by Morgan Rice
I peel open one eye and see I am lying, face down, on a metal floor, in a darkened room, lit by red emergency lights. I look up, and struggle to make out the shape before me.
“Brooke?” a voice asks. It is a male voice, and I know I recognize it from somewhere, but can’t remember where.
“Brooke?” he asks again, softly.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, gently prodding me.
I manage to open my eye a bit more, and finally recognize the face: Ben. He leans over me, gently prodding me, trying to see if I’m alive.
“This is for you,” he says.
There is the sound of plastic scraping against the metal floor, and I am struck by the smell of food. But I’m too groggy to look at it, and I don’t really register what’s happening.
“I have to go now,” he says. “Please. I want you to have this.”
A second later there comes the sound of a door opening, and light floods the room. There is the sound of marching boots, chains, handcuffs being released. Then footsteps recede and the door closes, and as it does, suddenly, I realize: they have just taken Ben away.
I want to raise my head, to open my eyes, to call out to him. To thank him. To warn him. To say goodbye.
But my head, too heavy, won’t lift, and my eyes begin to shut of their own accord. Moments later, I fall back into a heavy sleep.
I don’t know how much time has passed when I wake again. I feel the cold metal of the floor on the side of my face, and this time I am able to gradually lift my head, peel myself off. My head is splitting, and every ounce of my body is killing me.
As I sit up, I feel a sharp pain in my ribs, now on both sides. My face is swollen, welts and bruises all over it, and my shoulder is killing me. Worst of all, there’s an intense throbbing in my calf, an unbearable pain as I attempt to straighten my leg. At first, I don’t know what it’s from, and then I remember: the snakebite.
Propping myself with one hand, I manage to sit halfway up. I look around the darkened room for any sign of Ben. But he is gone. I am alone.
I look down and see a tray of food before me, untouched. His food. I reach out and touch it: it is cold. I feel bad that he has left it; I’m sure he needed it at least as much as me. I realize what it took to sacrifice this meal. If this was his last meal, that means they’ve taken him away, to fight. My heart leaps at the realization. Surely, that means he is already dead.
I look down again at his food, and it feels like the food of a dead man. I can’t bring myself to touch it.
There is a sound of boots, and the metal door slams open. In march four slaverunners, who drag me to my feet and prod me out the room. The pain is indescribable as I stand, walk. My head is so heavy, and the room spins, and I don’t know if I’m going to make it without collapsing.
I am pushed and prodded down the corridor, and as I go, the sound of a distant crowd grows louder. My heart drops as I realize I’m being led back to the arena.
If they think I can fight again, it is a joke. I can barely walk. Anyone who squares off with me will have easy pickings. I don’t have any will left to fight-or any strength, even if I did. I have already given this arena everything I have.
I am shoved one last time as the tunnel to the arena opens up. The roar becomes deafening. I squint at the harsh light as I am lead down the ramp, as I realize that I’m counting my final minutes.
The crowd jumps to its feet as they see me. They stomp violently. This time, instead of hisses and jeers, they seem to love me.
“BROOKE! BROOKE! BROOKE!”
It is a surreal feeling. I feel like I’ve achieved fame, but for actions that I detest, and in the last place on earth I’d ever want it.
I’m prodded again, all the way to ringside, back to the metal ladder. I look up and see the cage open, and climb and walk in helplessly.
As I enter, the crowd goes wild.
I am still half-asleep, and this is all so surreal, I can’t help wondering if I did this before, or if it was all a dream. I look down and see the huge welt on my calf, and know that it was real. I can’t believe it. I am back here again. This time, for a certain death.
They weren’t kidding when they said no survivors. Now I know there will be no exceptions.
I stand in the empty ring and survey the stadium, wondering who my next opponent will be, where he will enter from. As I do, suddenly, there comes a cheer from the far side of the stadium. The tunnel opens up, and in marches another contestant. I can’t see who it is, as he’s blocked by an entourage of slaverunners. The crowd goes crazy as he gets closer. But my view is so obscured, it’s not until he reaches the very edge of the ring, until he is climbing the ladder, until the cage opens and he’s actually pushed inside, that I see who it is.
As I do, any ounce of fight that is left in me falls away.
I am horrified.
It can’t be.
Standing before me, staring back with equal shock, is Ben.
TWENTY-ONE
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 c
rowd 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.
PART FOUR
TWENTY-TWO
I throw my Dad’s knife with everything I have, and in that moment, the crowd holds its breath, completely silent. The blade glimmers in the light as it goes flying end over end, through the air, racing. It is the strongest and most accurate throw I’ve ever done. I already know it will find its target. And that it will mean certain death.
In moments, I will be free.
A second later, the sound of metal meeting flesh punctures the air, and I see that it was, indeed, a perfect strike.
The entire crowd gasps, horrified.
For once in my life, I have ignored my father’s advice. I have not killed Ben.
I have killed their leader.
The knife lodges in the center of the leader’s forehead; I’d managed to throw it perfectly, just high enough to clear the fence, by a millimeter, and yet still maintain the perfect angle to hit him, thirty yards away. It hits him so hard, it pins his head to the chair. He sits there, eyes wide open, frozen in shock, dead.
There is stunned silence in the arena. For several seconds, the crowd is too shocked to even react. I can hear a pin drop.
And then, pandemonium. Thousands of people jump up from their seats and run in every direction. Some, terrified, flee for their lives; others see this as their chance to be set free, and run for the exits; others start fighting with each other, while others start fighting with the slaverunners. It is as if a violent energy, long contained, has been set loose.
Slaverunners scurry in every direction, trying to maintain order.
I look to the cage door, wondering if we can escape that way, but already guards are fiddling with its lock, trying to unchain it so that they can come and get us.
I run to Ben, who still stands there, shocked, and grab him by the arm.
“FOLLOW ME!” I scream.
I take his hand as I run across the ring, jump up onto the cage and scale its wall. I climb straight up, relieved to see Ben beside me.
Just in time. The slaverunners burst open the metal gate and rush right for us.
But we are already at the top of the cage, fifteen feet high. I look over the edge and hesitate for a moment: it is a steep drop, and a hard landing. Ben hesitates, too.
But we have no choice. It’s now or never.
I jump.
I land hard on my feet, fifteen feet below on the concrete. My calf explodes in pain as I tumble to the ground. As I hit, rolling, my cracked ribs hurt just as much. The pain is excruciating, but at least I don’t feel as if I’ve broken anything else. I’ve made it.
I look over, hoping to see Ben beside me in the chaos, as the crowd scurries in every direction around me. But my heart drops to see he’s not there. I turn and look up and see he is still up there, high on the cage wall. He’s hesitating at the top. He’s afraid to jump.
The slaverunners are reaching up, beginning to climb, about to get him. He is terrified, frozen in inaction.
I scramble to my feet and yell up at him.
“BEN!” I scream. “JUMP! DO IT!”
I can hear the panic in my voice. There is no time. If he doesn’t jump now, I’ll have to leave without him.
Suddenly, thankfully, Ben plunges into the crowd. He hits the ground hard, tumbling. And then, after a moment, he gets up. He looks dazed, but as far as I can tell, unhurt. I grab his arm and we run.
It is such pandemonium, no one even notices us. People are brawling with each other, fighting to get out. I manage to weave through the masses, hiding in anonymity. I check back and see the group of slaverunners behind us, on our trail.
I head towards one of the exit tunnels where hundreds are fleeing, and we blend in with the stampede, ducking and weaving through the people. Behind us, I sense the slaverunners parting ways through the crowd, coming after us. I don’t know how far we can make it. The thick crowd is barely moving.
I enter the blackness of one of the tunnels, and as I do, I suddenly feel a hand grab me hard around my mouth and yank me backwards. Another hand clasps Ben by the mouth and drags him back, too.
We’ve been caught, yanked back into the blackness. I am being held tight in a recess in the wall, and my captor holds me in a strong, deadly grip. I’m unable to resist. As I stand there, I wonder if I’m about to die.
Suddenly, right in front of me, the group of slaverunners runs past. They keep running down the tunnel, thinking they are following us. I can’t believe it: we’ve lost them.
Now I’m thankful for being pulled aside. And as the grip around my mouth loosens, I wonder why my captor just did us a favor. He releases his grip completely, and I look back over my shoulder and see a large soldier, dressed in black but not wearing a mask. He looks different than the others. He looks to be about 22, and his chiseled features are perfect, with a strong jawline and short, cropped brown hair. He towers over us, and stares down with green eyes that are a surprising contrast to his demeanor: they exude softness, and are starkly out of place here.
“Come with me,” he says urgently.
He turns and disappears into a side door, hidden in the wall. Ben and I exchange a glance, then instantly follow, ducking under the door and into the side chamber.
This man has just saved our lives. And I have no idea who he is.
The soldier closes and locks the door behind us. It is a small room, like a cell, with a tiny window way up at its top. No sunlight comes through, so I assume it’s still night. The room is lit by only a small red emergency light. He turns to us and we all stand there, facing each other.
“Why did you save us?” I ask.
“You’re not saved yet,” he answers, coldly. “There are still thousands of those things out there, looking for you. You’ll have to sit tight, wait it out, until daylight. Then we can make a break for it. Our chances are slim. But we have no choice.”
“But why?” I press. “Why are you doing this?”
He walks away, checking the lock on the door again. Then, his back to us, he murmurs, “Because I want out of here, too.”
I stand as quietly as I can in the small room, Ben on one side of me and the soldier on the other. I listen to the stampede of footsteps just outside the door, racing down the hall. The screaming and hollering seems to go on forever, as the angry mob sounds as if it’s alternately looking for us and beating each other up. It’s like I’ve opened Pandora’s box: it’s total mayhem outside that door. I pray that no one else thinks to check in the recess of the wall-or if they do, that the lock holds.
My fear springs to life, as I hear a jiggling on the doorknob. The soldier slowly reaches out his gun, aims it at the door, and leans back. He hold it steady, leveling it at the door.
I stand there, trembling, sweat pouring down my back even though it’s cold in here. Whoever is out there keeps fiddling with the knob. If it opens, we’re finished. We might kill the first one, but the gunshot would alert the others, and the entire mob would find us. I hold my breath for what seems like forever, and finally, whoever is fiddling, stops. I hear him turn and run away.
I breathe a sigh of relief. It was probably just a passerby, looking for shelter.
Slowly, the soldier relaxes, too. He lowers and holsters his gun.
“Who are you?” I ask, speaking in hushed tones for fear of being heard.
“Name’s Logan,” he says, not offering his hand.
“I’m Brooke and this is-” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“I know,” he says, curtly. “All contestants are announced.”
Of course.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I press. “I didn’t ask your name. I asked who you are.”
He looks back at me coldly, defiant.
“I’m one of them,” he says reluctantly. “Or, at least, I used to be.”
“A slaverunner?” Ben asks, his voice rising in surprise and disgust.
Logan shakes his head.
“No. A gamekeeper. I stood guard in the arena. I never went on slaverunning missions.”
“But that still puts you on their side,” I snap, and can hear the judgment in my voice. I know I should give him a break-after all, he just saved our lives. But still, I think of those people who took Bree, and it’s hard to feel any sympathy.
He shrugs. “Like I said, not anymore.”
I glare back at him.
“You don’t understand,” he says, by way of explanation. “Here, there are no options. Either you join them, or you die. It’s that simple. I had no choice.”
“I would have chosen to die,” I say, defiantly.
He looks at me and in the dim light I see the intensity in his green eyes. I can’t help noticing, despite myself, how gorgeous they are. There is a nobility to him, a chivalrous quality, that I’ve never seen.
“Would you?” he asks. He looks me over. “Maybe you would,” he says finally. “Maybe you’re a better person than I. But I did what I had to to survive.”
He paces, crossing to the far side of the room.
“But like I said, none of that matters now,” he continues. “The past is the past. I’m getting out.”
