It had been easy to find Trip’s campsite. She’d moved her own twice to avoid being discovered, and it was a puzzle why none of the others seemed to care if they were found. The producers had suggested the possibility of working together, but Cam didn’t see the point. Cooperation would only prolong the show, and while Cam figured she could last at least until spring, even plant a garden before then, she’d rather not be out here for a whole year.
Trip’s camp was a disaster, with clothes strewn around the shelter where they’d get soaked if it rained, and cooking pots left out next to a haphazard fire pit. He hadn’t even washed them. They were encrusted with bits of seaweed, and the place smelled of sweat and ashes. Looking around, she figured he’d been gone for over a day. With some luck, he wouldn’t be back before sundown, and then she could stay at least overnight. Better yet, maybe he’d already tapped out.
She explored the camp, considering what she could do to make him quit. He was no survival expert, that was clear. A book of matches was soaked from the rain. Why bring a book of matches out here anyway, when a flint was more practical? She didn’t need to push Trip to leave the game, she could simply rely on his own incompetence.
She checked the shelter, although without much hope. It was simple, just a large blue tarp draped over a point of slanted logs. It was dark inside, especially compared to the sunny outdoors. The shadows cleared as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and her gaze fell on a crumpled wrapper with red lettering. She squinted, trying to comprehend what she was seeing, realizing it had been weeks since she’d seen anything so bright. Living in the woods, she’d grown used to the soft greens, grays, and browns, with sometimes a vivid blossom tucked into a tree root. The writing on the wrapper was the color of supermarkets and TV ads, with the garish cheerfulness of kids’ lunchboxes. The lettering said OATMEAL CREME PIES. Cam was so distracted by the color, so confused by how out of place it was, that it took her several moments to examine the rest of the place.
“What the . . .” she murmured, dimly aware that one of her Skym’s minicams had ducked inside with her. It focused on her face, with her mouth dropping open, like a parody of someone too stunned to finish a sentence.
The place was stocked.
A box of oatmeal pies sat to her left, the picture on it showing the familiar crinkled cookies held together by white icing. Cam grabbed the box. There was only a single package left. She squeezed it, denting the cookies so the filling oozed out the sides. She stuffed it into her pocket while scanning the shelter, realizing that the empty box of cookies was just the beginning.
Trip’s shelter was littered with discarded food wrappers and plastic forks. There was another unopened box of oatmeal pies like the squashed one in her pocket, a bag of candy bars, and six bottles of a blue sports drink.
Had he been allowed to bring snacks?
None of it made sense.
A low hum sounded from over the ridge—a Skym. It overlapped with the sound of the remaining four cameras of her own Skym hovering outside, waiting for her and the fifth cam to emerge from the tent.
Someone was coming.
As the noise of the Skym grew louder, Cam’s instinct was to stuff her pockets before running to hide. But her own Skym was still out there, visible to anyone heading into the camp. She needed it to follow her into the trees and hide before she was discovered.
Spinning around with a muttered curse, she left the tent. Her Skym swooped behind as she dove to crouch under the ferns. The sound of footsteps came from the rocks on the other side of the camp. A layer of spongy leaves cushioned her feet in the dirt.
She’d assumed that Trip had returned, but she was wrong. The fanlike ferns rippled into themselves, leaving enough space for a view of a girl approaching, her Skym drifting several feet in front of her. Cam had seen her before while scouting.
She looked rough—her clothes faded with dirt, stains mottling the fabric, soot across smooth, dark-skinned cheeks. Cam supposed she didn’t look any better herself. She hadn’t worried much about what she looked like on the camera footage. The producers would do what they wanted with it in any case. For the first week she’d scrubbed her face with sand and water, done what she could, but after a while it seemed like wasted effort. It was actually pretty funny. She used to put on makeup and topknot her hair just to go to the convenience store on the corner. Now she was on display for millions of people and she couldn’t even be bothered to wipe dirt off her nose.
The girl searched the site much as Cam had just done, and Cam tensed, thinking about the treasure trove she was about to find. Cam cursed again under her breath.
The girl picked up the ruined matches Cam had discarded, inspected them for a moment, and then tossed them into the fire pit.
The girl’s posture was strong and confident. She wore a nose ring, and a blue bandana covered most of her black, pink-streaked hair. Her mouth turned down in concentration and her lips flattened into a straight line as she poked around the camp.
Cam abandoned her crouch and sat in the dirt. The ferns tickled her neck and she picked at the leaves until she had cleared a space. She brushed a spider from the cuff of her socks. It looked like she’d be there a while.
The girl continued her search. She scraped a fingernail over the discarded cooking pot, flicking off dried green bits before tossing it aside, and then she headed toward the shelter.
Cam shifted position, anxious at the prospect of hiding while the competition stole what she thought of as hers. She consoled herself with the knowledge that at least if the girl took the stuff, Trip was out of luck, and then most likely out of the game. He wouldn’t last long without his comforts. He hadn’t even smuggled energy bars, but candy, which was the stupidest thing she could think of. She had no idea how he’d snuck them in. Their luggage had been searched, along with their clothes and supplies. Maybe he’d bribed someone. He was certainly rich enough.
A noise came from deep in the trees, and Cam searched the brush for movement. There was nothing, only some spiderwebs. The longer she stared, however, the more the woods seemed to move, the branches tangling into knots. A chill scurried down her spine that had nothing to do with the wintery air. Sometimes it seemed the emptiness at her back had a presence, like hands moments away from brushing her skin before she turned around and they vanished into the vines. This place didn’t feel quite right. If she listened hard, past the rustling leaves and twittering birds, she heard a sound like the woods whispering to her, voices just out of reach—but the whispers were never loud enough to make out the words.
She’d swear sometimes it sounded like her name called through the darkness: Cam, Cam, Cam . . .
She shoved the feeling aside. It was only her own spooked mind, of course. She’d grown up in the city and wasn’t used to the wilderness.
Cam reached in her pocket and touched the oatmeal-pie wrapper, her fingertips running across the smooth plastic. She should save it until she really needed energy from the calories. In the past three weeks, it was the hunger that had surprised her the most. It’s not like she thought craft services would show up with ham sandwiches out here. She’d been prepared. In the two weeks of survival training before the show officially started, she’d gone on treks and missed a meal now and then, been resigned to the freeze-dried ziti, feeling like she’d just as soon eat it cold as cook it over the fire. The stuff was mushy and flavorless, worse than any high-school cafeteria, but out in the woods, after a twenty-mile hike, with her stomach grumbling, it’d been a four-star meal. Now that she was on her own, Cam figured she’d be fine. Sure, sometimes she was weak, mostly in the mornings, when she’d lie on her bed of logs feeling like her limbs had somehow turned to bricks.