Morgan Rice - Arena Two

“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.

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.