The Last One Read Online Free Page B

surroundings as she breaks the tree line and emerges into an open field. She sees a man waiting at the center of the field.
    Beyond the man, across the field, Air Force steps into the sunlight.
    For their military selection, the producers wanted a classic, and the man they chose is just that: close-cropped blond hair that glitters in the sun, sharp blue eyes, a strong chin perpetually thrust forth. Air Force is wearing jeans and a long-sleeved tee, but he walks as though in formal dress. Boardlike posture makes him appear taller than his five feet eight inches. His navy-blue bandana—a shade darker than official Air Force blue—is knotted around his belt at his left hip.
    Air Force will be touted as a pilot, but his portrayal will include a careful omission. No mention will be made of what he pilots. Fighter jets, most viewers will assume—which is what they’re meant to assume. Air Force is not a fighter pilot. When he flies, he moves cargo: tanks and ammunition; batteries and metal coils; magazines and candy bars to stock the shelves of the shopping malls the United States is kind enough to erect for her deployed men and women. He’s a lean, year-round Santa Claus, bearing care packages from dear Aunt Sally. In an organization where fighter pilots are deities and bomber pilots fly the sun itself, his is a largely thankless job.
    Air Force and Asian Chick meet at the center of the field, nod a greeting, and stand before the man waiting for them there. The host. He will not be featured until he speaks, and he will not speak until all twelve contestants have gathered.

    Tracker slips from the trees behind the host. Rancher appears to the east, and with him a tall thirtysomething red-haired white man with a lime-green bandana. Soon contestants are appearing from all sides. A white woman in her late twenties with light hair and glasses, a sky-blue bandana around her wrist. A middle-aged black man, a white man barely out of his teens, an Asian man who could pass as a minor but is really twenty-six. A mid-thirties white man, and a Hispanic woman whose age is irrelevant because she’s young enough and her breasts are huge and real. Each has a uniquely colored bandana visible on his or her person. Last to appear is Waitress, who is surprised to find so many people already in the field. She bites her bottom lip, and Air Force feels a throb of attraction.
    “Welcome,” says the host, a thirty-eight-year-old B-list celebrity who hopes to revive his career—or at least pay off his gambling debt. He’s nondescriptly handsome, with brown hair and eyes. His nose has been described in several prominent blogs as “Roman,” and he pretends to know what this means. The host is dressed in outdoor clothing, and any shot of him speaking will include his upper chest, where a sponsor is proudly declared. “Welcome,” he says again, in a deeper, excessively masculine voice, and he decides that when they record the real greeting, this is the voice he will use. “Welcome to The Woods.”
    A soft buzzing sound catches the attention of the contestants; Air Force is the first to turn around. “Holy shit,” he says, an uncommon slip and the first profanity to be censored. The others turn. Behind the group, a five-foot-wide drone with a camera lens at its center hovers at eye level. Cue an additional smattering of awed profanities and a muttered “Cool” from the light-haired woman.
    The drone zips silently up into the sky. After only a few seconds it’s far enough, quiet enough, to be nearly invisible.
    “Where did it go?” whispers Waitress. By the time she finishes the question Tracker is the only one who can still distinguish the drone from clouds and sky.
    “One of the many eyes that will be watching you,” the host informs the group. His voice is rich with implication, though the truth is there’s only the one drone and since the contestants will be under tree cover most of the time, it’s being used primarily for