Hour 19

The air was saturated with humidity as Emi stepped through the doorway, an instant contrast to the world she had just exited. She felt a jolt of energy as she regained her natural weight, her feet sinking at least an inch into the damp earth she found herself on. Trees towered into the sky around her carving unique shapes into the horizon line as foliage danced in the hot breeze. The air was thick; Emi could feel it weigh down her lungs uncomfortably with each sickening breath. That's when she saw Alex's bag perched on the base of a tree with impressive slabs of bark adorning its circumference. She ran to it but only found the bag itself resting on the remains of his clothes along with his phone, his physical body lost forever. She checked his phone frantically but found it was dead. Left with just the immediate material he had worn as her only memory of him she felt fresh tears begin to lubricate her eyes and headbutted the tree to stop herself. The bark was abrasive against her soft forehead as she reasoned, "I'm in the next game, I can't get emotional." She packed his empty clothes and useless phone into his bag, a part of her unable to let go, and proceeded onwards with it draped on her shoulder. Before she could get her bearings, even begin to discern where she was, her phone rang. It was then she became aware of the uncanny chimera echo of different ringtones all around her. She didn't want to answer it, couldn't bear to hear that repulsive voice again, but she knew she had to. She answered, and the voice said, "Out of the 195 recognized counties in the world, 136 have earned a representative. Each of the 136 players will be broken up into 45 groups of 3; each person will get a number between 1 and 45, meaning there will be 2 others with the same number that are part of your unit. If anyone on your team dies even before you meet them, it's game over, and you die as well. Emi thought, "Those numbers don't add up; 3 teams of 45 make 135." As if to answer her critique, the voice added, "Astute participants will already have deduced 3 x 45 equals 135, and there are currently 136 players. This means there will be a lone player, a wild card that operates alone. Instead of receiving a text message with a number for what team they're on, they will receive a W." As Emi observed that she had been texted the number "14," she was beginning to become all too familiar with the anger that was settling in her chest, a burning red-hot ire directed at all these arbitrary rules. The voice carried on with its explanation, "In this game, you will take part in a 3-mile race through the dense jungles of Borneo. You have been texted a map that will act as your guide." Emi looked at her phone and saw a map that showed her current location and where she presumably had to go: a large green circle on bumpy, forested topography 3 miles south indicating victory. The voice disclosed, "Each person that makes it to the designated spot will cause the win area to shrink, making it a slightly longer distance for the next person to reach. With each person that passes, the remaining will have to run that much farther as the winning circle grows smaller and smaller. If 30 of the 45 teams pass, the winning circle will disappear, and all remaining players will die. Feel free to kill your competition, or work together in your new team of 3. Be warned, you can still be killed after reaching the winning zone if someone on your team hasn't reached it yet and is killed, you will only be safe if your entire team makes it. Though you all hail from different regions and many speak different languages, get someone's number and call them, and your phone will let you understand them in real-time; it will be your translator."

"The race beings now. Good luck."

Emi heard a stampede of movement through the brush, and she started forward herself, unsure of what she was doing. She was still trying to compartmentalize all the new information but knew she had to start moving; her muscles were acting faster than her brain could. She naturally tried to stay on solid ground, but there was no path to look for or trail to follow, just an unbroken jungle floor that was incredibly taxing to run on. A scream reverberated through the trees far off to her left, and then a gunshot in the distance to her right ricocheted its explosive sound through the plant life. Her attention was stolen from these distractions and her focus was not on her path; her foot twisted off a jutting root as she painfully lost her balance and fell face-first into the soggy earth. She pushed herself back up, tasting the bitterness of dirt and feeling its grit between her teeth, and forced herself to keep pushing forward. Even though the sun had already set when she was on the football field an hour or so ago, it was now blazing in a kaleidoscopic rotation of colorful heat through the treetops. Her clothes were taut on her skin, her sweat acting like an industrial adhesive cementing them in place. She could no longer tell the natural jungle sounds apart from the other participants and had no way of telling who or what was around her. She thought, "This would be so much easier if the map showed me where my teammates were." Her thoughts paused, then lingered, "Teammates..." She thought of Alex and felt lonely all of a sudden. She could always talk to him through these ridiculous circumstances, but now she only had her own thoughts and the sounds of the jungle to keep her company. She felt tears try to propagate again but she was too dehydrated to cry anymore, something else to worry about. She was just about to assess how much water was left in Alex's bag when suddenly, the distinct pattern of human shoes splattered through the spongy earth to her left. She stopped mid-sprint, balancing herself on a prickly tree, and had just enough time to see a figure cut through the humid mist in front of her. He appeared to be an older Caucasian man, was at least 6 inches taller than her, and 50 or 60 lbs heavier than her. His greying hair was slicked back in a grease of sweat and his skin glistened majestically in the unwavering sun. He wore a thin white T-shirt that clung in a form-fitting manner to his skin, allowing only his thickest chest hairs to poke through in grey swirls. He also wore black shorts, no doubt absorbing the sun's rays, only increasing the heat his body endured. His large, intimidating aura was offset strangely by his tired and empty eyes, eyes that seemed to be searching for something that they had long given up on finding. He put his hands up when he noticed Emi and the handgun strapped to her belt, something she hadn't been expecting. As he did so, she noticed his girthy hand wore a wedding ring. Her heart wanted to soften, but she kept it hard as steel; she still couldn't trust anyone here. He tried to talk to her, his coarse beard glinting a reflective silver in the sun as he spoke, "Voda... Mozhno mne vypit?" She couldn't understand him of course; it was a guttural and rough speaking pattern she was unfamiliar with. For a split second, she thought, "German?" Then she corrected herself, "No, definitely some kind of Russian." He took a step towards her, but before she could react defensively, he collapsed to a knee, digging a hefty imprint in the ground beneath him. His fall didn't appear a premeditated ruse, the pain pulling at the corners of his mouth real. He spoke again, "Sem, tri... Vosem." then, he coughed. She didn't understand what he was trying to convey and he understood that as he looked at her with a palpitation of gloom in his cheeks. His right hand fell to the pliable ground as he drew something into the moist dirt with his broad fingers. She recognized what he was doing as his shaky index finger carved: "7 3812 678-78-93." She dialed it, making sure to keep an active eye on him while she did, and his phone rang in front of her. He slowly picked it up, and as she witnessed him answer, it was a surreal experience. She couldn't understand the man in front of her, but she understood him perfectly on the phone. He spoke gruffly in a low voice, "Water... Can I please have something to drink?" She hesitated, she had become so used to raging threats that someone begging for help didn't compute at first. He sat back on a tree and closed his eyes, his breathing quick and deep. Then, before she could make a decision, his head fell limply forward. At first, she thought he might've died, but he continued to breathe. She was still weary of the situation, though it didn't feel like a trap anything was possible. She checked his pockets for weapons but found none, only a wallet with a foreign ID she couldn't read and money she couldn't identify. She took his phone and checked it to find by some insane stroke of good luck he had the number 14 texted to him, meaning he was part of her team. She decided she clearly had to help him.

From a sturdy branch high in the dense canopy, a man with tan skin and curly black hair watched them. He had a scar on his upper lip and held a machete glazed with dry blood securely in his lap. The phone tucked in his pocket indicated he had been texted "W."