Arena One: Slaverunners (18 page)

I stand there in shock, staring back at Ben, who looks like a deer in the headlights. I don’t know how they could be so cruel. Of all the people they could pit me against, why did it have to be him?

The crowd seems to sense our connection—and they love it: they scream and holler as the cage slams shut with a bang. They place bets furiously, eager to see which one of us is willing to kill the other first.

Ben stands there looking so lost, so out of place. Our eyes lock, and we share a moment. His large blue eyes, so gentle, are tearing up. He looks like a lost little boy. I can already see that he would never lift a finger to harm me.

Before this moment, I was resigned to just go quietly to my grave. But now, seeing Ben here, caught in this same predicament, so helpless, my will to live returns. I have to find a way to get us out of here. I have to save us. If not for me, than for him.

I think quick, my heart racing a million miles an hour, as I try to concentrate, to drown out the deafening crowd.

The crowd bursts into boohs and jeers, furious that neither of us are making a move to fight. Eventually their disappointment grows into a rage, and they start throwing things at the cage. Rotten tomatoes and all sorts of objects slam against the metal as the crowd hails things down on us.

I suddenly feel a sharp electric shock in my kidneys, and I wheel and see I was just shocked by the cattle prod, the long pole inserted through the chain-link. A slaverunner quickly retracts it as I try to snatch it away from him. I look over and see that they jab Ben at the same time. It is a dirty trick: they’re trying to force us into action, to stir us into a rage, to prod us closer to each other. The crowd roars its approval.

But we still stand there, staring at each other, neither of us willing to fight.

“You gave me your last meal,” I say to him, over the din of the crowd.

He nods back, slowly, too frozen with fear to speak.

Suddenly, something falls from the sky, lands before us. It is a weapon. A knife. I look down closely at it, and am horrified to see that it is my Dad’s knife, the Marine Corps logo emblazoned on its side.

The crowd cheers as the object lands, assuming this will cause us to fight.

I see Dad’s knife, and I think of Bree. And I realize, once again, that I have to survive. To save her. If she’s still alive.

Suddenly, the crowd quiets. I look around, trying to understand what’s happening. I haven’t heard it quiet before. I look up and see the leader is standing, high up on his podium. Everyone has gone silent with rapt attention.

“I am declaring a change to the rules of the arena!” he announces, his deep voice booming. He speaks slowly, deliberately, and the crowd hangs on his every word. This is clearly a man who is used to being listened to.

“For the first time ever, we will allow a survivor. Just one!” he announces. “The winner of this match will be granted clemency. As will their siblings. After this match, they will be free to go.”

The leader slowly sits back down, and as he does, the crowd bursts into an excited murmur. More bets are placed.

I look back down at the knife, and now I see that Ben glances at it, too.

A chance to survive. To be free. Not just for me—but for Bree. If I kill Ben, it will save her. It is my chance. It is my ticket out.

As I see Ben looking at the knife, I can see the same thoughts racing through his mind, too. It is a chance for him to save his little brother.

I lunge for it, and in a single motion, I reach down and pick it up.

Getting it was easy. Ben never even makes a move for it.

But I’m cut from a different cloth than him. I need to do what I have to to survive. For Bree to survive.

So I lean back, take aim, and prepare to throw my Dad’s knife.

Do it, Brooke! Save your sister! You have a responsibility! D
O IT
!

I lean forward and with all my might, throw the knife.

And that is the moment that changes everything.

I throw my Dad’s knife with everything I have, and in that moment, the crowd holds its breath, completely silent. The blade glimmers in the light as it goes flying end over end, through the air, racing. It is the strongest and most accurate throw I’ve ever done. I already know it will find its target. And that it will mean certain death.

In moments, I will be free.

A second later, the sound of metal meeting flesh punctures the air, and I see that it was, indeed, a perfect strike.

The entire crowd gasps, horrified.

For once in my life, I have ignored my father’s advice. I have not killed Ben.

I have killed their leader.

*

The knife lodges in the center of the leader’s forehead; I’d managed to throw it perfectly, just high enough to clear the fence, by a millimeter, and yet still maintain the perfect angle to hit him, thirty yards away. It hits him so hard, it pins his head to the chair. He sits there, eyes wide open, frozen in shock, dead.

There is stunned silence in the arena. For several seconds, the crowd is too shocked to even react. I can hear a pin drop.

And then, pandemonium. Thousands of people jump up from their seats and run in every direction. Some, terrified, flee for their lives; others see this as their chance to be set free, and run for the exits; others start fighting with each other, while others start fighting with the slaverunners. It is as if a violent energy, long contained, has been set loose.

Slaverunners scurry in every direction, trying to maintain order.

I look to the cage door, wondering if we can escape that way, but already guards are fiddling with its lock, trying to unchain it so that they can come and get us.

I run to Ben, who still stands there, shocked, and grab him by the arm.

“FOLLOW ME!” I scream.

I take his hand as I run across the ring, jump up onto the cage and scale its wall. I climb straight up, relieved to see Ben beside me.

Just in time. The slaverunners burst open the metal gate and rush right for us.

But we are already at the top of the cage, fifteen feet high. I look over the edge and hesitate for a moment: it is a steep drop, and a hard landing. Ben hesitates, too.

But we have no choice. It’s now or never.

I jump.

I land hard on my feet, fifteen feet below on the concrete. My calf explodes in pain as I tumble to the ground. As I hit, rolling, my cracked ribs hurt just as much. The pain is excruciating, but at least I don’t feel as if I’ve broken anything else. I’ve made it.

I look over, hoping to see Ben beside me in the chaos, as the crowd scurries in every direction around me. But my heart drops to see he’s not there. I turn and look up and see he is still up there, high on the cage wall. He’s hesitating at the top. He’s afraid to jump.

The slaverunners are reaching up, beginning to climb, about to get him. He is terrified, frozen in inaction.

I scramble to my feet and yell up at him.

“BEN!” I scream. “JUMP! DO IT!”

I can hear the panic in my voice. There is no time. If he doesn’t jump now, I’ll have to leave without him.

Suddenly, thankfully, Ben plunges into the crowd. He hits the ground hard, tumbling. And then, after a moment, he gets up. He looks dazed, but as far as I can tell, unhurt. I grab his arm and we run.

It is such pandemonium, no one even notices us. People are brawling with each other, fighting to get out. I manage to weave through the masses, hiding in anonymity. I check back and see the group of slaverunners behind us, on our trail.

I head towards one of the exit tunnels where hundreds are fleeing, and we blend in with the stampede, ducking and weaving through the people. Behind us, I sense the slaverunners parting ways through the crowd, coming after us. I don’t know how far we can make it. The thick crowd is barely moving.

I enter the blackness of one of the tunnels, and as I do, I suddenly feel a hand grab me hard around my mouth and yank me backwards. Another hand clasps Ben by the mouth and drags him back, too.

We’ve been caught, yanked back into the blackness. I am being held tight in a recess in the wall, and my captor holds me in a strong, deadly grip. I’m unable to resist. As I stand there, I wonder if I’m about to die.

Suddenly, right in front of me, the group of slaverunners runs past. They keep running down the tunnel, thinking they are following us. I can’t believe it: we’ve lost them.

Now I’m thankful for being pulled aside. And as the grip around my mouth loosens, I wonder why my captor just did us a favor. He releases his grip completely, and I look back over my shoulder and see a large soldier, dressed in black but not wearing a mask. He looks different than the others. He looks to be about 22, and his chiseled features are perfect, with a strong jawline and short, cropped brown hair. He towers over us, and stares down with green eyes that are a surprising contrast to his demeanor: they exude softness, and are starkly out of place here.

“Come with me,” he says urgently.

He turns and disappears into a side door, hidden in the wall. Ben and I exchange a glance, then instantly follow, ducking under the door and into the side chamber.

This man has just saved our lives. And I have no idea who he is.

*

The soldier closes and locks the door behind us. It is a small room, like a cell, with a tiny window way up at its top. No sunlight comes through, so I assume it’s still night. The room is lit by only a small red emergency light. He turns to us and we all stand there, facing each other.

“Why did you save us?” I ask.

“You’re not saved yet,” he answers, coldly. “There are still thousands of those things out there, looking for you. You’ll have to sit tight, wait it out, until daylight. Then we can make a break for it. Our chances are slim. But we have no choice.”

“But why?” I press. “Why are you doing this?”

He walks away, checking the lock on the door again. Then, his back to us, he murmurs, “Because I want out of here, too.”

I stand as quietly as I can in the small room, Ben on one side of me and the soldier on the other. I listen to the stampede of footsteps just outside the door, racing down the hall. The screaming and hollering seems to go on forever, as the angry mob sounds as if it’s alternately looking for us and beating each other up. It’s like I’ve opened Pandora’s box: it’s total mayhem outside that door. I pray that no one else thinks to check in the recess of the wall—or if they do, that the lock holds.

My fear springs to life, as I hear a jiggling on the doorknob. The soldier slowly reaches out his gun, aims it at the door, and leans back. He hold it steady, leveling it at the door.

I stand there, trembling, sweat pouring down my back even though it’s cold in here. Whoever is out there keeps fiddling with the knob. If it opens, we’re finished. We might kill the first one, but the gunshot would alert the others, and the entire mob would find us. I hold my breath for what seems like forever, and finally, whoever is fiddling, stops. I hear him turn and run away.

I breathe a sigh of relief. It was probably just a passerby, looking for shelter.

Slowly, the soldier relaxes, too. He lowers and holsters his gun.

“Who are you?” I ask, speaking in hushed tones for fear of being heard.

“Name’s Logan,” he says, not offering his hand.

“I’m Brooke and this is—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“I know,” he says, curtly. “All contestants are announced.”

Of course.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I press. “I didn’t ask your name. I asked
who
you are.”

He looks back at me coldly, defiant.

“I’m one of them,” he says reluctantly. “Or, at least, I used to be.”

“A slaverunner?” Ben asks, his voice rising in surprise and disgust.

Logan shakes his head.

“No. A gamekeeper. I stood guard in the arena. I never went on slaverunning missions.”

“But that still puts you on their side,” I snap, and can hear the judgment in my voice. I know I should give him a break—after all, he just saved our lives. But still, I think of those people who took Bree, and it’s hard to feel any sympathy.

He shrugs. “Like I said, not anymore.”

I glare back at him.

“You don’t understand,” he says, by way of explanation. “Here, there are no options. Either you join them, or you die. It’s that simple. I had no choice.”

“I would have chosen to die,” I say, defiantly.

He looks at me and in the dim light I see the intensity in his green eyes. I can’t help noticing, despite myself, how gorgeous they are. There is a nobility to him, a chivalrous quality, that I’ve never seen.

“Would you?” he asks. He looks me over. “Maybe you would,” he says finally. “Maybe you’re a better person than I. But I did what I had to to survive.”

He paces, crossing to the far side of the room.

“But like I said, none of that matters now,” he continues. “The past is the past. I’m getting out.”

I realize how judgmental I’m being, and I feel bad. Maybe he’s right. Maybe if I was still living here, in the city, I would have joined them, too. I don’t know what pressures he was under.

“So what now?” I say. “You’re leaving them? Defecting?”

“I’m escaping,” he says. “I’ve had enough. Watching you fight—it did something to me. You had such spirit. I knew that this was my moment, that I had to leave, even if I die trying.”

I hear the sincerity in his voice and know that he speaks the truth. I’m surprised to hear that I’ve inspired him. I wasn’t trying to inspire anyone—just to stay alive. And I am grateful for his help.

But based on the number of feet I hear charging outside the door, it sounds like it’s a lost cause anyway. I don’t see how we can ever get out of here.

“I know where there’s a boat,” he continues, as if reading my mind. “It’s docked on the west side, at 42
nd
. It’s a small motor boat. They use it to patrol the Hudson. But the first patrol doesn’t leave until after dawn. If I get there at dawn, before them, I can steal it. Take it upriver.”

“To where?” I ask.

He looks back at me blankly.

“Where would you go?” I press.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t care. Anywhere but here. As far as the river will take me, I guess.”

“You think you can survive the mountains?” Ben suddenly asks. I can hear an edge to his voice, something unfamiliar, something I haven’t heard before. If I didn’t know better, it sounds to me like possessiveness. Like jealousy.

Suddenly, my face flushes as I realize: Ben has feelings for me. He’s jealous of Logan.

Logan turns and stares Ben down coldly. “
You
managed to,” he says. “Why couldn’t I?”

“I’d hardly call what I did surviving,” Ben says. “It was more like a slow death.”

“It beats being here,” Logan says. “Besides, I’m not a defeatist. I will find a way to survive. I got weapons and ammo, and a few days food. That’s all I need. I’ll do whatever I have to.”

“I’m not a defeatist,” Ben retorts, annoyed.

Logan just shrugs.

“The boat’s meant for two,” he says, looking away from Ben, to me. It is clear from his gaze that he only wants me to come. I wonder if he likes me, or if it’s just a guy thing, just plain old competition and jealousy, for the sake of it. Logan must see the determination in my stare, because he adds, “But I guess, if it has to, it can hold three.”

He paces.

“I’ll help you guys escape. At dawn, you’ll follow me. We’ll take the boat up the Hudson. I’ll drop you back at your homes, wherever they are, then I’ll continue on my way.”

“I’m not going anywhere without Bree,” I say, firmly.

Logan turns and looks at me.

“Who’s Bree?” he asks.

“My sister.”

“And I’m not going without my brother,” Ben adds.

“We came down here for a reason,” I explain. “To rescue our siblings. And to bring them back. I’m not leaving without her.”

Logan shakes head, as if annoyed.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says. “I’m giving you a way out. A free ticket. Don’t you realize there’s no other way out of here? That they’ll hunt you down before you go ten feet? Even if you find your sister—then what?”

I stand there and cross my arms, fuming. There’s no way I’ll let him talk me out of it.

“Besides, I hate to say this but…” he trails off, and I realize he is checking himself.

“But what?” I press.

He hesitates, as if debating whether to say anything. He takes a deep breath.

“There’s no way you’ll ever find them.”

I feel my heart drop at his words. I stare at him, wondering what he’s holding back.

“What aren’t you telling us?” I ask.

He shifts his eyes from mine to Ben’s to the floor, avoiding my gaze.

“What do you know?” I press. My heart is pounding—I am afraid he is going to tell me that Bree is dead.

He hesitates, toeing the ground, looking down. Finally, he begins to talk.

“They were separated,” he begins. “They were too young. They always separate the older from the younger. The stronger from the weaker. The boys from the girls. The stronger, older ones are set aside for the arena. But the younger, weaker ones…” He trails off.

My heart pounds, as I wonder what he’s going to say.

“Well?” Ben prods.

“The young boys, they send to the mines.”

“The mines?” Ben asks, stepping forward in indignation.

“The coal mines. Crosstown. Beneath Grand Central. They put them on a train crosstown. Put them down in the shafts, far beneath the earth. They use the coal for fire. That’s where your brother is. That’s where that train was going. I’m sorry,” he says, and sounds genuine.

Ben suddenly marches for the door, his face red.

“Where are you going?” I ask, alarmed.

“To get my brother,” Ben snaps back, not even slowing.

Logan steps up and holds out an arm, blocking Ben’s way. Now that I look at them side by side, I see that Logan towers over Ben, a half a foot taller and twice as broad, with his huge, muscular shoulders. Beside him, Ben seems tiny. They are starkly different looking people, polar opposites: Logan is the all-American jock type, while Ben, thin, unshaven, with his longish hair and soulful eyes, is the sensitive-artist type. They couldn’t be more different. But they each share a strong will, a streak of defiance.