He’s the cameraman.
There’s a camera in his watch, and who knows where else—his belt buckle, hidden in the stitching of his sweatshirt. Mics too. He’s the opposite of Wallaby—chatty and obtrusive—which means that he’s not only here to record, he’s also a Challenge. They’ve made him seem young and helpless, but he’s not. Every action, every word, is part of the world they’re creating. Because he’s not just a cameraman; they’ve allowed him a name.
After I finish eating I go off to pee. When I return, Brennan’s sneakered feet are poking from his worthless shelter. He’s snoring and I hate him for it. I step on a twig. It snaps and he doesn’t wake. I think about the flashlight in my bag. I could leave him. I wouldn’t even have to go far, an hour or two of walking and he would never find me again. But no—this isn’t like what Randy did; they would help him. He’s a piece, not a player, and it seems they want him with me. Even so, I’m tempted, just to make their jobs harder, to make this kid feel a fraction of what I have felt. In the end, however, I decide sleep is more important than petty vengeance. I slip into my shelter and pull my pack in after me. I’m tired enough to fall asleep despite Brennan’s snorts and wheezes.
A scream wakes me, late. A baby, a beast, my fears crash around me. I thrash against them, but after a panicked few seconds realize I’m not being attacked. The sound’s gone. Heart thumping, I crawl outside. I see Brennan shivering, his knees pulled against his chest. He cries out, quick and sharp. The scream was his and he’s still asleep, or pretending to be.
Solo Challenge obstacle number one thousand thirty-seven: putting up with a stranger’s night terrors. Great.
My adrenaline won’t allow me to go back to sleep. I sit by the exhausted fire, poking the ashes with a stick as I watch the night. A bat skitters across the sky and I think of my honeymoon. I remember the warmth of my husband’s arms around me as we sat on the balcony of a lakeside inn three years ago, watching bats at dusk. I remember him sneaking his hand to my hair and landing it there. I remember play-shrieking, dancing away—get it off—and I remember returning to his arms and all that followed. The next day we went swimming in the lake, and when we accidentally stepped on a little girl’s sand rampart, my husband stooped immediately to help repair it. My instinct was simply to stand there thinking, Oh, no.
The balcony. The bats. My husband’s hand in my hair. If he were here with me now, he wouldn’t be able to get his fingers through the snarls. I pull my hood over my hair and stare at the ashes, half blind. I’d give anything to be back there, with him. I’d do anything.
Anything but quit.
In the morning Brennan is bright-eyed, nearly cheerful. Yesterday’s questions become today’s statements. As we walk he tells me about his family, his pet fish—a fighting betta—his school, his basketball team. I don’t ask him about his sweatshirt; I don’t ask him anything, and still he talks for most of the day, babbling like a toddler who’s just discovered speech. He peppers in phrases like “Before everyone got sick” and “This one doctor on TV said…” When he starts in about weaponized Ebola, I nearly crack, nearly yell at him like I did Heather. This is his job, I remind myself. This is why he’s here, to record and to irk. I can’t let him get to me. I tune him out as best I can and keep walking.
That night his screams wake me again, and I think that a pack of hostile robo-coyotes would be preferable to this. But I have to put up with it, with all of it, because he’s the cameraman.
In the Dark—The twist?
The only way off the show is to speak Latin? That’s the twist? Ads had me thinking they’d be cannibals by now. But the maps are kinda cool and the survivalist dude is badass so I’ll give it another episode. Plus the gay kid crying in the woods was hilarious.
submitted 33 days ago by Coriander522
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[-] 3KatRiot 33 days ago
Like most “reality” television, In the Dark is a totally inaccurate depiction of wilderness survival. That map and compass “challenge” would barely qualify as an elementary school field trip. Put any of the cast in a real survival situation and they wouldn’t last a day. Except for Badass Survival Dude. You’re right about him.
[-] Velcro_Is_the_Worst 33 days ago Meh. I could take it or leave it.
[-] LongLiveCaptainTightPants 33 days ago You’re missing the point: all that JUST happened! They’re out there RIGHT NOW! And come on, they’re one episode in. Let them find their footing. Friday’s the first finale (weekly finales? Rad!), at least give it until then. I am.
[-] 3KatRiot 33 days ago
Doesn’t make it an accurate depiction of wilderness survival. Plus they’re shutting down all these public hiking trails and camping grounds to film this joke. This is what’s wrong with America.
[-] LongLiveCaptainTightPants 33 days ago They’re not claiming to provide an accurate depiction of wilderness survival. The show’s not about getting on in the woods, it’s about breaking people—seeing how far each contestant will go before he or she quits. They explicitly said as much after they gave them the safety phrase. And if you want to discuss what’s wrong with America, I’m pretty sure there’s a thread for that here.
[-] HamMonster420 33 days ago You can’t have a “weekly finale.” It’s not a finale if it happens every week.
[-] Velcro_Is_the_Worst 33 days ago Show needs more hot chicks.
[-] EarCanalSurfer 33 days ago I could watch the redhead bend over all day.
[-] Velcro_Is_the_Worst 33 days ago No way, too skinny. It’s remarkable her guts fit inside.
[-] 501_Miles 33 days ago
I like the blonde. She’s got moxie! And a great smile.
[-] Velcro_Is_the_Worst 33 days ago Seriously? I’d choo-choo-choose Boobs over her any day.
[-] CharlieHorse11 33 days ago Where are the acid volcanoes? I DEMAND ACID VOLCANOES!
…
10.
In the morning, the eleven remaining contestants assemble outside the log cabin, murmuring about their missing twelfth. An intern circulates among them, replacing the batteries in their matchbook-sized mic packs. The host steps up. He’s holding a black backpack identical to the one worn by each contestant. A large plastic bucket sits on the ground to his right and a tall wooden post juts toward the sky on his left.
“We have our first casualty,” says the host. He reaches into the pack and pulls out Cheerleader Boy’s knife and pink bandana. He pins the bandana to the post’s midpoint with a violent stabbing motion. A few seconds of shocked silence follow from the contestants, then whispering: “Did he quit?” “You think he got hurt?” “Scared of the dark, I bet.” “Who cares.”
The host commands their attention with an imperial step forward. “And now it’s time to distribute his supplies.” His voice is light and happy, a startling and intentional contrast to his forceful use of the knife. He pulls Cheerleader Boy’s trash bags from the backpack and gives one each to Air Force and Black Doctor. Exorcist steps forward to take the third, but the host turns from him to face the group of contestants who used to be Zoo’s team.
He hands the folded trash bag to Waitress. “He wanted you to have this.”