Morgan Rice - Arena Two

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.

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 alive.

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.