The Last Pinch of Salt

My senses heightened at the sharp, pungent scent of garlic as I diced the cloves into tiny pieces. Finely minced. Just how the recipe said.

The sound of clattering around me threatened to pull me out of my focus as the remaining contestants chopped, spiced, and cooked for their lives. My eyes shifted to the clock on the wall.

Forty-five minutes.

It was the same routine every night. We were given ingredients and a basic recipe, and then we cooked. The rules were simple: there would be one winner. They would win enough coin to change their lives. Everyone else would leave with nothing. They would receive their punishment for failure, be escorted out of the room, and returned to their squats.

Thirty days ago, there were thirty people. Now there were five, and it was the story was the same for all the contestants who entered this competition. Broken homes. Poverty. Fighting to keep a roof over our heads. You would never find the wealthy here. It was for those who knew life couldn’t get any worse. For desperate people. People who would rather die than go back to their way of living.

For those like me.

Father left us when Pippy, the youngest of us, was born. And recently, Mother left us. The global infection wiped out half of the squat population, and that included Mother. The infection was government-induced; there was no question that they wanted to get rid of us, because, as far as the stats went, only those in the squats were being affected.

It had been three weeks after we buried Mother that Pippy began to have the same symptoms. As the eldest, I had promised Mother I would take care of everyone. And I knew that if Pippy died, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.

I was 7 when Pippy was born, and it was soon after her birth that Father left us. It was a relief. I always told Pippy that she was better off not knowing Father. If he had stayed, she would have gone through the things Mother and I used to go through. The boys were unaware of it, and I told Mother I didn’t know what she was talking about whenever she subtly mentioned it. But that was a lie. I remembered it all. Every struggle. Every bruise. Every feel of him.

Thirty minutes.

We didn’t have enough money to buy the medication needed for Pippy. We were fortunate enough to have three brothers, but there were only so many jobs a boy from the squat would be accepted for, and only so much coin they could make in a day. I had done the calculations. Even if all three of them worked all day for the next month, it would barely scratch the surface of the cost of the medication. Which was why I suggested the competition.

They were against it. Of course, they were. But I wasn’t asking for their permission. I was the eldest, and it was up to me to take care of them. And so, I applied.

And twenty-five days later, I was still standing.

I could almost feel the weight of the coin in my hands as the competitors thinned. Could almost picture my siblings’ faces as I returned home with enough coin not only for medication, but enough to get us completely out of the squats.

I hadn’t heard a word from them since I entered the competition. That was one of the rules. No contact. They could watch me when the program aired every night, but I didn’t even know if Pippy was still alive. The thought of her bedridden, of her life slowly slipping out of her, was what pushed me forward every night.

Some part of me felt sick at the growing hope I felt as the numbers thinned. At first, it grieved me to see people eliminated. I felt sorrow for them and for their families. But after a week, I got used to it. I was losing my humanity a little bit. But I was getting desperate now. I was so close.

Twenty minutes.

I took the chicken out of the oven and placed it on the counter, allowing it to cool down as I opened the pot to throw the garlic in with the onions. I watched it fry and only poured the wine in when the onions grew translucent.

I had never held a bottle of wine until a few weeks ago. Cheese had been a myth to me, and vegetables without mould were considered a delicacy in and of themselves. But the recipes here consisted of all these items that only the rich knew anything about. Rory, who was a year younger than me at seventeen, had told me before I left the squat that I needed to be slow.

‘It’s better to be slow and have good food than cook fast and mix the wrong ingredients,’ he had said, his hands on both my shoulders. ‘Because that was what it’s all about, Jenny. Good food.’

And so when the clock struck five minutes, and even though everyone else had finished cooking, I continued cutting my chicken into thick slices and spooning the sauces together. I arranged my meal on the plate, topped the chicken with a cheese called Parmesan and sprinkled it with basil.

Leaning down, I took a deep sniff. That was the most I could do. We weren’t allowed to taste the food. That was the other rule. Only the presenter could.

‘Time up!’ the presenter’s voice boomed. ‘Step back from your plates.’

We did as instructed, and the presenter took his seat at the front of the room. Immediately, I heard the sound of mechanics churning. My heart dropped at the realisation that my meal was first.

Before me, a section of the countertop split and lifted into the air, taking with it my meal as it gravitated towards the presenter as if by magnetic pull. The meal came to a stop inches from the presenter, and he had a taste.

I knew I didn’t have anything to worry about. For the majority of these twenty-five days, my meals had been among the few particularly favoured by the presenter.

He was supposed to be indifferent to each meal. That was another rule. He wasn’t allowed to give anything away. But he had failed this time—I noticed. I saw the slight grimace on his face as he brought the forkful into his mouth. Noted his chew was quick rather than relishing. And the bob of his throat was forceful. He had barely finished chewing, as if desperate to get the food from his taste buds.

‘Next!’ The presenter announced, and there was a distant whir of machinery before another contestant’s plate gravitated towards him, but my attention wasn’t on that. All I could think of was Pippy, and a crippling anguish overcame me at the thought that I had failed her.

I tried to convince myself I was mistaken, tried to hope, but that look had been unmistakable. He hadn’t liked my meal.

I felt a wave of regret as I realised I could have been with Pippy in her last moments, but I wasn’t. I was here. For her. But I had failed. I just knew I had. So when the announcer stood to announce the two competitors at risk of elimination, I wasn’t surprised when I heard my name first.

Reality sank in as I walked around my station and stood in front of him. I had watched people before me face this same fate, and I understood why most of them found themselves on heaps on the floor before the presenter even announced who was to be eliminated.

It was only when the presenter announced the other contestant up for elimination that another emotion overtook me. The surprise was strong enough to push back my fear.

I watched as Hilary stepped around her station and approached us, eyes wide and brows etched. She was the best cook, in my opinion. In everyone’s opinion, in fact. She had had the most favoured dishes. If I ever got to the finals, it would have been with her. And yet, here we were. The best cooks. Facing elimination.

Something wasn’t right.

‘Jenkin Dall and Hilary Ferwer,’ the presenter began, going over the usual protocol as he recited the meaning of elimination. He didn’t need to. We had seen what it meant. We knew before we entered the competition. But I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying anyway. Not when his assistant was walking into the room. She had her hands outstretched, a small red pillow resting on her palms with a small white sheet delicately draped on top of it.

It was an unnecessary touch. Everyone knew what was beneath it.

‘Your meals,’ the presenter went on. ‘Were possibly the worst I’ve had in this competition.’

My eyes immediately shifted from the assistant to the presenter.

That couldn’t be.

‘Jenkin,’ he said, his calm demeanour a stark contrast to mine. ‘I’ve never tasted saltier food in my life.’

I found myself slowly shaking my head. I wasn’t allowed to say anything. That was another rule. We weren’t allowed to explain ourselves or contradict, and if we were to be eliminated, we weren’t allowed to beg. But what he was saying couldn’t have been true. I was always particular about my flavourings. Some would say overly particular. It was impossible.

‘And Hilary,’ the presenter went on, his eyes on her but his hands moving to the white sheet draped over the pillow. His hands moved with ease as he lifted the tiny sheet to reveal the consequence beneath. ‘Your food was just the same. Salty.’

The object glinted in the light as he raised it from the cushion. His hands were careful with it as he ran a finger along the grip, easing towards the barrel. He rested his hands there for a moment, and then suddenly cocked it back. The resounding click of the bullet falling into place was enough to drown out Hilary’s quiet sobs.

But I didn’t know why she was crying.

I was the one looking down the muzzle of the gun.

‘There’s only one piece of advice I have for you,’ he continued, eyes fixed on me. ‘Keep a better eye on your food. Sabotage kills.’

Sabotage.

It was true that as the numbers dwindled, people became desperate. Desperate enough to sabotage. But I never could have imagined that happening to me. This group seemed humane enough to have some form of a conscience, but I was clearly wrong. And I was going to die as a result of it.

‘But,’ he stalled. ‘I lied about your assessment, Jenkin. Your food was the saltiest I had ever tasted, until I tasted Hilary’s.’

He had barely finished his sentence before I heard the bang.

The next thing I knew, I was on the ground, both hands to my chest, gasping for air. It was only when my hand came back dry that I registered his words.

My food hadn’t been the worst.

I turned then, my eyes locking onto lifeless ones.

Hilary was dead.

‘Well,’ the announcer sighed, placing the gun down and wiping his hands. ‘Four contestants left. Four days. Four meals.’ He turned towards one of the many cameras planted in the room. ‘See you tomorrow night!’