Page 71 of The Most Dangerous Games

They step down onto the ground.

They have arrived at the point from which they will embark across a valley considered to be the lowest and driest and hottest point in North America, especially in the summer.

Which this is.

When Jimmy is outside, the heat hits him so swiftly and violently that it nearly knocks him down. And he’s only gone a few feet, not the miles he’ll soon be forced to walk underneath the brutal desert sun.

Alek sways slightly, then steadies.

“It’s a death march,” she says, voice flat.

They’re standing at a marked start line with an ugly view: endless pale dirt, rippling heat, distant dunes that look fake because nothing in nature should feel that hostile.

A black-clad driver gestures them into formation. No talking. No questions.

Then The Host’s voice comes from a speaker mounted on a truck. “Welcome to Death Valley,” The Host says. “Today, you learn what your body does when the mind begs it to stop.”

Jimmy looks around for water. Coolers. Bottles. Anything.

There’s nothing.

The Host continues, “You will walk eight miles to the dunes and eight miles back. Sixteen miles in all, there and back. Your primary sightline will be Telescope Peak in the distance.”

A murmur runs through the pod. Not panic yet. But close.

“No carried water,” The Host says. “However—”

Everyone leans in slightly, instinctively.

“—there are three caches,” The Host continues. “Buried. Marked only by coordinates that will appear on your screens . . . one at a time . . . if you earn them.”

Jimmy looks down. Their phones are gone, but each of them has a small screen clipped to their backpack strap—simple. Locked. GPS arrow. Heart rate. Temperature.

The Host adds, “The quicker you move, the more information you receive. The slower you move, the more you suffer.”

Jimmy exhales through his nose.

Of course.

Alek glances at him. “So, it’s a puzzle,” she says.

“It’s insane to do this under any conditions,” Jimmy says to Alek. “But it’s criminal to be asked to do it without water.”

“A death march,” Alek says again.

The pod breaks into smaller groups—three teams of four for this location, making it harder to draft, harder to protect each other, easier to fracture.

Jimmy’s team is called out:

Jimmy. Alek. Carlos Lopez.

And then the fourth: Marcelo Oliveira.

“I’m going to be with you every step,” Jimmy says. “You know our deal.”

“I have to trust you,” Alek says. “And I definitely do.”

“Today more than ever.”