FollowPetra woke as the bus left I-15 and entered Salt Lake City’s downtown. She looked at the clock on her tablet. 4:12 PM. They were only five minutes behind schedule. That wasn’t too bad, she thought. In her experience, buses always ran later than five measly minutes. They also weren’t anywhere as nice and clean as this one, so maybe her experience was limited. She sat up and began getting herself together. She hoped there would be an opportunity to get out and stretch, as well as someplace to get a bite to eat. Her massive breakfast was gone and she had no idea when they’d stop again. Most of all, she had no desire to eat that garbage the show had left her. Here’s hoping, she thought.
Unfortunately, the stop was right in the middle of downtown, with nothing to eat nearby. She would have asked the driver if there was anything nearby, but there wasn’t one. Mass transit tended to be a self-driving these days. There was an information screen up front, but when she accessed it, but it advised against getting off as it could result in the vehicle leaving without her. She went back to her seat, working up the will to eat what the “food” the show had provided. After a few minutes, the bus pulled to a stop and a voice announced that they had arrived in Salt Lake City. No one prepared to get off. After a few moments, the doors opened, and several new riders got on. She had her tablet out and was going over the options for getting from Dillon to Big Hole when someone spoke.
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” The speaker was a woman whose age Petra couldn’t determine. She had the white hair and voice of a grandmother but the dress, and demeanor of an elder goth. She was smiling, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Petra looked around. There were more people on board than when they’d left Beaver, but the bus was nowhere near full and there were plenty of empty seats. She almost said no, but something about the woman intrigued her.
“No, it’s free,” she said. The woman sat down, placing a black tote bag between them. The side next to Petra had a white pentagram stenciled on it and she wondered if the other side featured Baphomet.
“Thank you, dear,” the woman said. “I hate sitting alone. It’s a long, boring trip, and having someone to chat with helps.”
“Of course,” said Petra. The woman held out her hand.
“I’m Craven Stitch, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Petra Brunson.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” the woman said, smiling. “You’re a big celebrity, you know.”
Petra blushed and looked away. Eye contact was something she struggled with at the best of times and this was far from “the best of times.” After a second, she said, “I guess. I’m really not used to all this.”
“Oh my goodness, who would be?” Craven said. “Your face splashed all over the place and everyone knowing who you are? Plus, the stress of a competition with stakes like these? I’m surprised you can function at all.”
Petra felt a flush of embarrassment at the woman’s gushing. Her mother had never been nurturing and whenever someone expressed any degree of parental compassion, she didn’t know how to handle it. She reacted the way she always did. “Oh, it’s not so bad,” she said, playing it off. “It’s just a lot. You know?”
“Well,” the woman said, placing a hand on Petra’s knee, “I wish I could say ‘yes’, but we both know I can’t. No one could unless they’ve been there.” She paused a moment, looking straight ahead. “Are you hungry, dear? I suspect you haven’t had much time to eat.” Craven Stitch was turning out to be everything Petra had wished her mom had been but wasn’t.
“Yeah, getting food has been kind of iffy. Like, I had a huge breakfast this morning, but it’s gone.”
“Well, then,” Stitch said as she dug into her bag, “It’s a good thing I brought this.” She pulled two bento boxes out of her tote. “Would you like ham or tuna salad?”
Petra thought for a moment. “Ham, I think.” The choice wasn’t nearly as hard as she made out since she was particular about tuna salad (she only ate her own). She took the box from the woman, lowered the seatback tray, and opened the box. “Is that homemade bread?”
Craven smiled. “It is. My partner loves to cook and makes all sorts of wonderful things, but her bread is to die for.”
Petra lifted one-half of the sandwich out of the box. “Oh my god, it’s still warm.”
“Yes, she made it and put all this together as a surprise,” Craven said. “She handed me the boxes, and said, ‘I made an extra in case you meet a new friend.'” She laughed softly. “She knows me too well.”
Petra examined the sandwich. A thick slab of ham with mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomato. She couldn’t say for sure but suspected that the lettuce and tomato were garden-fresh and the mayo was homemade. She took a bite and was transported. It was, hands down, the best sandwich she’d ever tasted. Maybe the best food. I am, she reminded herself, fucking ravenous. Stitch interrupted her delight.
“Here you go, dear,” she said, handing Petra a fork. “Can’t have you eating potato salad with your fingers.”
Petra hadn’t even noticed there were other items in the box. She took the fork and scooped up a bite of the potato salad. It was just as good as the sandwich. “Is that a white chocolate macadamia cookie?”
“It is,” Craven said brightly. “They’re my favorite and Sable’s are out of this world. They may be the only thing better than her bread.”
Petra almost took a bite but felt uncomfortable eating dessert first in front of Stitch. That is weird, she thought. It’s not like I ever gave my actual mom that kind of deference. Oh well, everything is so good it doesn’t matter what I eat.
A couple of hours later, after another stop had dropped the bus’s occupancy to a level below what it had been when Petra got on, Stitch said, “I have to admit something, dear.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
The confession caught Petra off guard. “You haven’t?”
Craven shook her head. “No, I haven’t. You see, I have an ulterior motive for being here.”
That sounded a bit ominous, given everything Petra knew about how the show operated. Was this some more of their fuckery? “What do you mean, ‘ulterior motive’?” she asked.
“Well,” Stitch said, drawing it out. “I belong to a group that follows ‘Relative Race’ very closely.” Petra started to say something, but Craven cut her off. “Not in a creepy fan kind of way. More like a we-hate-it-and-want-it-off-the-air way.” Petra, utterly confused, sat there. Stitch went on. “We’re all family members of past contestants and know something that the general public doesn’t.”
“What’s that?” Petra asked, warily. Is this some game the show is running on me, she wondered.
“No one ever actually wins,” the older woman said.
“What do you mean, ‘no one ever actually wins’? They talk about the winners all the time. They do interviews and everything!”
“They’re all actors. Paid performers to make the masses believe there’s a way out of this capitalist hellscape created to wring maximum profit out of everything. All to the benefit of the top .01%.”
“How would not having any winners benefit the super-rich?”
“Well, for one thing, they wouldn’t have to pay out, would they?” Petra reluctantly shook her head. “And then, there’s what happens to contestants and their loved ones.”
Petra’s heart dropped at the mention of Abby. “What happens to us?” she said, slowly.
Craven took a deep breath. “The contestants are auctioned off to various corporations as slave labor. Able-bodied children, meanwhile, are bought by wealthy families. Sometimes as servants, sometimes as breeding stock.”
“You said ‘able-bodied’ children. What about kids like my Abby?”
“If they’re lucky? They’re euthanized. If not, they’re sent to research facilities for experimentation.”
“That can’t be!” Petra snapped. “You’re making this up.” She glared at Stitch. “You’re from the show, aren’t you?” The woman shook her head. “You’re from the show and this is just another sick game, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid not, dear.” Stitch pulled a tablet out of her bag. She logged on and began showing Petra photos, documents, and videos, all backing up her claim. Petra didn’t want to believe it but the evidence was right in front of her and it was incontrovertible.
“Okay,” she said. “Is there anything I can do? Any way I can save Abby?”
“Well,” Stitch said, “There is something but I’m not sure it will accomplish what you want.”
Petra cocked her head. “Try me,” she said. “I’m pretty desperate right now.”
“Help us take down the show.”
Petra sat alone, thinking over what Craven had left when she got off the bus. When Casey was inevitably eliminated (she had two strikes and wouldn’t get the chance Petra did because and the audience required blood), that would leave Petra as the sole contestant. At that point, Hazelton would interview her, offering the chance to either save or doom Casey. When that happened, Petra was to read a speech Craven had written for her that detailed how the show really worked. As she did, the group would take over the feed and broadcast all the evidence Stitch had shown Petra. She thought it was a ridiculous plan, doomed to failure. But while she hadn’t said yes, she also hadn’t said no. She wasn’t sure what to do. Well, she thought, I’ve got a six-hour ride to figure it out.
That six hours hadn’t been enough because she was now in Dillon and still had no idea what to do. At one point, it had occurred to her that Grace would probably know but she had no idea how to contact her. Before getting on the bus back in Beaver she had asked about that.
“You can’t, so don’t worry about it,” she had said.
“What if I need you?” Petra said.
“Okay,” Grace had said, with an exasperated edge, “Remember what I said about me being invisible?” Petra nodded. “The producers would consider a way for you to contact me over the line. You feel me?”
“I guess,” Petra said. “Why does everything have to be so hard?”
“Because the show only works if you’re challenged. You know that.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” Petra said, but her heart wasn’t in it and Grace could tell apparently.
“How about this,” she said, “I’ll check in when you get to Dillon. Okay?”
And now, here she was, standing on a street corner in dinky-ass Dillon, Montana with Grace nowhere to be found. She started walking, hoping that they might find each other. As she walked, she began working on the problem of getting from Dillon to her next destination. It wasn’t going to be easy because the Big Hole Valley was about 75 miles away which meant some form of mechanical transportation. There were no buses and her tablet locked her out of the website of the only rental car agency in town. Just for the hell of it, she clicked the walking icon on the directions page of the map. 27 hours. She was already three and a half days into her allotted seven so that wasn’t a viable option. She was walking along, working on the problem, when a car swerved across the lane and stopped beside her.
“Get in,” Grace snapped, “Quick. We don’t have much time.” Petra ran around and jumped in. The car took off, swinging back across the road to its proper lane.
“Where have you been?” Petra said. “I’ve been looking for you for almost an hour.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Pym replied. “It took me some time to shake surveillance.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Petra said. “I guess that’s what counts.”
“Thank you so much,” Grace said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Your vote of confidence is overwhelming.” Petra opened her mouth to reply but Pym cut her off. “So, how was the bus ride?”
“Interesting,” Petra said. “This woman got on and rode with me for a couple of hours. She told me some wild story about the show.”
Pym’s face clouded up. “Was she an older woman? Dressed like a goth?” Petra nodded. “She give you a name?”
“Craven Stitch.”
“Oh fuck,” Grace said. “What did that bitch tell you?”
“That nobody really wins,” Petra said. “That the previous winners are plants and all the contestants have been sold as slaves.” She paused. “And, she wasn’t a bitch, she was really nice. She even fed me. She was like the mom I wished for as a kid.”
“Oh yeah,” Grace snarked. “She give you a long sad story about how she belongs to a group related to contestants and how they want the show off the air?”
Petra was stunned. “How did you know?”
“Because I’ve had run-ins with her before,” Grace said. “And, she’s not a ‘nice’ motherly type with your best interests at heart, she’s a manipulative cunt who will use you to get what she wants.”
“What does she want?”
“To get “Relative Race” taken off the air,” Pym replied.
“Tha—that’s what she said,” Petra stammered.
“Yeah, the problem here isn’t what she said, it’s her motive. There is no ‘group of relatives’, no one mourning past contestants. Stitch, which is surprisingly her real name, works for StreamBoy, who just happens to be the Umbrella Network’s biggest competitor.” The Umbrella Network (“We’ve Got You Covered”) was the home of Relative Race. “You get it now?”
Petra didn’t “get” it, she was more confused than ever. “But, she had all this evidence! I saw it, Grace.”
“Nice, high-quality video, hi-res photos, testimony, and whatnot?” Petra nodded. “So, you don’t think the number two streaming network in the world would have the capability to fake all that?”
“But why? Why go to all that trouble instead of just making your show better?”
“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Pym laughed. “That’s not how corporations work. They’re all about doing things the easy way and what’s best for the bottom line. Cutting your competition off at the knees is easy and it benefits the bottom line more than anything else.” She paused before adding, “Plus, I think the sick fucks who run things enjoy all that skullduggery shit. Makes them feel smart or something.”
Unconvinced, Petra said, “I don’t know, Grace. I mean, you didn’t see all the stuff she showed me.”
Pym sighed. “Okay, look at it this way: faking winners, selling people into slavery, and all the other wild shit she told you about would mean a massive cover-up, right?”
“Yeah,” Petra said. “But wouldn’t Umbrella have the resources necessary to do that?”
“Probably,” Grace conceded. “But, Relative Race has been on for over 10 years and there’s been no hint of anything like that, has there?” Petra shook her head. “Do you really think they could keep it up for that long without something coming out?”
“True,” Petra said. “So, it’s just bullshit and I can ignore it?”
“I don’t know,” Grace said. “Did you give her an answer?”
“No, she said they’d be monitoring things and when I started the speech, they’d take over the feed and share their evidence.”
“When are you going to get a chance to give the speech?”
“She said that once Casey was eliminated, they’d give me the choice of whether she gets eliminated or can continue,” Petra told her.
“What makes them think Casey will be eliminated?”
“She has two strikes and they won’t give a chance like they did me.”
“Right,” Pym said. “What do you think the odds are that they’ve made the same pitch to Casey?”
“But, I don’t have any strikes,” Petra said. “How would that work?”
“What, you think they’re telling you the truth about that but lying about everything else?”
“Oh,” Petra said. “I didn’t think about it like that. What should I do?”
Grace thought for a moment. “You lay low for a bit while I make a couple of calls. Once I’ve got some more information, we’ll talk again.
“Okay,” Petra replied. “I need to figure out how I’m going to get to Big Hole anyway.” She looked at the tablet’s clock. “But it’s almost midnight. Where am I going to find a place to lay low in this puny little town?”
Grace looked around. “There,” she said, pointing at a brightly lit convenience store called Town Pump. “They’ve got a lounge area, wifi, and hot coffee. What more could you want.”
