He will find his mustard-colored marker not in that tree but one tree to the left, and he will double the amount of paces noted on his instructions for each of the following control points.
Biology and Asian Chick will learn similarly, as will Engineer and two white men so far shown only in flashes—the tall one notable for his red hair, the other not notable at all.
Waitress and Cheerleader Boy will not learn. They will putter about the field, growing increasingly frustrated. Four times, Waitress returns to her violet marker and stalks off in roughly the correct direction, first muttering, then yelling, “One-two-three-four…,” stopping at forty-seven, turning circles, and tossing her hands toward the sky. She’s worn a crop circle in the grass with all her pacing.
She sits, and Cheerleader Boy, equally at a loss, leaves his path and approaches her. “I think we’re doing it wrong,” he says.
“You think?” She waves him away. Cheerleader Boy seems like someone she might like in real life, but here he’s clearly a handicap. She knows no one will help her if he’s hanging about, needing help too.
The host is conspicuously absent from the shot. He’s been told to step aside. He’s checking his phone, expecting an email from his agent.
Tracker has reached his fourth flag and is in the lead. Air Force, Rancher, and Zoo have each found three. Biology stands beneath her second, looking, looking, and then with a smile seeing.
Successes pass quickly; there’s much to cover in the premiere, and successes aren’t what viewers want to see.
Engineer stumbles and catches himself against a tree; a branch slaps him in the face. He recoils and rubs at the sting.
After twenty-three minutes—or, depending on one’s perspective, eight including a commercial break—Tracker finds his red box. He opens it, sees the red-wrapped package and a slip of paper. He reads the paper only as confirmation. He has deduced the Challenge’s finishing point from the path of the control points. Two minutes later, he steps for a second time into the field.
Waitress and Cheerleader Boy see him, and for an instant Tracker is surprised. He cannot believe that these two have beaten him. And then Cheerleader Boy says, “You’re kidding me,” and Tracker realizes they haven’t yet left the field at all.
“Well done,” says the host, returned from the off-camera netherworld. He shakes Tracker’s hand. “You will learn your reward when everyone has returned. For now, you have a choice. You can relax, or you can help others in need.” He nods toward Waitress and Cheerleader Boy. Waitress is mired in gloom, and Cheerleader Boy is frustrated to the point of anger.
“Uh,” says Tracker, his first word on camera outside of pre-taping interviews. He doesn’t want to help his competitors, but they both look so pathetic he finds it difficult to believe either could ever become a threat. “Count two steps as one and keep the compass flat,” he tells them, familiar with the mistakes of beginners. “And look straight ahead, not at your feet.”
Waitress’s eyes widen as though her mind has been truly, fully blown; Cheerleader Boy rushes to his pink stick.
Air Force steps into the field. About a hundred feet to his right, only a few seconds behind, so does Zoo. Both hold their colored boxes, dueling shades of blue.
“First one to me!” calls the host. Zoo and Air Force dart toward him.
Air Force takes an easy lead, and then his right foot strikes a depression and he jolts into a hop-skip as pain shimmies through his turned ankle. He slows, favoring the foot. Zoo does not see this; she is in an all-out sprint. She reaches the host well ahead of Air Force.
“I found it!” calls Waitress from the far end of the field. A moment later Cheerleader Boy has found his first flag too.
“Those two are just starting?” asks Zoo, breathing hard and pushing her glasses up her nose. Tracker nods, looking her over. She looks fit enough. A contender, perhaps. He’s noted Air Force’s sudden limp, and while he hasn’t dismissed the man, he’s moved him down a notch in his consideration.
Zoo’s microphone pack is prodding the small of her back uncomfortably after her run. She fixes it, then turns to Air Force. “You okay?”
Air Force mutters that he’s fine. The host is trying to decide if he should call for an EMT. Air Force is clearly in pain, but he is just as clearly trying to ignore that pain. And he’s still on his feet. The host was told to reserve medical assistance for emergencies. This, he decides, is not an emergency. He unnecessarily informs Zoo and Air Force that they are the second and third to finish, then stands his post, waiting for the others while the first three exchange names and make small talk that will not be shown. Zoo does most of the talking.
Rancher is the next to arrive, an oak leaf speared on his right spur. He’s followed closely by Biology. Five minutes later, Engineer appears, and then Black Doctor, who blinks at the field in surprise. He hadn’t realized his instructions were effectively taking him in a large circle. Asian Chick and the red-haired man race for eighth place.
The red-haired man wins, and he hunches over to catch his breath. He’s dressed in plain outdoor clothing with his lime-green bandana tied above his elbow like a tourniquet. But he’s wearing Goth-style boots, and a heavy gold cross dangles on a chain next to his compass. The camera zooms on the cross, and then—a pre-taped statement, because the current shot cannot express this man’s essence.
He is dressed in what appears to be—what is—a black graduation gown with a hand-stitched white collar. His coppery hair is gelled, and curls upward like flames. “There are three signs of demonic possession,” Exorcist says. His voice is a grating, self-important tenor. He pokes his index finger toward the ceiling and continues, “Abnormal strength, like a little girl overturning an SUV, which I’ve seen.” A second finger flips up to join the first. “A sudden understanding of languages the individual has no right knowing. Latin, Swahili, what have you.” Three fingers. “Having knowledge of hidden things…like a stranger’s name or what’s locked in a safe you’ve got no reason to know about.” He retracts his fingers, reaches down the neck of his robes, and pulls out the golden cross. “Aversion to the sacred is a given, of course. I’ve seen flesh smoke at the touch of the cross.” He rubs his thumb tenderly along the charm. “I’m not an official exorcist, just a layman doing the best I can with the tools I got. By my reckoning, I’ve sent three true demons from this mortal plane, and I’ve helped some two dozen folks who thought they were possessed banish an inner demon of a more metaphorical nature.” He smiles and there’s something in his eyes—some will think he doesn’t believe himself, that he’s playing a part; others will think he’s truly delusional; a special few will see their own reality in the one he’s projecting.
“It’s my calling,” he says.
In the field, Exorcist huffs, rubs some sweat from his brow with his sleeve, and stands. He looks ordinary enough here, but he’s been cast as the wild card, the one whose antics will be used for filler as necessary, and to test the patience of the other contestants. He knows this, has embraced this. He is counting on viewers appreciating the brand of crazy he does best. His uniqueness will be revealed to the others in about an hour, and each and every one of the other contestants will have a thought—not an identical thought, but close enough—a thought along the lines of: I have to be in the woods with this nutjob for how long?