radiate concern, and in that moment, I can see how much cares for me. The intensity of it scares me.
“You did good,” he says, “getting us this far. We never should have lived this long.”
I stare back, not knowing how to respond. I want to tell him that I’m sorry for all this. I also want to tell him that I care for him. That I hope he survives. That I survive. That I see him again. That we find our siblings. That we make it home.
But I feel that he knows all this already. And so I end up not saying a word.
The door swings open, and in march the slaverunners. I turn to go, but Ben yanks on my wrist, forcing me to turn back to him.
“Survive,” he says, with the intensity of a dying man.
I stare back.
“Survive. For me. For your sister. For my brother.
The words ring in the air, like a mandate, and I can’t help but feel as if they come from Dad, channeled through Ben. It sends a shiver up my spine. Before, I was determined to survive. Now, I feel as if I have no choice.
The slaverunners march over and stand behind me.
Ben lets go and I turn and stand proudly, facing them. I feel a surge of strength from the meal and the sleep, and I stare back at them defiantly.
One of them holds out a key. At first, I don’t understand why-but then I remember: my handcuffs. They have been on so long, I’ve forgotten they were there.
I reach out, and he unlocks them. There is a huge relief of tension, as the metal unclasps and is taken away. I rub my wrists where the circular marks are.
I march out the room before they can shove me, wanting the advantage. I know that Ben is watching me, but I can’t bear to turn around and look at him. I have to be strong.
I have to survive.
SIXTEEN
I am marched down the corridor by the slaverunners, and as I walk down the endless, narrow halls, I begin to hear a faint rumbling. At first, it is hard to make out. But as I get closer, it begins to sound like the noise of a crowd. A cheering crowd, with shouts coming in fits.
We turn down yet another hallway, and the noise becomes more distinct. There is a huge roar, followed by a rumbling, like an earthquake. The corridor actually trembles as I walk down it. It feels like the vibration of a hundred thousand people stomping their feet.
I am pushed to the right, down yet another hallway. I resent being poked and prodded by these slaverunners, especially as I am being marched to my death, and I would like nothing more than to turn around and deck one of them. But I’m unarmed, and they are bigger and stronger, and it would be a no-win situation. Besides, I need to conserve my strength.
I am prodded one last time, and the hallway opens up. In the distance there appears a harsh light, like a floodlight, and the noise of the crowd grows inconceivably loud, like a living thing. The hallway opens into a broad and high tunnel. The light gets brighter and brighter, and for a moment I wonder if I am walking out to daylight.
But the temperature hasn’t changed and I realize I am still underground and being walked down an entrance tunnel. To the arena. I think of the time Dad took me to a baseball game, when we were heading to our seats, walking inside the stadium-when we walked down a tunnel and suddenly the stadium opened up before us. As I walk out, down the ramp, it feels like that. Except this time, I am the star of the show. I stop and stare, in awe.
Spread out before me is an enormous stadium, packed with thousands and thousands of people. In its center is a ring, shaped in an octagon; it resembles a boxing ring, except instead of ropes around its perimeter, there is a metal cage. The cage rises high in the air, about fifteen feet, completely enclosing the ring except for its open roof. It reminds me of the cage ring once used by the Ultimate Fighting Championship, but bigger. And this cage, covered in blood stains, with spikes on the inside, protruding from it every ten feet or so, clearly is not meant for sport-but for death.
There is the sound of clanging metal, and I look up and see two people fighting inside the ring, one of them just thrown against the cage. His body slams into the metal, narrowly missing a spike, and the crowd erupts into a cheer.
The smaller opponent, covered in blood, bounces off the cage and looks disoriented. The bigger one, enormous, looks like a sumo wrestler. He is Asian, and must be at least five hundred pounds. After throwing the small, wiry man, the sumo wrestler charges, grabs him with two hands and lifts him easily over his head, as if he were a doll. He walks him in slow circles, and the crowd cheers wildly.
He throws the man completely across the ring. He goes flying and smashes sideways into the cage, again narrowly missing a spike. He lands on the hard floor of the ring, not moving.
The entire crowd erupts in a roar and jumps to its feet, screaming.
“FINISH HIM!” a crowd member screams, above the din.
“KILL HIM!” screams another.
“CRUSH HIM!”
Thousands of people start screaming, stomping their boots on the metal bleachers, and the noise becomes deafening. Sumo holds out his arms, taking it all in, slowly circling, savoring the moment. The cheers grow louder.
Sumo slowly, ominously, crosses the ring, heading towards the unconscious man, who is lying face first on the floor. As he gets close, he suddenly drops heavily to one knee, landing right on the small of the man’s back. There is a sickening cracking noise as his 500 pounds make impact on the small man’s spine, shattering it. The crowd groans, as it becomes clear that he’s broken the small man’s back.
I turn away, not wanting to look, feeling horrible for the little, defenseless man. I wonder why they don’t end this. Clearly, the wrestler has won.
But apparently, they don’t plan on ending it-and sumo is not finished. He grabs the man’s limp body with two hands, picks him up, and throws him face first across the ring. The man smashes into the metal cage face-first, and collapses to the floor again. The crowd roars. His body lands in an unnatural position, and I can’t tell if he’s dead or not.
The wrestler is still not satisfied. He raises his arms, slowly circling, as the crowd chants.
“Su-mo! Su-mo! Su-mo!”
The roar reaches a deafening pitch, until sumo crosses the ring one last time, raises a foot, and lowers it on the defenseless man’s throat. He stands with both feet on the man’s throat, crushing it. The man’s eyes open wide as he reaches up with both hands, trying to get the feet off his neck. But it is futile, and after a few seconds of struggle, finally, he stops. His hands fall to his side, limp. He is dead.
The crowd jumps to its feet, roaring.
Sumo picks up the dead body, hoists it high above his head, then hurls it across the ring. This time he aims for one of the protruding spikes, and impales the body into it. The body clings to the side of the cage, a spike sticking through the stomach, blood dripping down.
The crowd roars even louder.
I’m shoved hard from behind, and I stumble out into the bright light, heading down the ramp, into the open stadium. As I enter, I finally realize where exactly I am: it is the former Madison Square Garden. Except now the place is dilapidated, the roof caving in, with sunlight and water getting in in places, and the bleachers rusted and corroded.
The crowd must spot me, because they turn to me, and let out a cheer of anticipation. I look closely at the faces, screaming and cheering, and see they are all Biovictims. Their faces are deformed, melted away. Most are as thin as racks, emaciated. They comprise some of the most sadistic-looking types I’ve ever seen, and there are an endless array of them.
