For a long moment, the only sound is Waitress’s sniffling, the only movement her wiping her nose with her wrist. Then Rancher says, “Do we have to…verify that it’s him?” Zoo and Waitress stare at him, then Zoo says, “Yes.”
Rancher leads the way down a short switchback. The actor who played Timothy Hamm is long gone. In his place, a gussied-up dummy lies at the base of the cliff, its limbs twisted, a parody of death. The dummy is dressed as the actor was and surrounded by a pool of liquid crimson. It’s facedown and wearing a wig, which is split at the side and leaking pink jelly. Latex skin is adorned with gross wounds and a plaster bone juts through the side of one knee.
Waitress’s gentle tears explode into wild crying panic. Zoo looks up and thinks, even if the man had fallen for real, the drop isn’t far enough to cause this much damage. Rancher turns away from them both, and from the bloody dummy, crouching with hands on knees. Zoo watches him as he removes his hat and says, “Lord, hear our—”
Zoo’s face is drawn, her lip shaking just slightly. Neither of her teammates is doing what needs to be done, so she approaches. She steels herself as best she can, telling herself it doesn’t look real, it isn’t real. “It’s just a prop,” she whispers, inching closer. Her whole body is shaking now as she reaches toward the artificial corpse. She searches the fleece pockets first—empty. Then she sees the square lump in the dummy’s back pocket. She’s trying to stay outside the red pool, but she can’t reach. She edges her foot closer, into the red. She sneaks her fingers into the pocket and grabs the wallet, then steps quickly away. Waitress is still crying. Zoo opens the wallet and sees a driver’s license: Timothy Hamm.
“How could you?” says Waitress. It takes Zoo a moment to realize she’s talking to her.
“Excuse me?” she asks, turning.
“How could you get so close?” asks Waitress. Her voice is a mire of fear and awe, but there is something else in it—at least to Zoo’s ear. Disappointment. Accusation?
“This happened because of you,” Zoo says. Her voice is tight, angry, and not very loud. “You and your stubbed toe, whining and delaying like you’re the only one who’s ever felt pain.”
Waitress is shocked, as are Rancher and the cameraman. The producers will be shocked too, and the editor, who will work so hard to explain away this moment. But there is at least one viewer who won’t be shocked: Zoo’s husband. He knows this secret competitive side of her, her impatience for wallowing and delay. He also knows how fear can turn her mean.
Waitress knows only that she is being attacked. “You’re crazy,” she says. “I only stopped for like a minute. This isn’t my fault.”
“A minute?” says Zoo, furious and quiet. “By your reckoning we’ve been in these woods what, then, an hour? If that was a minute, I’ll quit right now. You ought to quit; you’ll never win, and you’d spare those of us who actually try from being dragged down with you, you fucking bimbo.”
She stares down Waitress, waiting for a retort that isn’t coming, then turns and stalks off into the trees. Waitress and Rancher watch her go, wide-eyed. The cameraman is grinning. He’s so happy he forgets the discomfort that’s been nipping the lining of his belly all day. When Zoo returns a few minutes later, he hopes for more.
“I’m sorry,” says Zoo. “I didn’t mean to…”
Waitress won’t meet her eyes.
But that night while the second episode of In the Dark airs and viewers gasp or laugh as Waitress tackles Exorcist over a pot of rice, Waitress sits with a cameraman and responds to Zoo via confessional: “There’s something messed up about being so nice all the time, all smiles and helpfulness, then exploding like that. I don’t really care about what she said, I’ve been called a lot worse than a bimbo, but I’m not going to be trusting her again. I mean, at least Randy’s up-front about being ass crazy. You know what you’re going to get with him. I’d rather deal with that than someone so fake.”
Zoo’s eyes are bloodshot behind her lenses, the sky above her full dark. “What can I say?” she asks the camera. “You guys got to me and I took it out on her. Yeah, I do think she’s the reason we lost, but I shouldn’t have…I just shouldn’t have.” She sighs and glances toward the stars. “It’s been what, a little over a week? If this is a sign of the direction this whole thing is moving in, I’m…well, I’m nervous.” She looks back to the camera. “But you know what? It’s not real. I know I’m not supposed to say that and you’ll just edit it out, but that guy jumping off the cliff, and that prop at the bottom? It’s all just part of the game. As long as I keep that in mind, I’ll be fine, no matter how twisted things get. And if everyone watching this learns that I can be a jerk sometimes, well, I can handle that too.”
She stands. The final shot of the show’s third episode will be of her walking away, returning to a fire viewers will not have seen her build. This is Zoo’s final confessional.
19.
Brennan whispers, “Who is it?”
“How should I know?” I say. My fear has thickened to anger. I should have known better than to relax—I did know better—and now they have another clip, another moment I will never be able to live down. What’s worse, I don’t know what to do next.
What do they want me to do? Answer the knock. It was a knock, after all.
“Should we leave?” asks Brennan.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “It’s dark out. And I don’t think they’ve found the window, otherwise they wouldn’t be knocking on the shutter.” I curse myself even as I say this; what better sound bite could I have given them? They’ll play it, then immediately cut to someone standing under that window, looking up.
“How do they know we’re here, Mae?”
“I don’t know, we weren’t being quiet. And maybe some smoke got out.” No, they were told. They were in a van playing pinochle as the sun went down, waiting for their moment.
“What do we do?” Brennan asks. All he has are questions.
“Let’s pack up,” I tell him, because I’m supposed to play along, aren’t I? “Quietly. Let’s wait this out and be ready to move.”
He nods and we both turn back to the fire and our packs. I’m shoving potatoes and onions into mine when the crashing knock sounds again. This time, I think I also hear a voice. I look toward the front of the store, again. I don’t see anything, again. Next thing I know, I’m walking toward the registers.
An urgent whisper from behind, “Mae!”
“Shh,” I tell him. “I want to hear what they’re saying.”
Funny, I keep saying—and thinking—they. It seems indisputable that there’s more than one person outside. Maybe because the sound is so large, so intrusive.
I creep to the front of the store and through a shadowy checkout aisle. As I reach the bagging area, there’s another bang. I sense the metal shutters shimmying with contact. A voice, masculine and muddled. The only word I’m certain I hear is “open.” Whoever they are, they want in.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s not they, but he. Someone I know. Cooper in another moment of enough. Julio, seeking company after an age alone. The Asian kid, hardened by experience.
Bang.
“Open up!” The words come through clearly this time, and I recognize the voice. It’s a showman’s tenor, ringing with bravado. Randy. I’m amazed. Aggravating others is his oxygen; how did he make it through Solo?
“I know you’re inside!” Bang. “Let us in!” Bang. Bang.
“Sorry, Randy,” I whisper. I wish there were a peephole, so I could see what he looks like after the last few weeks. I envision him holding a torch, flames lighting his wild hair and glittering off his tacky necklace. He’s probably dressed entirely in squirrel tails by now.
Wait.
He said us. I was right; it is a they. Randy isn’t alone.