by Rick Jones
In the back, Scholl looked unimpressed.
“Now,” Haynes pressed on, “you’ll have a few days to get to know each other, to bond. This is essential, since you’ll be looking out for each other’s backs. As you already know, the valley can be quite inhospitable, and the obstacles very much alive and extremely dangerous. All of you, and I do mean all of you, will be given the tools to succeed. We don’t just open the gates and throw you out into the valley. There’s no sport in that. You’ll be given a map, food, water, and weapons, both firearms and blades, such as machetes. So everyone, and I do mean everyone, will have the means to succeed.”
Still, no one spoke. The hall remained as silent as a sepulcher.
“I want to thank you all for your services,” said Haynes in closing. “And please prepare yourself mentally. Mental preparation is just as important as physical preparation. It might even be more important. So remember: chance always favors the prepared mind.” He started to walk off the stage, waving. “Thank you. And have a good rest of the day.”
And then he was gone.
Chapter Eight
For the rest of that day and the better part of the following day, the twelve-member team was corralled into an elegant ballroom, large and spacious with tables of baked meats and delicious fruits; an assortment of top-end wines, red and white; and incredible floral designs.
People congregated. People talked. People mingled and got to know one another on a personal level.
There was Cheryl Dalton, late twenties, brunette with eyes the color of newly-minted pennies. Like Ben, she was from York and came from an oppressed neighborhood.
Then there was Pam Scholl, very vociferous, a talker who liked to speak her mind and say her piece, no matter the consequences from the fallout of her words.
Jayne Mansfield, obviously named after the actress of ages past, and someone her father adored, had no physical resemblance whatsoever to the real starlet. Unlike other cast members, she was slightly overweight with a paunch, and appeared socially awkward who only got along with a young man by the name of Neil Tanner, another fellow member who was socially clumsy, who had doughy features and skin that was as naturally pale as the underbelly of a fish. But life always had a way of bringing like people together, which made Peter Haynes very happy when he witnessed this over the monitor screens. Romeo and Juliet, he considered, who would have a very tragic ending before they even got out of the gates. He would show television audiences all over the planet the promising relationship between them, like a Montague and a Capulet, two people alone who didn’t fit in with the worlds of their families, thereby forcing them to create a world of their own by fostering a passion so deep, it would definitely make for great TV.
And Haynes had chosen them specifically for these roles to elicit drama and passion, and then he would steal it away, causing audiences to gasp and feel sorrow. As a creator of dramatic arts, Peter Haynes knew that creating a good drama was always about stimulating emotions. He had always loved Romeo and Juliet and the tragedy that followed. He would use this theme to his advantage, and turn Jayne Mansfield and Neil Tanner into stars.
Then there were the athletic types, those with little body fat with lean muscle tone. Jerald Hughes, Bryon Sommers, and Dale Amici made friends quickly, quickly becoming a clique.
Those less inviting were two hard-looking mates with rough features, those who appeared to have been oppressed for far too long and suffered innumerable pain through their entire lives, and who had no want of need of anyone else. One was Darius Albright, an African-American. The other was an Asian, Suki Yakamoto, who appeared silent and stoic and constantly checked his surroundings with eyes that darted from one side to the other in their orbital sockets. And like Albright, Yakamoto kept to himself.
The last two females, both beautiful and both dynamically built to be superior athletes, were either in their teenage years, or at least on the cusp of being twenty, and were sisters, the resemblances to one another very strong. Michelle and Daniella Fergusson—both young, giddy, and still stupid.
But in the end, no one spoke of their crimes.
And in the end, Peter Haynes nodded in agreement as to what he was watching on screen.
Though it was important to create camaraderie, he also wanted diversity. And there was no better crew than this, he considered.
He definitely had chosen his cast members well.
There was strength and weakness, beauty and sexuality, courage and anger, and a sense of community versus a sense of apartness. He had everything with this group.
And in the confines of his office as he watched the TV screens, Peter Haynes smiled.
Chapter Nine
On the day that the gates were to be opened, the team of twelve was marched through a stadium filled to capacity, that of nearly 80,000 seats. Cheers and fireworks went off in celebration, the sky lighting up in reds and oranges and yellows, and in blues and greens and flaring white, the colors vibrant, even against a daylight sky.
The players marched from one end of the stadium to the other wearing the required beige jumpsuits, their attires fresh and clean and without a trace of a smudge or stain. When they reached the big screen at the north end of the stadium, they halted, regimentally stood their ground, and waited as required.
When the face of Peter Haynes showed up on the screen, cheers became riotous, and more fireworks capped off the moment. On screen Peter waved, his screen image moving from left to right as if he was scanning the audience with appreciation, the man smiling and taking in the praises with absorption a moment before he finally raised his hands begging them to stop, when, in actuality, he really wanted more.
When the cheering finally did subside, his screen image looked squarely into the stadium and be began to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “welcome to another season of . . . The Valleeeeeeeeeey!”
The crowd erupted once again, causing Ben to roll his eyes.
When the noise quieted to an acceptable level, Haynes began to speak.
“Ladies and Gentleman, what you see before you are the dregs of dregs. The scum of the Earth.” When Haynes pointed an accusing finger at the twelve, the crowd began to boo. “Killers, thieves, rapists, muggers, whores, dope pushers and pimps, the vilest creatures that society has to offer. And here they stand before you.”
More boos.
“Ladies and gentlemen, for this season of The Valley, I would like to introduce to you the cast of characters.”
Haynes’ image quickly disappeared, only for the image of Cheryl Dalton to take its place. The photo on the screen was in the format of a mugshot, with Cheryl looking less than pleased. To the side was a laundry list of crimes from prostitution to possession, with the last crime being embezzlement from an elderly woman, taking her entire fortune that she had accumulated over a lifetime of hard work, causing this sweet old lady to be tossed into the streets and to the shelters.
The audience booed.
“None of those things ever happened,” said Cheryl. “I didn’t commit one crime they have posted on that board. Not one.”
Suki Yakamoto turned to her. “So what you’re saying is that you’re innocent?”
“To those crimes—yes!”
Yakamoto lifted the edge of his lip into a wry grin. “Yeah, lady, sure. We’re all innocent here.”
The next was Ben Peyton. His list of crimes amounted to raping and murdering children.
“Are you kidding me?!” he yelled. “Are you serious?! That isn’t true!”
Cheryl turned to him. “Same with me. What are you in for?”
“Providing Welfare in the First Degree. You?”
“Failure to Appear in Court on a case that regarded someone else named Cheryl Dalton on a Theft Under $250 dollars charge, a misdemeanor. I pled my case but the court didn’t want to hear my side. The judge just slammed the gavel and sentenced me to Prime Time.”
“You got sentenced on an FTA?”
“On a case that wasn’t even mine.
”
Ben nodded disapprovingly. “There’s something seriously wrong with our system. And someone needs to be held accountable.”
But not everyone listed on the board was as innocent or had their charges trumped up. At least not in the cases of Albright and Yakamoto, both murderers. But in the case of Albright, he was a serial killer with seventeen kills to his credit. More so, he appeared proud when his crimes were posted, puffing his chest out with macho enthusiasm, the action bringing on a chorus of jeers from the crowd.
When the introduction and character assassination was over, Haynes’ image returned to the screen. “That’s right, everyone! What we have before you are the bottom of the barrel when it comes to any lack of humanity! There is no worse scum on the face of this planet! Even Satan would turn them away because he does not want the competition as to who shall rule in Hades!”
The crowd was becoming amped.
“But . . .”
The crowd began to ‘aww,’ knowing what Haynes was going to say next.
“Buuuut,” he continued, “we here at the studios of Prime Time feel that all people are deserving of a second chance at life! We believe in salvation!”
“AMEN!” yelled the crowd.
“We believe in redemption!”
“AMEN!”
“We believe that the souls of all men and women can be changed when challenged with matters regarding life and death!”
“AMEN!”
“And we believe in these twelve individuals who stand before you.” Hayne’s then paused for obvious dramatic effect. Then: “They shall redeem themselves not only in the eyes of God, but also in the eyes of the law! And they will do so by crossing . . . the Valleeeeeeeeeey!”
The crowd was going crazy, shouting and stomping their feet.
“Let the challenge begin!” Haynes said.
A battalion of heavily-armed soldiers surrounded the twelve individuals, then ushered them to the far side of the arena toward the gates that led into the valley.
The crowd was on their feet, their screams at a crescendo as they whipped themselves into a frenzy, like sharks smelling blood in pools of water.
Ahead stood the gates leading into the valley. Tall metal doors. And they began to part with the slowness of a bad dream upon their approach.
When the doors opened all the way with a clang of metal that sounded so final, a hush suddenly came over the crowd. Nothing could be heard with the exception of an occasional cough somewhere high in the seats.
An officer geared in composite body armor, helmet, and manning an assault weapon, pointed the gun’s tip toward a concrete corridor beyond the doors. “Move.” Apparently his lip mic was linked into the main audio system. When he spoke, the stadium speakers annunciated his command.
Everyone in the stadium was tuned in for what was about to come next.
When they entered a concrete corridor that was more like a channel of a wash, the doors started to close with the same horrible slowness, until they locked shut.
Three soldiers stood sentinel with their weapons directed to kill. The one in the middle of the three was the speaker commanded to deliver orders and instructions.
Ben looked down the channel, as did everyone else. At the end was a second set of doors. In front of those doors was a cache of twelve backpacks, all fully loaded with the necessary gear to survive the journey.
Most disturbing, however, were the several charred bodies lying at channel’s end, but not quite to the second set of doors. Blackened bodies lay as charred remains with grinning skulls and racks of exposed ribs, along with limbs that had burned with such intensity that the bones of arms and legs had either cracked or snapped under the enormous heat.
The middle officer finally spoke. “This corridor is exactly one hundred yards long. That’s three hundred feet, people. As you can see, at the end of the corridor lies your resources that will aid you in your journey across the valley.”
The words sounded clearly over the stadium’s speakers.
“There are twelve backpacks. One for each of you. Every pack is unique from the other. In one is a map. Without it, you will die. In others there are water, food, and weapons. But not in every pack. If you leave any packs behind, then you may be without the essential good that can keep you alive. So it’s paramount that you take every bag.
“Secondly, your first challenge. You have eighteen seconds to run the channel, reach the doors, and grab the packs. At the end of the eighteen seconds the doors will close, leaving you on this side of the wall.”
“And what happens if we’re stuck on this side?” asked Scholl.
The officer pointed to the charred remains. “A fit person can make the run anywhere between eleven to fourteen seconds. That’s plenty of time to grab a pack and get through the gates. Questions?”
There were none, the instructions clear.
“All right, people,” the officer said with flat emotion. “Line up.”
They did with Romeo and Juliet, Jayne Mansfield and Neil Tanner, holding hands, both feeling the pools of clammy sweat on their palms.
“Along the top edges of the corridor you will see cameras. They will monitor your run from every angle. Above the door at the other end you will see a clock. It will count down from eighteen to zero, with anything under five seconds critical.” Then: “Time Keeper!”
The call was a cue for the time manager to set the clock above the doors, the bright red LED readout set and reading 00:18.
“Eighteen seconds, people. Good luck.” The officer raised his weapon skyward, waited, then pulled the trigger, sending off a short burst.
And then the clock began to count down.
00:17
00:16
00:15
00:14
The journey across the valley had begun.
Chapter Ten
00:17
00:16
Everyone bolted off the line like sprinters, arms and legs pumping.
00:15
00:14
“Move! Move! Move!” Ben cried out in motivation.
Jayne Mansfield and Neil Tanner were lagging behind, the two were slightly overweight and were not quite in as good shape like the others.
00:13
00:12
Above them and sitting along the edge of the wall, the cameras followed their progress down the channel as others began to break away from the pack.
“Those who get to the packs first, grab them and throw them through the gates!” said Ben.
Albright, who was keeping pace, turned to him. And when he spoke, he sound winded. “Who in the hell made you boss?” he asked.
“Those in the rear won’t have time to grab a pack and get through.”
“Then that’s their problem,” said Albright.
“We need those packs!” Ben returned. “All of them!”
Arms pumped, legs strove, and Mansfield and Tanner were falling well behind, hands clutching each other’s.
Ben looked over his shoulder, then at the clock.
00:11
00:10
“They’re not going to make it,” he said.
Albright: “Who?”
“Mansfield and Tanner. They’re too far behind.”
00:09
Ben turned and called out to them. “Hurry your asses!” he cried. He could see Mansfield crying. She knows, he told himself. She knows they’re not going to make it.
00:08
Ben was getting close with Albright by his side. The others weren’t too far behind. But Tanner and Mansfield, at the 00:08 mark, had just passed the halfway point with more than half the time already elapsed. The distance for them to take new ground in such little time would be close, if not impossible to achieve.
00:07
The metal doors started to open.
00:06
00:05
Albright reached the packs first, and grabbed two before running through the gates.
Son of a bitch, Ben thought. When he reache
d the packs, he started to pitch them through the gates, one right after the other, until others caught up and helped him.
00:04
The doors started to close.
“The doors,” yelled Michelle Fergusson, “they’re closing!”
“Hurry!” shouted Ben, pitching another backpack through the opening. He turned to see that Mansfield and Tanner had less than thirty yards, and slowing. “Moooove!!!”
Mansfield was sobbing, slowing, then fell to her knees in defeat. Tanner tried to aid her back to her feet. Failed. Pleaded.
00:03
The doors were nearly closed. Everyone was inside the gate with the exception of Ben, who held his hand out pointlessly to Tanner and Mansfield.
Tanner looked at him with paralytic terror, seeing the time winding down with so much ground to cover.
“Beeeen!” It sounded like Cheryl Dalton. “Hurry!”
00:02
There was a tight space between the closing doors, the gap pinching shut.
00:01
And Ben slipped inside, barely, the doors slamming shut with an awful sound.
Ben allowed his head to hang.
Not everyone made it.
Then they heard the screams—the horrible, horrible screams.
#
Jayne Mansfield and Neil Tanner ran as fast as their bodies would carry them. But within seconds they were left behind the pack, the distances between them and the others growing exponentially.
00:15
00:14
00:13
They continued to hold hands, arms swinging in unison, breaths coming hard to them, their lung endurance poor as they sucked in air that was lost to them while in stride.
“We’re not going to make it,” said Jayne, her voice cracking, the reality setting in too soon. “We’re . . . not.”
“Don’t think like that,” Neil told her, huffing and puffing between words. “How bad do you want this? Reach deep, Jayne. Reach deep and we can both do this.”
