Page 44 of The Most Dangerous Games

“In a few moments, we will blow a horn and those of you standing on the beach can follow your maps to begin your journey to the lighthouse,” he says. “If you can make it, of course. I know this might sound harsh: But the show must go on.”

Jimmy’s voice is flat. “Some show.”

Jack finally checks his phone. Jack is leaving from a point on the south side of the mountain, Elena from the north. Jimmy will start out all the way on the other side.

“I’d rather be going with you,” Elena says to Jack.

“You’re tough enough to do this on your own,” Jack says.

“You don’t know that,” she says.

He grins. “I know tough when I spot it.”

“Luca was tough, too,” Elena says quietly.

The horn blows.

Steven Noble

32.

La Montaña Serpiente

As Jack makes his way up the mountain, the heat of the day somehow becomes even more brutal, the humidity even more suffocating, and the pain from the shark bite stings with each step he takes.

In addition to all of that, the trail ahead of him appears to be at a ninety-degree angle, or maybe steeper than that, like he’s pulling himself up a vertical ladder.

Not exactly a stairway to heaven, he grimly tells himself. But at the same time trying to maintain his focus, take in all of his surroundings at once, the trail and the trees and foliage, even the jungle sounds.

He’s already felt a shark’s teeth today. Now he very much wants to make his way up this mountain and back down without feeling the sting of a snake or—worse—the type of spider that killed Luca.

Jack keeps moving anyway.

That’s what he’s always done. Keep moving. Don’t give your brain time to build a story about how this ends.

He keeps his eyes on the trail, on leaves, on the places a snake could hide and look like nothing at all until it’s too late. From the prep reading he’d done, Jack knows to be alert for even the slightest movement, how they can coil and look as innocent—and the same color—as a pile of leaves. He had even watched a 60 Minutes segment on his phone about a reporter who’d traveled to a place called Snake Island off the coast of Brazil. The reporter said at one point, “You have to look anywhere and everywhere. But the key is to keep moving.”

Jack keeps moving despite the pain in his leg, his backpack starting to feel so heavy, like it’s full of rocks.

He doesn’t even stop for water breaks, just grabs his bottle from the pouch on the side of his backpack and takes quick swigs as he goes.

The trail somehow gets steeper, if that’s even possible. Jack has always been good at memorizing maps, having known as a Ranger that making the wrong turn could be the difference between life and death. But he doesn’t know how close he’s getting to the summit, or how long it’s been since he left the beach.

He just keeps going, using a sturdy branch he’d broken off a tree right after he’d started as a walking stick, hoping he won’t need to use it on a snake. Or on one of the gnarly, nasty eight-legged spiders. He’d definitely checked out images of them when they’d been on their way to the airport at Punta Arenas. Some of the spiders were orange, some a deeper shade, almost brown. Some black. But no bigger than the palm of your hand. He’d read they only attacked when threatened.

Then he feels it. A sharp sting above his right knee, hot and precise. The feeling of being stabbed by the point of a sharp knife.

And Jack knows before he looks down.

He knows.

He thinks of a bullet hitting before hearing the gunshot.

He looks down and sees the black spider clearly outlined against his pale, khaki-colored pants.

Don’t panic.

He forces air in, then out. He doesn’t smash it. He flicks it off hard with the back of his hand and watches it vanish into the leaf litter like it was never there.