He peeked under a few of the hot-to-the-touch metal covers and brought the two that smelled best over to his pillow pile. Beef something. Chicken something. They were saucy, juicy, and tender. Generous portions. I could get used to this.
A few minutes later, a chicken leg poised at his mouth, he realized that he’d never gone looking for the TV remote. Setting the warm plate aside, he moved on all fours toward the TV and grabbed the intricate rectangle he assumed would control the television. He’d not watched TV since … He thought for a moment. Since before he was dropped off at the academy. How long had it been? Five? Six years?
Too long, old friend, he responded to himself and hit the power button.
Barabbas woke up the next morning to a loud knocking at his door.
Sitting up, he realized he was still in the pillow pile from last night, plates littered around him, still in his clothes from yesterday. He hadn’t even brushed his teeth before passing out in a food coma—he’d learned that phrase from old episodes of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills in his TV binge last night. Binge watching. He’d learned that one, too. How he started watching the “reality” show involved endless channel flipping. How he watched six hours of it, maybe more, he had no idea. One minute, there was an(other) argument going on … and the next here he was, groggy, in a sea of silk or satin or whatever this shiny material was, with no idea who was knocking at the door.
Crawling into a standing position, he made his way to the door, trying to get a sense of how disordered his hair was and squash it down before he got there. For better or for worse, he cracked the door open.
“Mr. Meriwether.”
“Oh, hey, Abe. Come on in.” Barabbas opened the door further to welcome in the butler-waiter-whatever-else-Abe-does-around-here.
“You’re not ready, Mr. Meriwether?”
“Ready? Ready for what?” Barabbas asked, genuinely confused.
“For Day One, Mr. Meriwether.” Abe seemed to rarely have any strong facial expression at all, but Barabbas figured the one he saw right now might be the closest that Abe’s face could come to “put out.” “The schedule was on the tray I brought you last night.”
Barabbas closed his eyes for a second, annoyed with himself that he was screwing things up already. Then he reminded himself that, oh yeah, he knew so little about Day-Anything here, it was no wonder that a schedule had eluded him. Maybe he should have asked. The snarky voice in his head countered, Or maybe they could actually tell you what the hell’s going on with this whole contest thing.
He picked up the thick cardstock from the tray, flicking off crumbs so he could read it clearly. “What time is it right now, Abe?”
Another sigh. “Half-past seven, Mr. Meriwether.” Barabbas could sense the frown being aimed at the back of his head.
Shit. “Okay, so I have ten minutes to get to … wherever ‘The Dome’ is.” Barabbas rushed over to his luggage in the corner and began tossing the contents left and right, rooting around for fresh clothing.
“Mr. Meriwether, it takes ten minutes just to get to The Dome. We need to leave immediately.”
Huffing a disgruntled sound, Barabbas reluctantly stood, trying to rub out the wrinkles on his pants as he rose. He walked over to Abe, trudging past him toward the door, and thought, I’ll just have to try and salvage the day when I get to The Dome. Who knows what’s in store for me? Maybe dirty clothes will be perfect …
Dirty clothes weren’t the problem after all. The problem was that, apparently, Day One involved a tiger fight. No, really: a tiger fight. Or perhaps the issue was that Day One involved a tiger fight and Barabbas had no tiger fighting skills.
But at least they’d told him a little bit more of what would be going on throughout this “show”—each day involved a different challenge and the viewers would weigh in. They’d played twenty questions in the car, a childhood favorite. The two contestants would at no point really be aware of each other; viewers would see a split screen most moments, though the producers indicated that “for a variety of reasons” there may be cause to focus on just one contestant for a period of time, occasionally, over the next seven days. Like when the other contestant is being ripped apart by a tiger? Barabbas speculated but opted to keep the comment unspoken.
And so it was that Barabbas found himself standing in a dirt-floored arena, facing two metal doors, with a freaking club in his hand. A club. With which he was tasked to fight a tiger. He heard a loud kunk! and the lighting within the room changed—is that to help me? Or the tiger? Or the viewers? He wondered. His shadow, nearly invisible moments ago now stretched out long and to his right. A bigger, darker version of himself now his only companion in the room.
Minutes later, a cranking sound began. Immediately on high alert, adrenaline pumping from terror, Barabbas saw nothing move. But there was a sound—where was it coming from? And then, then, the metal door began to crank ever so slowly upward. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Inch by inch, that door went up and with it went his heartbeat. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and he subconsciously began to shift the club back and forth, back and forth, hand to hand, left to right … waiting.
A puff of dust drifted from under the creeping door. Then a massive paw swiped at the ground in front of the door, the signal of a beast wanting out, wanting to be free. Barabbas gulped, beginning to breathe aloud. When the door had risen about half way up, Barabbas could see the shadow of the animal as it stalked right to left, right to left, as if instinctually knowing to move opposite the way Barabbas was shifting his club left to right, left to right, and at the same unhurried pace. He would bet money that both of them knew the lazy movements they both made were feigned, only a cover for the thundering pulse and dangerous tension electrifying their bodies and the air within the room—a fire in a space devoid of oxygen just waiting, biding its time, for a window to burst, a door to open.
Finally, that door opened.
To his surprise, as he heard the metal door grind to a stop, there was a popping sound, like the flash-lamp did when they experimented in Classic Photography at Routlege. Except no camera appeared—not that he could see anyway—but rather a digital time clock, bold red numbers, already beginning their descent, in striking relief against the black paint covering the walls.
29:48:12.
29:48:11.
Of course they would include the fractions of a second, he thought. He was now fighting a tiger against a racing clock. For all that they were merely numbers, he saw their dwindling trickle as if he were watching grains of sand pour through the hourglass of his fingers, helpless.
29:47:03.
The tiger looked at him. It didn’t glance his way. It directed its massive head at him, its eyes trained on Barabbas … and they didn’t turn away.
Another man, in another arena, stood calmly while the tiger advanced. His breathing was even, he did not watch the clock, and he looked with love upon the prowling beast. When it snarled, he slowly exhaled; when its whiskers glanced his weaponless fingers, he blinked gently as the hot breath of the tiger dampened his skin.
24:16:55.
They were circling each other. A terrified boy with a glorified stick … and a hungry, threatened, 101% muscle tiger. They’d been circling each other for the past minute or so. Barabbas had been trying to keep his eye on the clock but started thinking he didn’t even know what happened when the time ran out. Will I be lunch? Will roses and gold bounty rain down on us? The restless tiger seemed the more pressing matter. Focus.
He shifted to swipe his forearm across his damp forehead, trying to keep sweat from dripping and stinging his eyes, and just that quickly the tiger rushed him. The sudden move made Barabbas leap backward, which only seemed to agitate the giant cat further—it crept forward some more, staying low to the ground, as if preparing to make a leap of his own. Barabbas’s knees bent instinctively, putting him about half way into a crouch, one arm stretched out in front of his body as if to say I don
’t want any trouble while the other had a white-knuckled grip on the club.
The tiger looked at his outstretched hand and licked its lips.
As his club-bearing hand began moving side to side, making an arc all of six inches across, the tiger’s golden eyes were drawn to that motion and a rumbling, like-nothing-else-on-earth growl began deep in its throat. They’d sized each other up, each knew which would be victorious … and each was prepared to fight for his life.
The strange, peaceful man in the other arena crouched as well. Keeping his back straight, his gaze locked with that of the tiger, his knees ever so slowly drifted downward toward the dirt floor, seemingly in surrender. Anyone observing him would think he was giving up, that he would be gruesomely ripped apart. But that was not, in fact, what happened.
18:05:42.
I’m going to die here, Barabbas acknowledged to himself. Clearly this test was to fight the tiger and win and he was not only going to fail, he was going to die. He thought of his dear Katniss, endlessly brave even within her terror, even with all The Capital threw at her. He stared at the tiger as they circled each other, his thighs beginning to tremble from staying crouched for so long, his death grip on the club starting to feel that horrible sensation of too-afraid-to-relax-but-unsure-how-long-he-could-afford-not-to.
If he was going to die here, and he was sure he would, could he still be master of his own fate? Could he still go out his way? He imagined himself in Peeta’s place, standing near the cornucopia, imagined Katniss in front of him, saying they still had a choice.
“Damn right I still have a choice.”
The tiger roared in response.
Barabbas changed his stance—he now wielded the club at the tiger.
15:12:19.
He made a jabbing, poking type motion toward the tiger, who swatted at the club in return. Not a playful, kitten-like swipe … a claws-out, I-would-like-to-smash-this motion. Okay, maybe that move won’t take me very far. He tried tapping the ground in front of the tiger, in the ten or so feet that separated them. The animal tensed, staring at the club, watching its motion, slitting its eyes at the divots in the dirt.
He tapped the ground more to the right, while slowly also moving his body to the left. The tiger shifted right. Barabbas backed up a little, touched the club to the ground more at the tiger’s left as his shifted his feet a few steps more to the tiger’s right.
I’ve distracted the tiger. I’ve got him interested in the club instead of in eating me. Can I do this for another … he looked to each side, trying to find the clock again … another thirteen minutes? He didn’t know. He didn’t even know what happened after the thirteen minutes were up, but running down the clock was the best idea he’d come up with yet.
Barabbas tapped the ground to his left. Tiger moves left, boy moves back and to the right. He tapped the ground to the right. Tiger right, boy back and left. Tap left. Tiger left, boy right. Tap right. Tiger right, boy left. Tap, tiger, boy. Tap, tiger, boy.
10:09:57.
The tiger cocked its head to the side, unsure how to read this unusual man and his actions. He wore no armor; he held no weapon, yet showed no fear. He kneeled with his head bowed, his lips moving soundlessly, as if in prayer. He didn’t cry. His lips didn’t even tremble. The tiger let loose a truly fearsome roar—the air around the man’s face vibrated and the strands of his hair trembled from the force of the sound. The man only continued to pray.
06:44:23.
Tap, tiger, boy. Tap, tiger, boy. Tap, tiger, wall.
Wall?
Barabbas risked a glance behind himself and shit. Wall. The goddamned arena wall.
Freeze.
Slide away along wall in opposite direction of tiger. Tiger follows.
Slide away. Tiger follows.
Slide. Tiger.
Slide. Tiger.
Shit, shit, shit.
05:18:36.
The tiger raised a paw and scratched the ground in front of the disheveled, praying man, leaving half-inch deep tracks in the dirt. The man’s eyes never even opened. The tiger decided to test him again, this time dragging his claws all around until it began to look as if the man sat in a freshly raked Zen garden, an island unto himself. Yet still he prayed.
The tiger reared up on its hind legs for a moment, showing its true height—well over that of Barabbas—and swiped at the air with its massive paws. Barabbas felt the energy move across his face, saw the sweat droplets spring from his skin into the air. He lifted the club and swung with all the might he could muster. He missed, but it got the tiger back down on all fours. He swung again, at its head this time.
The tiger took a step back, wary.
Barabbas yelled at the top of his lungs—he didn’t even know what he was saying. It could have been every profanity he’d ever heard, it could have been Latin he’d learned at the Academy. It could have been terrified-into-bravery Gladiator man-sounds. But it felt good. It felt good to fight back, even in a losing battle. He had no idea how much time was on the clock, and didn’t bother to look. He didn’t care anymore. He was going to die fighting.
He ran at the tiger, screaming, sweating, swinging with all he had.
The tiger ran. The tiger ran!
Barabbas ran at the tiger again. Screaming more. Swinging harder, faster, angrier.
The tiger dodged the club and lashed out at him, tearing his shirt, a hair’s breadth from lodging in his ribcage.
Barabbas screamed some more, rushed the tiger some more, swung some more—but he’d swung too hard, and he was sweating too much.
The club flew from his hand and landed a good fifteen feet from where he stood. Within that fifteen feet was a really pissed off tiger. He did the only thing he had left to do.
He ran away.
He’d never run so fast in his life. He looked at the arena walls, hoping for a hidden door, a ladder, something, but there was nothing. Nothing above the open metal door that had held the tiger and he sure as hell wasn’t going to run in there. He zigzagged across the arena, tried to create unpredictable patterns for the animal hunting him, knowing full well it was a futile waste of the little energy he had left. His lungs were burning, he could barely see for the sweat in his eyes, and still he ran.
And suddenly he dropped to his knees, pain searing down his back, gasping. He was almost outside himself, watching in slow motion as first his torso and then his face drifted toward the dirt floor, imagining the pfft of dust pluming as his head struck the ground. He hadn’t imagined the piercing whistle that would blast through his mind though.
00:00:00.
The tiger and the man both sat on the ground, calm and contemplative, companions rather than adversaries.
Back at the mansion, Barabbas was barely conscious from all the painkillers coursing through his system. He had the TV on and was relaxing as best as he could among the intricate web of pillows.
The tiger had gotten a good swipe at his back. The medics had told him that, had he run just a bit slower, and had the timer run out moments later, he’d be dead. As it was, while the pain was significant, and the lacerations on his back were … well … made by the antagonistic claws of a tiger … the damage hadn’t become life threatening. And he lived to learn what happens at 00:00:00.
The tiger is tranquilized.
Then Barabbas had been tended to by a team of medics who treated the injuries quickly and with surprising confidence. Through the haze of medication, Barabbas figured this might not have been their first time at the Dome. He shrugged to himself and began flicking through channels again. Nice! TV Land was playing reruns of Jersey Shore and, while he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not, he found the show hypnotic just the same. It was like they spoke a different language—he thought he understood what the word “kookah” meant—and he was fascinated by how different their lives were from his own.
In the midst of an episode where The Situation, Vinnie, Paulie, and … what was his name? … Ronn
ie … sang about T-shirt time, a knock sounded at his door. Must be dinner. “Come on in!” he shouted in the general direction of the door.
He heard the door open and shut.
In a similar room at the opposite side of the mansion, a knock sounded. The man within, who’d tamed a tiger that day, walked toward the door and, upon opening it, was shocked to see a provocatively dressed woman standing there, behind a heavy tray of food. A brief conversation took place and, after a very few minutes, he took the tray from her and extended his hand, beckoning her inside.
Barabbas turned his head, planning to ask Abe why he’d not cleared his throat with impatience, but lost his train of thought. Who is this creature? He thought—she was stunning, in perhaps a dramatic, enhanced sort of way but, to a sixteen year old boy who’d spent the last forever at a stuffy all-boys academy … she was divine. Mouthwatering. She smiled at him, a look ripe with curiosity and encouragement, grabbed a tray from the cart, and literally sauntered to him, just as he’d seen the Kardashians do last night, on their show. When her heeled shoes reached his side, he was able to stare up, up, up her legs to her torso to her face, and when their eyes connected she finally spoke, “You poor thing. They’ve sent me with some ‘get well soon’ foods to cheer you and help nurse you back to health.” She got to her knees next to him, gently curling her feet under herself as she did, and held out a chocolate-covered strawberry to him.
In the Beginning (Anthology) Page 15