by Morgan Rice
“I’m out of ways,” I say. “I’ve got nothing.”
“So that’s it?” he snaps back, annoyed. “You’re just going to give up? Let them bring you to the arena? Kill you?”
“What else is there?” I snap back, annoyed myself.
He squirms. “I don’t know,” he says. “You must have a plan. We can’t just sit here. We can’t just let them march us off to our deaths. Something.”
I shake my head. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m hurt. I’m starving. This room is solid metal. There are hundreds of armed guards out there. We’re underground somewhere. I don’t even know where. We have no weapons. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing.
Except one thing, I realize. I can go down fighting.
“I’m not letting them march me to my death,” I suddenly say, in the darkness.
He looks up at me. “What do you mean?”
“I’m going to fight,” I say. “In the arena.”
Ben laughs, more like a derisive snort.
“You’re kidding. Arena One is filled with professional killers. And even these killers get killed. No one survives. Ever. It’s just a prolonged death sentence. For their amusement.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t try,” I snap back, my voice rising, furious at his pessimism.
But Ben just looks back down, head in his hands, and shakes his head.
“Well, I won’t stand a chance,” he says.
“If you think that way, then you won’t,” I snap back. It is a phrase that Dad often used with me, and I am surprised to hear those same words now coming out of my mouth. It disturbs me a bit, as I wonder how much of him, exactly, I’ve absorbed. I can hear the toughness in my own voice, a toughness I never recognized until this day, and I almost feel as if he’s speaking through me. It’s an eerie feeling.
“Ben,” I say. “If you think you can survive, if you can see yourself surviving, then you will. It’s about what you force yourself to imagine in your head. About what you tell yourself.”
“That’s just lying to yourself,” Ben says.
“No it’s not,” I answer. “It’s training yourself. There’s a difference. It’s seeing your own future, the way you want it to be, and creating it in your head, and then making it happen. If you can’t see it, then you can’t create it.”
“You sound like you actually believe you can survive,” Ben says, sounding amazed.
“I don’t believe it,” I snap. “I know it. I am going to survive. I will survive,” I hear myself saying, with growing confidence. I have always had an ability to psych myself up, to get myself so into a head that there’s no turning back. Despite everything, I find myself swelling with a newfound confidence, a new optimism.
And suddenly, at that moment, I make a decision: I am determined to survive. Not for me. But for Bree. After all, I don’t know that she is dead yet. She might be alive. And the only chance I have of saving her is if I can stay alive. If I survive this arena. And if that’s what it takes, then that is what I will do.
I will survive.
I don’t see why I wouldn’t stand a chance. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s fight. That’s what I’ve been raised to be good at. I’ve been in a ring before. I’ve gotten my butt kicked. And I’ve gotten stronger for it. I’m not afraid.
“So then how are you going to win?” Ben asks. This time his question sounds genuine, sounds as if he really believes I might. Maybe something in my voice has convinced him.
“I don’t need to win,” I say back, calmly. “That’s the thing. I only need to survive.”
Barely do I finish uttering the words when I hear the sound of combat boots marching down the hall. A moment later, there comes the sound of our door opening.
They have come for me.
FIFTEEN
Our cell door groans open and light floods in from the hallway. I raise my hands to my eyes, shielding them, and see the silhouette of a slaverunner. I expect him to march over and take me away, but instead he leans down, drops something hard and plastic on the floor, and kicks it. It scrapes across the floor and stops abruptly as it slams against my foot.
“Your last meal,” he announces in a dark voice.
Then he marches out and slams the door, locking it.
I can already smell the food from here, and my stomach reacts with a sharp hunger pang. I lean over and pick up the plastic container carefully, barely able to make it out in the dim light: it is long and flat, sealed with a foil top. I pull back the foil and immediately the smell of food—real, cooked food, which I haven’t had in years—comes rushing up at me, even more powerful. It smells like steak. And chicken. And potatoes. I lean over and examine it: there is a large, juicy steak, two chicken legs, mashed potatoes, and vegetables. It is the best smell of my life. I feel guilty that Bree is not here to share it.
I wonder why they’ve given me such an extravagant meal, and then I realize it’s not an act of kindness, but a self-serving act: they want me strong for the arena. Perhaps they are also tempting me one last time, offering me a preview of what life would be like if I accept their offer. Real meals. Hot food. A life of luxury.
As the smell infiltrates every pore of my body, their offer becomes more tempting. I haven’t smelled real food in years. I suddenly realized how hungry I am, how malnourished, and I seriously wonder if, without this meal, I would even have strength to fight.
Ben sits up and leans forward, looking over. Of course. I suddenly feel selfish for not thinking of him. He must be as starving as I am, and I am sure the smell, which fills the room, is driving him crazy.
“Share it with me,” I say in the darkness. It takes all my willpower to make this offer—but it is the right thing to do.
He shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “They said it was for you. Have it. When they come for me, they’ll give me a meal, too. You need this now. You’re the one that’s about to fight.”
He’s right. I do need it now. Especially because I don’t just plan on fighting—I plan on winning.
It doesn’t take much convincing. The smell of the food overwhelms me, and I reach out and grab the chicken leg and devour it in seconds. I take bite after bite, barely slowing to swallow. It is the most delicious thing I’ve ever had. But I force myself to set one of the chicken legs aside, saving it for Ben. Ben might get his own meal, like he said—or he might not. Either way, after all we’ve been through, I feel it’s only right to share.
I turn to the mashed potatoes, using my fingers to shovel them into my mouth. My stomach growls in pain, and I realize I need this meal, more than any meal I’ve ever had. My body screams out for me to take another bite, and another. I eat way too fast, and within moments, I’ve devoured more than half of them. I force myself to save the rest for Ben.
I turn to the steak, lifting it with my fingers, and take big bites, chewing slowly, trying to savor each bite. It is the best thing I’ve had in my life. If this turns out to be my last meal, I’d be content with this. I save half, then move on to the vegetables, eating only half of these. Within moments, I’m done—and I still don’t feel satisfied. I look down at what I set aside for Ben and want to devour every last bite. But I summon my willpower, and slowly rise to my feet, cross the room, and hold the tray out before him.
He sits there, head resting on his knees, not looking up. He’s the most defeated-looking person I’ve ever seen. If it were me sitting there, I would have watched him eat every bite, would have imagined what it tasted like. But it seems that he just has no will left to live.
He must smell the food, so close, because finally, he raises his head. He looks up at me, eyes open in surprise. I smile.
“You didn’t really think I’d eat it all, did you?” I ask.
He smiles, but shakes his head and lowers it. “I can’t,” he says. “It’s yours.”
“It’s yours now,” I say, and shove it into his hands, and let go. He has no choice but to take it.
“But it’s not fair—” he begins.
“I’ve had enough,” I lie. “Plus, I need to stay light for the fight. I can’t maneuver on a full stomach, can I?”
My lie isn’t very convincing, and I can tell he doesn’t really buy it. But I can also see the effect that the smell of the food has on him, can see his primal urge taking over. It is the same impulse I felt just a few minutes ago.
He reaches down and devours it. He closes his eyes and leans back and breathes deeply as he chews, savoring each bite. I watch him finish, and can see how much he needs it.
Instead of crossing back to my side of the room, I decide to take a seat on the wall beside him. I don’t know how much longer I have until they come for me, and for some reason I feel like being closer to him in the last minutes we have together.
We sit there, beside each other, in silence for I don’t know how long. I feel on edge, listening for any sound, constantly wondering if they are coming. As I think about it my heart begins to beat faster, and I try to put it out of my mind.
I had assumed they would take us both to the arena together, and am surprised they are separating us. It makes me wonder what other surprises they have in store. I try not to think about.
I can’t help wondering if this is the last time I will see Ben. I realize I haven’t known him long, and that I really shouldn’t care either way. I know I should keep my head clear, my emotions calm, and focus just on the fight before me.
But for some reason I can’t stop thinking about him. I’m not sure why, but somehow I am beginning to feel attached to him. I realize I will miss him. It doesn’t make any sense, and I am mad at myself for even thinking this way. I barely know him. It annoys me that I will be upset, more upset than I should be, about saying goodbye.
We sit there in a relaxed silence, a silence between friends. It is no longer awkward. We don’t speak, but I feel that in the silence he is hearing me, hearing me say goodbye. And that he’s saying goodbye, too.
I wait for him to say something, anything, back to me. After minutes pass, a part of me starts to wonder if maybe he’s not speaking for a reason, if maybe he doesn’t feel the same way about me. Maybe he doesn’t even care for me at all; maybe he even resents me for getting him into this mess. Suddenly, I doubt myself. I need to know.
“Ben?” I whisper, in the silence.
I wait, but all that I hear is the labored sound of his breathing, through his broken nose. I look over, and see that he is fast asleep. That explains the silence.
I study his face, and even as bruised up as it is, it is beautiful. I hate the idea of our being separated. And of his dying. He’s too young to die. I guess I am, too.
The meal makes me sleepy, and in the darkness, despite myself, I find my eyes closing. Before I know it, I am slumped against the wall, sliding my head over until it rests on Ben’s shoulder. I know I should wake, stay on edge, prepare myself for the arena.
But in moments, despite my efforts, I am fast asleep.
*
I am awakened by the echo of boots marching down the corridor. At first I think it’s just a nightmare—but then I realize it’s not. I don’t know how many hours have passed. My body feels rested, though, and that tells me I must have been asleep for a long time.
The boots grow louder and soon stop before the door. There is a dangling of keys, and I sit up straighter, my heart pounding out of my chest. They have come for me.
I don’t know how to say goodbye to Ben, and I don’t know if he even wants me to. So instead, I just stand, every muscle in my body aching, and prepare to leave.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my wrist. It is surprisingly strong, and the intensity of his grip ripples through me.
I’m afraid to look down at him, to look into those eyes—but I have no choice. He’s staring right at me. His eyes radiate concern, and in that moment, I can see how much cares for me. The intensity of it scares me.
“You did good,” he says, “getting us this far. We never should have lived this long.”
I stare back, not knowing how to respond. I want to tell him that I’m sorry for all this. I also want to tell him that I care for him. That I hope he survives. That I survive. That I see him again. That we find our siblings. That we make it home.
But I feel that he knows all this already. And so I end up not saying a word.
The door swings open, and in march the slaverunners. I turn to go, but Ben yanks on my wrist, forcing me to turn back to him.
“Survive,” he says, with the intensity of a dying man.
I stare back.
“Survive. For me. For your sister. For my brother. Survive.”
The words ring in the air, like a mandate, and I can’t help but feel as if they come from Dad, channeled through Ben. It sends a shiver up my spine. Before, I was determined to survive. Now, I feel as if I have no choice.
The slaverunners march over and stand behind me.
Ben lets go and I turn and stand proudly, facing them. I feel a surge of strength from the meal and the sleep, and I stare back at them defiantly.
One of them holds out a key. At first, I don’t understand why—but then I remember: my handcuffs. They have been on so long, I’ve forgotten they were there.
I reach out, and he unlocks them. There is a huge relief of tension, as the metal unclasps and is taken away. I rub my wrists where the circular marks are.
I march out the room before they can shove me, wanting the advantage. I know that Ben is watching me, but I can’t bear to turn around and look at him. I have to be strong.
I have to survive.
SIXTEEN
I am marched down the corridor by the slaverunners, and as I walk down the endless, narrow halls, I begin to hear a faint rumbling. At first, it is hard to make out. But as I get closer, it begins to sound like the noise of a crowd. A cheering crowd, with shouts coming in fits.
We turn down yet another hallway, and the noise becomes more distinct. There is a huge roar, followed by a rumbling, like an earthquake. The corridor actually trembles as I walk down it. It feels like the vibration of a hundred thousand people stomping their feet.
I am pushed to the right, down yet another hallway. I resent being poked and prodded by these slaverunners, especially as I am being marched to my death, and I would like nothing more than to turn around and deck one of them. But I’m unarmed, and they are bigger and stronger, and it would be a no-win situation. Besides, I need to conserve my strength.
I am prodded one last time, and the hallway opens up. In the distance there appears a harsh light, like a floodlight, and the noise of the crowd grows inconceivably loud, like a living thing. The hallway opens into a broad and high tunnel. The light gets brighter and brighter, and for a moment I wonder if I am walking out to daylight.
But the temperature hasn’t changed and I realize I am still underground and being walked down an entrance tunnel. To the arena. I think of the time Dad took me to a baseball game, when we were heading to our seats, walking inside the stadium—when we walked down a tunnel and suddenly the stadium opened up before us. As I walk out, down the ramp, it feels like that. Except this time, I am the star of the show. I stop and stare, in awe.
Spread out before me is an enormous stadium, packed with thousands and thousands of people. In its center is a ring, shaped in an octagon; it resembles a boxing ring, except instead of ropes around its perimeter, there is a metal cage. The cage rises high in the air, about fifteen feet, completely enclosing the ring except for its open roof. It reminds me of the cage ring once used by the Ultimate Fighting Championship, but bigger. And this cage, covered in blood stains, with spikes on the inside, protruding from it every ten feet or so, clearly is not meant for sport—but for death.
There is the sound of clanging metal, and I look up and see two people fighting inside the ring, one of them just thrown against the cage. His body slams into the metal, narrowly missing a spike, and the crowd erupts into a cheer.
The smaller opponent, covered in blood, bounces off the cage and
looks disoriented. The bigger one, enormous, looks like a sumo wrestler. He is Asian, and must be at least five hundred pounds. After throwing the small, wiry man, the sumo wrestler charges, grabs him with two hands and lifts him easily over his head, as if he were a doll. He walks him in slow circles, and the crowd cheers wildly.
He throws the man completely across the ring. He goes flying and smashes sideways into the cage, again narrowly missing a spike. He lands on the hard floor of the ring, not moving.
The entire crowd erupts in a roar and jumps to its feet, screaming.
“FINISH HIM!” a crowd member screams, above the din.
“KILL HIM!” screams another.
“CRUSH HIM!”
Thousands of people start screaming, stomping their boots on the metal bleachers, and the noise becomes deafening. Sumo holds out his arms, taking it all in, slowly circling, savoring the moment. The cheers grow louder.
Sumo slowly, ominously, crosses the ring, heading towards the unconscious man, who is lying face first on the floor. As he gets close, he suddenly drops heavily to one knee, landing right on the small of the man’s back. There is a sickening cracking noise as his 500 pounds make impact on the small man’s spine, shattering it. The crowd groans, as it becomes clear that he’s broken the small man’s back.
I turn away, not wanting to look, feeling horrible for the little, defenseless man. I wonder why they don’t end this. Clearly, the wrestler has won.
But apparently, they don’t plan on ending it—and sumo is not finished. He grabs the man’s limp body with two hands, picks him up, and throws him face first across the ring. The man smashes into the metal cage face-first, and collapses to the floor again. The crowd roars. His body lands in an unnatural position, and I can’t tell if he’s dead or not.
The wrestler is still not satisfied. He raises his arms, slowly circling, as the crowd chants.
“SU-MO! SU-MO! SU-MO!”
The roar reaches a deafening pitch, until sumo crosses the ring one last time, raises a foot, and lowers it on the defenseless man’s throat. He stands with both feet on the man’s throat, crushing it. The man’s eyes open wide as he reaches up with both hands, trying to get the feet off his neck. But it is futile, and after a few seconds of struggle, finally, he stops. His hands fall to his side, limp. He is dead.
