Arena Two tst-2

by Morgan Rice

  Rose suddenly grunts and cries out in her sleep. Bree hurries over to her and grabs her hand, as Penelope whines.

  “ It’s okay, Rose,” Bree reassures, stroking her hair.

  I can’t stand to look; I can’t stand to see her suffer.

  “ If we don’t do something, she’s going to die,” I say quietly to Logan.

  He grimaces. “I know,” he says. “But what can we do?”

  “ I don’t know,” I say, feeling desperate and hopeless.

  “ That’s because there’s nothing we can do. We’ve covered hundreds of miles, and there is only rubble. You think if we head out there now, at night, in a blizzard, we’re going to find a town in the next few miles, before our fuel runs out? A town that has the medicine she needs?” He slowly shakes his head. “If we go out there now, we’re all just going to get stranded. If I thought we had any chance of finding what she needs, I’d go for it. But you know as well as I do that we don’t. She’s dying. You’re right. But if we go out there, we’ll all die, too.”

  I listen to his words, indignant, but at the same time, I’ve been thinking the same thoughts. I know he’s right. He just saying what’s on all of our minds. We’re in an impossible situation. There’s nothing we can do except watch her die. It makes me want to scream.

  “ Not that I want to sit here,” he says. “We need to keep moving. We need weapons. We need ammo. And food. A lot of food. We need supplies. And fuel. But we have no choice. We need to wait out the storm.”

  I look at him.

  “ You’re so sure we’re going to find this place we’re looking for in Canada?” I ask. “What if it doesn’t exist?”

  He frowns down at the fire.

  “ You find a better alternative to what we’re looking for along the way, you tell me. You find a safe place with plenty of food and supplies, I’ll stop. Hell I might even stay. I haven’t seen it. Have you?”

  Slowly, reluctantly, I shake my head.

  “ Until we do, we keep moving. That’s how I see it. I don’t need to find paradise,” he says. “But I’m not planting myself in a wasteland either.”

  Suddenly, I find myself curious about Logan, about where his survival instinct came from. About where he came from. How he ended up where he did.

  “ Where were you before all this?” I ask softly.

  He looks up from the fire for the first time, looks me directly in the eyes. Then he looks away. A part of me wants to get closer to him, but another part is still unsure. I’m still not quite sure what to think of him. Clearly, I owe him. And he owes me. That much is a given. We need each other to survive. But whether we’d hang around together otherwise is a different matter. I wonder if we would.

  “ Why?” he asks.

  That’s him. Always guarded.

  “ I just want to know.”

  He stares back at the fire, and minutes pass. The fire cracks and pops, and I begin to wonder if he’s ever going to respond. And then, he speaks:

  “ Jersey.”

  He takes a deep breath.

  “ When the civil war broke out, I joined the army. Like everybody else. I went to boot camp, training, the whole nine yards. It took me years to realize I was fighting somebody else’s war. Some politicians’ war. I wanted no part of it. We were all killing each other. It was so stupid. For nothing.”

  He pauses.

  “ The bombs were dropped, and my entire unit got wiped out. I was lucky-underground when they hit. I got out, made it back to my family. I knew I needed to go back and protect them.”

  He pauses, taking a deep breath.

  “ When I got home, my parents were dead.”

  He pauses a long time.

  “ They left a note,” he says, pausing. “They killed each other.”

  He looks up at me, his eyes wet.

  “ I guess they saw what the world was going to be like-and they didn’t want any part of it.”

  I’m taken aback by his story. I feel a heaviness in my chest. I can’t imagine what he went through. No wonder he’s so guarded.

  “ I’m so sorry,” I say. Now I regret having even asked. I feel like I pried.

  “ I was more sorry for my kid brother than for me,” he says. “He was 10. I found him at home, hiding. Traumatized. But surviving. I don’t know how. I was about to take him away somewhere when the slaverunners showed up. They had us surrounded and outnumbered. I put up a fight, wasted some of them. But there was nothing I could do. There were just too many of them.

  “ They made me a deal: they’d let my brother go if I joined them. They said I’d never need to capture anyone-only to stand guard at the arena.”

  He pauses for a long time.

  “ I justified it to myself. I wanted my brother to live. And after all, I heard that there are far worse arenas out there than Arena One.”

  The thought fills me with panic: I had never imagined anything worse could be out there.

  “ How is that possible?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “There’s all sorts of sick things out there,” he says. “Gangs. Cannibals. Mutants. And other arenas that make One look like nothing.”

  He sighs.

  “ Anyway, I gave my little brother two guns, fully loaded, two weeks’ worth of food, my motorcycle, and sent him away, on Route 80, heading west. I told him to head to our uncle Jack’s house, in Ohio, if it was even still standing. At least it was a destination. I made sure he hit the highway, and was going in the right direction. That was the last I ever saw of him.”

  He sighs.

  “ The slaverunners took me away, made me one of them, and I stood guard in the arena. For months, every night, I watched the games. It made me sick. I saw new people come and go every night. But I never saw anyone make it out of there alive. Never. Until you came.”

  He looks at me.

  “ You were the only one.”

  I look back at him, surprised.

  “ When I saw you fighting, I knew my time had come. I had to leave that place. And I had to do whatever I could to help you.”

  I think back and remember when I first met him, how grateful I was to him for helping us. I remember our trip downtown, his nursing me through being sick, how grateful I was to him again.

  “ You said something to me once,” I say. “I asked you why did it. Why you helped me. And you said I reminded you of someone.” I look at him, my heart pounding. I’ve been wanting to ask him this forever. “Who?”

  He looks back into the fire. He’s quiet for such a long time, I wonder if he’ll answer me.

  Finally, in a quiet voice, he says. “My girlfriend.”

  This floors me. Somehow, I can’t imagine Logan with a girlfriend. I envision him in a military barracks. I’m also shocked that I remind him of her. It makes me wonder. Who was she? Did she look like me? Is that why he did it? Does he see her when he sees me? Or does he really like me?

  Instead, I can only summon the courage to ask, “What happened to her?”

  Slowly, he shakes his head. “Dead.”

  I’ve asked too much. In another time and place, they would be harmless questions; but this is not a harmless age we live in, and here and now, even the most innocuous question leads to lethal answers. I should’ve remembered what I learned years ago: better not to ask anyone anything. Better to just live in the silence, in the wasteland. Better not to talk at all.

  E I G H T

  I open my eyes, looking around, trying to figure out where I am. I’m sitting, leaning back against the rock wall of the cave, and I look around, and see everyone else lying around the fire, fast asleep. Something feels wrong.

  I feel something crawling on my leg, and I look down and see a huge tarantula, making its way up my calf. I jump up with a start, brushing it off, freaking out. I feel more of them, all over me, and spin and turn as I frantically swat them off.

  I look down, and see dozens of them, crawling all over the floor. Tarantulas cover the walls, swarms of them, making the walls seem al
ive.

  I turn and look to the mouth of the cave. As I do, suddenly, a dozen slaverunners burst in. They’re wearing masks and holding guns, as they charge right for us. There are too many of them, and they’re coming in too fast, guns drawn. I’m unarmed, and there’s nothing I can do. They found us.

  They come right at me, and the closest one raises his gun to my head. My throat goes dry, a moment before I hear the gunshot.

  I wake up gasping, swatting my arms and legs, trying to get the spiders off. I look around and realize, slowly, it was just a nightmare.

  I’m in the cave, leaning against the stone wall, before the embers of the dying fire. Everyone is fast asleep-except, I see, for Logan, who sits by the entrance, stoically looking out, standing guard. It is daybreak.

  I sit there, hyperventilating, trying to calm down. It was so vivid.

  “ You okay?” comes a soft voice.

  I look over at Logan, who looks back with concern. Beyond him, the snow is piled high, at least a foot and a half, and it is still snowing. I can’t believe it. The storm hasn’t stopped.

  I take a deep breath and nod back.

  “ Just a bad dream,” I say.

  He nods, and turns back to looking outside.

  “ I know what that’s like,” he says.

  I stand, needing to shake out the cobwebs, and walk over to him. I stand at the mouth of the cave, and look out. The light of the breaking dawn is beautiful, with streaks of reds on the horizon against the thick gray clouds. The Hudson has turned to ice in places. A mist and fog settles over everything, and I feel as if we are in a surreal winter postcard.

  It is very tranquil. I feel tucked in here, safe. I look over and see our boat, covered in snow, still bobbing in the water. Yes, it’s treacherous out there, but at the same time, that means no one can get to us. It seems we have another day pass; clearly, we can’t be going anywhere in this.

  “ Looks like we’re not going anywhere today,” I say.

  “ Looks like it.”

  I turn and look for Rose, my heart racing. It will be impossible for us to get out there and try to find medicine for her in this weather, the only drawback.

  I hurry over and examine her. Her breathing is shallow, rapid. She looks more pale than the night before, and her bandage has turned green and brown, pus oozing out the sides. I can smell it from feet away, and my heart wrenches at the site.

  I kneel down, and slowly unwrap it. As I do, she twists and winces, moaning softly. I unravel it, dripping with pus. Her wound has turned entirely black, festering, and I nearly gag. My heart breaks in pieces. I can hardly imagine the pain and suffering she is in right now. It looks incurable. I feel like crying, knowing what’s on the horizon for her. I would give anything to be a doctor, to have a doctor here right now. It is like watching my own little sister die, helplessly.

  I want to feel like I’m doing something, so I hurry to the mouth of the cave, grab some fresh snow, and gently place it on her wound. She winces as I do so. I take one of the fresh bandages I have left to dry by the fire, and wrap it around, doing the best I can.

  I turn back and come over to Logan. I sit beside him, looking out at the snow, and my eyes well up.

  “ It’s bad, huh?” he asks.

  I nod, not looking at him.

  “ You’re doing everything you can,” he says.

  “ No I’m not,” I say.

  He doesn’t respond.

  I think back, wondering how we could have prevented it. I should’ve been more vigilant that night, when the mutants attacked. I never should’ve let Ben stand guard. I knew he was too fragile, too unstable. I can’t help feeling as if it’s all my fault.

  “ It’s not your fault,” Logan says, surprisingly, as if reading my mind. “It’s his,” he says, gesturing with his head back to Ben, sleeping along the back wall.

  Logan refused to allow Ben to stand guard the night before, still not trusting him. I can feel his anger and resentment towards him, but I know it is not helpful. Yes, Ben fell asleep. But even if he was awake, who knows if things would have gone down differently.

  “ You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” I say. “He just lost his brother.”

  “ That’s no excuse. He should’ve stayed awake, or if he couldn’t, he should’ve woke one of us. It’s his fault she got bit.”

  “ You’re right. He should’ve stayed awake. But even if he was awake, do you really think things would’ve gone down differently? You think Ben would have stopped them?”

  “ Yes I do,” he says. “He would have at least woken us. I could’ve responded sooner.”

  “ We were outnumbered. They were fast. Even if he woke us, I don’t know that would’ve made a difference.”

  Logan shrugs.

  “ Anyway, anger and blame won’t help us now,” I say. “Ben is sorry. We need to stick together. You guys need to get over your thing and get along.”

  “ I don’t need to get along with anybody,” Logan says.

  I look at him, wondering if he thinks his whole life is an island.

  “ Keep telling yourself that.”

  The fog comes rolling in off the Hudson as I walk with Ben, our boots crunching in the snow, traversing the island in the afternoon, looking for food. The blizzard is still raging, worse than ever, the wind whipping at us in occasional gusts. It is incredible. I feel like it hasn’t stopped snowing for days. The snow reaches my knees, making each step an effort. When the wind blows, I can see maybe a hundred feet; when it doesn’t, and the fog gathers, I can barely see ten. Between the fog and the snow, I feel like our hunting today is a futile effort. I think Ben thinks so, too.

  But we have to try. We know that other deer is out there, and has nowhere to go. We have to find it, get at least one more good meal in all of us before we leave. Bree desperately needs the protein, and Rose… Well, my heart sinks as I think of her.

  It’s hideous weather out here, my feet and face numb-but in some ways, it’s still better than being in that cave. With Rose dying, the cave has become small, tense, claustrophobic, filled with the stench of death. I had to get out. And I think Ben did, too. Logan, of course, wanted to stay put and stay guard, watching the boat. I don’t think he’d ever trust Ben to stand guard again.

  Ben holds the bow and arrows slung over his shoulder, and I have only my hunting knife. If we spot the deer, of course Ben is our best hope. But even with his skill, I don’t see how he’d possibly be able to hit. It is probably a lost cause-yet still, a welcome distraction.

  Ben and I walk in silence, neither speaking to each other. But it is a comfortable silence. I feel that he’s come out of his shell since yesterday. Maybe he feels more confident, maybe a little bit better about himself, after bringing in that deer. Now he realizes that he is not useless.

  “ Where did you learn how to shoot like that?” I ask.

  He looks at me, startled; it is the first words we have spoken, breaking a long silence.

  We continue for several more steps before he answers.

  “ When I was younger,” he says, “before the war. Day camp. Archery was my thing. I’d stay on the range for hours and hours, long after everyone left. I don’t know why, I just always loved it. I know it’s silly,” he says, and pauses, looking embarrassed, “but it was my dream to compete in the Olympics. Before the war, that was what I lived for.”

  I’m surprised by this; I hadn’t expected this from him, of all people. But I do remember his shot, and it was extraordinary.

  “ I’d like to learn,” I say.

  He looks at me, eyebrows arched in surprise.

  “ I’ll teach you,” he says.

  I look at him and smile. “I think it’s a little bit late for that.”

  “ No it’s not,” he says firmly. “It’s never too late.”

  I hear the seriousness in his voice, and am surprised to see how determined he is.

  “ I want to teach you,” he insists.

  I look at him, surprised. “Now?�
� I ask.

  “ Why not? We’ve been out here for hours, and there’s no sign of the deer. It’s not like we’ll lose him if we take a few minutes.”

  I guess he has a point.

  “ But it’s not like we have a practice range here,” I say. “We don’t have any bulls eyes or anything.”

  “ How wrong you are,” he says with a smile. “Look around. Everything in front of you is an archer’s target. Actually, trees make some of the best targets.”

  I look around, and have a whole new appreciation for the forest.

  “ Besides,” he says, “I’m tired of walking. I wouldn’t mind taking a break for a few minutes. Come here,” he says, gesturing.

  My legs are getting tired, too, and I actually would love to learn. I hate relying on other people for things, and I like learning anything that can make me self-sufficient. I’m doubtful over whether I can really pick up the skill, especially in these conditions, but I’m willing to give it a try. Plus, it’s the first time Ben warmed up to me, and I feel like he’s starting to come out of his trauma. If this helps him, then I’m willing to do it.

  I walk over to him, and he removes the bow from his shoulder and hands it to me.

  I hold up the bow with my left hand, and hold onto the string my right, testing it. It is heavier than I thought, its large wood frame weighing down my arm.

  Ben comes around behind me, reaches out, and puts his left hand over my left hand, over the handle of the bow. As he does, I feel a chill. He has caught me off guard. I didn’t expect him to come so close, or to put his hand over mine. The feel of his touch is like an electric shock.

  He reaches around with his other hand, and places his right hand on my other hand, on the string. I feel his chest rub against my back.

  “ Hold it like this,” he says. “Support your shoulders. If your grip is too high, you’ll never hit your target. And hold it closer,” he says, pulling it closer to my chest. “Align your eyes on the notch. You’re too tense. Relax.”

  “ How am I supposed to relax when I’m pulling on the string?” I ask.

  But I can’t relax for another reason: I’m nervous. I haven’t had a boy this close to me in years. And I find myself realizing that there is something about Ben that I actually do like. That I’ve always liked, since I met him.