by Morgan Rice
They are captives. But to whom? And why? And where are they taking them?
I brace myself, wondering if anyone will follow, if I will have to fight.
But the train door slides closed just as quickly, and slams shut with a bang. I hear a new sound, one which makes my heart drop: it is the sound of a heavy metal bolt, being slid into place. And then, I realize: we have just been locked in.
The train starts up again, and we begin to move.
I am overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. A part of me wants to get out immediately, as a kickback reaction, to break open the door. I hate being locked in, anywhere. And now I feel like a prisoner.
But another part of me forces myself to stay calm, to figure out what’s going on. And possibly to wait. After all, there are no good options out there, either.
Ben drops the gun, and I lower my knife. The four of us exchange a wary glance, staring at our new guests.
“ Brooke?” Bree calls out nervously.
“ It’s okay, Bree,” I say out confidently across the car.
The six captives turn at the sound of our voices; they squirm up, and look over my way. Enough light comes into the slats so that I can make them out. They are our age. Teenagers. Emaciated. They look tired, sickly, freezing. They look like the walking dead. They stare back at me with desperate, hollowed-out eyes. One of them, a girl with stringy brown hair clinging to her face, has managed to get her gag free.
“ Please, help me,” she whispers out to me, her voice hoarse. “Please, untie me. I beg you.”
I look over at Ben, and he nods back.
“ Don’t do it,” comes a voice.
Logan is sitting up, struggling with his leg. “Don’t untie them.”
“ Why?”
“ You don’t know them. You don’t know how they’ll react.”
“ I’m not going to hurt you,” the girl hisses at Logan.
“ I know she won’t hurt me,” he says. “But they might draw attention we don’t need.”
I look between her and Logan, debating. Logan is such a cynic; I don’t share his views. And I can’t help feeling terrible for her.
I hurry to her, and use my knife to cut the ropes behind her wrist. I then cut the ropes tying her feet together. She immediately leans forward and rubs her wrist and ankles, breathing hard, tearing off her gag.
She surveys the train car, looking frenzied, wide-eyed.
“ You have to get out while you can,” she says in a rush, frantic. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand what they’ll do to you.”
She looks all around, like a crazy person, as if looking for a way to escape.
“ Who is they?” I ask. “Who are you? Where are they bringing you?”
“ I have to get out,” she says, jumping to her feet. “I can’t let them take me.”
“ Take you where?” I ask, growing increasingly alarmed. She darts her head all around, then suddenly, she stands and sprints across the car.
“ Wait!” I scream, worried for what she will do, worried that she will draw attention to us. Logan was right. I shouldn’t have untied her.
But it’s too late. She darts across the car, and runs to the small door that connects the two cars. She tries to pry it open, but it won’t give.
She leans back, and kicks at the wood with her bare feet. She kicks again and again, even though she’s cutting her own feet. Whatever it is she’s running from, she’s truly desperate. She throws her body through the wood and finally shatters it. A gust of freezing air enters the car.
“ Stop!” I yell, running to her.
But I can’t get her in time. She jumps in between the cars, and then jumps down, landing barefoot in the snow and ice.
She doesn’t seem to care. I watch her, and she keeps running, sprinting as far away from the train as she can.
Suddenly, the train slams to an abrupt stop, sending me flying across the car and slamming my head into the wall.
I turn and look between the slats, and see her running across the field. Then I see a slaverunner. He steps up, holds out a gun, and fires.
“ No!” Bree screams, standing beside me, also watching.
He has shot her in the back, and she lands face first, dead.
The slaverunner turns and stares at our car. I feel as if he’s looking right at me.
“ I’m sorry,” Bree says. “I shouldn’t have screamed.”
My heart sinks to see the slaverunner begin to approach our car.
“ We have to get out of here,” I say urgently.
“ They’re coming!” Bree screams, still watching through the slats. I turn and look: slaverunners. Tons of them. They’re coming right for our car. We’re finished.
I was so stupid. I shouldn’t have freed the girl.
“ We have to surrender!” Ben says. “They’ll kill us.”
“ No!” I scream, determined to never be captured again. “We won’t surrender. When they open the door, fire!”
I hold my knife, ready to hurl it.
Suddenly, the door is unbolted, rolls back.
As the first sign of them, Ben fires. To his credit, he hits the first slaverunner right in the chest. He falls face first, into the car.
As he does, the slaverunner’s handgun comes spilling out of his hand, sliding across the floor towards me. I pounce on it.
I take a knee, my back to the far wall, and open fire. I take out one after the next. Ben takes out more himself. The bodies are piling up. I can’t believe it, the damage were doing.
I am wondering how much ammo I have left, when suddenly the wall opens up behind me. I had no idea there was a sliding door on the other side of the car, too, and now I realize that my back wasn’t against a wall, but against a door. It opens behind me, and I feel hands grab me, yank me backwards.
The world and the sky go hurling past me, as I go flying through the air, and land hard on my back in the snow. I feel my head and back hit the ice hard, feel the wind knocked out of me.
Dazed, on my back, I look up at the blue sky, at the clouds, and then see several slaverunners standing over me, scowling down through their masks. Before I can react, one of them raises his boot.
The last thing I see, coming right down for my face, are his thick, rubber treads.
And then my world goes black.
F O U R T E E N
I wake with a splitting headache. The entire right side of my face is swollen, and I can feel a huge lump on my head. The pain is so strong that for once, I don’t feel the hunger, or the cold. It feels like a combination of a really bad hangover, and having been punched hard in the face.
That is when I remember: the slaverunners. Our fight. That boot coming down on my face.
In a sudden panic, I try to figure out where I am. I hear the familiar sound of the train moving on the tracks and feel an icy wind blowing in, and I realize I’m back in the same train car. Except now, things are different: I’m lying on my side, on the floor, and as I try to move my hands and feet, I realize I’m bound. My hands are tied tightly together behind my back with a coarse linen rope, and my feet are tied at the ankles. I squirm, try to move, but cannot. The rope cuts into my skin hard. They have tied it well.
I lift my head, looking all around, desperately trying to see who else is in here with me. I look first for Bree. There are several bodies strewn about the car floor, and at first, I can’t tell who is who. There are at least ten of us in here. We’re now just like first group that was thrown in here: bound. Helpless.
I’m flooded with panic as I wonder if Bree is still with me, if she’s dead or alive. I look all around, in every direction, moving my body as best I can, and finally, with relief, I spot her. She is bound, too, lying there. I’m relieved that she’s here, and even more relieved to see that her eyes are open, and she’s staring back at me. Rolled up against her stomach is Penelope, shaking, cowering.
“ Bree? Are you okay?”
She nods back, but her eyes are opened wide, and I
can see the fear in her face.
“ Are you hurt?” I ask. I survey her body, see no signs of injury, and as she shakes her head no, I feel even more relieved. We’re lucky. I killed several of them. And all they did was bound me and the others in return.
But as I think about it, I realize maybe we are not so lucky. If they chose to bind us, to take us somewhere, instead of kill us, there must be a good reason. And that can only mean that they’re bringing us somewhere to torture us. Or to use as sport. Or worse: to make us fight in another arena.
My stomach drops at the thought of it. I look around in the car, and I spot Ben and Logan, both bound. I also look over the other kids, everyone bound, lying on the floor, not moving. I can’t believe I have ended up in this position again. A prisoner. I can’t imagine being brought to another arena. I close my eyes for a moment at the pain, trying to block it all out.
The train ride gets bumpy, my head hits the hardwood, and jolts me awake. I realize I’ve drifted off.
Suddenly, I hear a loud banging on the car door. I’m confused, because the train is still moving. The banging comes again, from both sides, like hail smashing against the wood.
I roll over, up against the car door, and lift my neck, peering through the slats. I can’t believe what I see.
The train slows as we enter the remnants of a city. It is a vast place, the buildings burnt out, just piles of rubble. The streets are filled with garbage, refuse, and to my surprise: people. Mutants. Biovictims. Their faces are warped and melted, their bodies emaciated. They look crazed, as if an entire mental asylum had let all its prisoners at once. They look as if they’d tear us to pieces if they could. For once, I’m happy that these train doors are bolted shut.
Mobs of them start hobbling towards the train, throwing rocks at us as we go. Some come right up to the door, slamming it with sticks. They are chanting and screaming, and I’m trying to understand what is happening.
As we pass through the city, through block after block, I realize we are being taken somewhere for these peoples’ enjoyment. That we are the sport. The sound of objects striking the car is deafening.
I try to figure out what city we’re in. We’ve been going so far north, for so long, I am guessing we must be far upstate New York. As I look out, at the city outline, I think I recognize what was once Buffalo. I see rivers in the distance, crisscrossing through the city, and am surprised to see several motorboats on them. Slaverunner boats, well-guarded, dozens of soldiers, everywhere.
That tells me something. We are being brought to them. And that can only mean one thing: a new arena.
The banging grows so loud that I fear they will smash our car doors in. At just that moment, our train suddenly dips down, like a roller coaster ride. I feel my stomach plunge. Suddenly, the city goes black. The tracks have descended, have dipped down into a tunnel, beneath the city. Now all I see are the red emergency lights of the tunnel, which we pass every twenty feet or so. Our destination can’t be far.
I roll across the car, beside Bree. I want to make sure she is okay.
“ It’s okay Bree,” I reassure. “Just stay close to me. Do you understand? Whatever happens, just stay close to me.”
She nods back, and I can see she’s trying to be brave, but she’s nodding through silent tears.
Suddenly, the train stops. There comes the sound of our car being unbolted, the lock slid back.
Penelope barks.
“ Go Penelope!” Bree screams.
She looks back at Bree and whines, not wanting to leave.
“ Go! Run! Escape!” Bree screams fiercely.
Penelope finally listens, and just as the car door is opening, she turns and bolts, jumping out. She goes so fast, she flies under the radar of the slaverunners, disappears beneath the tracks. I hope she runs far from here.
We are not so lucky. Several pair of steel boots step up, into the car, and I look up, and see the faces, through the masks, staring down.
Now, we are at their mercy.
A slaverunner walks right for me and takes out a huge knife. I lay there, bound and helpless, and close my eyes, expecting him to stab me. I brace myself. The knife gets closer, and he leans over, and I see the blade coming down. I flinch.
But to my surprise, he doesn’t cut me; instead, he slips the knife between my feet and slices the rope binding my ankles together. All around me, slaverunners are doing the same to the others. They want us to walk. They are taking us somewhere.
I’m hoping they will also free the ropes on my wrist, but I’m not so lucky. A slaverunner grabs me from behind, by the back of my shirt, and pulls me roughly to my feet. It feels good to be standing again, and I rub my ankles together, trying to soothe the rope burn. The ropes are still way too tight my wrist, bounding my shoulders, and while I can walk, I can barely move otherwise.
The slaverunners take the gags out of the other prisoners’ mouths, as well. As soon as they do, a girl a couple years younger than me, cries out, frantic.
“ Where are you taking us!? Where are we going? Where are we?”
A slaverunner reaches out and backhands her hard across the face. She cries out and falls back, crashing into some empty boxes. Another slaverunner yanks her to her feet.
Lesson learned. Don’t talk back.
We are herded off the train, and down onto the floor of the train tunnel. My boots crunch on the gravel. At least it is dry here, no snow. But it is dark, lit only by the emergency bulbs, and it is cold, drafts whipping through the empty tunnels. We are all herded together, and I make sure I stay close to Bree. We are poked and prodded and we begin marching down the tunnel, going deeper into the blackness. I wonder where they are taking us.
We are pushed and shoved down tunnel after tunnel, a ragtag group, scores of slaverunners behind and in front of us. I walk with Bree on one side and Logan and Ben on the other. Logan is suffering, I can see, limping badly on his leg, and Ben and I do our best to prop him up between us. The other captives march like sheep, not even trying to resist.
We turn a bend, and stop before a stone wall. Before it is a single torch, and beneath that, I can barely make out the outline of a steel door. A slaverunner steps forward, unlocks it, and yanks it open.
I’m kicked hard in the small of my back and go flying, with the rest of the group, tumbling into the room. I land hard on the ground, rolling in the dusty, dirty floor, then hear the steel door slammed behind me.
But my hands are bound so tightly behind my back, it is hard for me to get leverage to get back on my feet. I lie there, beside Bree and Logan and the others, and look up, trying to figure out where we are.
We are in a huge, cavernous room, the walls lit by torches, high up. It is like a large cave. The first thing I notice is the noise. And the second is movement.
I look up, blinking dust out of my eyes, and see dozens of people swarming about the room. Kids. We are the only ones tied down, the new kids, thrown down on the floor.
As I watch, several of the other kids race forward towards us, and suddenly start kicking the teenage girl on the ground a few feet away from me. She cries out, as they kick her in every direction. Several kids get down and start rifling through her pockets, looking for whatever scraps they can find.
Just as I’m about to cry out in protest, I feel a kick, hard in my stomach. I look up and see a kid standing over me. I feel others rummaging through my pockets. Then I feel another kick.
I buckle like crazy, trying to break free, but my hands are bound tightly. I manage to swing around and with my free foot, kick one of them hard in the face: a scraggly boy, around 15. I connect hard on his jaw, and he goes down. But I immediately get another kick in my ribs. There are just too many of them.
I look over at Bree, and see, thankfully, that they haven’t reached her yet. But as I watch I see a boy ran up behind her, maybe 11, with sandy brown hair and green eyes. Even in this light, I can’t help noticing that he looks different than the others-noble, intelligent, kind. He is good l
ooking, too, with freckles spread across his face.
So I’m surprised to see him pull out a knife, with that sweet angelic face of his, and aim it right at Bree’s exposed back.
“ BREE!” I scream out desperately.
As I watch, from several feet away, the boy lowers his knife and, to my surprise, slashes the ropes bounding her wrists. He is freeing her.
I feel another kick in my ribs, right before I see Bree yell to him: “Free her!” pointing at me.
The boy slips in between the others, and a moment later, I feel the knife cutting the ropes off my wrists.
That is all I need. A moment later, I jump to my feet and tackle the person in front of me hard, a 17-year-old, skinny boy. I drive him back several feet, and slam him down hard on the ground, knocking the wind out of him. I jump to my feet, spin around, and kick another boy hard in the face, knocking him out.
Then I spin again, like a wild woman, ready to face the others.
But now that I am freed, and have inflicted some damage, the others seem wary of me. Of the dozen or so, only one steps forward to challenge me. A boy, missing an eye, maybe 15, but wide and fat. He scowls as he charges, reaching up with his dirty palm to smack me across the face.
I dodge at the last second, and he goes world whizzing past me. As he does, I lean back and kick him hard in the small of the back. He goes flying forward, face first, and lands on his fat stomach. Not taking any chances, I run up behind him, and kick him hard between the legs while he’s down. He groans in pain, and stops moving.
I turn to face the others, but now, they are afraid. They all back off, starting to dissipate. I see that Logan and Ben are still tied down and I hurry over to them, looking for the boy that freed us. I don’t know who he is, where he went, or why he did it-but now I can’t find him. I stand over them protectively, and the other kids in the room back away.
I realize that these other kids are prisoners, just like us. I can’t understand why they’d welcome us like this.
“ They do this with all the newbies,” comes a voice.
