Morgan Rice - Arena Two

I look over at Bree, sitting to my right, and Ben beside her. They each sit with their eyes wide open, looking shell-shocked. I look to my other side and see that Logan’s eyes are closed. His breathing is shallow, and I worry for him. I reach out and brush the hair from his eyes, place my hand on his forehead. He is cold and clammy. He groans from the pain.

“Shhh,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.”

I look down at his leg, see his wound festering, and wish there was something I could do. Some medicine, antibiotics – bandages, at least. But I have nothing. I remember the time he nursed me back to health, in the city, when I was so sick. He brought me back. He found me medicine. I feel terrible that I can’t reciprocate.

I run my hand again and again over his forehead, trying to soothe him.

Slowly, his eyes flutter open. He looks at me. Weakly, he smiles. Then he closes his eyes again.

“You’re not half bad,” he whispers, eyes closed.

I can’t help but smile back.

I feel Ben looking over at us; I can’t help but feel that he is jealous that I’m giving Logan all of this attention. I don’t want him to be. And I do have feelings for Ben. But I can’t ignore Logan in his time of need either.

I lean back and close my eyes for a minute and wonder how we got here. I can’t believe that I am in this position once again, about to enter another arena. I messed up somewhere along the way. I try to think of what I could have done differently. I should’ve been more careful, more guarded. Maybe we never should have stopped at my dad’s after all. Maybe if we stayed on the river, like Logan said, if we never stopped, things would have gone differently. Maybe we just had to keep going. But to where? That’s the million-dollar question. There seems to be nothing left in this world. Nothing, except for violence and evil and arenas, clustering in what’s left of the big cities. This is what our society has come to.

I get another sharp hunger pain, and I am feeling lightheaded. I’ve never been this hungry in my life, and I seriously don’t think I can make it through the night without another meal.

As I’m thinking this, a set of boots appears before me from out of the shadows. A large teenager, maybe 19, broad, stocky, stops before us. He looks down, puts his hands on his hips, as he looks us all over carefully. He especially looks Bree over, up and down, as if she is a thing of prey. He smiles, an evil smile.

“The new kids,” he states.

My anger rises, especially as I see how he looks at my sister.

“What do you want?” I ask sharply.

Slowly, his smile drops.

“All business, huh?” he says. “I like that.” He licks his lips. “Well, sweety, I came here to do you a favor. To make you a deal. You want food, right? You all do, right?”

He looks left to right, examining us.

“Well,” he continues, before we can respond. “I’ve got some. Good food. Fresh fruit. A lot of it. As much as you can eat.”

I look over this creep: he is broad and stocky and looks well fed, much better fed than the others. He looks strong, a fierce opponent. And shady, slimy. I hate the way he licks his lips at me.

“Like I said,” I repeat, an edge to my voice. “What do you want?”

He smiles.

“I want to trade,” he says, his cold black eyes locking on mine. “Food for sex.”

I can’t believe it; I am too shocked to even respond.

“You’ll do,” he says, looking at me. “I’ll bring you back in an hour, when I’m done with you, and I’ll give you enough food for all of you.”

As he smiles at me, proud of himself, I’ve never been more disgusted in my life. I want to get up and kick him, but it’s not worth the energy. Instead, I just turn my head, waiting for him to go back to the rock he crawled out from. He doesn’t even deserve a response.

But then, he turns and looks at Bree.

“Or, if you give me a go with the young one here,” he adds, “I’ll give you twice the food.”

Something snaps in me, and without thinking, I react. I push up on my palms off the ground, swing back my leg, swing it across, and kick him hard behind both of his knees, sweeping them out from under him. He lands flat on his back, hard.

Without pausing, I jump to one knee, lean over him, and take my thumb and forefinger and dig them deep into pressure points on his throat.

He looks up at me, his eyes bulging, gasping for air. He grabs my hand, trying to remove it, but I have him pinned down, and the strength that overcomes me keeps him there. I think of what he said about Bree, and I want to tear him to pieces. I make him struggle for every breath.

“I’m only going to say this once,” I growl, through clenched teeth. “You come near my sister again, or even look her way, and I’m going to kill you. Do you understand? I will kill you.”

Slowly, he nods, and I let go. He sits up, gasping for air, then jumps to his feet and trots away.

He turns back and looks at me as he runs.

“You’re dead!” he screams out, in a whiny voice. “Tomorrow, in the arena. I’m going to get you. You’re dead!”

And with that, he disappears into the darkness.

I turn and look at the others. Bree looks scared, and Ben sits there, fists clenched.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod back, breathing slowly, my heart still pounding. I lean over, and kiss Bree on the forehead.

“Was he going to hurt me?” she asks.

“Don’t worry, love,” I say. “No one’s ever going to hurt you. Not while I’m around.”

I slowly lean back, and I see Logan grinning at me.

“Nice move,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Of course, I would’ve swept him differently.”

I can’t help but smile back. I am about to answer, say something witty, but my thoughts are interrupted.

A loud buzzer sounds, and I look over and am surprised to see a huge hole open up in the ceiling of the cave. A bright spotlight shines straight down, and suddenly, all the other kids are on their feet, racing, running towards the light in the middle of the room. I don’t understand what’s happening – until suddenly, I see something fall from the ceiling, land on the floor. It pours straight down, and I don’t understand what it is. And then I realize: food.

Slop is being poured down, straight down to the dirt floor, buckets and buckets of it. It looks like oatmeal, and it hits the dirt floor with a splat.

It is gross-looking, but the other kids are racing for it, pouncing on it, grabbing it by the handful and shoving it in their mouths.

Up above, leaning down over the edge, are dozens of faces of humans, laughing at the spectacle. They throw more buckets in, and some of it lands on the backs of the kids as they eat on all fours. They laugh harder.

I waste no time. As gross as it is, it’s feeding time, and my stomach decides for me. Ben and Bree also jump to their feet, not needing any prodding.

We all rush to the center, and reach the pit of kids who are elbowing each other out of the way; I get closer, and people viciously elbow me left and right. After taking some hard bruises, I get to the center, get down on all fours, and grabbed a handful of the slop. I cram it into my mouth, and chew it.

It is slimy, and perhaps the grossest thing I’ve ever eaten. It tastes like raw barley, barely cooked. But it is food, and I grab handful after handful. I look over and see Ben getting a handful, but see Bree getting edged out. I grab a handful for her and put in her hand; then I grab two more and do the same.

As I’m looking over at her, I spot something: a few feet away is Charlie, on his hands and knees, grabbing a meal. He doesn’t see the person creeping up behind them – a skinny boy, maybe 16, with curly black hair and lots of acne. He creeps up behind Charlie, and in one quick motion, he reaches down and grabs the knife from his sheath.