Arena One: Slaverunners

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