The Kill Factor, page 25
“Five minutes until the live show begins,” the Producer’s voice thundered out of the speakers.
Emerson sat down on her bed, and Tiger joined her.
“I hope you win,” Tiger said, putting an arm around Emerson’s waist.
Emerson rested her head on top of Tiger’s. “If I win, I’ll get you out of here, Tiger.”
“I know you will. That’s why I hope you win.”
A shadow fell over the two girls, and Gwen stood before them. “Do you … do you guys mind if I sit with you? I’m scared.”
“Of course,” Tiger said, and patted the bed beside her.
Gwen sat down and the three of them sat together, arms around one another.
Not long after, lighting drones began to appear, zipping out of the plastic forest and illuminating the early evening with reds and greens and blues, twirling and dipping and swooping around until the beach was bathed in light.
The scoreboard came to life, but instead of the usual list of names, there was an enormous face watching with eager eyes. The face split into two, and then four and then eight. More and more faces of viewers all around the world with fanatical smiles and greedy eyes. Sixteen faces, then thirty-two, sixty-four, and on and on exponentially until it seemed that every pixel of the screen was filled with eager expressions.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the Producer screamed as if he were trying to be heard over a roaring crowd. “I want to thank each and every one of the nearly two hundred and fifty million people watching around the world right now! From the bottom of my heart, this means the world to us here at The Kill Factor. We’ve seen the protests, we’ve heard your calls for boycotts, we’ve felt your outrage, and we can sincerely say that we hear you and we see you and we’ll do our best to make the necessary adjustments so that future installments of the show will be more palatable for all. And now, for your viewing pleasure, here’s a quick recap of all the events that have led to this moment.”
The faces on the screen began to disappear one by one, getting faster and faster until only a black screen remained. And then Emerson saw herself on the screen: She was in the cabin on the cruise ship; Imelda was standing in the doorway calling her a rat. When she stormed out of the room, Emerson watched herself upend Imelda’s suitcase out the window and then throw it out into the harbor.
Next the screen switched to Tiger singing a ballad in her room as the Nicotine Patch drone hovered around her. The scene changed to Gwen trying on different outfits in the Infinity Suite.
Suddenly, the footage was on the beach, and Emerson saw herself break out of the coffin. She had to look away as Kodi ran up to her and asked her if she knew CPR. She could hear her rasping breaths coming from the speakers as she failed to resuscitate Jorgensen. And then Kodi’s voice again: “He’s gone. Help with the others.”
The scene switched to Gwen gasping for air inside her coffin, and then Tiger being hauled out of the sand by Kodi.
The horrible montage continued for what felt like a lifetime. Emerson tried not to look when she heard Never’s voice, and Alasdair’s, and Kodi’s, but she couldn’t help it. She relived the moment that she had first kissed Kodi on the diving board, the moment that Teller had tried to make her promise that she wouldn’t fall in love with Kodi, the moment Never had told her the story of the first-class airline, and—worst of all—the moment Kodi had died. During that short segment she had fought hard not to cry, and lost.
Finally, the screen faded out on a shot of the three remaining contestants sitting where they were now, on Emerson’s bed, arms around one another.
“It has been an emotional and educational time,” the Producer said, “but all good things must come to an end. And the end is now. Ladies and gentlemen, it is time to reveal the results of The Kill Factor. Remember, the contestant with the most followers wins their freedom.”
Emerson felt Tiger’s arm tighten around her, and she kissed the young girl on top of her head.
“It’s going to be okay,” Emerson whispered.
“In third place, with 4.1 million followers …” Emerson held her breath, waiting for the Producer to say her name. “Is Tiger Quinn!”
Emerson turned to Tiger, held the young girl’s face gently in her hands and told her once again that she would save her, then she kissed her on the forehead.
Tiger joined the beckoning Producer—her eyes were no longer filled with that terrible emptiness; there was something new there, perhaps the same determination that Emerson herself felt.
The Producer spoke to Tiger; he put his arm around her shoulder, an action that caused Tiger to shudder with disgust. She answered his questions with monotone syllables, but Emerson wasn’t listening. She was looking at the rising moon as it illuminated the evening. It looked so real, so perfectly genuine, that she questioned whether she had been right about the dome at all. Most of all, Emerson was waiting for something to happen. Waiting for Kester to get her out of here somehow.
Drones came out of the plastic forest and began to guide Tiger away.
“Tiger,” Emerson shouted. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Tiger nodded, and then she was gone.
The Producer turned to the two girls, who sat side by side. Emerson hoped it would be the last time she had to look at that awful smile.
“Emerson Ness and Gwen Perez, the final two. Words cannot express the pride I feel at how far you have both come. From criminality to reformation. You are my greatest accomplishments, but—as you know—there is only one prize in this game. So, without further ado, it is time to find out which of you will be going home, and which of you will be imprisoned for life.”
Gwen took Emerson’s hand and held it tightly. Emerson steeled herself.
The Producer took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and opened it.
“The winner of the first-ever Kill Factor is …”
The pause that the Producer left stretched out into infinity, and for some reason, Emerson thought of something that Kester had once told her: Zeno’s dichotomy paradox, in which some ancient Greek philosopher said something like if a person tries to walk to a destination, they can never truly arrive, as they first must walk half the distance, and then half the remaining distance, and then half the remaining distance again, and so on forever as there will always be distance remaining.
It hadn’t made sense to Emerson at the time, and it didn’t make sense now, but she saw that infinity was possible, that the Producer would be halving the distance until he announced the winner forever and ever.
His eyes flicked up from the piece of paper in his hand and looked first at Emerson, then at Gwen. And, finally, he spoke.
“Emerson Ness.”
There had been an explosion of fireworks, hundreds of camera drones swarming around her, music had played from somewhere, the audience faces had reappeared on the screen all screaming and whooping with delight, but Emerson had not reacted at all. There was still work to do.
“Congratulations to Emerson Ness, the first-ever winner of The Kill Factor!” the Producer was yelling, his face distorted through the glittering scraps of red confetti.
Gwen began to sob at Emerson’s side. Emerson leaned in close and whispered to the distraught girl, “It’s not over.”
But the Producer was pulling Gwen to her feet and commiserating with her.
The Producer told Gwen how proud he was of her, and how far she had come, and Gwen told him that none of it mattered if she was going to be locked up for the rest of her life.
Emerson watched the skies, hoping against all hope that the dome would begin to glitch and malfunction, or that the whole thing would come crashing down, or a swarm of military boats would arrive with soldiers and guns.
“Please, please, please,” Emerson whispered.
“Emerson Ness!” the Producer was announcing, and when Emerson looked over, she saw that Gwen was being led away, and it was her turn to face the Producer. She got to her feet and walked over to him, her eyes still scanning the darkening sky.
“Emerson, I think part of me knew you were going to win the first time I met you,” the Producer said.
Emerson did not reply; instead she looked to the screen, which once again showed the scoreboard, only this time there were forty-nine names that were grayed out, and only hers left.
Place
Contestant Name
Contestant #
Follower count
1.
Emerson Ness
16
11,728,411
It had worked. She had spoken directly to the people who were watching in the hopes that something good would happen.
“There was a grit about you, a determination!” the Producer continued. “How does it feel to have won your freedom?”
Emerson looked from the scoreboard to the Producer. “It doesn’t matter what I say, you’ll just change my words, but at least I can tell you the truth. It feels like hell. It feels like you’ve put me through torture and killed people who I loved. You have not made me a better person. You have snuffed out parts of me that made me who I am. You traumatized me for your precious viewing figures. You never cared about helping anyone. You’re a monster.”
The Producer smiled widely and laughed. He held Emerson’s hand aloft in triumph. “One last time, congratulations to our winner, Emerson Ness!”
More fireworks. More confetti. More music.
The Producer and Emerson stood in their false victorious pose for a full minute. The music stopped, the last firework exploded above them, and all the camera drones fell out of the sky.
“And that’s a wrap,” the Producer said.
“What do you mean?” Emerson said, looking around at the suddenly desolate-looking island.
“The show is over, Ms. Ness.”
The sand was littered with glimmering scraps of confetti; the place was empty apart from the Producer and her, and suddenly it all appeared even more pointless than it had seemed before.
“What now?” Emerson asked.
“Now,” the Producer said, sighing. “One last game.”
“What do you mean?” Emerson asked. “How can there be one last game? There’s no one left to compete against.”
The Producer sat down on the sand and looked out toward the cruise ship. “Do you know why they named the ship the Calypso?” he asked, his voice wistful and somehow sad.
“No,” Emerson replied, her mind still spinning.
“Calypso was the name of a Greek deity, a type of fantastical being who lived on an island. According to legend, she imprisoned a king on her island for seven years.”
“But there is no prison here,” Emerson said. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“No, there’s no prison,” the Producer agreed.
“Then where have you taken them? What did you mean when you said there was one last game?” Emerson asked, bracing herself for the answer.
“How many contestants started the games?” the Producer asked.
“Fifty,” Emerson replied.
“Wrong,” the Producer told her, removing his suit jacket and placing it on the sand beside him. “There were fifty-one.”
Emerson, doubting herself for a moment, looked at the scoreboard. There were still forty-nine names grayed out and hers alone at the top. “There were fifty contestants.”
“I was the first to be recruited,” the Producer said. “You know my secret; my son told you the truth. My role on the show was to be different from everyone else’s. Don’t get me wrong, Emerson. This is not a moment of redemption or a cause for pity. No, my crimes were far worse than any of yours, and I don’t feel any remorse about what I have put you through or the lives I have been complicit in taking. There are much higher powers than me on this island, and we are both beholden to them now.”
“He hated you, you know. Kodi hated you.”
The Producer grinned and then shrugged. “I was on death row when they came to me. They told me there would be no more appeals, no more delays, and certainly no hope of a pardon. I had a choice: die by lethal injection tomorrow, or take part in a new game show. If I live through the show, I can go free and come back to host the following year. If I die, the winner of the game show will become the new host.”
Emerson’s eyes met the Producer’s. “What are you saying?”
“You were right all along,” the Producer said, all grandiosity gone now; he was just an old man on the beach. “There is no freedom. There is no prize. The best you can hope for is to live and take over my role as host of the games next year.”
“No,” Emerson said, her voice shaking. “No, it can’t be … no.”
“Yes,” the Producer replied, nodding.
“I won’t do it.”
“Good. In that case I’ll get to live another year. All you have to do is lose the final game.”
“What is the final game?” Emerson asked.
“The final game is our last chance to learn a lesson. The lesson is Loyalty.”
And as though by speaking the word the Producer had summoned some ancient evil from within the island, the sand began to shake beneath their feet, and the entire man-made landmass began to rise out of the ocean.
Emerson stumbled and fell back. Sand poured off the perfectly rounded edge of the island and down into the water below. Up and up the island rose, until it was higher than the diving boards had been.
The Producer sighed, put on his jacket, and stood up.
“It’s time,” he said, and began walking toward the center of the island.
Emerson hesitated, looked to the top of the dome, where dark clouds drifted across a purple sky, and hoped one last time for her brother to save her. Then she followed the Producer.
The plastic branches ripped at her skin as she pushed her way through the fake foliage, keeping the Producer in her sights as she moved deeper into the island, the prison’s fake wall looming ever larger in front of them.
After seven or eight minutes of walking, they came to a large circular river filled with fast-flowing water, and a drawbridge lowered down to let them across.
Now they stood before the prison wall, and though it was not real, it was still imposing as it rose up before them.
“Two doors,” the Producer said, pointing to the black door and the white door that were built into the wall. “One for you, one for me. Any preference?”
Emerson looked at the two doors. They were identical apart from the colors they were painted in. She pointed to the one closest to her, the white door.
“Very well,” the Producer said. “See you on the inside.”
“Wait,” Emerson said, and the Producer turned to face her. “Where are the camera drones? Are they not filming this game?”
“The show’s over, Emerson. This one is just for the management.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You never will, Emerson. You never will.”
And with that, the Producer stepped through the black door, and was gone.
Emerson stood outside the white door and took a deep breath. She thought back to a moment on the beach, standing with Kodi as he told her that the perfect ending she had imagined, where her genius brother saved the day, would never happen, and she hoped that he had been wrong. “Come on, Kester,” she whispered. “Please.”
And then she too stepped through the door.
Emerson was in complete darkness.
It was cold here, beyond the white door, and the blackness that surrounded her was so thick that it seemed impossible. It was quiet too, the kind of quiet that was so all-consuming that Emerson could hear her own pulse thundering through her body.
And then she was surrounded by a light so blinding that she had to screw her eyes shut in pain.
Finally, the light dimmed, and Emerson saw that she was in a small room with gray walls.
She turned around slowly. There was the white door through which she had entered, and another door opposite. The only other item in the room was a stand that held a crossbow and a belt with ten arrows. Emerson’s heart stopped when she saw the crossbow. She begged her mind not to replay the moment the arrow had struck Kodi in the heart, but she couldn’t stop it. She saw his eyes grow wide, his mouth grimace against the pain, and she saw the life drain from him once again.
A voice came through hidden speakers in the room. A voice disguised by distortion and pitch shifts until it was unrecognizable as human.
“Emerson Ness, the final game has begun. Six contestants remain alive in addition to yourself and the producer: Their names are Andrew Matthews, Tanya Moon, Alasdair George William Tremblay-Birchall, Imelda Fleet, Tiger Quinn, and Gwen Perez. Here you have an opportunity to display your loyalty to us. Take the weapon from the stand and the ammunition provided, enter the maze, and kill them. Only you and the Producer will be armed. The game ends when only one person remains alive. Good luck.”
The door in front of Emerson swung slowly open, revealing the white walls of the maze beyond.
“Wait,” Emerson said, trying to process the instructions of the final game.
I have to kill the people who were voted off, and kill the Producer before he kills me.
“I can’t,” Emerson said. “I can’t kill my friends.”
There was no reply from the horrible and distorted voice that had spoken to her before.
Emerson’s mind raced. She had to act quickly because the Producer would already be in the maze, hunting those who remained alive.
She grabbed the ten extra bolts that were clipped onto the belt. Emerson quickly fastened the belt around her waist, and pulled one of the short but gruesome-looking bolts free. She held the arrow in her hand and felt the sharp, barbed tip with her finger. It would work.
Without allowing herself time to think, she gouged the tip of the arrow into the number 16 that had been branded into her wrist, and ripped open the skin. Blood poured out, dripping down to her elbow and onto the floor of the gray room.
