THE LAST ONE (2016)
Alexandra Oliva
Ballantine Books
* * *
We all know that “reality” TV shows bear as
much resemblance to truth as does the Tooth Fairy to scientific dentistry. They
are the ultimate junk TV--Dumb and Dumber
brought to the small screen. But what would happen if actual reality collided
with reality TV? That’s the setup for Alexandra Oliva’s debut novel The Last One, which releases this summer
in time for deck chair reading.
Oliva is the latest to enter the
post-apocalypse genre, hence her book invites comparisons to recent offerings
such as The Road, Station Eleven, The Dog Stars, and The Hunger Games. The
hook is that twelve people have been recruited for “In the Dark,” the Mother of
All Reality Shows, one with a big budget and a million dollar prize for the
titular last one standing. Call it “Survivor” on steroids. Contestants are
warned that they will be put through grueling challenges that will be
physically and emotionally demanding and, at times, dangerous. They can quit at
any time by uttering the phrase ad
tenebras dedi, Latin for “I surrender to the dark,” but will not know until
the end who wins. They are also told there will be clues and opportunities
along the way, which they’ll recognize by assigned colors. (Shades of The Hunger Games.)
Oliva only gives us hints about the
contestants, which are based upon short descriptors of their defining
personality traits: Air Force, Banker, Biology, Black Doctor, Carpenter, Cheerleader
Boy, Engineer, Exorcist, Rancher, Tracker, Waitress, and Zoo. The story is
narrated by the last of these, a young married woman seeking a final big thrill
before settling into respectable motherhood. Zoo is also the source of all that
we know about the others, including their actual names. After a series of gross
group and solo “challenges” which thin the herd, the survivors set out alone.
It gives away nothing to say that they no
sooner strike out on their own than a mysterious pneumonic plague-like disease
wipes out most the population. Given all that Zoo has already been through, she
assumes putrefying bodies are brilliant f/x props and that each horror or
obstacle she encounters is an elaborate illusion to test her resolve—right down
to a mewling “doll” lying beside a lifelike corpse. Hence, when Zoo meets up
with Brennan, a traumatized 13-year-old who becomes her traveling partner, she
assumes he’s also a producer’s plant, refuses to believe his tales, and
continues to play by the rules. She does, however, accept that she could be
seriously harmed on her journey and becomes a warrior/thief/survivor.
Zoo’s journey is a bit of a mash between
Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and Emily
St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven. It’s
a harrowing tale, though I could have certainly done without all Zoo’s
schmaltzy mommy urges. These annoyed me, as did periodic suggestions that Zoo’s
toughness and resourcefulness are mere reflections of her resolve to be safe in
her husband’s arms. What, are we afraid to just let Zoo be a feminist instead
of begrimed poster gal for family values?
Though Oliva pushed some of my ‘ick’ buttons,
this book engaged me. That surprised me, as I loathe “Survivor” and all other
reality shows. As apocalyptic novels go, this one is (if I may!) middle of the
road and simply doesn’t measure up to any of the books to which it has been
compared. It doesn’t have to. It will fit the bill nicely for what it is:
breezy escapist fare for summertime reading.
Rob Weir
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