by Morgan Rice
I stand there in shock, staring back at Ben, who looks like a deer in the headlights. I don’t know how they could be so cruel. Of all the people they could pit me against, why did it have to be him?
The crowd seems to sense our connection—and they love it: they scream and holler as the cage slams shut with a bang. They place bets furiously, eager to see which one of us is willing to kill the other first.
Ben stands there looking so lost, so out of place. Our eyes lock, and we share a moment. His large blue eyes, so gentle, are tearing up. He looks like a lost little boy. I can already see that he would never lift a finger to harm me.
Before this moment, I was resigned to just go quietly to my grave. But now, seeing Ben here, caught in this same predicament, so helpless, my will to live returns. I have to find a way to get us out of here. I have to save us. If not for me, than for him.
I think quick, my heart racing a million miles an hour, as I try to concentrate, to drown out the deafening crowd.
The crowd bursts into boohs and jeers, furious that neither of us are making a move to fight. Eventually their disappointment grows into a rage, and they start throwing things at the cage. Rotten tomatoes and all sorts of objects slam against the metal as the crowd hails things down on us.
I suddenly feel a sharp electric shock in my kidneys, and I wheel and see I was just shocked by the cattle prod, the long pole inserted through the chain-link. A slaverunner quickly retracts it as I try to snatch it away from him. I look over and see that they jab Ben at the same time. It is a dirty trick: they’re trying to force us into action, to stir us into a rage, to prod us closer to each other. The crowd roars its approval.
But we still stand there, staring at each other, neither of us willing to fight.
“You gave me your last meal,” I say to him, over the din of the crowd.
He nods back, slowly, too frozen with fear to speak.
Suddenly, something falls from the sky, lands before us. It is a weapon. A knife. I look down closely at it, and am horrified to see that it is my Dad’s knife, the Marine Corps logo emblazoned on its side.
The crowd cheers as the object lands, assuming this will cause us to fight.
I see Dad’s knife, and I think of Bree. And I realize, once again, that I have to survive. To save her. If she’s still alive.
Suddenly, the crowd quiets. I look around, trying to understand what’s happening. I haven’t heard it quiet before. I look up and see the leader is standing, high up on his podium. Everyone has gone silent with rapt attention.
“I am declaring a change to the rules of the arena!” he announces, his deep voice booming. He speaks slowly, deliberately, and the crowd hangs on his every word. This is clearly a man who is used to being listened to.
“For the first time ever, we will allow a survivor. Just one!” he announces. “The winner of this match will be granted clemency. As will their siblings. After this match, they will be free to go.”
The leader slowly sits back down, and as he does, the crowd bursts into an excited murmur. More bets are placed.
I look back down at the knife, and now I see that Ben glances at it, too.
A chance to survive. To be free. Not just for me—but for Bree. If I kill Ben, it will save her. It is my chance. It is my ticket out.
As I see Ben looking at the knife, I can see the same thoughts racing through his mind, too. It is a chance for him to save his little brother.
I lunge for it, and in a single motion, I reach down and pick it up.
Getting it was easy. Ben never even makes a move for it.
But I’m cut from a different cloth than him. I need to do what I have to to survive. For Bree to survive.
So I lean back, take aim, and prepare to throw my Dad’s knife.
Do it, Brooke! Save your sister! You have a responsibility! DO IT!
I lean forward and with all my might, throw the knife.
And that is the moment that changes everything.
P A R T I V
T W E N T Y T W O
