remaining bedrooms had been cleaned.
By who? Emerson wondered.
But she didn’t dwell on it. They placed Cobalt carefully on his bed, where he lay sweating and trying not to move.
Emerson looked at the leaderboard; the top five positions had changed, and Imelda was no longer first.
Place
Contestant Name
Contestant #
Follower count
1.
Gwen Perez
7
714,907
2.
Imelda Fleet
33
696,315
3.
Decker Shimada
25
544,835
4.
Delilah Scattergood
21
507,351
5.
Steele Sawyer
18
484,610
Emerson looked over to Imelda, who was staring at her name in second place and clenching her jaw.
At the bottom of the leaderboard, Teller had dropped down; Kodi had stayed at fifteenth place. Emerson had climbed up two places, and now had a significant amount of followers—so many, in fact, that her brand credits would be worth more than double the value of physical cash.
Place
Contestant Name
Contestant #
Follower count
13.
Teller Sanderson
20
82,755
14.
Emerson Ness
16
82,404
15.
Kodiak Finch
1
80,100
16.
Nick Mason
4
76,628
17.
Gamble Delaney
6
75,901
For some reason, Emerson found herself staring at the fish carcass that the latecomers had caught with their plastic spears two days before. It was rotting, and seagulls were circling above it.
“By now, you all know what to do,” the Producer said, gesturing toward the bedrooms. “Record your video diaries. Be lively, be eager, be dishonest! Show the people what they want to see. Take them out of their drab lives for a moment and let them live vicariously through people who are better than them! Give one hundred percent!”
This time there was no cheering or clapping from the crowd, not even from Imelda, who couldn’t take her eyes off her name in second place.
“Diary recording begins in five minutes. Good luck.”
The Producer walked away, and the remaining contestants made their way to their bedrooms.
Emerson sat down on her bed. Never came over and joined her.
“They’ve really got us trapped, don’t they?” Never said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, they’ve thought of everything. We gotta do what they say: If we don’t try hard in the games, we face the vote; if we’re not popular enough, we face the vote; if we don’t stay focused, we die. We gotta earn followers twenty-four hours a day or we lose. They’ve got us working nonstop, doing things we don’t wanna do, changing who we are, for a goal we can never reach. We are trapped.”
Emerson nodded once, slowly. “You’re right.”
“And Cobalt,” she said, looking over to the boy who was blowing out rapid breaths. “He can’t survive like that. They’re gonna let him die … die in agony.”
“They’re monsters,” Emerson said.
“They’re the elite, you know? The people who set this up. The superrich.”
“Of course,” Emerson replied. “I mean, they built an entire island, took over an entire cruise ship. They’re obviously rich.”
“It’s more than that, though. It’s the show itself. I’m not saying everyone with money is bad, but there’s a type of person … only people who think of themselves as elite could come up with something like this. They love to see disadvantaged people suffer; it lets them enjoy what they have a little bit more.”
“What do you mean?” Emerson asked.
Never kicked at the sand and then looked out to the ocean. “There was this airline a few years back that decided to convert their fleet of turbojets into all luxury-class. Every seat reclined into a bed, everyone got champagne on arrival, the food was beautiful, and every passenger had their every need catered for. It went bust within six months.”
“Not enough rich people to fill up the planes?” Emerson asked.
“No, there were plenty of rich people, they just all wanted to fly on the airlines that had first- and second-class sections.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s a certain type of person who can’t enjoy nice things unless they know there are people beneath them.”
Emerson thought about that for a long time. She didn’t want it to be true. She wanted to believe that every person had the capacity for empathy and compassion, but she knew that Never was right.
“Do you think we’d become like them, if we won the games?” Emerson asked finally.
Never thought about it for a while. “I’d like to think we wouldn’t, but I’ve seen good people change. Give a person money and they always want more. Give a person power and they always want more. Give a person influence and they always want more. All these social media companies know that there is nothing more addictive than attention, and they offer it for free to children.”
Emerson couldn’t help but laugh. “So, you ready to perform for the cameras? Diary starts in one minute.”
Never laughed too, and then sighed. “Yep, better get into character, huh?”
She went over to her bedroom and waited.
The screen flickered, and the scoreboard disappeared. The countdown to the recording began.
As the light turned red on the drone that hovered in front of her, Emerson thought about when she had set up her first social media profile, a Content-Plus account. She had been eleven years old, and she had been obsessed with her favorite social media stars: Devon Dislikes the World, Press Paws, Magical Melody, and at least a dozen others. She had dreamed about being just like them, but when she filmed herself on her ancient camera phone, in her broken-down old bedroom, it just wasn’t the same.
