Salt & Stone

by Victoria Scott

  Everyone but Guy turns toward Willow.

  Her mouth is open in a perfect O, but she promptly regains her composure, anger locking her body tighter than rigor mortis. Harper wraps her arms around the little girl, but Willow pays her no mind; her gaze is set firmly on Guy. She eyes him the way M-4 did the rat, like he is her target.

  The girl spins on her heel and makes like she’s going to leave the clearing. One of the Brimstone Bleed men calls after her, and before she can get too far, he grabs hold of her arm. I’m not sure how I feel about Willow, but the torment of watching her Pandora die has to cut deep. Right now she needs someone to see her as a human and not a Contender.

  I make my way toward her, pushing Contenders out of my way. They hardly say a word as I pass, but their Pandoras crane their necks to follow my movements. I’m almost to Willow when I hear Guy mutter something, his lips close to my ear.

  “What?” I ask.

  Guy points toward the ring. “They’re leading Madox to the arena.”

  They say when you experience tragedy, time speeds up. But watching my black fox enter the Pandora Wars, knowing he has exactly half a chance of survival, feels tragic, and yet every step he takes is too quick. He is in the round ring before I can utter a word, but my legs power beneath me anyway, carrying my body close enough to the arena to see the matted fur on my Pandora’s neck painted green.

  I say his name once in my head so he knows I’m here, but commit to staying silent thereafter. I won’t be the reason he loses concentration.

  Madox keeps his gaze bolted on the arena door, awaiting his opponent. KD-8 doesn’t have to wait long. As the drums beat their baleful song, demanding death, death, death, death, a second Pandora appears: a panther, as strong and sleek as a marble statue.

  The panther strides toward the arena, shoulder blades rising and falling like a black tide. His eyes resemble M-4’s — yellow, cunning — and his paint color is blue. The animal’s Contender, a woman with a wide mouth pulled into a frown, stands opposite the ring. She calls out to her Pandora, and the creature growls low in his throat at Madox.

  My fox doesn’t appear afraid. He can mimic any animal, including this one. But he steps back from the panther because he doesn’t want this fight. I know my Pandora, and killing any creature, no matter the reason, will be hard for him. Maybe impossible. The Creators may not have intended to instill Pandoras with personalities, with things like compassion and morality, but Madox has both, and it may be his Achilles’ heel tonight.

  I struggle to keep my legs beneath me, but I can’t slow the racing in my heart. Madox has to win. I don’t want to wish ill will on the panther, but I can’t lose my Pandora. Guy comes to stand behind me. I can feel him there, and for once, I don’t move away. As much as I hate to admit it, I need him here. Because if something happens to Madox …

  The whistle blows.

  The panther lunges, and Madox springs out of the animal’s path. Changing course, the panther trails the perimeter of the ring. For every step the cat takes, my fox takes two, maintaining a safe distance between them. The panther hunkers down a second time, and as my hand flies to my chest, the cat leaps through the air. This time, he doesn’t miss. Madox rolls across the dirt floor, and the panther rolls with him. Together they look like a black tumbleweed zipping across the ring.

  Their momentum dies, and Madox bounces to his feet. Then he hastily circles the panther’s body and bites down on the cat’s back leg. The panther kicks KD-8 in the face with his other leg, and my fox releases his hold.

  “He needs to change.” I don’t have to check to know that Guy is listening and that he agrees. There’s no way my Pandora can win against the panther with only his teeth and small claws. So what’s he waiting for?

  Madox crosses the ring and pushes down on his front paws like a pup that wants to play. The panther shakes his back leg and then puts pressure on it gingerly. It must not bother him too much, because he rushes at Madox, a battle cry ripping through his throat.

  Madox dives under his front legs and is almost out of reach when one of the panther’s claws hooks into Madox’s back thigh. Immediately, fingers of blue crawl up Madox’s leg and over the back of his torso.

  My Pandora yelps as ice forms over him, hardening until the fox can’t move part of his body. Thinking quickly, Madox spins with his upper torso and bites down on the panther’s paw. My fox tears his head back and forth viciously, and the panther bats my fox with his other paw to loosen his grip.

  My fox flies three feet across the arena, and as soon as the panther’s claw is retracted from his skin, the ice melts away. Madox stumbles, and then he’s upright, shaking his damp fur. His hackles rise, but I can tell he’s frightened. It’s written all over his face, dripping from his hurt-filled eyes. With his tail tucked between his legs, Madox limps backward to get away from the panther.

  Guy offers his hand.

  I take it.

  “Something’s wrong.” Nerves cause my words to quiver. “He either can’t change, or he’s too afraid to kill.”

  Guy’s words come fast, certain. “He’ll find a way.”

  But I’m not sure that’s true. The panther sits back, and then he sails through the air, his paws outstretched as if he intends to hug Madox. The cat collides into my fox, and his claw snags his skin. Ice shoots across my fox’s back, and the panther doesn’t hesitate. He opens his jaws and brings them down.

  Madox slips from his grasp without a second to spare, pulling himself sideways with his unfrozen left legs. As the ice melts, Madox vaults to the panther’s side and bites down on the Pandora’s belly. Blood splatters the arena’s floor, both from my fox’s legs and from the panther’s stomach.

  The panther stumbles to the side, moaning. Madox sees an opening and readies himself to launch another attack, but when he hears the pained sound the panther makes, he stops. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to hurt the other Pandora, but this may be his only chance. I consider urging him to attack with my mind and reassuring him I won’t be upset — though of course I will be — but I remain silent.

  The panther’s Contender yells something from across the ring, and I seriously consider starting my own fight outside the arena to shut her up. The panther looks to the woman and then sets his gaze on Madox. Bloodlust pools in the panther’s eyes, and I can tell that this Pandora is about to bring his worst. Madox will either have to match his desire to live or be killed.

  Madox backs up, apprehension stiffening his small body. He knows what I know: that this is the moment he must decide what he’s willing to do for survival. I take a step closer, and sweat dampens my scalp. My pulse matches the manic rhythm of the drums, and my entire body feels electric with angst.

  The panther lunges through the air, his claws extended. Always on the defense, Madox dodges his attack.

  But it isn’t enough.

  The panther’s claw catches Madox in the gut a heartbeat before he can escape. My fox rolls across the ring and comes to a stop inches from where I stand. He doesn’t move.

  Madox! Oh my God, Madox! Get up. Please get up!

  I don’t care about interrupting my Pandora’s concentration anymore. I’m more concerned about whether he’s breathing. When Madox flinches and then slowly climbs to his feet, wobbling, I gasp with relief.

  But the panther is stalking toward my fox, teeth bared. He sees that the fox is hurt, and now he’s going to make his final strike.

  Madox raises his head.

  For the first time during this fight, his eyes meet mine.

  What I see in them is something that chills me to the bone. Madox isn’t a sweet Pandora that needs protecting. He isn’t gentle or kind or even merciful — not when it comes to protecting me. My small black fox is deceitful, conniving. He’s a Pandora that will pretend to be afraid, will be beaten badly in front of an audience to ensure he makes the kill.

  Madox glances at something over my shoulder, and his body shifts. His ears lengthen, and his body expands, and white f
ur replaces black. The panther falls back, disoriented by this sudden change.

  Madox sets his sharp wolf eyes on me once more before he turns.

  Then he springs onto the panther and rips his throat out.

  The panther is dead before he even comprehends that he’s been attacked. When Madox turns again, his white muzzle is smeared in red, and his eyes blaze with triumph.

  I thought I knew my Pandora well.

  I do not know my Pandora at all.

  Across the ring, the panther’s Contender screams. She runs at the arched door to the ring and pulls at it until it flings open. Two island men race inside the ring and grab her forcefully. She only wants to mourn the loss of her Pandora. If it had been Madox, I’d do the same.

  My feet carry me toward the arena’s entrance, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing. It’s the bottled-up emotions demanding action. I’m like a red balloon that’s been overfilled with worry for these animals, and now I feel myself about to explode in a sudden sonic boom.

  “Give her a minute,” I yell at the men, my voice carrying all the fear I’ve held inside. “That’s her Pandora.” The crowd mumbles their agreement, and I lunge at the man who’s dragging the woman from the ring. “Let her go!”

  Madox is by my side in an instant, back in fox form. As I tug the man’s arms, a male Contender appears, who must be friends with the woman. His fist crunches into the man’s nose.

  The Contenders and Pandoras go wild.

  The drums stop.

  The Contender who came to help me calls out to his Pandora, and a rooster soars at the second man’s face, claws leading his flight.

  The first man gets to his feet and grabs the rooster by the neck, throws him to the ground. Then he kicks a penguin Pandora that ventured too close. I throw myself in front of the penguin so it doesn’t receive a second blow. The Contender who came to the woman’s rescue backs away with her in tow, his courage depleted.

  Now it’s just me and the island men. I hold up my hands like I don’t want to fight, but one of them lunges at me anyway. Madox tears at his ankles, and Mr. Larson appears at my side with Guy and Harper in tow.

  Mr. Larson takes an openhanded hit, which was intended for me, and staggers.

  He hesitates only a second before pouncing on the man.

  Over Mr. Larson’s shoulder, I spot one of the Brimstone Bleed men trekking toward us.

  “Stop,” the man hollers.

  No one stops.

  The Brimstone Bleed man shoves his hand inside his jacket and retrieves a glittering silver gun. He raises the gun and points it directly at my chest.

  When Mr. Larson sees it, I expect him to freeze. I expect him to hold his hands above his head like he’s a bandit in an old Western movie.

  He does neither.

  Instead, he jabs a finger at the gunman and yells something about fighting man-to-man. The guy must not like Mr. Larson’s sudden movement, or maybe he just isn’t thinking.

  The gun goes off.

  Mr. Larson slumps to the ground. I crumble with him and take the man’s head in my hands. “Oh my God,” I moan, as if I’m physically wounded. But, no, there’s the bullet, caught neatly in Mr. Larson’s enormous belly. It’s he who’s hurt, not me.

  Guy drops to the other side of Mr. Larson and places his hands over the wound. Blood gushes through his fingers, black and persistent.

  The shooter’s face twists with shock at seeing Mr. Larson’s color seep away. He looks at the gun in his hand as if he’s surprised to see it there.

  Mr. Larson tries to speak, and though I’m choked by tears, I lower my head and ask him what he said. “Christina,” he mumbles. “Christina, Christina.”

  My head drops to my chest, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to raise it again. If Mr. Larson hadn’t yelled at the man, the gun would still have been trained on me. And if I’d kept my mouth shut, none of this would have happened.

  The second Brimstone Bleed man yells something, but I barely make it out. Not until Guy is pulling me to my feet.

  Mr. Larson isn’t moving. Blood still seeps from his wound, but his lips no longer speak Christina’s name. Why isn’t anyone helping him? I start to shout for assistance when I see what stands between Guy and the Brimstone Bleed man.

  Mr. Larson’s alligator, V-5, opens his powerful jaws and hisses. The sound is a warning, and I can only imagine what will follow that terrible noise. Mr. Larson may not be the most faithful Contender to his Pandora, but this creature was engineered to have the instinct to protect.

  The man points his gun at the alligator and tells the second Brimstone Bleed man, his voice panicked, “I’ve got to shoot it!”

  “No!” I lunge in front of the alligator, barely missing Guy’s grab for me. “Listen, I know you didn’t mean to shoot that man, right? No one blames you. It was a mistake.” My legs quake and my stomach turns, but the man is listening. He’s every bit as afraid as I am. “No other Contender or Pandora needs to get hurt tonight. We’ll take the injured man back to camp, and he’ll be all right. Everything will be fine. Okay?”

  The Contenders hold their breath. Not a single Pandora makes a noise. Even the birds and wild creatures that call this island home have quieted.

  I take a small step toward the man, attempting to reassure him.

  It has the opposite effect.

  He raises his gun in my direction. I stay stock-still, my vision blurring, my head spinning. As my heart pounds against my chest, I stare at the barrel of the gun. It feels as if every second is my last. Every breath I take the last to leave my lungs.

  How did I get here, with a weapon pointed at my battered body?

  The man’s eyes widen, and I think, So this is it.

  But he’s looking at something behind me. His eyes enlarge so that he appears almost alien. I don’t want to chance startling him, but now his arm is shaking so hard that I’m not sure I could scare him any worse.

  Slowly — so slowly, I wonder if I’m moving at all — I crane my neck around.

  Two dozen Pandoras stand behind me, teeth bared. Sound comes rushing back, and suddenly I hear their throaty growls, their unmistakable battle cries. They crawl closer, closer, flanking me, taking position like a restless army awaiting orders. Together, they form a shield about my body. I spot Cotton’s bull in the mix and Guy’s lion. There are Monster and Rose and Harper’s eagle and Olivia’s baby elephant. There’s the white wolf Madox mimicked earlier, and of course, my black fox by its side. Surrounding all of those Pandoras are other creatures, some I have spent time with — offering a bit of my meal or just a quick scratch behind the ears — and some I have not.

  Some of the Contenders call out to their Pandoras, ordering them back. But they don’t move.

  They only eye the man with the gun and close in tighter to my sides.

  The Brimstone Bleed man’s arm shakes so hard now that he can hardly keep control of the gun. Behind him, the other man stays still, his face as red as cranberries. The gunman waves his weapon wildly, aiming at one Pandora, then another. “Tell them to stand down.”

  I’m not sure what gives me the confidence to challenge him — maybe it’s the Pandora Wars I witnessed or the bullet Mr. Larson took or the militia of Pandoras ready to protect me — but I do. “Maybe I don’t,” I say. “Maybe I tell them to attack. Maybe you kill me before they kill you. But in the end, you still die. And the way you’ll go is a lot worse than the way I’ll go.”

  “What about the Cure?” The man stutters his words. “If you kill me, they’ll find out. They’ll end the contest, and not a one of you will save your people.”

  Behind me, I hear Contenders mutter. They hate these men. They hate what they’ve put us through. But the moment he brings up the Cure, the faces of those they love flash through their minds. We’re one leg away from saving the people we cherish most in this world, and the men know this.

  “What if I decide you’re lying?” I square my shoulders. “What if I decide that after al
l the unspeakably cruel things you’ve done to us, that there is no Cure? And that tonight is the night I call your bluff?”

  The Contenders fall quiet, awaiting the man’s response.

  It’s Guy who stops me from pushing him further. “Tella, think of your brother. Think of what you can do with the Cure after.”

  He’s telling me to remember the plan. He’s reminding me there’s a fight much bigger than this to fight. But it’s so hard to back down. Like holding a knife to the neck of someone who killed your best friend and convincing yourself to lower it.

  “Tella.”

  The second time he says my name does the trick. I hold my hands out to the Pandoras and ask them to back down. At first, I’m afraid they’ll refuse. Then again, maybe I’m not so afraid of that outcome. The creatures step back — a couple at first, and then more. Madox and Monster stay nearby, and I won’t tell them to go.

  The man waves his gun, gaining confidence. “The Pandora Wars are over, and the next leg of the race begins immediately. Report back to camp!”

  The second he lowers his gun a millimeter, I rush to Mr. Larson. I’m two steps away before Guy pulls me into an embrace and pins me to his chest. I know instantly why he stops me.

  “No.” I clutch the stretchy material of Guy’s shirt. “He can’t be gone.”

  “Let’s go!” the man yells.

  He wants us to get moving before we change our minds and launch an attack. I don’t feel like I can take a single step, not once I see Mr. Larson’s face, eyes staring blankly, skin the color of concrete.

  Harper grabs on to my elbow. “Walk.”

  I walk.

  We follow the two men as the island people hang back, Guy and Harper supporting and leading me on either side. With every step I take, I think of Mr. Larson. With every breath in between, I recall the look on Madox’s face a moment before he slaughtered the panther. Up ahead, I spot Olivia trying to console Willow, but Willow glances at the older girl as if she has the plague.