by Morgan Rice
I wake to blackness. I am so disoriented, so achy, at first I wonder if I am dead or alive. I lie on a cold, metal floor, twisted in an unnatural position, my face against the floor. I turn, slowly reach out, place my palms against the floor, and try to push myself up.
Every movement hurts. There doesn’t seem to be any part of me that is spared from pain. As I slowly sit upright, my head is splitting. I feel dizzy, nauseous, weak, and hungry all at the same time. I realize I haven’t eaten in at least a day. My throat is parched, and I’m dying of thirst. I feel like I’ve been put through a blender.
I sit there, my head spinning, and finally I realize that I’m not dead. Somehow, I am still alive.
I look around the room, trying to get my bearings, wondering where I am. It is black in here, and the only light filters in through a narrow slit underneath a door, somewhere on the far side of the room. It is not enough to show me anything.
Gradually, I rise to one knee, holding my head, trying to alleviate the pain. Just this small gesture makes my world spin. I wonder if I’ve been drugged, or if I’m just this dizzy from the endless string of injuries I sustained in the last 24 hours.
With a supreme effort, I force myself to my feet. Big mistake. All at once, I feel pain from at least a dozen different areas: the wound in my arm; my cracked ribs; my forehead, from where it smashed against the dash; and from the side of my face. I reach up and feel a big welt; that must be where the slaverunner punched me when I was clinging to the train.
I try to remember…. Penn Station…running over slaverunners…smashing into the train…running for the train…jumping onto it…and then being hit…. I think back, and realize that Ben didn’t accompany me. I remember seeing him sitting in the car, unconscious. Suddenly, I wonder if he survived the crash at all.
“Ben?” I call out tentatively, into the darkness.
I wait, hoping for a response, hoping maybe he is in here with me. I squint into the blackness, but am unable to see anything. There is nothing but silence. My sense of dread deepens.
I wonder again if Bree was on that train, and where it was going. I recall seeing Ben’s brother on it, but I can’t remember actually seeing Bree. I am surprised that any train still works these days. Could they be transporting them to Arena One?
None of that matters now. Who knows how many hours I’ve been out, how much time I’ve lost. Who knows where the train was heading, or how many hundreds of miles it has already gained. There is no way I can catch up to them—assuming I can even escape from here. Which I doubt. I feel a sense of anguish and despair as I realize that it was all for nothing. Now, it is just a matter of awaiting my punishment, my certain death, my retribution from the slaverunners. They will probably torture me, then kill me. I just pray it’s over quick.
I wonder if there is any possible way I can escape from here. I begin to take a few tentative steps in the blackness, holding my hands out in front of me. Each step is agony, my body so weary, heavy with aches and pains. It is cold in here, too, and I am trembling; I haven’t been able to get warm for days, and I feel like I’m running a fever. Even if by some chance I can find a way to escape, I doubt I’m in shape to get very far.
I feel a wall and run my hands along it as I move about the room, making my way towards the door. Suddenly, I hear a noise from outside. This is followed by the sound of footsteps, several pair of combat boots marching along steel floors. They echo ominously in the darkness as they get closer.
There is a rattling of keys, and the door to my cell is pushed open. Light floods the interior, and I raise my hands to my eyes, blinded.
My eyes haven’t adjusted yet, but I see enough to make out silhouettes of several figures in the entrance. They are tall and muscular, and looked to be dressed in slaverunner uniforms, with their black face masks.
I slowly lower my hands as my eyes adjust. There are five of them. The one standing in the center silently holds out a pair of open handcuffs. He doesn’t speak or move, and from his gesture, it seems clear I’m supposed to walk over and allow him to cuff me. It seems they are waiting to take me somewhere.
I quickly survey my cell, now that it is flooded with light, and see it is a simple room, ten by ten feet, with steel floors and walls, and nothing in it to speak of. And no way to escape. I slowly run my hands along my waist and feel that my weapon belt has been stripped and taken away. I’m defenseless. It would be no use in trying to fight these soldiers, who are well-armed.
I don’t see what I have to lose by allowing them to cuff me. It’s not like I have a choice. Either way, this will be my ticket out of here. And if it’s a ticket to my death, at least I’ll get it over with.
I walk slowly to them and turn around. I feel the cold, metal cuffs clamp down on my wrists, way too tightly. Then I am grabbed from behind, by my shirt, and given a shove out into the corridor.
I stumble down the corridor, the slaverunners right behind me, their boots echoing like a group of Gestapos. The halls are sporadically lit by dim emergency lights, every twenty feet or so, and each offers just enough light to see by. It is a long, sterile, hallway, with metal floors and walls. I am shoved again, and increase my pace. Each step is agony, as my body protests, but the more I walk, the more the stiffness begins to loosen.
The hall ends and I’ve no choice but to turn right, and as I do, I can see it opens in the distance. I’m shoved again as I am marched down this new hall, and next thing I know, I am standing in a vast and open room.
I am surprised to see that the room is filled with hundreds of slaverunners. They are lined up in neat rows along the walls, forming a semi-circle, dressed in their black uniforms and facemasks. We must still be underground somewhere, as I spot no windows or natural light, the gloomy room lit only by torches placed along the walls. They crackle in the silence.
In the center of the room, on the far side, is what I can only describe as a throne—an enormous chair built atop a makeshift wooden platform. On this chair sits a single man, clearly their leader. He looks young, maybe in his 30s, yet has an odd shock of white hair, sticking straight up and extending out in every direction, like a mad scientist. He wears an elaborate uniform made of green velvet, with military buttons all along it, and high collars framing his neck. He has large, grey, lifeless eyes, which bulge open and stare back at me. He looks like a maniac.
The rows of slaverunners part ways, and I’m shoved from behind. I stumble forward, towards the center of the room, and am guided to stand before their leader.
I stand about ten yards away, looking up at him, the slaverunners standing guard behind me. I can’t help wondering if they’re going to execute me on the spot. After all, I’ve killed many of theirs. I scan the room for any sign of Bree, or Ben, or his brother. There is no one. I am alone.
I wait patiently in the tense silence, as the leader looks me up and down. There is nothing I can do but wait. Apparently, my fate is now in the hands of this man.
He looks at me as if I were a thing of prey, and then, after what feels like forever, he surprises me by slowly breaking into a smile. It is more of a sneer, marred by the huge scar running along his cheek. He begins to laugh, deeper and deeper. It is the coldest sound I’ve ever heard, and echoes in the dim room. He stares down at me with glistening eyes.
“So, you are the one,” he says finally. He voice is unnaturally gravelly and deep, as if it belongs to a hundred-year-old man.
I stare back, not knowing how to respond.
“You are the one that has wreaked such havoc among my men. You are the one that managed to chase us all the way into the city. Into MY city. New York is mine now. Did you know that?” he asks, his voice suddenly becoming sharp with fury, as his eyes bulge. He clutches the arms of the chair and I can see his arms trembling. He looks like he’s just escaped from a mental hospital.
Again, I don’t know how to respond, so I remain silent.
He slowly shakes his head.
“A few others once tried—but no one has ever managed to
cross into my city before. Or come all the way down to my home. You knew it would mean certain death. And yet still, you came.” He looks me up and down.
“I like you,” he concludes.
As he stares at me, summing me up, I feel more and more uncomfortable, bracing myself for whatever is to come.
“And look at you,” he continues. “Just a girl. A stupid, young girl. Not even big, or strong. With hardly any weapons to speak of. How can it be that you killed so many of my men?”
He shakes his head.
“It is because you have heart. That is what is valuable in this world. Yes, that is what is valuable.” He suddenly laughs. “Of course, you did not succeed, though. How could you? This is MY city!” he suddenly shrieks, his body shaking.
He sits there, trembling, for what feels like forever. My sense of apprehension deepens; clearly, my fate is the hands of a maniac.
Finally, he clears his throat.
“Your spirit is strong. Almost like mine. I admire it. It is enough to make me want to kill you quickly, instead of slowly.”
I swallow hard, not liking the sound of this.
“Yes,” he continues, staring. “I can see it in your eyes. A warrior’s spirit. Yes, you are just like me.”
I don’t know what he sees in me, but I pray that I am nothing like this man.
“It is rare to find someone like you. Few have managed to survive out there, all these years. Few have such spirit…. So, instead of executing you now, as you deserve, I am going to reward you. I am going to offer you a great gift. The gift of free will. A choice.
“You can join us. Become one of us. A slaverunner. You will have every luxury you can imagine—more food than you can dream of. You will lead a division of slaverunners. You know your territory well. Those mountains. I can use you, yes. You will lead expeditions, capture all remaining survivors. You will help grow our army. And in return, you will live. And live in luxury.”
He stops, staring me down, as if waiting for a response.
Of course, the thought of this makes me sick. A slaverunner. I can’t think of anything I’d despise more. I open my mouth to respond, but at first my throat is so parched, nothing comes out. I clear my throat.
“And if I refuse?” I ask, the words coming out more softly than I want.
His eyes open wide in surprise.
“Refuse?” he echoes. “Then you will be put to death in the arena. You will die a vicious death, to all of our amusement. That is your other option.”
I think hard, wracking my brain, trying to buy more time. There is no way I will ever accept his proposition—but I need to try to think of a way out.
“And what about my sister?” I ask.
He leans back and smiles.
“If you join us, I will free her. She will be free to return to the wilderness. If you refuse, of course, she will be put to death, too.”
My heart pounds at the thought of it. So, that means that Bree is still alive. Assuming he is telling the truth.
I think hard. If my becoming a slaverunner would save Bree’s life, is that something she’d want me to do? She wouldn’t. Bree would never want to be the one responsible for my kidnapping other young girls and boys, taking their lives away. I would do anything to save her. But I have to draw the line here.
“You will have to put me to death,” I finally respond. “There is no way I would ever be a slaverunner.”
There is a murmur among the crowd, and the leader reaches up and slams his palm on the chair of his arm. The room immediately quiets.
He stands, scowling down at me.
“You will be put to death,” he snarls. “And I will I have a front row seat to watch it.”
F O U R T E E N