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The Selection

Chapter 1

My Denouement

They call it The Selection. That’s the polite name, anyway. In the shadowed alleys where freedom used to mean something, people call it No Lives Matter. It happens every June, in every town across America. This year, it’s my turn.

I’d thank God if I believed in one.

My selection wasn’t random—it was earned through a lifetime of self-inflicted disappointments and repeated failures. A life teetering on the edge of pathetic, weighed down by morose indifference. That same indifference carried me to the river’s edge, where I now stand, staring into my own distorted reflection. The rippling water does nothing to soften the truth. I am nothing. A pale, sickly, forgettable nothing.

Not that I care.

For the sake of honesty—not that I’ve ever been good at it—I’ll admit that it’s worse than not caring. It’s indifference so thick it suffocates. I’ve spent forty years on the sidelines, watching life trickle away, slow and inevitable, like cold honey down a drain. Now, life has one last cruel joke to play at my expense—my final act.

America loves its games. It thrives on gambling. But in a world obsessed with overconsumption, the winners have decided that twelve of us are no longer worth the air we breathe. The Panel has made its choice. We are to die.

Save one.

I have one week left to live. More, if I’m unlucky.

Chapter 2

I hate river rafting. Always have, always will. Ever since I was eleven and forced on a weekend trip with my father, brother, and a handful of cousins, I’ve despised everything about rivers. My mother, who stayed home, spent the weekend screwing the teenage boy next door and drinking herself into what she must have considered a final, glorious freedom.

And now, for the next seven days—Seven days of river rafting, supposedly during the best stretch of summer weather, on one of the Pacific Northwest’s most legendary waterways: the Rogue. What do I have to complain about? Nothing. Not a fucking thing. Did I mention I hate rivers?

I stare at a map sprawled across a perfectly stained oak dining table, my eyes tracing the lower stretch of the 215-mile river, which begins near Crater Lake and ends at the dreary, wind-beaten town of Gold Beach. My older brother, Jim, is poring over notes, analyzing water flow, pinpointing the best places to camp, where to refill fresh water, which rapids to avoid—Blossom Bar being the most notorious—and where to ambush or evade.

Ambush.

That word probably needs some explaining. I’ll get to that. But first, my brother interrupts my train of thought.

"You want another beer, bro?"

"Why not? Maybe I can drink myself to death before the trip. Alcohol poisoning is still an option, right?"

Jim gives me his signature go fuck yourself look before taking ten deliberate steps to the fridge.

A silence settles between us, drifting like invisible waves between a butterfly and the earth. I tip my head back and laugh—because what else is left? Laughter at the absurdity of my meaningless, forgettable existence is about all I have.

Jim cracks open a beer, the gold-label PBR—so much classier in appearance than the old red, white, and blue.

"So run this by me one more time," he says, taking a long pull from his can, as if separating the beer from his lips might cause some horrific catastrophe.

"I'm not going over it again, asshole."

He laughs, draining the last of his beer before heading back to the fridge for another. At this rate, he’ll be the lucky one—dead from alcohol poisoning before the week is out.

"Let me get this straight," he says, popping the tab. "Twelve people, all fifty years old, all American citizens, shoved onto a hundred-mile river-rafting trip. No connections, no common ground—just losers thrown together for the ride of their lives. And the deal is, if you’re the last one standing, you get to live? That about right, bro?"

I don’t waste a second before responding.

"Again, Jim, go fuck yourself."

OR

Selection Number 2

Fractured Reflections

Mark Watson never expected to wake up covered in blood, lost in the wilderness, and running for his life.

Choking on fear and exhaustion, he stumbles to the edge of a cold Pacific Northwest river, desperate for water. But when the ripples settle, the reflection staring back at him isn’t his own. Different eyes. Different scars. A face he doesn’t recognize.

With no memory of how he got here or why his body is battered, Mark is thrust into a deadly game of survival. Someone—or something—is hunting him. And the deeper he searches for answers, the more unsettling the truth becomes.

Because if he isn’t Mark Watson… who the hell is he?

Chapter 1

Frightened

Mark Watson’s feet pound the granite-packed trail, his legs heavy, his breath ragged. His heart slams against his ribs, and bile burns the back of his dry throat. What in the name of Odin went south so fast? His eyes dart back and forth in a frantic search for an opening—an escape—a path to Bear Creek and its cold, fresh mountain water. His lungs feel seared, as if someone peeled them open and set them under a broiler.

Memories flood his mind, colliding with the present—long, backbreaking days picking rocks from a farmer’s field, flipping crisp, dry alfalfa bales into neat rows. He shakes his head, struggling to focus. What day is it? Where the hell is he?

The trail, normally buzzing with walkers and cyclists, is eerily quiet as he veers toward a narrow opening off the path. His mind jumps to high school basketball—his coach methodically taping his shins before practice, layering piece by zigzag piece to dull the ache of shin splints. The memory feels out of place until his fingers brush against his right cheek, meeting the rough crust of dried blood. Pain. That must be the connection—pain, then and now. He winces, recalling the stabbing agony of shin splints, the sensation of knives slicing beneath his bones with every abrupt stop and pivot on the court.

The rising sun breaks through the mountains, its flickering rays piercing the thick creekside trees. A covey of quail bursts into motion, their wings scraping the air as most take flight. A few, in love with the ground, scurry into the blackberry underbrush, away from the stumbling, bleeding man.

Reaching the creek, Mark drops to his knees. He cups his hands, pausing as he notices blood on his fingertips. He scrubs at them, the cold water numbing his aching joints, but his mind stumbles over something new—something unplaceable.

He closes his eyes, feeling the sun’s warmth seep through the scrub oak overhead. His hands lower into the icy creek again, and he drinks, his lips pressing against dirty skin as he gulps the water with desperate urgency. The fire in his lungs eases. His body begins to settle.

Mark exhales, gaze drifting downstream, where whitewater splashes over jagged rocks. A crow screeches from an oak tree on the opposite bank— cursing his presence—before launching into the sky. He shifts his view upstream, where a tunnel of trees lines the banks, their branches bending toward one another as if forming a natural canopy over the creek.

Then he looks down.

The water, once rippled by his frantic cupping, stilled. His reflection stares back—distorted at first, then sharp as the daylight strengthens. His breath catches. He blinks, rubs his eyes and squints.

Then he shakes his head.

The face looking back at him is not his own.

Panic crashes through him like a rogue wave. The reflection is unmistakable—yet impossible. The eyes are the wrong color. The hair is different. A small scar marks the left cheek, and the nose is near-perfect—unlike his.

Mark slaps the side of his head, hard. This isn’t real. Snap out of it. His heart slams into overdrive.

"Fuuuuuuuuuck!" His scream shatters the quiet morning.

His body tenses, adrenaline surging again. He looks up, scanning the trees, the banks, the water. Is someone watching him? Hunting him?

And then, the worst question of all:

In the cool Pacific Northwest stream, who the hell is staring back at him?

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