Arena

by Karen Hancock

  “If I’ve got this figured right,” he said, “it should be about ready. I hope you like enchiladas.”

  “Love ’em.”

  “And what to drink?” He turned back to a panel and read off a list that could’ve come from any restaurant menu.

  “I’ll have iced tea,” she interrupted.

  He punched a button. Moments later a small door opened in the wall to reveal a tall glass. “Here you go, ma’am.” He handed her the tea.

  Callie marveled again at the change in him. It was as if the brooding, cynical man she’d known had washed away with the dirt while he showered. In fact, she felt a little changed herself. Surrounded by this clean, friendly, almost normal environment, the horror of the last five weeks took on the unreality of a fast-fading nightmare.

  The buzzer rang, and a panel opened to reveal two plates of sizzling, sauce-drenched cheese enchiladas.

  “These are huge! And they smell grea—ow!” Pierce jerked his hand away and searched for a hot pad. She found forks while he put the food on the table.

  They ate hungrily, intently, exclaiming at the food’s excellence. Callie couldn’t remember when she’d been so ravenous, or when enchiladas had tasted so good. Afterward they stayed at the table, watching the lightning show above the cliff. Callie wondered how the others were faring. Was it raining on them? Had they met up with Trogs? How far up the canyon had they gotten?

  Despite the humiliation of being rejected and abandoned, part of her was glad it had happened. It was nice not to feel scared or hungry or desperate, and she wouldn’t trade places with them for anything— unless they found deliverance from this strange world.

  She sipped her tea, ice cubes tinkling.

  Beside her, Pierce shifted in his seat. “This reminds me of home.”

  Callie lowered her glass and waited for him to continue, watching him carefully. His brown hair had dried into soft waves that curled over the top of his collar. His beard looked fuller than she remembered, curly with strands of red and gold in it. From this side, all she could see of his eyes was the injured one, a riot of yellow, green, and blue now joining the black and purple.

  He kept his gaze on the cliffs. “Our ranch is in the southeastern Rockies. There’s an escarpment like that just beyond our backyard. I used to climb it all the time. Loved the view.”

  She shuddered.

  He noticed. “How long have you been acrophobic?”

  “Since I was seven.” She rattled the ice in her glass. “It started after my father left. I thought I was cured, but lately it’s come back.”

  “You mean like today?”

  “Back on Earth, actually. Little things at first—trouble with elevators and overpasses. And then, a few weeks before I was brought here, I had an attack while hiking one of the peaks near Tucson. My friends had to carry me down.” She played with the drips of condensation on her glass. “I was an idiot to think I could ever climb that awful canyon.”

  Pierce said nothing.

  “In any case, I’m glad it’s over. I needed to turn back. I want to talk to those people at the temple. I have a feeling the answer’s there.”

  He shot her a dubious look.

  “Remember that transmission I got from my friend?”

  “Your friend was brought in when you were.” He stroked the soft, clean whiskers on his chin. “And the service period for the Temple of Mander is three years.”

  “Not always. Wendell said it’s different for different people.”

  “But your friend didn’t tell you to join the temple, did she? She just said to go back to Manderia.”

  “And that the canyon was a trick.”

  “Maybe she was a trick.”

  Callie scowled at him. “So what are you saying? You don’t want to go back after all?”

  He snorted. “It’s not as if there’s anything better.”

  “Well, if you don’t believe the answer’s there, why did you give up on Garth’s plan?”

  “You know as well as everyone else. I was scared witless.” He snatched up the glass and drained it, then stood and took his dishes to the receptacle in the kitchen. A few minutes later she heard the breezeway door open and close as he went outside.

  The music from the CD player drifted around her. She sat toying with her glass and ice cubes, beset with bitter memories of her own. If she were honest, she’d have to admit fear had turned her back as well— not some growing conviction the answer lay in Manderia. She’d been there. She knew it offered nothing. But once again, she’d let fear close the door on opportunity. Shame and bitter frustration welled up in her, spilling out in tears that streaked her cheeks and made her glad she was alone.

  Over the cliffs, multiple forks zigzagged against the blackness, lighting up the clouds and silhouetting the cliff line. Raindrops spattered the glass, and a distant howl ululated on the wind, quickly drowned out by a growl of thunder. Another splat of rain preceded a second howl and Callie sat up straight, pulse accelerating. Pierce was outside. Alone.

  The howl sounded a third time, definitely closer now.

  She stood up so fast the chair fell against the bar. Ignoring it, she made for the breezeway.

  Pierce stood by the outer wall nearest the cliff, hands resting on the waist-high barrier, staring toward the cliffs. Wind tossed his hair and parted his beard, flattening his clothes against his chest. She stopped beside him as the howls chorused again, sending chills up her back. They’re down in the riverbed. Coming this way.

  She laid a hand on his arm. “Pierce?”

  He did not move. His eyes saw nothing. She repeated his name twice before he took note of her.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  He complied without a word.

  Back in the main room he went immediately to the big window and stared at the night while she rummaged through the cabinets for a game or movie, something to distract them. Finally she pulled out a box of Chinese checkers and, when she’d set all the marbles into place, invited him to play. He came and sat on the couch.

  After only two rounds she knew her plan wasn’t going to work and slouched back on the L-shaped sofa, regarding him thoughtfully. He held a red marble, turning it round and round between his fingers.

  “Those mutants out there,” she said. “They knew your name.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were they the ones who caught you?”

  “Maybe.” He spoke softly, turning the marble faster. “I don’t remember much of it. We were looking for blood crystal, found a good solid vein and set up camp. We had no idea they were around. They attacked at sundown. Tom and I were the best shots, and we had the weapons, so we covered the rear while the others ran. They got us. Got Shara, too.”

  His voice caught when he said the name. Callie leaned toward him, her attention riveted, but she kept silent for fear of shying him off.

  Presently he resumed. “They staked us out that night—Tom and me. Used hot irons, whips, knives—I remember that. I remember trying not to scream. . . .” He trailed off again, his gaze fixed on the wall above her head, his fingers frantically turning the marble. When he spoke next, his voice was faint and distant. “They must’ve killed Shara and Tom, and eaten them. That’s what they usually do. I don’t remember. The last thing I can recall was this Trog who came up and cut off my thumb.”

  Callie stared at him, horrified.

  He stopped turning the marble and placed it on the tray in front of him. “Maybe I fainted and dreamed that, though, because I still have my thumb.” He fell silent again, massaging the digit in question.

  When he did not go on, she risked asking, “Why did they let you go?”

  “I don’t think they did. I think I escaped. I remember running through the desert in the darkness and hiding in a cave. And beg-ging”— his voice choked—“begging the aliens to save me. When I think back, they must have. Mutants were all around me. I was injured. I must’ve stunk to high heaven. But I got away. I guess Garth and Whit found me wandering
in a daze. They said the Trogs had me for three weeks, but I don’t remember.”

  The CD player had gone off, and they sat without speaking, listening to the thunder and the rain and the wind. A loud chorus of howls temporarily overlaid the other sounds, then faded. With a low cry, Pierce exploded off the couch and returned to the window, standing with his back to her, arms folded across his chest. His reflection stared back at him, pale and haunted, a skull-like mask.

  Blue-white light lit the room, followed by a swift loud crack that made her jump and left her ears ringing. Pierce seemed unaware of it.

  At length Callie said, “So after that—after they got you back and you recovered from your wounds—that’s when you started sensing the Trogs?”

  He didn’t move.

  And just when she’d decided he hadn’t heard her, or wasn’t going to answer, he said, “Yeah. And that’s the worst of it. Because it’s not them that scares me so much as me. Something inside me wakes up every time I’m near them. Something that wants to be with them.”

  She frowned. “How could you want to be with them, knowing they’d torture you again?”

  His gaze moved upward, toward the boiling, flickering clouds. A gust of wind shook the window in the dining nook, spattering it with rain.

  “I think,” he said, “they made me pass through one of their fire curtains.”

  She felt the blood leave her face and trickle down to an icy pool in her middle.

  “It would explain what happened to my thumb,” he went on. “Maybe even why I can’t remember anything.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her. “If that’s what happened, they weren’t calling me this afternoon because they want to kill me. They want to finish the transformation. It’d be the ultimate revenge for all the trouble I’ve caused them—to make me one of them.” He grimaced at the clouds. “The kicker is, part of me wants to do it.”

  Horror gripped her hard, churning acid in her stomach. “Oh, Pierce . . .”

  “You forget how long I’ve been here.” He faced her, eyes blazing. “Five years. Five. I’ve been to every gate there is, walked all over the Outlands searching for a way out. I’ve watched my friends die one after the other, yet I’m still here, and I haven’t the vaguest idea why.

  “Yes, I’m cynical. Hope is a temptress. And it hurts so much when it dies, after a while you learn not to let it in. At least as a mutant I’d be strong—one of the feared, instead of one of the always fearing.”

  He held her gaze defiantly for a heartbeat, then stalked past her to his room, the first one in the hall opposite her own. The door closed behind him with a snick, and she was alone.

  After a moment Callie let out her breath and sagged back on the couch.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Callie awoke to her own screams, and she lurched up, gasping in the darkness. It was just a nightmare. There were no mutants. And Pierce . . .

  Was not one of them. Yet.

  She closed her eyes and clenched her hands in the sheets. “Alex,” she whispered, “if you really meant what you said . . . don’t let that happen to him. If there’s anything, anything . . .”

  She sighed and the passion waned. “What am I doing? You don’t care.”

  Maybe that was their intent—to see what it took to get humans to turn themselves into monsters. The thought made her so uncomfortable she didn’t pursue it. Besides, she was thirsty. Mexican food always did that to her. It had probably brought on the dream as well.

  A thin band of blue light ran horizontally along the kitchen walls, providing faint illumination, and when she stepped onto the tiled floor, the main lights kicked on. She keyed in her request and was removing her glass from the dispenser when the screams started in Pierce’s room—no surprise, considering what the day had brought. Sliding onto a stool, she rested her bare feet on the rung and stared at the tiled counter.

  How could he want to be a Trog? No matter how frustrated, how dejected, how defeated one might feel, there was no reason to stoop to that. It horrified, perplexed, and frightened her. How many times could they have put him through the curtain in three weeks? How far would he be from transformation? Did it happen slowly, or all at once? If they came tomorrow, could she stop him from going with them?

  Mercifully, the tortured cries cut off. Were they worse tonight, or was it her imagination?

  The storm had exhausted itself while she slept, and in the silence she heard a thump. Then Pierce’s door opened, and he entered the kitchen. He stopped when he saw her, blinking in the bright light as if trying to remember who she was. He wore only pajama bottoms, his lean, well-muscled torso crisscrossed with shiny white scars.

  Callie set down her glass. “Are you all right?”

  Her voice jarred him fully awake. Recognition lit his eyes, and the tension bled out of him. Exhaling deeply, he shoved a hand through his tousled hair. “Bad dream.”

  He shuffled to the dispenser for his own glass of water, and Callie couldn’t keep her eyes off him. His back was covered with scars, too.

  Pierce drank the water in one long gulp, got a refill, and drank some more. Halfway through he stopped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and met her gaze. “What’s the matter?”

  She studied her glass, that inexplicable lump once again pressing against her throat. “Nothing.”

  He came around the counter and slid onto the stool beside her. She felt his eyes on her face.

  “It’s nothing,” she said again.

  Somewhere in the building, something whirred and clicked.

  “It’s just—I don’t know.” She forced a laugh. “Just the strain of it all, I guess.” But she couldn’t meet his eyes. She kept seeing the Trog version of him from her dream.

  He sighed. “I shouldn’t have told you that stuff. It wasn’t your prob—”

  “I’m glad you did. Now I know what you’re going through.” She drew a steadying breath and made herself smile. “Maybe I can help.”

  “No! Whatever happens, you stay on that road. If I walk off, just let me go.”

  “I know I couldn’t stop you. I just mean—” Her voice betrayed her, choking into silence.

  He stared at her, his good eye wide, his face pale around the bruises.

  Sudden tears blurred her vision. Angrily she wiped them away, seized her glass, and moved around the bar. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything, I guess. You, Garth, nearly getting killed. I’m probably in dire need of sleep, and here I am wasting the night away.”

  Desperate to stem the flow of her babbling, she gulped down the rest of her water, then set the glass on the counter. He watched her soberly. “See you tomorrow,” she said, and fled to her room.

  Later, when the edge of her mortification had worn off, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, contemplating what they faced tomorrow. The Trogs would surely come. How could she just let him go to them?

  “If we can get to Manderia,” she said to the room. “If we can just make it that far . . .”

  When she awoke in the morning, the design by the door had returned. With a yawn, she ignored it and limped into the bathroom, wincing with every step. Her body ached, and her face—scratched, bruised, one cheek dark with scabbing—looked almost as bad as Pierce’s.

  As she went about her business, she noticed the crystal stylus on the counter where she’d set it when she put her clothes in the laundry bin. She’d thought once it might be a key. Now as she picked it up, a wave of goose bumps washed over her.

  Seconds later she was back in the bedroom, facing the mysterious design. Breath held, she aligned the rod with the dot amidst the circles. The circumferences were a perfect match, and a current leapt through thumb and finger where they held the pad. Gently she pushed. The rod’s end sank into the wall.

  She opened the bedroom door and yelled for Pierce, who was in the kitchen conjuring wonderful breakfast smells. He came warily into her room. When half the rod’s length had vanished into the wall, the three ci
rcles blazed white.

  “Do you have the vaguest idea what you’re doing?” he murmured.

  “One of the five rules at the beginning of the manual said that ASBs would supply all our additional needs. Later, I remember reading about Auxiliary Supply Boxes. But since we never came across any boxes in our travels cross-country, I forgot about them. The manual said they were marked with an identifying sign, and you had to have a key to open them.” She pushed the rod all the way home. As the key’s grip pads touched the wall, a glowing rectangle appeared around it.

  “Try turning it,” Pierce suggested.

  She did, drawing the circles inward. Guessing at the final configuration, she adjusted them until each joined with the other two, the key port at dead center. Nothing happened. Then, just as she’d concluded she was wrong after all, the insignia flared, the front of the box vanished, and the key fell to the floor.

  Eagerly they peered into the exposed niche.

  “A comb?” Pierce squeaked as Callie pulled it out.

  “Well, I did need one.” It was carved of ivory, a tracery of green vines running along the top and handle, the large tines perfect for her fine, thick hair.

  “Talk about anticlimactic,” he said, heading back to the kitchen.

  She turned the comb in her fingers, not nearly as disappointed as he. This was a little thing, perhaps, yet its very insignificance impressed her, like the small touches of a gracious host—the rose on the nightstand, the chocolate on the pillow.

  Alex’s parting words sprang to memory. “We intend this for your benefit. Don’t let fear and stubbornness keep you from finding something better.” If she had accepted his orientation and stayed on the road, she might have reached a Safehaven that first night. Might have had this comb weeks ago. Might be home now.

  As she worked the tines through her hair, she realized the box was still open. Was there more? Yes: a second key. When she removed it, the box disappeared.

  The smell of bacon drew her to the kitchen, where Pierce sat at the counter eating eggs, pancakes, and sausage. She laid the extra key beside him. “This was in there, too.”