Morgan Rice - Arena Two

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 looking, 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.

I turn to see the boy standing there, holding the knife.

“They’re just trying to raid you. To take what they can. And to test you. After all, you’re their competition. They want to show you who’s boss.”

“Competition?” Bree asks, stepping forward.

I can see by the way she’s staring at this boy that she likes him. And I can see by the way he stares back that he likes her, too. He lowers his knife.

I hurry over to him. “Can I borrow that?” I ask.

He looks at me warily, reluctant to let his weapon go.

I gesture to Ben and Logan, still tied up on the ground. The boy turns, not wanting to give up his knife, and instead hurries over to them himself and cuts their ropes.

Ben quickly gains his feet; he is shaken, but not hurt badly. Logan, though, just turns over. I can see from the pain in his face that is unable to make his feet. His swollen leg looks worse.

It is warmer in here, much warmer than outside. With all the body heat in this room, and all the torches, it must be close to 60 in here. I welcome the reprieve; we need to thaw out. It’s not good for Logan’s leg, though. I can’t help but think of Rose, of how she ended up. I pray to God the same fate does not await Logan. It’s so strange to look at him now, lying there, so helpless – when just days ago he was our beacon of strength, the backbone of our mission.

“Yes, your competition,” the boy continues, returning to Bree’s side. “Think you’re down here alone?”

“Where’s here?” I ask. “Where are we?”

“You’re in the cage, just like all of us. We’re the entertainment now. Tomorrow, the games begin. You’ll be in it, just like the rest of us. We’ll all die together.”

I turn and survey the room, look at all the faces. They’re all kids, teenagers, just like us. They’re all emaciated, survivors, rounded up from the countryside by the slaverunners. Some look sicker than others. Only a few of them are anywhere near fit. I realize with a sinking feeling that we are heading back into another arena, will soon be made to fight to the death. To kill one of the kids in this room.