Sophia recovers and nods her thanks back at Rita, then tries to make herself look more presentable. Even without her usual makeup essentials she continues to appear voguish. As the nausea leaves her, she remains calm and in control. "If any of you have any ideas—anything at all, then let's hear it?"
Matt coughs, gazes into the distance, and offers, "Well, that horizon's about three miles away—so I'd say we're in the middle of at least—twenty-five square miles of, of. . ." He shrugs, "—who knows."
Finished, Matt walks over to the container, sits down and makes himself comfortable. He leans against one of its large doors, rests his arms on his knees and turns his face to the sun. He enjoys the heat. Having made his contribution, he now waits to hear from the other Americans.
Lloyd snorts. "Well, thank you so very much, professor. Anything else you might feel the need to enlighten us all on?"
"Sure." Matt squints up at Lloyd. "Whatever these things are around our necks, it looks like we have about ten hours before they do . . . whatever they're gonna do."
There is a sudden realization that perhaps Matt's comment might need some urgent and life-preserving attention. Sophia leans over toward Nevada's collar, who in turn, raises her chin and moves her bleached blonde hair aside to allow Sophia a better view.
Sophia peers at the collar's chamber, then reads aloud, "Danger C-4—Tamper Proof Explosive Charge."
"Oh m-m-my G-god!" Rita stutters out. "Sweet Jesus!" Terrified, her body freezes in anticipation of the collar's explosive charge potentially detonating.
Nevada faints and slumps to the ground. Jim steps forward and just catches her fall, then gently lays her down on the ground.
Lloyd hyperventilates. "You gotta be SHITTING me!"
Apart from Books and a very young-looking older teenager called Jedi Smith, the Americans continue to look to each other for reassurance that this somehow is not happening to them.
"Someone, tell me this is not for real?" Lloyd grabs his collar. "This has to be some sort of fucked-up joke gone bad—right?"
Jedi strolls his thin, geeky frame over to Matt, kneels down beside him and inspects his collar. His demeanor is mild-mannered, and he frowns as though he is tackling some math problem his teacher has given him to solve. He seems to be enjoying himself as he muses, "Interesting. And quite cool."
Matt says, "Hey, kid, NASCAR is cool. Cliff diving is cool, and Steve McQueen was cool. But these things"—Matt taps and holds his collar—"ain't cool."
So he can see more clearly, Jedi pushes Matt's hand aside and runs the collar through his fingers. He concentrates.
"Careful there, buddy." Matt holds his head still.
"As far as I can see, we're worry free for about"—Jedi looks at the collar's countdown clock—"nine hours, thirty-seven minutes, and twenty-seven seconds." Then, in a puzzled afterthought, he asks, "Steve . . . ?"
Matt explains, "McQueen—you know, from the movies, Bullitt, The Magnificent Seven—he was the Cooler King in The Great Escape. You've seen The Great Escape, right?"
No comprendo from the Generation Y future potential Silicon Valley billionaire. Jedi shrugs. He continues his inspection.
"Hey, kid?" Matt asks.
"Yeah."
"You think you can get rid of these things without blowing our heads off?"
"Maybe."
