Arena Two (23 page)

I look down and see the others have already reached the canyon floor. I move double time, and scramble down to the bottom. There is a ten foot drop down to the ground, and I hesitate for a moment. I know this is going to hurt.

I let go. I fall through the air and hit the dirt hard. It hurts, but I am ok.

The others are down there, waiting for me. They all made it safely.

“
Let’s go, move!” I yell, and we sprint across the canyon floor, running for the rope dangling down the cliff on the far side. Stones hail down on us, but we are moving fast and they mostly miss.

It is odd being down here—like being in the bowels of the earth. I look up and see the steep cliffs on either side, and I realize what a huge climb it will be to get back up. I hope and pray that this works.

I reach the other dangling rope bridge, and stop and look straight up. It hangs straight down the cliff. I yank hard on it. It’s sturdy.

“
It’s risky,” Flo says, breathing hard as she comes up beside me. “They might cut it, when we’re halfway up. Or burn it. Our shower us with rocks. Or anything.”

“
I don’t think they will,” I answer, facing her, catching my breath, too. “I think a part of them wants us to make it. After all, they need entertainment for tomorrow.”

She looks up, unsure, as the others catch up beside us.

“
Besides,” I add, “we have no choice.”

I reach down, grab Bree, and hoist her up onto the rope. “Climb,” I say.

Flo grabs Charlie, and the two of them climb up together.

Next comes Logan, then Ben.

Flo pauses. She turns and I turn with her to see what she’s watching. A dozen kids are finishing their descent down the other rope, copying my strategy. They are charging right for us.

“
Go,” I say to Flo. “Protect them. I’ve got the rear.”

Flo gives me a look of approval, then grabs the rope and scrambles up. I climb up right after her.

As I do, one of the kids below reaches up and grabs my ankle. A lanky teenager with broad shoulders, she yanks hard and pulls me down, keeping me from climbing. My hands are getting tired, palms burning into the ropes, and in a desperate effort to shake her off, I wind up with my other foot and kick her hard in the face.

It is a perfect strike, right on her nose. She lets go, and I continue to climb, as fast as I can.

I make good time, catching up to the others, and soon we are halfway up the cliff. I can hardly believe it: my plan is really working. For the first time I wonder if we just might make it.

And then come the rocks. We are all halfway up when rocks begin to hail down all around us. The spectators throw them like crazy, and now they come straight down at us, like missiles. They weren’t letting us go: they were just waiting until we got closer.

I cover my head, as the others do the same, and do my best to withstand the torrent of missiles. I look down and see several kids climbing up the rope behind me—and I watch as one of them gets hit by a particularly large rock, right in the head. She loses her grip and goes tumbling, end over end, landing flat on the ground below. She is dead.

My heart floods with panic. We can’t just stay here.

“
Move!” I yell up.

We all start moving again, climbing up, despite the rocks. They come down hard, bouncing off my arms and shoulders.

I hear a cry, and look up and see Charlie lose his grip. He falls from the rope, goes tumbling through the air. Flo reaches out to grab him, but it happens so fast, she just misses his grip.

Instinctively, I reach out. As he goes flying past, somehow I am able to grab hold of his shirt. I grab hard and hold him by one hand, dangling in the air. I swing him over, bring him back to the rope, and he grabs on, behind me.

I breathe deep with relief: I have just saved him from instant death. I look up and see the visible relief on Flo’s face, too, and the gratitude.

But there is no time to think about it: we are under fire, and we all continue to climb our way straight up. Somehow, we slog our way through the stones. We are close, just feet from the top, when the crowd parts ways and a slaverunner steps forward with a machete. He raises it high, and I can see he is aiming to bring it down on the rope.

My heart floods with panic. If he cuts it, we will all be dead.

I move quick. I reach into my back pocket, take out the knife that I found. I figure now is the time to use it.

I grab the rope with one hand, lean back, and throw it with everything I have.

It flies through the air, end over end, straight up. It is a perfect strike.

The knife lodges in the slaverunner’s forehead, and he goes limp and falls off the edge of the cliff, hurling past us to his death.

The spectators love this. They cheer like mad as we continue up the ladder. Bree reaches land first. Then Logan, then Ben, then Flo, then Charlie. Then me. I collapse on the ground, exhausted, every muscle in my body about to give out, hardly able to catch my breath. I can’t believe it. We made it. We really made it.

The spectators stand back, part ways as the leader appears, carried forward on his throne. He sits there, looking down at us all. He stares for a long time, and the crowd quiets. I wonder if he’s going to have us killed.

Suddenly, he breaks into a wide grin. That is when I know that we have made it. We have survived the first day.

We all sit in the cave, each leaning against the wall, each trying to recover. I look around, at Bree, Ben, Logan, Flo and Charlie—we are a sorry bunch. We are covered in scrapes and bruises; I can feel my own body covered in large welts, and I see welts forming on the other’s faces. I didn’t realize how many rocks I’d been hit by until now, how many blows I’d sustained, until I sit here recovering, feeling the pain and swelling of all the lumps.

We sit here, still dressed in our outfits, our black battle gear with yellow crosses across our chests. As much as it is a sour reminder of the day’s events, at least the padded gear is comfortable, and keeps me warm. It is too painful to even try to take it off. It hurts to even bend my knees. I’m stiffening up, and I suspect the others are, too. I can’t see myself surviving another day of this.

As the six of us sit around the fire, somber, a buzzer sounds, and the large hole in the ceiling opens again. This time, instead of slop being dumbed down, six metal baskets are slowly lowered on ropes. I get up and hobble over to them, as do the others—except for Logan, who is too stiff to even get up.

As I reach the center of the room I look down and am surprised at what I see: in each basket is a wide array of delicacies: meats, cheeses, fruits. Fresh. I can hardly believe it. I grab mine, the others grab theirs, and I reach over and grab Logan’s for him. The ceiling closes as quickly as it opened.

“
I guess the good meals are reserved for the victors,” Ben says, a smile on his weary face.

We head back to our corner of the cave, I hand Logan his basket and sit beside him, and Bree sits on my other side. I rummage through my basket of goodies, and the first thing I find is a Snickers bar. I tear off the wrapper and shove it into my mouth; I take bite after bite, hardly able to slow down. It is the best thing I’ve ever had. If I were to die this moment, I would die happy.

Next I eat a huge chunk of salami, followed by a hunk of hard cheese. I know I should eat slowly, pace myself. But I can’t help it; I feel like I haven’t eaten in years. All the others are doing the same, all devouring food.

I am grateful to the slaverunners for a moment—but then I realize they’re just giving us food to sustain us for tomorrow’s festivities. They want us in our best shape so that they can have a good arena, so that they can watch us kill each other.

As I sit there and look around, I wonder if it will be just the six of us tomorrow. If so, what will we do? I know I couldn’t lift a finger against anyone here. Even Flo. I am so curious as to what tomorrow will look like.

I turn to Flo, who sits there eating, Charlie beside her.

“
Will they put us in the same arena tomorrow?” I ask her.

She continues chewing on her hunk of salami, not looking my way, and doesn’t respond until she’s finished the whole thing. She takes a deep breath, and shakes her head, licking her fingers.

“
It’s always different. They have an infinite variety of arenas.”

“
Do you have any idea what will be next?” Bree asks.

Flo shakes her head.

“
All I know for sure is that tomorrow will be worse. They always up the ante. Always.”

“
Worse?” Bree asks, unbelieving.

I can hardly fathom it myself. How can anything be worse?

Another buzzer sounds, and on the far side of the cave, a steel door opens. I can’t believe the slaverunners would come back for us this quickly. Then I realize: they are not coming for us; they are bringing in fresh competition.

Dozens of kids are shoved into the room, fresh faces. The slaverunners poke and prod them, kicking and shoving them deeper into the room. Soon, the room fills up. The kids looked dazed and confused, probably the same way we looked when we arrived. Our competition for tomorrow.

I feel both relieved and stressed. Relieved, because the pressure won’t be on the six of us to fight each other; stressed, because we now have dozens of new competitors. I notice Flo is staring back at them, summing them up. Her hand rests on her knife, and she is clearly on edge.

Several of the kids look our way; they see our baskets, our food, and perhaps smell it, too. A few of the bigger teenage boys begin to amble their way over to us.

Immediately I stand, as does Flo, ready to face them, to protect what’s ours. They must realize that we are serious, because half way, they pause, as if deliberating.

“
Give us some of your food,” one of the boys, the largest, demands. He is cross-eyed, with a huge nose and thin lips. He must be at least six foot four.

“
Pry it out of my fingers,” Flo answers, her voice steel.

He stands there, uncertain, as he looks at his cohorts. I brace myself, preparing for a fight, but suddenly, another buzzer sounds and the ceiling opens. Buckets of slop come raining down, and all the kids turn and run for it. The new boy sneers at us, and then heads off with the others. But before he does, he points right at Flo and says, “I won’t forget.”

“
I hope you don’t,” Flo says back.

The boy turns to the pit and jockeys with the others for a spot. I notice he is particularly aggressive, throwing others out of his way as he dives face first into the mush.

Slowly, we relax and sit back down. I watch these new kids in wonder. Where do they come from?

“
Does it ever end?” I ask Flo.

She shakes her head.

“
There’s an endless supply of fresh meat out there,” she says. “But don’t worry—it will end soon for us. We’re lucky we made it through today. We won’t be so lucky tomorrow.”

“
There has to be a way out,” I say. “We need a plan. Something.”

“
We can’t continue on like this,” Ben adds. “We’ll be dead.”

“
We can escape,” Charlie pipes up.

“
Charlie, stop it,” Flo snaps.

“
Why stop?” I ask, sticking up for Charlie.

“
He knows a few tunnels,” Flo says. “What good will that do us? There’s a four foot thick steel door between us and getting out of this room. There are a dozen slaverunners outside, all with guns. It’s a waste of energy to think about it.”

She has a point. But at the same time, the thought of going back to the arena gives me a hopeless feeling.

“
What happens if they make us fight each other?” Charlie asks sadly, and looks at Bree.

It is the gorilla in the room.

“
We’re not here to make friends, Charlie,” Flo says. “We are here to survive. You understand me?”

It is a harsh response. But at the same time, I wonder if, deep down, Flo is just trying to convince herself.

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.