Page 97 of The Most Dangerous Games

“I’m not asking for blind faith,” Jimmy says. “I’m asking you to survive long enough for me to do my part.” He pauses. “I’m starting with The Host.” He looks up at the ceiling, speaking to a hidden microphone—and adds, “And I don’t care whether he’s listening or not.”

Alek leans forward. “What did you learn out there?”

Jimmy keeps it grounded. “This isn’t just one sadistic guy with a microphone. There are layers. People with money. People with systems. People who planned contingencies.”

“And the world?” Hannah asks. “We all know it’s running out of time. What about The One?”

“I . . . don’t know,” Jimmy says earnestly. “I still believe that we need to do something. Anything. We’re watching flashpoints stack up. It’s not one headline. It’s the pattern.”

“Enough with the sermons, mate,” Tipton says. “What’s your point?”

“I came into this thinking the competition was going to be fair,” Jimmy says, “but—”

“You’re saying it’s rigged?” Jack asks.

“I wish I could tell you more,” Jimmy says. “That wouldn’t be safe for any of you.” He looks up at the ceiling again, deliberate. “But if anyone’s listening—they should be worried.”

A voice answers from the doorway behind them.

“You might be the last person I worry about, Mr. Donaldson.”

They all turn at the same moment and see a tall, silver-haired man in a dark suit and open-necked white shirt, standing at the open door at the far end of the room.

“Good evening,” he says in a voice they recognize instantly.

The Host.

Wyatt Jordan, addressing no one in particular, says, “The man, the legend, the monster.”

Patrick Arrasmith

63.

Jimmy is silent now.

They all are.

Jimmy finally finds his voice. “Is it worth asking what your name is?”

“I go with Satan,” Wyatt says. “Or maybe Lucifer. Serpent. The Tempter.”

“Now now,” The Host says. “Who raised you? Did no one ever teach you manners, young man?”

Wyatt tries to hold eye contact but buckles first. Looks down. Sits.

The silver-haired man shows no signs of moving farther into the room. He seems comfortable where he is.

“More to the point, my name is of little or no consequence to any of you,” he says. “For your purposes, The Host will continue to serve us all just fine. That will do swimmingly.”

He chuckles now—that condescending laugh they’ve come to expect from him, in just about every encounter. Trapped in the same room with him, the sound is even more grating.

“For now, just be pleased that I’m here,” The Host says.

“Oh, we are thrilled,” Gabrielle Fontaine says. Her thick French accent has a way of underlining the sarcasm, and a few people laugh.

“This would be a good time for you to express some remorse for the latest people your competition killed,” Jimmy says.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” The Host snaps, clearly agitated. “You people are competing for the opportunity to change lives, money aside, and for the better. You all see yourselves as heroes, whether you want to admit that or not. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think you have what it takes. You all volunteered for stakes like these. What did you think you were signing up for—summer camp?”