Just so you know, this is a rather slow-building tale. If you want non-stop, pounding sex right from the beginning, you might want to try the many other good stories here.
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I already knew what the sign on the wall of the rocking, shaking change room would say, but took a minute to read it anyway.
Participants are permitted to leave the bus
with only shoes, socks, hat and glasses or dark glasses.
Participants are specifically not permitted
to take electronic instruments of any kind,
including GPS, watches, phones, cameras, etc.
Good luck!
Below that, somebody had scrawled in crude letters, Beware of stobor!
I gave Heinlein a wry smile, then braced myself against the walls of the telephone-booth-sized space as the bus slowed suddenly, then swerved to avoid a pothole or something.
The event instructions had suggested just a minimal purse and mine was first into the metal box between my feet, followed by my wristwatch. My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my blouse; I shrugged it off my shoulders, felt it slide down my arms behind me. I took a moment to fold it carefully before placing it on top of my purse. I unhooked my bra, laid it on top of my blouse. My jeans followed the bra and almost filled the container, leaving me wearing only my panties. I thought about it for a minute while running my fingers over the red bra lines on my shoulders and under my breasts.
I knew I could back out; another contestant had re-emerged red-faced and fully-clothed from the change booth and sat back down. He’d forfeit his entry fee, but would on the whole have a much easier day of it.
He wouldn’t meet our eyes. That was OK, actually. I didn’t need the discouragement.
I took a deep breath, slid my thumbs inside the elastic waistband and pushed them down off my hips. I caught them on one foot, lifted them up to where I could reach them and dropped them into the box. Squatting down, I snapped the lid shut. It made a surprisingly loud noise. I stared at the number spray-painted on the lid and sides in one-inch white numerals.
I had just filled Box 23.
The surplus ammunition can had a hasp neatly welded onto it. I turned the hasp towards a hole at floor level and, in accordance with what we’d been told, pushed it halfway in. From the other side, I could hear a dull clunk before the box was withdrawn, turned and pushed part-way out again to let me see the sturdy combination padlock on the hasp. A small metal tag on the lock also read ’23’.
A second later, the box was pulled away and replaced with a fairly small canvas bag on a shoulder strap. This too had a ‘military surplus’ air to it.
I caught a momentary glimpse of the hands holding it, a woman’s hands with short nails, well-shaped but with no polish. There was a wedding ring set on the third finger of the left hand. A moment later, she was gone, leaving me alone in my compartment.
The bag also had the number ’23’ stenciled on the flap. We’d been warned to be sure that the numbers matched.
I scooped up the bag, fumbled with the buckles. I knew what was supposed to be in it, but when kit is minimal, every piece is essential. I wanted to check.
There was a tube of sunblock, a small bottle of insect repellent, a tiny pencil, a couple of pieces of moleskin for blisters, two one-quart bottles of water and two granola bars. Sun-Chasers clearly believed in traveling light.
More important were the folded topographical map, good-quality magnetic compass and printed control sheet with a list of control points, the places I would have to find. Only the finish point was marked on the map and the control sheet failed to show any of the common clues and directions classic orienteering often gave to provide more detail. All I had were a list of grid references; every contestant’s list would be different.
The last item in the sack was a small GPS emergency beacon. It had been stressed that its use would result in an automatic disqualification and might also bring down stiff financial penalties if it was triggered for anything short of a real emergency.
Not to mention, I thought, some very stiff embarrassment.
I closed the bag, fastened the buckles and put the strap over my shoulder. I stood there for another minute or two, my arms braced against the walls as the bus rocked back and forth. Through a partial gap between the two exit doors, I could see glimpses of light, greens and browns, but not enough detail to make out an image. Sunlight through the gap set fire to a knife-blade of dust in the air. I had a rough idea where we were (‘roughly’ meaning ‘within fifty miles’) but there was a lot of land around here and we’d been on the windowless bus for the better part of an hour.
There was a tightness in my tummy.
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“When you’re dropped off,” Erin had told me, “It could be anywhere. That’s kind of central to the game. You can’t practise or try out the route in advance.”
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I could feel the bus slow, sway slightly, then come to a stop. The doors opened suddenly and I coughed as the little room filled with dust and brilliant sunlight.
I stuck my head out, saw trees and gravel road and a whole lot of not much else. I stepped down out of the bus. The trees, bushes and grass by the side of the road were coated in a thick layer of white dust. The sky above was a cloudless blue; it promised to be a hot day.
The door started to close and I pulled my hand free. I saw the sunglasses of the driver in the rear-view mirror for just a second as the vehicle slowly pulled away. It sped up, went around a bend in the road and was gone, leaving me standing by the side of the road, still coughing slightly.
This was it, the Moment.
I felt awed. I felt challenged. I felt scared.
I felt utterly alone.
They said nobody had ever, you know, actually died doing during one of these events. But the people saying that generally weren’t standing buck-naked in the middle of the wilderness.
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Roll it back.
“‘Sun chasing’, Erin? You’ve never mentioned it before.”
“I found out about it a few months ago.”
“Never heard of it,” I said.
“It’s not really secret,” she replied, “but nobody talks about it.”
“‘Fight Club’ much?” I snorted. “Come on, it’s orienteering, right?”
“Yes and no, but mainly no. It’s navigating cross-country, but the rules are really different. It’s amazing!”
I could see the flush on her face as she said that.
“It’s pretty hard-core, Kat. Everybody gets exactly the same gear – a compass and a map, basically. There’s no GPS, no other kit, nothing.”
“Oh.”
I thought about that. It sounded intriguing. I liked being pushed to the limit.
“How long does it take to run a course?” I was used to orienteering events lasting around an hour, maybe a bit longer.
“It isn’t about speed, Kat. They give you a list of control points and you have to make your way to each one. It can take all day. And there’s no specially-printed event map, either; just a normal 1:50,000 topographical one. You have to figure everything out for yourself.”
“Back to basics,” I mused.