Morgan Rice: Arena Two

He takes a step forward, and smiles at me.

“In the meantime, for your final night on earth, I will grant you one last wish. I’m going to allow you to choose one person of the four of you who will live. The choice will be on your head. All the others will die. You can choose yourself if you like.”

He looks down at me with an evil smile, and I realize that this is the cruelest of all the things he’s done. How can I choose one of the four of us? Of course, I would choose Bree. But that would be so unfair to Charlie, and to Ben. Choosing one would be a death sentence for the others. And Bree would be torn by guilt. I know her. I can’t do that to her. I can’t have all of our blood on her head.

I think quick, wracking my brain – and I get an idea.

“I choose our dog, Penelope,” I say. “Allow her to stay with us for our final night.”

The leader looks down at me as if I’m crazy, stares at me wide-eyed, in shock. Then he leans back and breaks into loud, mocking laughter. He reaches back and hurls Penelope, and she goes flying through the air, landing hard on the floor.

“You’re stupider than I thought,” he says. “I shall enjoy watching you die tomorrow.”

He turns and marches out the cell, and his people follow, slamming the metal door behind him and locking it. I listen to their boots march away.

Bree clutches Penelope, kissing her, and Penelope whines back.

Immediately, the others turn and look at me.

“Why did you do that?” Ben asks sharply. “Penelope? Seriously? Of all of us? You could’ve had one of us live. Bree. Or Charlie. Anyone. Why did you do that?” he asks, his frustration rising.

“I have a plan,” I say to him. “See there? On the far wall?”

Everyone turns and looks. There, down the corridor, about fifty feet away, are the keys to all the cells, hanging on hooks.

I turn and look back at Penelope.

“She’s the smartest dog I’ve ever met. She’s our ticket out of here.”

I look at Charlie.

“Charlie, you said you know the way out.”

“I do!” he insists, defensive.

“I believe you,” I say. “If we get out of this cell, can you lead us out?”

Charlie nods back vigorously.

“I’ve seen the tunnels. I know where they go. There’s a way out, a back way. To the river. There are boats on the river. We could take one.”

Ben shakes his head. “It’s risky,” he says.

“Got any other ideas?” I ask.

He looks at me, long and hard, then finally shakes his head. “Let’s do it.”

I turn to Bree.

“Bree. Talk to Penelope. She listens to you. Command her. Tell her what to do. Tell her to get us the keys. The ones that we need.”

Bree carries Penelope to the edge of the cell, and we all follow. I look both ways, and see no one.

Bree pulls Penelope close and whispers in her ear.

“Penelope, baby. We need your help. Please. You have to get us those keys.”

Bree points to the far wall, and Penelope looks over with her one good eye.

“Do you understand?” Bree asks. “Fetch those keys, and bring them back. Go!”

Bree takes a knee and inserts Penelope’s skinny body between the bars, and shoves her into the hall.

Penelope takes three steps, then stops and turns and looks back at Bree.

Bree points to the far wall.

“Go!” she hisses.

Penelope hesitates, then suddenly turns and darts off to the far wall. She runs down the hall, snatches the key ring in her mouth, lifts it off the hook, and races back with it. She runs and runs, slipping between the bars, the keys in her mouth.

Inside our cell, she drops them in Bree’s palm.

I can’t believe it. It worked. We are all thrilled and delighted. My heart floods with love and appreciation for the dog.

Bree hands me the ring, and it is heavy, filled with keys. I immediately flip through them, reach through the bars, and try each one. On the third one in, it turns with a loud, metallic click, and our cell door opens.

It worked. I can’t believe it worked.

We all hurry out the cell, Bree grabbing Penelope and holding her inside her jacket.

“Charlie, it’s your turn. Which way?”

Charlie stands there, looking both ways, hesitating. Then, he turns right.

“This way,” he says, taking off. We follow him, and soon we are all running down the hallways.

Charlie turns left and right, following the emergency lights, down different tunnels, turning again and again. I can barely keep up with him, and can hardly believe how he’s figured all this out.

I am beginning to worry if he knows where he’s going when, after several more turns, he comes to a stop before two yellow emergency lights. He goes to a black part of the wall, reaches out, and raps hard with his knuckles. A hollow sound comes back.

“This is the door,” he says. “I’ve seen them use it. It goes outside. You ready?”

The four of us crowd around it, then I yank it open.

I can’t believe it. We are outside. He’s found it. Charlie was right.

We are outside the prison complex, at some sort of rear entrance. It is amazing to be out in the open sky again, free.

It is night time, and the sky is filled with thousands of stars. It is a cold winter night, the temperature dropping again, and we are out in the freezing elements. I still wear my uniform, as do the others, and it provides some protection, but barely enough to keep me warm.

Charlie points to the river in the distance. It glistens in the moonlight, and I see slaverunner motor boats, bobbing in the water. It is late, and they look unmanned.

We all break into a sprint, racing across the grass for the river, about a hundred yards away. The ground is iced over, and our footsteps crunch as we run. There are watchtowers all around us, but it is a dark, moonless night, and there are no slaverunners standing guard on this side of the complex.

As we reach the river’s edge, we head for a motorboat. It is a beautiful, new boat, and it sits there, anchored, no one standing guard. Of course, why would they? We are inside an army complex.

“Let’s go,” I whisper urgently.

We jump into the boat. As we do, Ben immediately pulls the anchor.

My heart is pounding as I search for the key, then find it in the ignition. I make sure everyone is seated, then turn it, bracing myself.

It turns over. I hit the throttle, slow at first. I don’t want to make too much noise until we are beyond the perimeter of the city.

We are moving, and I look all around us as we go, looking for any sign of being followed. But there are none. It must be very late at night, and no one is watching. I look down and see a full tank of gas. I look around and see the tense faces on my fellow passengers.

I want to gun it, but I force myself to go slowly, just a few miles an hour, nearly drifting down the river in the dark night. On my right, in the distance, I can see the outline of the arena, of the stadiums, of all the different competing grounds. In the far distance, I see groups of slaverunners, standing guard. But they are far away, and their backs are to us. No one sees us, here in the river, slipping through. Or if they do, they probably just assume we are one of theirs.

As we get further, the river twists and turns. We are heading north, against the current. As far away from Manhattan as we can get. Towards Canada.

We continue on, twisting and turning, and when we get far enough where I think it’s safe, I hit the throttle. The engine roars and we gain real speed. We are now racing up this nameless river, going who knows where. I don’t care where. As long as it is far, far from here.

I can’t get Logan’s and Flo’s faces out of my mind. I feel they are looking down, watching us. And that they are smiling.