Last Man Standing

LAST MAN STANDING

The flags that marked the greens of the Rattlesnake Hills country club hung dead still on the morning of June 20, 2064. A bloated, reddish-orange sun was just beginning to rise over the gorgeous and remote course, lighting up the trees and prairie grass like a wildfire. The nineteen participants of the “Last Man Standing” tournament had arrived and were beginning to warm up on the practice green and the range. There was much anxiety in the air, and you could almost cut through the tension with your putter blade.

“Great day for golf,” Rudy Burns said, breaking the nervous silence.

“Sure is,” Doug Peters agreed, slipping the cover off his putter. “Gonna see some killer shots today.”

Rudy grinned, mechanically. He was feeling a bit uneasy, as his mind was being ambushed by an array of powerful thoughts and emotions. The smell of freshly cut grass, the layers of green, the chirping of birds, seemed to summon up some kind of childhood nostalgia. But beyond the painted green, buried down in those deep places where the sun never shines, was a cold, dark world filled with nightmares and painful memories.

He stuck his right hand down his shirt and brought out the chain necklace that was hung round his neck. Attached to the necklace was a small portrait of his wife, Rebecca, taken 20 years ago on their honeymoon in Key Biscayne. Suddenly, he found himself overcome with emotion. He had been so much happier back then. Twenty years. Had it really been that long? Back before the big war of 2050. Before the nukes fell. Before the fallout. Back when civilization was still civil. With most of the country still reeling from the fallout, the looting and violence, and the ongoing threat of further strikes, folks spent most of their time indoors now, cooped up within the safety of underground bunkers, eyes glued to their big screens. Of course there was the news, but a new animal had managed to creep into the scene (or the screen) of late. Yes, television viewers had become increasingly drawn in by the entertainment industry - an industry that had grown increasingly sick and twisted – chock full of gory gameshows and cruel contests. Like this one here, Rudy noted. Marigold Limited had become the leading producer of these dangerous and deadly game shows. Their symbol was a single yellow marigold – the flower that had become the very symbol of death – thanks to the S.S. Marigold, the submarine that launched the first nuclear missiles. Sandwiched between these shows were infomercials selling the latest reinforced nuke-shelters, chem-warfare suits, and various radiation remedies.

“Hey Rudy,” a voice said from behind. It was Bill Powers, who had been housed in the cell right next to Rudy at El Dorado. “How's my brother-from-another-mother? No pressure, right?”

“No sir,” Rudy said, noting his voice still sounded hollow and empty, as it had within the dull, cemented confines of the local county jail holding cell the day he was arrested. He had to force a grin, reluctantly, as he found Bill's carefree demeanor rather annoying. “The wife and kids are here,” he added, “and I promised my daughter I'd take her to Disney world if I won.”

Behind them, the crowd was beginning to assemble. Eager fans gathered in the parking lot and around the practice green, placing bets and exchanging predictions. Number one green was already surrounded with fans, most of whom had camped overnight in order to stake out their territory.

Due to its dangerous, high-escape-risk contestants, combined with the high stakes involved, the course was littered with security guards. The tournament was one of the top television draws, and it was in a heated competition with “Take on the Tiger” and “Grapple a Grizzly” for top earnings. Fans who attended paid a small fortune for tickets, but they always got their money's worth. In a recent letter she’d sent to Rudy, Rebecca referred to the tournament’s fan’s as “ambulance chasers.” He wrote back admitting that he watched the shows, along with nearly all the other prisoners, and that I guess that made him an ambulance chaser too. “In prison it’s a real riot,” he had told her. “No pun intended.”

Rudy had gotten as much practice in as he could, within the confines of the penitentiary, in preparation for the tournament. Bill had persuaded Rudy to enter the tournament one night after lock down. “You got a one in nineteen shot,” Bill had said from the adjacent cell. “That's slightly better than a five percent chance. In here you have no chance. You’re on death row, with nothing to look forward too but a big injection and a long dirt nap. You're gonna die no matter what, Rudy. Would you rather die in here, or out there?”

So Rudy had decided to enter the tournament, despite the fact that he had never played a round of golf in his life. But he and Bill had been able to talk the warden into letting them have a few clubs and balls they could check out during yard. They had even constructed a driving range and a small putting area. They had made yardage markers out of cardboard boxes and had stepped off the distances. The putting green was nothing but a small area of trampled down hard pan. They had driven plastic cups into the ground for holes and had made flags out of sticks and portions of cracker boxes.

At a quarter till eight, the nineteen competitors were directed to the first tee, where an official explained the rules of the tournament over the loudspeaker. “Good morning everyone, and welcome to the latest episode of the “Last Man Standing!” This is a sudden death tournament. The player with the highest score on a hole will be eliminated. In case of a tie, there will be a chip-off. The player whose chip is furthest from the hole will be eliminated.”

Then they teed off, one by one, as their names and credentials were announced. Due to the immense pressure, there were several miscues. Lots of slices and hooks. Ted Loeffler whiffed his ball entirely and had to re-tee. Fans shook their heads or covered their eyes at his misfortune as he got back in his stance, sweat beading up on his forehead and running down his cheeks. He was never able to regain his composure and was the first to be eliminated, with a score of thirteen on the first hole.

On the second hole Phil Stoops was doing just fine until it came time to putt. He was all over the green by the time it was said and done, and the second man to be eliminated.

At the turn, the ten that remained headed to the clubhouse for a short reprieve, where they could get some final refreshments before tackling the last nine. However, no one had the stomach for it. Their yellow prison uniforms were drenched. It was all blood and sweat, no tears.

Finally, after eight hours of swinging, slicing, hooking, and hacking, the field had been whittled down to two: Rudy Burns and Bill Powers. The eighteenth hole was a par four with a sharp dogleg left round a small pond. Rudy teed off first, splitting the middle with his three wood. Feeling the pressure, Bill whipped out his big stick and tried to knock it over the water. Struck slightly fat, his ball came off weak and fell straight into the drink.

After taking a penalty stroke and dropping behind the pond, Bill put a little too much muscle into his third shot. “Bite!” he shouted. “Holy Jesus bite,” he said again, more softly this time, as the ball landed just beyond the pin. From there it rolled to the back of the green before coming to rest on the fringe.

Meanwhile Rudy, who seemed to all but have it made at this point, pushed his approach shot into the right bunker. He gritted his teeth as he walked towards the green. One foot in front of the other, Rudy. One foot in front of the other.

Rebecca could hardly watch as her husband stepped into the bunker. Rudy had never been fond of the sand, ever since his older brother, Rubin, buried him neck-deep in the backyard sandbox when they were kids. He had screamed and sobbed intermittently for hours as untreated itches, bug bites, and a second-degree sunburn developed on his nose and cheeks. It wasn't until dinner time when his mother, still recouping from a five-day drinking binge, discovered him. It took her over an hour to dig him out and, instead of taking him to the hospital (and losing little Rudy to protective custody), she gave him a Tylenol and treated his bug bites with vodka.

Now in a similar predicament, Rudy dug his shoes into the sand for stability, then lined up his wedge. That was when he noticed the flower – a single yellow marigold – growing up out of the sand, a mere foot in front of his ball. Odd, he thought. What was a single marigold doing here by itself? He fought to refocus, hurrying his swing slightly, sending up a plume of sand that made him disappear for a moment. His ball came off a bit low, catching the upper lip before trickling back down to his feet. “Christ,” he muttered to himself. Regain your composure, Rudy. For God's sake, stay cool brother.

He hunkered down again, spitting out grains of sand, and swung hard. But after the cloud of dust had cleared the ball was still there, right by his feet. “Fuck!” he shouted. Sweat was pouring down his face now as he paced around with his hands on his hips before hunkering down again.

Finally, on his third try, he popped the ball onto the green, where it came to rest about five feet short of the pin. Walking wearily up to his ball, he looked as if he'd just been eaten alive by the Sahara. A fine layer of sand and grit had adhered itself to his face. His shirt was drenched with sweat. Now lying five to Bill's three, his back was against the wall.

Meanwhile Bill, who had been allotted plenty of time to measure things up, put his ball within a couple feet of the pin. Rudy then sank his putt for a double bogie, leaving Bill with a virtual tap-in for victory. And with a smooth stroke, Bill sank it. And that's when the guards quickly surrounded the green. One of them walked up to Rudy, who stood hopelessly frozen. “I think you know what happens now, Rudy,” the guard said. “Your putter.”

Rudy held out his putter, which by now was trembling in his hand, and the guard took it. “I'll try and make this quick, Rude,” Bill said, putter held firmly in his hand. Although he had brutally murdered three people, this was no easy task. But he couldn't pass up the reward. A few years of supervised parole and rehabilitation was a hell of a lot better than a death sentence.

“No!” Someone suddenly hollered from the distance. It was Rebecca, who had made her way to the front of the crowd. “It ain't right!” she continued. “My husband is innocent!” She tried to lunge forward but the guards held her back. “Bill, stop!” she pleaded. “He's innocent I tell you!” But by then Rudy had already taken a solid blow to the left side of his head and was backtracking dizzily.

“Sorry Mrs. Burns,” one of the guards said. “It's the rules.”

Rudy closed his eyes, and thought of his father, whom he had bludgeoned to death with a cinder block in the middle of a heated argument. He had been drunk and he hadn't meant to hit him so hard. God, forgive me, he pleaded. Pwease God...Sowwy fader...soo....