Page 11 of The Most Dangerous Games

Jack does what he’s told, without hesitation, and a faint warmth from his wristband again, like someone took note.

When their heads are above the water, Jimmy looks at Jack.

“We having fun yet?” he asks.

Up close, it’s different. Jack can see Jimmy is putting on a brave face. But for what? For me, Jack realizes. Jimmy is acting like everything is fine so that anyone he runs into doesn’t give in to fear.

“I’ve had about as much fun for one day as I can handle,” Jack says, gasping for breath.

“We’re going to be fine,” Jimmy says.

“Tell that to the sharks,” Jack says.

I’m out here with the biggest YouTube star on the planet, he thinks, and it feels like the two of us against the world. If he can lead by example, then I can too.

“We stick together,” Jimmy says. “I don’t know the rules yet. But I know this: Alone is how they want us.”

Jack looks to see if the closest shark has gotten any closer.

It hasn’t.

Yet.

“If you say so,” Jack says.

“Big win, there’s no blood in the water,” Jimmy says. “This is their natural habitat, panic is the only enemy we can control. They react to it. So, we don’t give it to them. Even if we have to fake it. We act bold.”

“Got it,” Jack says.

“Then let’s go,” Jimmy says.

“To the island?” Jack asks.

“Nah,” Jimmy says. “We have to pretend to be braver than that!”

He swims directly toward the closest shark.

Jack follows him.

The Red Tents

Somewhere in Ohio 81 Hours Earlier

Steven Noble

7.

They stand in a mowed-down cornfield—flat stalks, torn earth, the sweet-rotten smell of husks. A thousand of them. Men and women from all over the world, packed shoulder to shoulder like they’ve been poured into this place, surrounded by what feels like almost as many red tents.

Too many to count at first glance. Identical. Clean. The red is too bright. Too intentional. The color of a warning. One you can touch.

As soon as they’d arrived at the field, they’d all been given a number. A guard snapped a thin black wristband onto each of them. “For safety,” he said. It didn’t feel like safety.

There are armed guards, dressed in black, carrying what look to be military-style rifles, ringing the field—disciplined, ready. Not quite aiming. Not quite relaxed, either. There’s no shouting, no barking orders. They don’t look like men who expect trouble. They look like men who’ve already been told what trouble will look like, and exactly how fast it ends.

No one knows what’s inside the tents.

And why the guards?