Morgan Rice - Arena Two

We turn the corner, and before us, the tunnel floods with sunlight. An exit to outdoors. A cold wind slaps me in the face, and I hear the muted shouts of a mob.

I am shoved hard one last time and we all go stumbling out of the train tunnel, into the outdoors. I squint at the blinding light, and the cold stings my face. Still, it is good to be outside, to be out of that dark tunnel, and to have fresh air.

My senses are assaulted by so many things at once. The air is filled with the cheers and screams of what seems like thousands of people. I pry open my eyes and see we are on a wide, dirt road, and on either side, behind a fence guarded by slaverunners, stand hundreds of mob members, biovictims, jeering at us. They are dressed in rags, and their faces are mutilated. Mutants, grotesque people. They raise their fists and snarl, and the excitement in the air is palpable.

My heart is pounding in anticipation as we go. The slaverunners poke and prod, and one jabs me hard in my ribs with the butt of his gun. It is cold out, but not as cold as the day before. In fact, it is quite warm for a winter day. I’m thrilled to see that the snow has virtually melted, and at least my uniform is keeping me warm. I feel snug and secure in it, sheltered from the elements, and its hard plastic padding makes me feel invincible. I feel like wheeling around and cracking the slaverunner hard across the face, stealing his gun, mowing them down, and making a run for it.

But I know if I do that, Bree, Ben, Logan and the others won’t get far. I look around and see dozens of slaverunners trained on us, their guns at their hips. It would be a massacre.

We clear a small hill, and as we stand at the top, the vista is spread out before me. I see, in the distance, the arena to which we are being lead.

My heart stops at the daunting site: thousands of crowd members are spread out around a huge, circular canyon, cliffs dropping off hundreds of feet. The canyon is spanned by four rope bridges, spaced out evenly in the circle, and all leading to a small, circular piece of land in the canyon’s center. This round, circular stretch of land, maybe a hundred yards wide, is connected to the mainland only by the four rope bridges. Otherwise, there is a steep plummet off the edge.

The spectators cheer wildly at the site of us coming over the hill.

My throat goes dry as I realize where they’re taking us. They’re going to prod us over a bridge, onto that circular piece of land in the middle. Once we’re on it, there’ll be no way off without crossing one of those four bridges back to the mainland. The drop-off is hundreds of feet deep. It is like a vast canyon, except with a large piece of land in its center.

This doesn’t bode well. We will all be stuck together on that small landmass and forced to fight each other to the death, or fight each other to cross one of the bridges to get back to the mainland. Otherwise, there is no way out.

It is a cruel set up for an arena. All your opponents have to do is push you off the edge, and you’re dead. It leaves no room for error. None at all. And I don’t like heights.

Not to mention, no one’s given us any weapons. What is it they’ll expect us to do: fight to the death with our bare hands?

I gulp, worrying for Bree, for Logan, for Ben, even for Charlie. I’m not worried for Flo. Somehow, I feel she’s invincible.

The suspense builds as we are marched closer, and the crowd roars louder. As we get within feet of it, approach one of the bridges, a narrow rope bridge only a few feet wide, I can see over the edge. The drop-off is dizzying, at least a hundred feet. One slip will mean instant death.

“Brooke, I’m scared,” Bree says beside me. She is looking out over the edge, and I grab her by the shoulder and pull her close.

“Don’t look,” I say. “Just follow me. Stay close. You’ll be okay.”

A slaverunner prods me hard in the back, making me stumble, and this time, I’ve had enough: my reflexes kick in and I wheel around and shove him back. Immediately, another slaverunner steps up and backhands me hard across the face, then a third one shoves me again. I get the picture. I stop resisting, and continue forward with the others.

“You’re wasting your energy,” Flo chides.

She’s right. I need to focus. I continue with the others, like sheep, as they prod us all onto one of the rope bridges. It sags and sways as they do, and I find myself grabbing on to the rope railing.

The crowd cheers as we all step foot on the bridge, herded towards the land mass in the center. I try not to look over the edge as the rope swings; it feels too flimsy to hold us. I reach down and hold Bree’s hand, and she dutifully holds my hand and the railing. Logan is limping, and Ben, behind me, to his credit, helps prop him. It is big of him to overcome his jealousy to help him. It’s strange: only a few days ago, those two were rivals. Now, they are helping each other.

Behind us, Flo walks, so stable that she doesn’t even need to hold the railing. She reaches out with one hand and grabs the back of Charlie’s shirt, by the neck, guiding him. She reminds me of a wolf, holding a pup in its mouth. Her game face is on, wearing a steely look of death, and I fear for anyone who gets in her way.

I step onto the land mass with relief, happy to be off the flimsy bridge. We are all herded towards the center of it. It is wider here than I thought, spanning about fifty yards at its widest. But dozens and dozens of kids are herded onto it, and soon it gets crowded. Everyone naturally flocks towards the center, as far away from the edges as they can get. The slaverunners, finished, turn and march across the bridge, back to the mainland. As they do, the crowd cheers again. Now we are alone out here.

We all stand here, dozens of us, huddled together in the center of this land mass, all nervous, unsure what to do.

Just as I’m wondering what will happen next, the crowd quiets. A path parts in the mob, and a group of slaverunners comes forward, bearing on their shoulders a huge, golden throne, borne by rods. On the throne sits a single man, with long hair, falling down to his shoulders. A long scar runs from the corner of his lip to his chin, making him look like he’s scowling. He stands and holds out his arms: he is huge, muscular, wearing a sleeveless vest, even in this cold. He looks like a mountain. I can’t tell his ethnicity: maybe a cross between Native American and Hispanic. He’s one of the fiercest looking men I’ve ever seen.

As he stands, the thousands of mutants fall silent. It is obvious that he is the leader.

“Brothers and sisters, I present to you our newest batch of contestants!” he bellows out in his low voice.

The crowd goes crazy. They stand before a metal railing, waist high, at the edge of the canyon, and bang on it. A loud noise rises up, and I see that each of them holds a rock, which they bang on the metal.

The leader holds up his arms again, and the crowd quiets.

“There are two ways to victory, contestants,” he says to us. “One is to make it back to the mainland. If you can cross a bridge and come back here, you will be safe forever. The other, of course, is to be the last one standing.”

The crowd roars.

The kids around me all turn, looking at the bridges or summing each other up, jittery. It is like being in a corral of horses before a storm.

The leader throws his arms wide one last time:

“Let the death games begin!”

The crowd, screaming, bangs its rocks on the rail.

I run through in my mind Flo’s words. Stay away from the bridges. Stay close to the center. Nothing is what it seems.

Now I have a better idea of what she’s saying. But is it true advice? Or was she just lying to me to have an advantage?