*
Time passes, I don’t know how much, and I drift in and out of sleep. I lie curled up on the metal floor, resting my head in my hands, but it is so uncomfortable, I twist and turn. I have fast, troubled dreams, and force myself to stay awake. My dreams are so disturbing—of Bree being whipped as a slave, of myself being tortured in an arena—that, as exhausted as I am, I’d rather be awake.
I force myself to sit up, and I sit there, staring into the darkness, holding my head in my hands. I will myself to focus of anything that might take me away from this place.
I find myself thinking about life before the war. I am still trying to piece together exactly why Dad left, when he did, and why he never came back for us. Why Bree and I left. Why Mom wouldn’t come with us. Why things changed so much overnight. If there is anything I could have done differently. It is like a puzzle I turn over and over again.
I find myself thinking back, to one day before the war began. The day when everything changed—for the second time.
It was a warm September day, and I was still living in Manhattan with Mom and Bree. Dad had been gone for over a year, and every day we waited for some sign of him. But there was nothing.
And while we all waited, day after day, the war grew worse. One day a blockade was declared; weeks later, they declared a conservation of water; then, food rations. Food lines became the norm. And from there things became even worse, as people grew desperate.
It became more and more dangerous to walk the streets of Manhattan. People started doing anything they could to survive, to find food and water, to hoard medicine. Looting became the norm, and order broke down more each day. I didn’t feel safe anymore. And more importantly, I didn’t feel Bree was safe, either.
My Mom clung to her denial; like most people, she kept insisting things would come back to normal soon.
But things only got worse. Battles came closer to home. One day I heard distant explosions, and I ran to the roof and saw, on the horizon, battles on the cliffs of New Jersey. Tank against tank. Fighter jets. Helicopters. There were explosions, entire neighborhoods on fire.
And then, one horrible day, on the far horizon, I saw a tremendous explosion, one that was different than the others, one that shook our whole building. Miles away, on the horizon, I saw a mushroom cloud rise. That was the day I knew that things would never get better. That the war would never end. A line had been crossed. We would slowly and certainly die here, trapped on the blockaded island of Manhattan. My Dad would be in battles forever. And he would never return.
I realized the time for waiting was over. I knew that, for the first time in his life, he would not be good to his word, and I knew then what I had to do: it was time to make a bold move for the survival of what was left of our family. To do what he would want his daughter to do: to get us off this island, far from here, and into the safety of the mountains.
I had been pleading with Mom for months to accept the fact that Dad would not come home. But she refused to accept it. She kept insisting that we couldn’t leave, that this was our home, that life would be even more dangerous outside the city. And most of all, that we couldn’t abandon Dad. What if he came home and we were gone?
She and I would argue about it every day until we were both red in the face, screaming at each other. We reached a stalemate. We ended up hating each other, barely talking to one another.
Then came the mushroom cloud. My Mom, unbelievingly, still refused to leave. But I had made up my mind. We were leaving—with or without her.
I went downstairs to get Bree. She had snuck out, to scavenge for food; I allowed her this, since she never went far, and always came back within the hour. But this time, she was late; she was gone for hours now, and it was unlike her. I had a sinking feeling in my chest as I ran down flight after flight, determined to find her and get the hell out of here. In my hand I held a homemade Molotov cocktail. It was the only real weapon I had, and I was prepared to use it if need be.
I ran into the streets screaming her name, looking for her everywhere. I checked down every alley she liked to play in—but she was nowhere to be found. My dread deepened.
And then I heard a faint screaming in the distance. I recognized her voice, and I sprinted towards it.
After blocks, the screaming grew louder. Finally, I turned down a narrow alleyway, and I saw her.
Bree was standing at the end of an alley, surrounded by a group of attackers. There were six of them, teenage boys. One of them reached out and tore her shirt while another pulled her ponytail. She swung her backpack to try to fend them off, but it did little good. I could tell that in a matter of moments, they would rape her. So I did the only thing I could do: I lit the Molotov cocktail and threw it at the foot of the largest boy I could find….
I am jolted out of my reverie by the sudden sound of creaking metal, a door slowly opening, of light flooding the room, then the door slamming. I hear chains, then footsteps, and sense another body near me in the blackness. I look up.
I’m relieved to see that it is Ben. I don’t know how much time has passed, or how long I’ve been sitting here. I sit up slowly.
Our cell is lit by dim, emergency bulbs, red, encased in metal, high up along the wall. It is just enough to see by. I see Ben stumbling into the cell, looking disoriented; he doesn’t even realize I’m here, on the floor.
“Ben!” I whisper, my voice hoarse.
He wheels and sees me, and his eyes open wide in surprise.
“Brooke?” he asks tentatively.
I struggle to get to my feet, feeling aches and pains tear through every part of my body as I take a knee. As I begin to stand, he runs over and grabs my arm and pulls me up. I know I should be grateful for his help, but instead, I find myself resenting it: it is the first time he has touched me, and it was uninvited, and that makes me feel funny. Plus, I don’t like being helped by people in general—and especially by a boy.
So I shake off his arm off and stand on my own.
“I can handle myself,” I snap at him, and my words come out too harsh. I regret it, wishing that, instead, I told him how I really felt. I wish I’d said: I’m happy you’re alive. I’m relieved that you’re here, with me.
As I think about it, I realize that I don’t quite understand why I am so happy to see him. Maybe I’m just happy to see another regular person, like me, a survivor, in the midst of all these mercenaries. Maybe it’s because we’ve both suffered through the same ordeal in the last 24 hours, or maybe because we’ve both lost our siblings.
Or maybe, I hesitate to wonder, it’s something else.
Ben stares back at me with his large blue eyes, and for a brief moment, I find myself losing sense of time. His are eyes are so sensitive, so out of place here. They are the eyes of a poet, or painter—an artist, a tortured soul.
I force myself to look away. There’s something about those eyes that makes me unable to think clearly when I look back at them. I don’t know what it is, and that bothers me. I’ve never felt this way about a boy before. I can’t help wondering if I just feel connected to Ben because of our shared circumstance, or if it’s something else.
To be sure, there are many moments when I am annoyed and angry with him—and I still find myself blaming him for everything that happened. For example, if I hadn’t stopped and saved him on the highway, maybe I’d have rescued Bree and be back home by now. Or if he hadn’t dropped my gun out the window, maybe I could have saved her in Central Park. And I wish he was stronger, more of a fighter. But at the same time, there is something about him which makes me feel close to him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, flustered, and his voice is already that of a broken man. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Slowly, I soften. I realize it’s not his fault. He’s not the bad guy.
“Where did they take you?” I ask.
“To their leader. He asked me to join them.”
“Did you accept?” I ask. My heart flutters as I wait for the answer. If
he says yes, I would think so much less of him; in fact, I wouldn’t even be able to look at him again.
“Of course not,” he says.
My heart swells with relief, and admiration. I know what a sacrifice that is. Like me, he has just written his own death sentence.
“Did you?” he asks.
“What do you think?” I say.
“No,” he says. “I suspect not.”
I look over and see that he cradles one of his fingers, which is bent out of shape. He looks like he’s in pain.
“What happened?” I ask.
He looks down at his finger. “It’s from the car accident.”
“Which one?” I ask, and can’t help but break into a small, wry smile, thinking of all the accidents we had in the last 24 hours.
He smiles back, even as he winces in pain. “The last one. When you decided to crash into a train. Nice move,” he says, and I can’t tell whether he means it or is being sarcastic.
“My brother was on the train,” he adds. “Did you see him?”
“I saw him board,” I say. “Then I lost him.”
“Do you know where the train was going?”
I shake my head. “Did you see my sister on it?”
He shakes his head. “I couldn’t really tell. It all happened so fast.”
He stands there and lowers his head, looking distraught. A heavy silence follows. He looks so lost. The sight of his crooked finger bothers me, and my heart goes out to him. I decide to stop being so edgy, and to show him some compassion.
I reach out and take his injured hand in both of mine. He looks up at me, surprised.
His skin is smoother than I’d expected; it feels as if he’s never worked a day in his life. I hold his fingertips gently in mine, and I am surprised to feel slight butterflies in my stomach.
“Let me help you,” I say, softly. “This is going to hurt. But it needs to be done. We have to straighten it before it sets,” I add, lifting his broken finger and examining it. I think back to when I was young, when I’d fallen in the street and came in with a broken pinky finger and Mom had insisted on taking me to a hospital. Dad had refused, and had taken my finger in his hands and snapped it back into place in one quick motion, before my Mom could react. I had screamed in pain, and I remember even now how much it hurt. But it worked.
Ben looks back at me with fear in his eyes.
“I hope you know what you’re doing—”
Before he can finish, I have already snapped his crooked finger back into place.
He screams out, and backs away from me, holding his hand.
“Damn it!” he screams, pacing around, holding his hand. Soon he calms, breathing hard. “You should have warned me!”
I tear a thin strip of cloth off of my sleeve, take his hand again, and tie his finger to the one next to it. It is a lame stint, but it will have to do. Ben stands inches away, and I can feel him looking down at me.
“Thanks,” he whispers, and there is something in his voice, something intimate, that I haven’t sensed before.
I feel the butterflies again, and suddenly feel I am too close to him. I need to stay clear-headed, strong, detached. I back away quickly, walking over to my side of the cell.
I glance over and see that Ben looks disappointed. He also looks exhausted, dejected. He leans back to the wall, and slowly slumps down to a sitting position, resting his head on his knees.
It’s a good idea. I do the same, suddenly feeling the exhaustion in my legs.
I take a seat opposite him in the cell, and lower my head into my hands. I’m so hungry. So tired. Everything aches. I would do anything for food, water, pain killers, a bed. A hot shower. I just want to sleep—and sleep forever. I just want this whole thing behind me. If I’m going to die, I just want it to happen quickly.
We sit there for I don’t know how long, both in silence. Maybe an hour passes, maybe two. I can’t keep track of time anymore.
I hear the sound of his belabored breathing, through his broken nose. It must be so hard for him to breathe, and my heart goes out to him. I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. I wonder when they will come for us, when I will hear those boots again, marching us to our deaths.
Ben’s voice fills the air, a soft, sad, broken voice: “I just want to know where they took my brother,” he says, softly. I can hear the pain in his voice, how much he cares for him. It makes me think of Bree.
I feel the need to force myself to be tough, to force myself to stop all of this self-pitying.
“Why?” I snap back. “What good would it do? There’s nothing we can do about it anyway.” But in truth, I want to know the same thing—where they’ve taken her.
Ben shakes his head sadly, looking crushed.
“I just want to know,” he says softly. “For my own sake. Just to know.”
I sigh, trying not to think of it, not to think about what’s happening to her right now. I try not to think about whether she thinks I’ve let her down. Abandoned her.
“Did they tell you they’re putting you in the arena?” he asks. I can hear the fear in his voice.
My heart flutters at the thought. Slowly, I nod.
“You?” I ask, already guessing the answer.
Grimly, he nods back.
“They say no one survives,” he says.
“I know,” I snap back. I don’t need reminding of this. In fact, I don’t want to think of it at all.
“So, what are you gonna do?” he asks.
I look back at him.
“What do you mean? It’s not like I have any options.”
“You seem to have a way out of everything,” he says. “Some last minute way of dodging things. What’s your way out of this one?”
I shake my head. I’ve been wondering the same thing, but to no avail.
“I’m out of ways,” I say. “I’ve got nothing.”
“So that’s it?” he snaps back, annoyed. “You’re just going to give up? Let them bring you to the arena? Kill you?”
“What else is there?” I snap back, annoyed myself.
He squirms. “I don’t know,” he says. “You must have a plan. We can’t just sit here. We can’t just let them march us off to our deaths. Something.”
I shake my head. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m hurt. I’m starving. This room is solid metal. There are hundreds of armed guards out there. We’re underground somewhere. I don’t even know where. We have no weapons. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing.
Except one thing, I realize. I can go down fighting.
“I’m not letting them march me to my death,” I suddenly say, in the darkness.
He looks up at me. “What do you mean?”
“I’m going to fight,” I say. “In the arena.”
Ben laughs, more like a derisive snort.
“You’re kidding. Arena One is filled with professional killers. And even these killers get killed. No one survives. Ever. It’s just a prolonged death sentence. For their amusement.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t try,” I snap back, my voice rising, furious at his pessimism.
But Ben just looks back down, head in his hands, and shakes his head.
“Well, I won’t stand a chance,” he says.
“If you think that way, then you won’t,” I snap back. It is a phrase that Dad often used with me, and I am surprised to hear those same words now coming out of my mouth. It disturbs me a bit, as I wonder how much of him, exactly, I’ve absorbed. I can hear the toughness in my own voice, a toughness I never recognized until this day, and I almost feel as if he’s speaking through me. It’s an eerie feeling.
“Ben,” I say. “If you think you can survive, if you can see yourself surviving, then you will. It’s about what you force yourself to imagine in your head. About what you tell yourself.”
“That’s just lying to yourself,” Ben says.
“No it’s not,” I answer. “It’s training yourself. There’s a difference. It’s seeing your own future, the way yo
u want it to be, and creating it in your head, and then making it happen. If you can’t see it, then you can’t create it.”
“You sound like you actually believe you can survive,” Ben says, sounding amazed.
“I don’t believe it,” I snap. “I know it. I am going to survive. I will survive,” I hear myself saying, with growing confidence. I have always had an ability to psych myself up, to get myself so into a head that there’s no turning back. Despite everything, I find myself swelling with a newfound confidence, a new optimism.
And suddenly, at that moment, I make a decision: I am determined to survive. Not for me. But for Bree. After all, I don’t know that she is dead yet. She might be alive. And the only chance I have of saving her is if I can stay alive. If I survive this arena. And if that’s what it takes, then that is what I will do.
I will survive.
I don’t see why I wouldn’t stand a chance. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s fight. That’s what I’ve been raised to be good at. I’ve been in a ring before. I’ve gotten my butt kicked. And I’ve gotten stronger for it. I’m not afraid.
“So then how are you going to win?” Ben asks. This time his question sounds genuine, sounds as if he really believes I might. Maybe something in my voice has convinced him.
“I don’t need to win,” I say back, calmly. “That’s the thing. I only need to survive.”
Barely do I finish uttering the words when I hear the sound of combat boots marching down the hall. A moment later, there comes the sound of our door opening.
They have come for me.
F I F T E E N