Arena One: Slaverunners

by Morgan Rice

  The war began. Battles ensued on American soil. Pittsburgh became the new Gettysburg, with two hundred thousand dead in a week. Tanks mobilized against tanks. Planes against planes. Every day, every week, the violence escalated. Lines were drawn in the sand, military and police assets were divided, and battles ensued in every state in the nation. Everywhere, everyone fought against each other, friend against friend, brother against brother. It reached a point where no one even knew what they were fighting about anymore. The entire nation was spilled with blood. And no one seemed able to stop it. This became known as the Second Wave.

  Up to that moment, as bloody as it was, it was still conventional warfare. But then came the Third Wave, the worst of all. The President, in desperation, operating from a secret bunker, decided there was only one way to quell what he still insisted on calling “the Rebellion.” Summoning his best military officers, they advised him to use the strongest assets he had to quell the rebellion once and for all, before it engulfed the entire nation. They advised him to use local, targeted nuclear missiles. He consented.

  The next day nuclear payloads were dropped in strategic places across America, strategic Republican strongholds. Hundreds of thousands died on that day, in places like Nevada, Texas, Mississippi. Millions died on the second.

  The Republicans responded. They seized hold of their own assets, ambushed NORAD, and launched their own nuclear payloads, onto Democratic strongholds. States like Maine and New Hampshire were mostly eviscerated. Within the next ten days, nearly all of America was destroyed, one city after another. It was wave after wave of sheer devastation, and those who weren’t killed by direct attack died soon after from the toxic air and water. Within a matter of a month, there was no one left to even fight. Streets and buildings emptied out one at a time, as people were marched off to fight against former neighbors.

  But Dad didn’t even wait for the draft—and that is why I hate him. He left way before. He’d been an officer in the Marine Corps for twenty years before any of this broke out, and he’d seen it all coming sooner than most. Every time he watched the news, every time he saw two politicians screaming at each other in the most disrespectful way, always upping the ante, Dad would shake his head and say, “This will lead to war. Trust me.”

  And he was right. Ironically, Dad had already served his time and had been retired from Corps for years before this happened; but when that first shot was fired, on that day, he re-enlisted. Before there was even talk of a full-out war. He was probably the very first person to volunteer, and for a war that hadn’t even started yet.

  And that is why I’m still mad at him. Why did he have to do this? Why couldn’t he have just let everyone else kill each other? Why couldn’t he have stayed home, protected us? Why did he care more about his country than his family?

  I still remember, vividly, the day he left us. I came home from school that day, and before I even opened the door, I heard shouting coming from inside. I braced myself. I hated it when Mom and Dad fought, which seemed like all the time, and I thought this was just another one of their arguments.

  I opened the door and knew right away that this was different. That something was very, very wrong. Dad stood there in full uniform. It didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t worn his uniform in years. Why would he be wearing it now?

  “You’re not a man!” Mom screamed at him. “You’re a coward! Leaving your family. For what? To go and kill innocent people?”

  Dad’s face turned red, as it always did when he got angry.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he screamed back. “I’m doing my duty for my country. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “The right thing for who?” she spat back. “You don’t even know what you’re fighting for. For a stupid bunch of politicians?”

  “I know exactly what I’m fighting for: to hold our nation together.”

  “Oh, well, excuse me, Mister America,” she screamed back at him. “You can justify this in your head anyway you want, but the truth is, you’re leaving because you can’t stand me. Because you never knew how to handle domestic life. Because you’re too stupid to make something of your life after the Corps. So you jump up and run off at the first opportunity—”

  Dad stopped her with a hard slap across the face. I can still hear the noise in my head.

  I was shocked; I’d never seen him lay a hand on her before. I felt the wind rush out of me, as if I’d been slapped myself. I looked at him, and almost didn’t recognize him. Was that really my father? I was so stunned that I dropped my book, and it landed with a thud.

  They both turned and looked at me, alerted to my presence. Mortified, I turned and ran down the hall, to my bedroom, and slammed the door behind me. I didn’t know how to react to it all, and just had to get away from them.

  Moments later, there was a soft knock on my door.

  “Brooke, it’s me,” Dad said in a soft, remorseful voice. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Please, let me in.”

  “Go away!” I yelled back.

  A long silence followed. But he still didn’t leave.

  “Brooke, I have to leave now. I’d like to see you one last time before I go. Please. Come out and say goodbye.”

  I started to cry.

  “Go away!” I snapped again. I was so overwhelmed, so mad at him for hitting Mom, and even more mad at him for leaving us. And deep down, I was so scared that he would never come back.

  “I’m leaving now, Brooke,” he said. “You don’t have to open the door. But I want you to know how much I love you. And that I’ll always be with you. Remember, Brooke, you’re the tough one. Take care of this family. I’m counting on you. Take care of them.”

  And then I heard my father’s footsteps, walking away. They grew softer and softer. Moments later I heard the front door open, then close.

  And then, nothing.

  Minutes—it felt like days—later, I slowly opened my door. I already sensed it. He was gone. And I already regretted it; I wished I’d said goodbye. Because I already sensed, deep down, that he was never coming back.

  Mom sat there, at the kitchen table, head in her hands, crying softly. I knew that things had changed permanently that day, that they would never be the same—that she would never be the same. And that I wouldn’t, either.

  And I was right. As I sit here now, staring into the embers of the dying fire, my eyes heavy, I realize that since that day, nothing has ever been the same again.

  *

  I am standing in our old apartment, in Manhattan. I don’t know what I’m doing here, or how I got here. Nothing seems to make sense, because the apartment is not at all as I remember. It is completely empty of furniture, as if we had never lived in it. I’m the only one here.

  There is a sudden knock on the door, and in walks Dad, in full uniform, holding a briefcase. He has a hollow look to his eyes, as if he has just been to hell and back.

  “Daddy!” I try to scream. But the words don’t come out. I look down and realize that I am glued to the floor, hidden behind a wall, and that he can’t see me. As much as I struggle to break free, to run to him, to call out his name, I cannot. I’m forced to watch helplessly, as he walks into the empty apartment, looking all around.

  “Brooke?” he yells out. “Are you here? Is anybody home?”

  I try to answer again, but my voice won’t work. He searches room to room.

  “I said I’d come back,” he says. “Why didn’t anyone wait for me?”

  Then, he breaks into tears.

  My heart breaks, and I try with all I have to call out to him. But no matter how hard I try, nothing comes out.

  He finally turns and leaves the apartment, gently closing the door behind him. The click of the handle reverberates in the emptiness.

  “DADDY!” I scream, finally finding my voice.

  But it is too late. I know he is gone forever, and somehow it is all my fault.

  I blink, and the next thing I know I am back in the mountains, in
Dad’s house, sitting in his favorite chair beside the fire. Dad is sitting there, on the couch, and he leans forward, head down, playing with his Marine Corps knife. I am horrified to notice that half his face is melted away, all the way to the bone; I can actually see half his skull.

  He looks up at me, and I am afraid.

  “You can’t hide here forever, Brooke,” he says, in a measured tone. “You think you’re safe here. But they’ll come for you. Take Bree and hide.”

  He rises to his feet, comes over to me, grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me, his eyes burning with intensity. “DID YOU HEAR ME, SOLDIER!?” he screams.

  He disappears, and as he does, all the doors and windows crash open at once, in a cacophony of shattered glass.

  Into our house rush a dozen slaverunners, guns drawn. They’re dressed in their signature all-black uniforms, from head to toe, with black facemasks, and they race to every corner of the house. One of them grabs Bree off the couch and carries her away, screaming, while another runs right up to me, digs his fingers into my arm and aims his pistol right to my face.

  He fires.

  I wake screaming, disoriented.

  I feel fingers digging into my arm, and confused between my dream state and reality, I am ready to strike. I look over and see that it’s Bree, standing there, shaking my arm.

  I am still sitting in Dad’s chair, and now the room is flooded with sunlight. Bree is crying, hysterical.

  I blink several times as I sit up, trying to get my bearings. Was it all just a dream? It had felt so real.

  “I had a scary dream!” Bree cries, still gripping my arm.

  I look over and see the fire has gone out long ago. I see the bright sunlight, and realize it must be late morning. I can’t believe I have fallen asleep in the chair—I have never done this before.

  I shake my head, trying to get the cobwebs out. That dream felt so real, it’s still hard to believe it didn’t happen. I’ve dreamt of Dad before, many times, but never anything with such immediacy. I find it hard to conceive that he’s not still in the room with me now, and I look around the room again, just to make sure.

  Bree tugs on my arm, inconsolable. I have never seen her quite like this, either.

  I kneel down and give her a hug. She clings to me.

  “I dreamed these mean men came and took me away! And you weren’t here to save me!” Bree cries, over my shoulder. “Don’t go!” she pleads, hysterical. “Please, don’t go. Don’t leave me!”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I say, hugging her tight. “Shhh…. It’s OK…. There’s nothing to worry about. Everything is fine.”

  But deep down, I can’t help feeling that everything is not fine. On the contrary. My dream really disturbs me, and Bree’s having such a bad dream, too—and about the same thing—doesn’t give me much solace. I’m not a big believer in omens, but I can’t help wondering if it’s all a sign. But I don’t hear any kind of noise or commotion, and if there was anybody with a mile of here, surely I would know.

  I lift Bree’s chin, wiping her tears. “Take a deep breath,” I say.

  Bree listens, slowly catching her breath. I force myself to smile. “See,” I say. “I’m right here. Nothing’s wrong. It was just a bad dream. Okay?”

  Slowly, Bree nods.

  “You’re just overtired,” I said. “And you have a fever. So you had bad dreams. It’s all going to be fine.”

  As I kneel there, hugging Bree, I realize that I need to get going, to climb the mountain and scout out our new house, and to find us food. My stomach drops as I consider breaking the news to Bree, and how she’ll react. Clearly, my timing couldn’t be worse. How can I possibly tell her that I need to leave her now? Even if only for an hour or two? A part of me wants to stay here, to watch over her all day; yet I also know that I need to go, and that the sooner I get it over with, the safer we will be. I can’t just sit here all day and do nothing, waiting for nightfall. And I can’t risk changing the plan and moving us during daylight, just because of our silly dreams.

  I pull Bree back, stroking her hair out of her face, smiling as sweetly as I can. I muster the strongest, most adult voice that I can.

  “Bree, I need you to listen to me,” I say. “I need to go out now, just for a little while—”

  “NO!” she wails. “I KNEW it! It’s just like my dream! You’re going to leave me! And you’re never going to come back!”

  I hold her shoulders firmly, trying to console her.

  “It’s not like that,” I say firmly. “I just need to go for an hour or two. I just need to make sure our new house is safe for our move tonight. And I need to hunt for food. Please, Bree, understand. I would bring you with me, but you are too sick right now, and you need to rest. I’ll be back in just a few hours. I promise. And then tonight, we’ll go up there together. And do you know what the best part is?”

  She looks up at me slowly, still crying, and eventually shakes her head.

  “Starting tonight, we’ll be up there together, safe and sound, and have a fire every night, and all the food you want. And I can hunt and fish and do everything I need to right there, in front of the cottage. I’ll never have to leave you again.”

  “And Sasha can come, too?” she asks, through her tears.

  “And Sasha, too,” I say. “I promise. Please, trust me. I’ll be back for you. I would never leave you.”

  “Do you promise?” she asks.

  I muster all the solemnity I can, and look her dead in the eyes.

  “I promise,” I reply.

  Bree’s crying slows and eventually, she nods, seeming satisfied.

  It breaks my heart, but I quickly lean in, plant a kiss on her forehead, then get up, cross the room and walk out the door. I know that if I stay for just one second more, I’ll never summon the resolve to leave.

  And as the door reverberates behind me, I just can’t shake the sickening feeling that I’ll never see my sister again.

  THREE

  I hike straight up the mountain in the bright light of morning, an intense light shining off the snow. It is a white universe. The sun shines so strongly, I can barely see in the glare. I would do anything for a pair of sunglasses, or a baseball cap.

  Today is thankfully windless, warmer than yesterday, and as I hike, I hear the snow melting all around me, trickling in small streams downhill and dropping in big clumps off of pine branches. The snow is softer, too, and walking is easier.

  I check back over my shoulder, survey the valley spread out below, and see that the roads are partially visible again in the morning sun. This worries me, but then I chide myself, annoyed that I am allowing myself to be disturbed by omens. I should be tougher. More rational, like Dad.

  My hood is up, but as I lower my head to the wind, which grows stronger the higher I get, I wish I’d worn my new scarf. I bunch my hands and rub them, wishing for gloves, too, and double my speed. I am resolved to get there quickly, scout out the cottage, search for that deer, and hurry back down to Bree. Maybe I’ll salvage a few more jars of jam, too; that will cheer Bree up.

  I follow my tracks from yesterday, still visible in the melting snow, and this time, the hike is easier. Within about twenty minutes, I’m back to where I was the day before, rounding the highest plateau.

  I am sure I am in the same place as yesterday, but as I look for the cottage, I can’t find it. It is so well hidden that, even though I know where to look, I still can’t see it. I start to wonder if I’m in the right place. I continue on, following my footsteps, until I get to the exact spot I stood the day before. I crane my neck, and finally, I spot it. I’m amazed at how well-concealed it is, and am even more encouraged about living here.

  I stand and listen. All is silent save for the sound of the trickling stream. I check the snow carefully, looking for any signs of prints going in or out (aside from mine), since yesterday. I find none.

  I walk up to the door, stand in front of the house and do a 360, scanning the woods in every direction, check
ing the trees, looking for any signs of disturbance, any evidence that anyone else has been here. I stand for at least a minute, listening. There is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Finally, I am satisfied, relieved that this place is truly ours, and ours alone.

  I pull back the heavy door, jammed by the snow, and bright light floods the interior. As I duck my head and enter, I feel as if I’m seeing it for the first time in the light. It is as small and cozy as I remember. I see that it has original, wide-plank wood flooring, which looks to be at least a hundred years old. It is quiet in here. The small, open windows on either side let in a good deal of light, too.

  I scan the room in the light, looking for anything I might have overlooked—but find nothing. I look down and find the handle to the trap door, kneel down and yank it open. It opens up with a whirl of dust, which swims in the sunlight.

  I scramble down the ladder, and this time, with all the reflected light, I have a much better view of the stash down here. There must be hundreds of jars. I spot several more jars of raspberry jam, and grab two of them, cramming one in each pocket. Bree will love this. So will Sasha.

  I do a cursory scan of the other jars, and see all sorts of foods: pickles, tomatoes, olives, sauerkraut. I also see several different flavors of jams, with at least a dozen jars of each. There is even more in the back, but I don’t have time to look carefully. Thoughts of Bree are weighing heavily on my mind.

  I scramble up the ladder, close the trap door and hurry out the cottage, closing the front door tight behind me. I stand there and survey my surroundings again, bracing myself for anyone who may have been watching. I am still afraid this is all too good to be true. But once again, there is nothing. Maybe I’ve just become too on-edge.

  I head off in the direction where I spotted the deer, about thirty yards away. As I reach it, I take out Dad’s hunting knife, and hold it at my side. I know it’s a long shot for me to see it again, but maybe this animal, like me, is a creature of habit. If I should be lucky enough to see it again, there’s no way I’m fast enough to chase it down, or quick enough to pounce—nor do I have a gun or any real hunting weapons. But the way I see it, I do have one chance, and that is my knife. I’ve always been proud of my ability to hit a bull’s-eye thirty yards away. Knife-throwing was the one skill of mine that Dad always seemed impressed by—at least impressed enough to never try to correct or improve me. Instead, he took credit for it, saying my talent was due to him. In reality, though, he couldn’t throw a knife half as well as I could.