Chapter 3Her Worst Survival Mistake

Day three brought the overland cargo haul.

Twelve contestants, three teams of four. Each group was tasked with portaging an eighty-pound survival crate across the breadth of the island to the southern beach.

There were two distinct routes.

Route A tracked along the western ridge: four and a half miles of gradual, open scrubland. Easy footing.

Route B sliced directly through the interior basin: just under two miles, but intersecting a deep tidal creek bed that had flooded during the spring storm system three days prior.

At eleven the night before, Walsh crept into my cabin holding a revised call sheet, avoiding my eyes like a guilty child.

"Director Adams... executive leadership reached out. They want to skip the random draw and do designated assignments."

"On what grounds?"

"Miss Pembroke has a mild sunburn. She requested Route A."

I pulled the official competition charter from my binder, flipped straight to page three, and slid it under his nose.

"Clause Twelve: All navigational routes are determined by a blind, public lottery broadcast live to the audience. No party may interfere or influence the draw." I stared right through him. "You want to rig the draw? Get corporate to issue a formal executive memo on network letterhead, signed by the senior VP of legal. The moment that lands in my inbox, I'll comply."

Walsh wiped the sweat pooling on his neck. "Director... why do you have to make my life impossible?"

"I’m not the one making your life impossible, Walsh. Courtney Pembroke is."

Of course, no memo ever materialized.

Even the Pembroke family wasn't stupid enough to leave a signed paper trail that said: "We rigged the safety routes for Courtney."

The lottery went ahead as scheduled. Twenty-four broadcast cameras captured the ping-pong balls spinning in the wire cage.

Route B landed in Courtney’s lap.

A chorus of sharp inhales rippled through the gathered crew. Everyone on the island knew the interior gorge was high-risk after the recent flash floods.

Courtney slammed her acrylic token onto the wooden staging table, chipping the varnish.

As she brushed past me toward the staging area, she leaned in, her voice a sharp, venomous whisper:

"After today, this production won't have a Field Director anymore."

Before the teams moved out, I personally distributed the updated topographical maps. When I reached her group, I handed the waterproof sleeve to her, speaking directly into the boom mic overhead:

"One updated survey map per team. All previous versions are formally voided and dangerous."

She didn't even glance down.

With two fingers, Courtney took the laminated sheet, tore it down the center seam, and dropped the pieces into the mud.

"I prefer my own," she said, tapping the creased corner of a worn map poking out of her tactical vest. "Director, maybe you should focus on your own job before it's gone."

That old map. Willow had mentioned it to me two nights ago:

"The freshwater spring marked on the early mock-up is wrong. If you follow it, you hit the jagged tidal flats on the eastern reef. I tried to tell Courtney, and she threatened to have me edited out of the show."

Per protocol, I tried to hand her squad their emergency harness lines and marine-grade throw ropes.

Courtney kicked the pack away with the toe of her boot. "We’re not hauling around this dead weight."

"Route B involves moving water," I warned, keeping my tone crisp and clinical. "Entering a gorge without secondary safety tethers is a severe liability. If anything happens, the consequences are entirely on you."

She sneered and walked off.

I looked down at the torn map in the mud, then up at Walsh.

The showrunner violently jerked his head away, shouting frantically into his radio: "Camera Two, push out! Give me a wide scenic of the treeline!"

Around him, production assistants buried their faces in clipboards, and camera operators pretended to wipe nonexistent dust from their lenses. Not a single soul had the spine to look me in the eye.

Courtney stood with her arms folded across her chest.

"Director Adams, you threw a tantrum yesterday trying to investigate me, and now suddenly you're an angel handing out new maps? How do I know your little survey isn't sending us off a cliff? Spare me. I don't fall for pathetic little traps."

She patted the pocket holding her outdated map.

Intervene? Why should I?

That misprinted map led straight to the eastern gorge—a treacherous rock labyrinth that even the local fishermen wouldn't touch without a high-tide guide.

If she truly believed her family's wealth gave her an exemption from the laws of physics, she was about to learn that nature doesn't read the Forbes list.

"Understood," I said, stepping back.

At eight sharp, the groups moved out.

I mobilized the primary medical team, trailing Courtney’s squad at a mandatory safety buffer of three hundred yards.

Around eleven-thirty, the sky let out its first deep, guttural growl of thunder.

I looked up. From the southeast, an anvil-shaped wall of black storm clouds was rolling in, swallowing the blue sky with terrifying speed.

The meteorology team's radio crackled into hysterics:

"Director! The frontal system accelerated by six hours! Extreme convective squall arriving in forty minutes!"

"The gorge water level is going to spike violently! We need Route B evacuated immediately!"

I grabbed my radio handset. "All units, listen to me. The mission is scrubbed. Team A, pull back toward the western high ground immediately. Team B, reverse your steps and retreat to base camp."

Static hissed over the channel, followed by Courtney’s smug, drawling voice.

"Retreat? A couple of raindrops and you run crying? You really are useless, aren't you, Director?"

"We took a shortcut using the original map. We're already at the crossing. If we turn back now, we lose thirty minutes—"

My heart slammed against my ribs.

"Courtney, give me your precise coordinates."

"Hold on..." The sound of crinkling paper came through the speaker. "The marker says there's a shallow gravel sandbar right ahead of us."

That was the misprint.

"Courtney!" I screamed into the mic, completely dropping the professional veneer. "Your map is completely wrong! You are heading in the wrong direction!"

"You are marching directly into the eastern flash-basin! When the mountain runoff hits, that creek bed is going to be the drainage funnel!"

"Turn around right now! Get your team out of the lowlands!"

A casual, mocking laugh echoed over the frequency.

"Oh, please. Don't you ever get tired of playing the hero?"

"Courtney, under my authority as Field Director, I am ordering your entire team to fall back!"

"Ordering me?" Her voice turned razor-sharp. "Let me make one thing crystal clear to everyone on this channel: anyone on my team who turns around right now is off the show by nightfall."

Silence hung heavy over the radio for a few agonizing seconds.

Then Dylan’s voice broke through, raw and miserable:

"Director... I'm so sorry. I can't lose this job."