I slipped away from the pool party while my team was still riding their high of the first victory of the season. But since it was the start of Total Drama, while the cameras weren't on or at least unlikely to be seen, I had some better things to do.
The forest beckoned at the edge of camp, dense and a lot less luxurious at night.
I'd studied enough survival content between workout sessions to recognize this opportunity when I saw it, and now was the perfect time. The spring snare a primitive, yet reliable, devastatingly effective method against rabbits, squirrels, or anything small and stupid enough to take the bait.
My fingers found the coil of rope Izzy had used to pry open those crates earlier. She definitely wouldn't be missing it. I had plans for it now.
Food, I thought, stepping into the treeline. Always comes back to food.
Chef's cooking wasn't just bad—it actively defied the concept of edibility. The man could ruin water. My contraband snacks would last if I rationed like my life depended on it, which it probably did. This was the one variable I refused to compromise on.
My past life was similar in a sense, fingers slick with grease from whatever came out of a microwavable food or the one in a million burnt food I was handed on a dirty plate. That food had been garbage too, nutritionally speaking. processed, reheated, and simply convenient. I'd lived on Hot Pockets and ramen like they were essential food groups, barely tasting what went down.
But even my worst 3 AM gas station burrito had possessed more dignity than Chef's slop.
Microwaved garbage prepared with the barest hint of human intent couldn't compare to whatever warfare ashes Chef scraped onto plates and called cuisine.
Moving through the forests thicket I deliberately went straight, maintaining my line and occasionally avoiding a tree. I found what I needed exactly, about two hundred yards in, a small game trail, fresh droppings, gnawed bark. Animals being creatures of habit would come back eventually.
I knelt, testing the flexibility of a young sapling. Almost perfect. I bent it down slowly, feeling the resistance, the stored energy wanting to snap back.
I tied the rope to the sapling's tip, then secured the other end into a slip noose, careful to keep the loop wide enough. Not too tight or it wouldn't catch and not too loose or they'd slip through. The trigger mechanism came from a notched stick wedged against a stake I drove into the soft earth. I positioned the noose around it, spread flat against the ground like a promise.
The bait went in the center. I crushed some of my protein bar, it was painful, but necessary, I didn't believe chefs food would attract a rat, I scattered the crumbs across the trap, I assumed the scent would carry.
One pull on that trigger stick and the sapling would snap upright, yanking the noose tight and hauling whatever stepped wrong right off the ground.
I tested the trigger's sensitivity with a stick before I left, if it was to light even the wind would set it off, of course if it was unnecessarily heavy and prey would eat and leave. I adjusted the angle of the notch twice before it felt firm enough to hold, and delicate enough to spring.
I set up two more snares along the trail, spacing them far enough apart that spooked animals might bolt into the next trap.
By the time I emerged from the forest, the sun had dropped even lower and the pool area stood empty. The hot tub sat silent, steam rising into cooling air. Everyone had cleared out.
It was clear with the lights off in both cabins everyone had gone to dinner, although the meal almost never made it to screen time, probably because watching people choke down Chef's cooking wasn't entertaining so much as documentary evidence of cruel and unusual punishment.
My muscles felt tight from the day's challenges, and tomorrow would bring fresh hell courtesy of Chris's imagination. for what came next I had to make sure my condition was right.
I went for a run.
The path around camp wasn't long, but I pushed the pace, letting my heart rate climb, and breath find some rhythm. My heavy feet could be heard from anyone near. The physical exertion cleared my head and burned off the tension that would have built into my muscles. This was something I'd rarely neglected in my past life once I started my journey.
By the time I circled back, I had a light sweat coating my forehead and my legs burned in a good way that meant I would recover smoothly tonight.
I opened the boys cabin door to find everyone already settled in for the night. Duncan lounged on his bunk, still in his casual clothes. DJ sat on his bed in a pick in hand. Jeff and Ezekiel were in various states of preparing for sleep.
And Harold was already unconscious, snoring like a chainsaw. I should have brought earplugs.
Duncan's eyes tracked me as I entered. Since I was the only guy here who'd actually won today, being on the Killer Bass, he apparently felt entitled to commentary.
"Well well, look who we have here. Winner boy."
I almost face palmed at his 'sharp wit'. "I thought you guys were headed to the dock? How come you're still here?" Genuine confusion colored my voice. I wondered if the show not evict same day? looking at DJ's clock It was already 10:30 PM and the sky outside was pitch black.
DJ rose smoothly, wearing his beater and black comfortable shorts, setting down his pick atop the curling cream jar. "Yeah, Chris told us the time would be 11 on the dot. Apparently that's how it'll be every time."
That's barely eight hours of sleep and two hours of actual free time before the next challenge. Chris was planning to run us into the dirt through pure exhaustion. Grind us down to the bone.
I should sleep while I still had the chance. Between diving, hauling crates, and constructing that hot tub, today had been a full body workout.
I claimed my bunk and lay back, closing my eyes.
Harold's snoring reached a crescendo that probably violated several noise ordinances.