Morgan Rice - Arena Two

I wonder more about Flo and Charlie, where they came from, their background. But she stands and walks away, to a far corner, obviously wanting nothing more to do with the conversation. She is a hard person to know.

I use the opportunity to look over at Logan, and see how he is doing.

“You all right?” I ask. He doesn’t look good.

He slowly shakes his head. I look down at his leg, which is more swollen than before.

“Can I look?” I ask.

He hesitates, then nods. I walk over and gently reach down and roll back his pants. I stop as I see the wound. It is worse. Much worse. It reminds me of the early stages of Rose’s wound, turning black at the edges. My heart sinks: the medicine didn’t do much good after all.

“I know,” he says. He must see my expression. I wish I could hide it, but I can’t. I feel awful.

It is just like Logan, to sum up the entire situation with two words. He knows his hours are numbered. He knows there’s little more we can do. He knows there’s nothing more I can say. I sit beside him.

“It’s not that bad,” I say, mustering my most confident voice. “You’ll make it through tomorrow. I’m sure of it.”

“That makes one of us,” he says.

I want to distract him, to take his mind off of all of this. I notice Ben, sitting a few feet away, looking at me, and I feel that he wants to talk to me. But I can’t help feeling that Logan’s days are numbered, and I feel he needs me more.

I lower my voice as I turn to Logan, out of earshot of Ben.

“Logan?” I ask softly.

He turns and looks at me.

“You saved my life many times. You made me promise to hang on. I did it, for you. Now will you let me return the favor? Will you hang on? For me?”

He stares at me for a long time.

“Why do you care so much?” he asks.

His question catches me off guard. I look away, thinking. I search my feelings, and try to figure out the right way to phrase it. I turn and look back to him.

“Because you mean a lot to me,” I say. “Because I care about you. Because I would be devastated if anything happened to you.”

He looks into my eyes for a long time, as if searching to see if I’m telling the truth. It is easy for me to, because I am. I really do have feelings for Logan, too.

Finally, he nods, satisfied.

“OK,” he says. “You got tomorrow. I promise you that. But you’ve got to find a way to get us out of here. You’ve got to.”

His words echo in my head, as he closes his eyes and turns away.

You’ve got to .

I awaken to the sound of a loud buzzer, a steel door opening, and the room flooded with light, and realize that I’ve fallen asleep. I was so tired, so physically exhausted, that I must have let my eyes close on me after eating.

Dozens of slaverunners march in and round up everyone. We already wear the uniforms, but they dole them out to the newbies and drag everyone to their feet. Slowly, I get to my feet, my body creaking and groaning in protest. All the others do as well, except Logan. He sits there, in a lot of pain, and I have to help him stand. This doesn’t bode well.

I make sure Bree is by my side as we are marched out of the room, down the now familiar tunnels. As we go I look in every direction for any signs of any escape routes, thinking about what Charlie said. As we pass deeper through one tunnel, he elbows me in the ribs. Wordlessly, I turn and follow his gaze; he nods, gesturing in one direction. I see a tunnel that veers off to the side, and realize he thinks that’s an escape route.

As we are marched forward I realize it would be too risky to attempt any sort of escape now; it would also leave the others vulnerable to getting killed – especially Logan. But I file away that tunnel in the back of my head. Maybe another time.

Soon we are prodded outside, onto the familiar dirt pathway, the sun shining down on the winter day. It is another mild day, the snow entirely melted, and this time, the path veers off to the right. We march and march, until my legs grow weary.

We round a hill, onto a new path, and as we do, I see it is lined with hundreds of screaming spectators, jeering as we go. I can’t help feeling as if this is a walk of death, our final steps towards execution.

The path twists and turns, and as we take one final turn, the new arena opens up before us. My heart stops.

Before us lies a giant mound of sand – more like a mountain. Its base is about a hundred feet wide, and it rises probably two hundred feet high, reaching a point, like a pyramid. It is comprised of smooth, fine sand. All around it stand hundreds of cheering spectators, in a broad circle. Their leader sits in his throne, hoisted above the others, smiling and watching.

At first, I can’t understand what this arena is. But as I study it, it begins to become clear. With a sinking feeling, I realize the mountain of sand is the arena. Somehow, we’re going to be thrown into that sand. But with what objective? To reach the top?

We are prodded and shoved, and soon we stand at the periphery of the mountain. The crowd quiets as the leader stands and holds out his arms.

“My fellow mutants,” he booms, then pauses dramatically. “I present to you this day’s contestants!”

There’s a huge cheer.

The leader raises his arms, and the crowd quiets.

“There are six returning victors today, and for these, we salute you.”

The crowd cheers as they look at us. I hardly think of myself as a victor.

“The object of today’s arena, contestants,” he booms, looking at all of us, “is to reach the top of the sand mountain. Whoever reaches the top wins, and will be spared from death. Yesterday’s victors are granted the privilege of a brief head start. Step forward, victors!”

Bree clutches my hand hard, and I step forward with her, and the others. As we do, the crowd cheers wildly. We all walk towards the huge mountain of sand, and I don’t know what to do. I follow Flo, as she leans forward and begins to climb up the sand. I put my hands into the soft sand, then my feet, and take a few steps. My feet sink, and it is hard to walk. For every two steps I take, I slip back one. It reminds me of a time when I was a child, trying to climb a steep sand dune.

“Something’s fishy,” Ben says. “It can’t be this easy. Just climb to the top?”

“It’s not,” Flo says.

I turn and look at her. She has her game face on, looking stoically straight ahead.

“What tricks do they have in store for us?” I ask her.

She looks at me hard.

“You saved Charlie yesterday, so I’m going to give you one more piece of advice,” she says. “Nothing is what it seems,” she says. “Remember that. Don’t be hasty. Don’t race for the top. You let the others go before you. You hear me? Whoever tries to win will lose.”

We are all climbing, about ten feet up the mountain, when suddenly, a buzzer sounds.

There is a huge cheer, and the dozens of new kids race behind us, climbing the mountain. They scramble up in all directions, all around us.

As a reflex I start climbing faster, as do the others; but I spot Flo hanging back and remember her words, and I put out my hand and stop Bree and Ben. Logan is going slower than the rest of us, so I don’t have to stop him.

“What are you doing?” Ben asks.

“Let them go,” I say.

“But if we don’t reach the top we’ll lose!” Bree pleads.

“Trust me,” I say.

Ben reluctantly stops and lets a group of about a dozen kids pass him. We sit back and watch the others race up the mountain. I see two kids scramble past me and watch as one reaches out and grabs the other from behind. He yanks him backwards with a jerk and the other goes flying through the air and tumbles down the mountain.