Morgan Rice - Arena Two

As he tumbles there is a loud noise, and when he nears the base, long metal spikes rise up in all directions. He rolls right onto them and gets impaled by the spikes, screaming.

The crowd cheers in ecstasy.

Now I realize. Of course, it was not as easy as it seemed. The stakes have increased. This is no longer an innocent game of King of the Mountain. Falling back means falling to your death.

Suddenly, I feel a wrist grab my ankle, and look back to see a desperate girl, maybe 18, with long, greasy hair that clings to her face. She digs her fingers into my skin and pulls hard. I feel myself begin to slide backwards down the mountain. I am losing my grip, my fingernails slipping through the sand, and know that in a moment I will fall backwards and get impaled in the spikes.

Before I can react, I look over and see Bree reach out, grab a handful of sand, then turn and throw it right into the girl’s eyes. The girl lets go of my ankle, grabbing her eyes. I pull up my leg and kick her hard in the throat. She goes tumbling backwards, and gets impaled on the spikes. The crowd cheers wildly.

I look over at Bree, amazed by her ingenuity and so grateful to her for saving my life. “Thank you,” I say.

Other kids are scrambling up behind us.

“Let them go,” I say to the others, wanting to avoid another confrontation.

Bree and I part ways from Charlie and Flo, creating a path in the middle. Several kids scramble past us, racing for the top.

But one of them stops and grabs Bree, apparently thinking he’ll have an easy kill. He starts to yank her backwards when I reach out and grab his hand, pulling him off. At the same time, Logan swings around and elbows him in the chest, sending him toppling down the mountain. He gets impaled in the spikes, face first, and the crowd cheers.

I look over at Logan, impressed by his burst of energy. I had nearly written him off, but see his fighting spirit is still there.

Several more kids race past us, and I look up and already see one girl getting farther than the others, at least halfway up. But then something goes wrong. As I watch, her feet start to sink. Soon, she’s in up to her waist – then her chest. Her hands are up, flailing, and I realize: she is stuck in a sand trap. Quicksand.

She screams as she sinks, her head getting lower. Soon, her screams are muffled, as she’s completely swallowed up by the sand.

The crowd cheers.

I realize now how truly treacherous this arena is. It might be even worse than the last, and I start to wonder if there’s any way out. I make a mental note of where she ran, to make sure we don’t step in the same spot twice.

Some of the other kids hesitate, but another boy runs farther past where she was, until he suddenly stops, screaming in agony. A blade has risen up from the sand, impaling his foot. He stands there, stuck, screaming, trying to get out. But he can’t. Blood pours from his wound, staining the sand red.

The crowd screams.

All around me, blades pop up, impaling many kids. In other places, more sand traps open, swallowing other kids. I realize this arena is a giant trap. Like a minefield. Flo was right: better not to rush. That “head start” for the victors was just a trick. Flo’s advice, once again, saved our lives.

A buzzer sounds, and I hear something whirl in the air. All around me I spot objects landing in the sand, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s a hailstorm. But then I get hit by something hard in the back, and I realize: the arena is now open for spectators to throw rocks. All around me, rocks are being thrown, hitting the sand everywhere. Several hit me in the back of the arms and legs. One barely misses my head. It is painful, and obviously meant to keep us moving.

We have no choice but to continue our way up the mountain.

“Drag your hands!” Flo yells. “Don’t pick them up and drop them. If a blade is going to pop, you’ll feel it beforehand, something hard in the sand. Pull back your hand.”

It’s good advice, and we all continue up, dragging our hands as we go. After several feet I feel something, and quickly retract my hand. A split-second later, a huge blade pops, missing me by a millisecond.

More rocks fly at me, and a large rock bounces off the back of my spine. It hurts like hell. I have an idea. I pick it up and grab it.

“Collect all the rocks!” I say to the others.

Bree, Ben, Logan and the others begin to collect the rocks.

“Throw them in the sand, before you move. It will set off any traps.”

At the same we all start chucking the rocks ahead of us. We set off dozens of blades and we clear a path most of the way.

I save one rock, though, and turn around and aim for a spectator. I hurl it back, hitting him between the eyes, knocking him down. The crowd boos.

I turn around and smile to myself. It is a small satisfaction. It barely made a dent, but it sure felt good to give them a taste of their own medicine.

There are about thirty kids still alive, higher up on the mountain. These are starting to realize how treacherous it is, and some get a new strategy, stopping and wait for others to pass them. Others have yet another strategy: to retreat back down the mountain and kill off everyone below them. I guess they think that reaching the top is impossible and eliminating everyone else is the way to win.

Three kids scramble down right for us. One of them, running right at me, steps on a trap and a metal spike impales him; he drops to his knees and falls face first, dead. The other two, though, make it. One charges right down the mountain for me, his momentum carrying him, and before I can react, he tackles me hard.

I land flat on my back, and the two of us go sliding down the mountain, fast. I’m heading right for the blades at the base, and I need to think quick.

I arch my back and lift my legs up with all my strength, as if doing a backflip, and manage to use his momentum to send him flying over my head. Just in time: he gets impaled on the spikes at the base, and it just stops my free-fall.

But now I’m back down the mountain, rocks flying at me painfully, and I scramble back up as quickly as I can, trying to carefully retrace my steps. The other remaining kid dives into our group, aiming for Logan, going for the weakest link. He tackles him hard, and they go sliding down the mountain at full speed.

They are sliding for the spikes at the base, and my heart stops. It seems like in moments, Logan will be impaled. The crowd cheers wildly.

At the last second, Logan summons his strength. He reaches out, grabs the boy and spins around. As they reach the spikes, the boy gets impaled, back first, blood gushing from his mouth.

The crowd cheers.

But something is wrong. Logan is stuck, too, not moving, and as I look closely, my heart drops: I see that the spike has gone through the boy and into Logan’s arm. Logan screams out, and the pain looks excruciating.

I scramble back down the mountain, as do the others, and hurry over to him and yank him out. The others help, and as we do, he shrieks. The steel slowly leaves his flesh, blood gushing everywhere. He’s breathing hard, sweating, and I reach down and tear a strip off my shirt and use it as a tourniquet, tying it around his wound. It quickly fills with blood.

Flo and I each take one of his arms around our shoulders, and begin to drag him up the mountain, away from the jeering spectators and the flying rocks.

“Leave me,” he grunts.

“No way,” I say.

Together, we all hobble back up the mountain. I look up and notice there are hardly a dozen kids left, sitting there, higher up the mountain, probably waiting for us to pass them. They all seem scared to move on, not knowing what’s in store for them.

And then, everything changes.