Arena One: Slaverunners

by Morgan Rice

  I come back inside the house with the fish, closing the door behind me, and it feels good to come into a place so much warmer, with the soft light of the fire reflecting off of everything. Bree has tended the fire well, as she always does, adding logs expertly, and now it roars to even greater heights. She is preparing place settings on the floor, beside the fireplace, with knives and forks from the kitchen. Sasha sits attentively beside her, watching her every move.

  I carry the fish over to the fire. I don’t really know how to cook it, so I figure I’ll just put it over the fire for a while, let it roast, turn it over a few times, and hope that works. Bree reads my mind: she immediately heads to the kitchen and returns with a sharp knife and two long skewers. She slices the fish clean in half, sticks one skewer in one and one in the other, handing it to me, and reaches out and roasts her portion over the flame. I follow her lead. Bree’s domestic instincts have always been superior to mine, and I’m grateful for her help. We have always been a good team.

  We both stand there, staring at the flames, transfixed, holding our half of the fish over the fire until our arms grow heavy. The smell of fish fills the room, and after about ten minutes I get a pain in my stomach and grow impatient with hunger. I decide mine is done; after all, I figure people eat raw fish sometimes, so how bad could it be? Bree seems to agree, and we each put our portion on our plate and sit on the floor, beside each other, our backs to the couch and our feet to the fire.

  “Careful,” I warn. “There are still lots of bones inside.”

  I pull out the bones, and Bree does the same. Once I clear enough of them, I take a small chunk of the pink fish meat, hot to the touch, and eat it, bracing myself.

  It actually tastes good. It could use salt, or some kind of seasoning, but at least it tastes cooked, and fresh as can be. I can feel the much-needed protein enter my body. Bree wolfs hers down, too, and I can see the relief on her face. Sasha sits beside her, staring, licking her lips, and Bree chooses a big chunk, carefully de-bones it and feeds it to Sasha. Sasha chews it thoroughly and swallows it, then licks her chops and stares back, eager for more.

  “Sasha, here,” I say.

  She comes running over, and I take a portion of my fish, de-bone it, and feed her; she swallows it down in seconds. Before I know it, my portion is gone—as is Bree’s—and I am surprised to feel my stomach growling again. I already wish I had caught more. Still, this was a bigger dinner than we’d had in weeks, and I try to force myself to be content with what we have.

  Then I remember the sap. I jump up, remove the thermos from its hiding place and hold it out to Bree.

  “Go ahead,” I smile, “the first sip is yours.”

  “What is it?” she asks, unscrewing it and holding it to her nose. “It doesn’t smell like anything.”

  “It’s maple sap,” I say. “It’s like sugar water. But better.”

  She tentatively sips, then looks at me, eyes open wide in delight. “It’s delicious!” she cries. She takes several big sips, then stops and hands it to me. I can’t resist taking several big sips myself. I feel the sugar rush. I lean over and carefully pour some into Sasha’s bowl; she laps it all up and seems to like it, too.

  But I am still starving. In a rare moment of weakness, I think of the jar of jam and figure, why not? After all, I assume there’s lots more of it in that cottage on the mountaintop—and if this night isn’t cause to celebrate, then when is?

  I bring down the mason jar, unscrew it, reach in with my finger, and take out a big heaping. I place it on my tongue and let it sit in my mouth as long as I can before swallowing. It’s heavenly. I hold out the rest of the jar, still half-full, to Bree. “Go ahead,” I say, “finish it. There’s more in our new house.”

  Bree’s eyes open wide as she reaches out. “Are you sure?” she asks. “Shouldn’t we save it?”

  I shake my head. “It’s time to treat ourselves.”

  Bree doesn’t need much convincing. In moments, she eats it all, sparing just one more heaping for Sasha.

  We lie there, propped against the couch, our feet to the fire, and finally, I feel my body start to relax. Between the fish, the sap and the jam, finally, slowly, I feel my strength return. I look over at Bree, who’s already dozing off, Sasha’s head on her lap, and while she still looks sick, for the first time in a while I detect hope in her eyes.

  “I love you, Brooke,” she says softly.

  “I love you, too,” I answer.

  But by the time I look over, she is already fast asleep.

  *

  Bree lies on the couch opposite the fire, while I now sit in the chair beside her; it is a habit we’ve become accustomed to over the months. Every night before bed, she curls up on the couch, too scared to fall asleep alone in her room. I keep her company, waiting until she dozes off, after which I’ll carry her to bed. Most nights we don’t have the fire, and we just sit there anyway. Tonight, Bree wakes from her place on the floor and climbs immediately to the couch, awake, but still very sleepy.

  Bree always has nightmares. She didn’t use to: I remember a time, before the war, when she fell asleep so easily. In fact, I’d even tease her for this, call her “bedtime Bree” as she’d fall asleep in the car, on a couch, reading a book in a chair—anywhere. But now, it’s nothing like that; now, she’ll be up for hours, and when she does sleep, it’s restless. Most nights I hear her whimpers or screams through the thin walls. Who can blame her? With the horror we’ve seen, it’s amazing she hasn’t completely lost it. There are too many nights when I can barely sleep myself.

  The one thing that helps her is when I read to her. Luckily, when we escaped, Bree had the presence of mind to grab her favorite book. The Giving Tree. Every night, I read it to her. I know it by heart now, and when I am tired, sometimes I close my eyes and just recite it from memory. Luckily, it’s short.

  As I lean back in the chair, feeling sleepy myself, I turn back the worn cover and begin to read. Sasha lies on the couch beside Bree, ears up, and sometimes I wonder if she’s listening, too.

  “Once, there was a tree, and she loved a little boy. And every day the boy would come, and he would gather her leaves, and make them into crowns and play king of the forest.”

  I look over and see that Bree, on the couch, is fast asleep already. I’m relieved. Maybe it was the fire, or maybe the meal. Sleep is what she needs most now, to recover. I remove my new scarf, wrapped snugly around my neck, and gently drape it over her chest. Finally, her little body stops trembling.

  I put one final log on the fire, sit back in my chair, and turn, staring into the flames. I watch it slowly die and wish I’d carried more logs down. It’s just as well. It will be safer this way.

  A log crackles and pops as I settle back, feeling more relaxed than I have in years. Sometimes, after Bree falls asleep, I’ll pick up my own book and read for myself. I see it sitting there, on the floor: Lord of the Flies. It is the only book I have left and is so worn from use, it looks like it’s a hundred years old. It’s a strange experience, having only one book left in the world. It makes me realize how much I’d taken for granted, makes me pine for the days when there were libraries.

  Tonight I’m too excited to read. My mind is racing, filled with thoughts of tomorrow, of our new life, high up on the mountain. I keep running over in my head all of the things I will need to transport from here to there, and how I will do it. There are our basics—our utensils, matches, what’s left of our candles, blankets, and mattresses. Other than that, neither of us have much clothes to speak of, and aside from our books, we have no real possessions. This house was pretty stark when we arrived, so there are no mementos. I would like to bring this couch and chair, although I will need Bree’s help for that, and I’ll have to wait until she’s feeling well enough. We’ll have to do it in stages, taking the essentials first, and leaving the furniture for last. That’s fine; as long as we’re up there, safe and secure, that is what matters most.

  I start thinking of all the ways
I can make that little cottage even safer than it is. I will definitely need to figure out how to create shutters for its open windows, so I can close them when I need to. I look around, surveying our house for anything I can use. I would need hinges to make the shutters work, and I eye the hinges on the living room door. Maybe I can remove these. And while I’m at it, maybe I can use the wooden door, too, and saw it into pieces.

  The more I look around, the more I begin to realize how much I can salvage. I remember that Dad left a tool chest in the garage, with a saw, hammer, screwdriver, even a box of nails. It is one of the most precious things we have, and I make a mental note to take that up first.

  After, of course, the motorcycle. That is dominant in my mind: when to transport it, and how. I can’t bear the thought of leaving it behind, even for a minute. So on our first trip up there I’ll bring it. I can’t risk starting it and attracting all that attention—and besides, the mountain face is too steep for me to drive it up. I will have to walk it up, straight up the mountain. I can already anticipate how exhausting that will be, especially in the snow. But I see no other way. If Bree wasn’t sick, she could help me, but in her current state, she won’t be carrying anything—and I suspect, I may even need to carry her. I realize we have no choice but to wait until tomorrow night, for the cover of darkness, before we move. Maybe I’m just being paranoid—I realize the chances of anyone watching us are remote, but still, it’s better to be cautious. Especially because I know that there are other survivors up here. I am sure of it.

  I remember the first day we arrived. We were both terrified, lonely, and exhausted. That first night, we both went to bed hungry, and I remember wondering how we were ever going to survive. I wondered if I’d made a mistake to leave Manhattan, abandon our mother, leave all that we knew behind.

  And then our first morning, I woke up, opened the door, and was shocked to find it, sitting there: the carcass of a dead deer. At first, I was terrified. I took it as a threat, a warning, assuming someone was telling us to leave, that we were not welcome there. But after I got over my initial shock, I realized that wasn’t the case at all: it was actually a gift. Someone, some other survivor, must have been watching us. He must have seen how desperate we looked, and in an act of supreme generosity, he must have decided to give us his kill, our first meal, enough meat to last for weeks. I can’t imagine how valuable it must have been for him.

  I remember walking outside, looking all around, up and down the mountain, peering into all the trees, expecting some person to pop out and wave. But no one ever did. All I saw were trees, and even though I waited for minutes, all I heard was silence. But I knew, I just knew, I was being watched. I knew then that other people were up here, surviving just like us.

  Ever since then, I’ve felt a kind of pride, felt we were part of a silent community of isolated survivors that live in these mountains, keeping to themselves, never communicating with each other for fear of being seen, for fear of becoming visible to a slaverunner. I assume that is how the others have survived as long as they have: by taking nothing to chance. At first, I didn’t understand it. But now, I appreciate it. And ever since then, while I never see anyone, I’ve never felt alone.

  But it also made me more vigilant; these other survivors, if they are still alive, must surely by now be as starving and desperate as we. Especially in the winter months. Who knows if starvation, if a need to fend for their families, has pushed any of them over the line to desperation, if their charitable mood has been replaced by pure survival instinct. I know the thought of Bree, Sasha and myself starving has sometimes lead me to some pretty desperate thoughts. So I won’t leave anything to chance. We’ll move at nighttime.

  Which works out perfectly, anyway. I need to take the morning to climb back up there, alone, to scout it out first, to make sure one last time that no one has been in or out. I also need to go back to that spot where I found the deer and wait for it. I know it’s a longshot, but if I can find it again, and kill it, it can feed us for weeks. I wasted that first deer that was given to us, years ago, because I didn’t know how to skin it, or carve it up, or preserve it. I made a mess of it, and managed to squeeze just one meal out of it before the entire carcass went rotten. It was a terrible waste of food, and I’m determined to never do that again. This time, especially with the snow, I will find a way to preserve it.

  I reach into my pocket and take out the pocket knife Dad gave me before he left; I rub the worn handle, his initials engraved and the Marine Corps logo emblazoned on it, as I’ve done every night since we arrived here. I tell myself he is still alive. Even after all these years, even though I know the chances of our seeing him again are slim to none, I can’t quite bring myself to let this idea go.

  I wish every night that Dad had never left, had never volunteered for the war at all. It was a stupid war to begin with. I never really fully understood how it all began, and I still don’t now. Dad explained it to me, several times, and I still didn’t get it. Maybe it was just because of my age, maybe I just wasn’t old enough to realize how senseless the things are that adults can do to each other.

  The way Dad explained it, it was a second American civil war—this time, not between the North and the South, but between political parties. Between the Democrats and Republicans. He said it was a war that was a long time coming. Over the last hundred years, he said, America was drifting into a land of two nations: those on the far right, and those on the far left. Over time, positions hardened so deeply, it became a nation of two different, opposing, ideologies. He said that the people on the left, the Democrats, wanted a nation that was run by a bigger and bigger government, one that raised taxes to 70%, and could be involved in every aspect of people’s lives. He said the people on the right, the Republicans, kept wanting a smaller and smaller government, one that would abolish taxes altogether, get out of people’s hair, and allow people to fend for themselves. He said that over time, these two different ideologies, instead of compromising, just kept drifting further apart, getting more extreme—until they reached a point where they couldn’t see eye to eye on anything.

  Worsening the situation, he said, was that America had gotten so crowded, it had become harder than ever for any politician to get national attention—and politicians in both parties began to realize that the only way they could get the attention they needed was to take extreme positions. It was the only way that they could get the air time—and that was what they needed to rise to the top for their own personal ambition.

  As a result, the most prominent people of both parties were the ones who were most extreme, each taking more and more extreme positions to outdo the other, positions, he said, that they didn’t even truly believe in themselves but that they were backed into a corner to take. Naturally, when the two parties debated, they could only collide with each other—and they did so with harsher and harsher words. At the beginning, it was just name calling and personal attacks. But over time, the verbal warfare escalated. And then one day, it crossed a point of no return.

  One day, about ten years ago, a fateful tipping point came when one political leader threatened the other with one fateful word: “secession.” He said that if the Democrats tried to raise taxes even one more cent, his party would secede from the union. He said that every village, every town, every state would be divided in two. Not by land, but by ideology. Adding to this, his timing couldn’t have been worse: at that time, the nation was struggling with a depression, and there were enough malcontents out there, fed up with the loss of jobs, to gain him popularity. The media loved the ratings he got, and they fed him more and more air time. Soon his popularity grew. Eventually, with no one to stop him, with the Democrats unwilling to compromise, and with momentum carrying itself, his idea hardened. His party proposed their nation’s own flag, and even their own currency.

  That was the first tipping point. If someone had just stepped up and stopped him then, it may all have stopped. But no one did. So he pushed further.

  E
mboldened, this politician took it further: he proposed that the new union also have its own police force, its own courts, its own state troopers—and its own military. That was the second tipping point.

  If the Democratic President at the time had been a good leader, he might have stopped things then. But he worsened the situation by making one bad decision after another. Instead of trying to calm things, to address the core needs that lead to such discontent, he instead decided that the only way to quash what he called “the Rebellion” was to take a hard line: he accused the entire Republican leadership of sedition. He declared martial law, and one night, during the middle of the night, had them all arrested.

  That escalated things, and rallied their entire party. It also rallied half the military. People were divided, within every home, every town, every military barracks; slowly, tension built in the streets, and neighbor hated neighbor. Even families were divided.

  One night, those in the military leadership loyal to the Republicans followed secret orders and instituted a coup, breaking them out of prison. There was a standoff. And on the steps of the Capitol building, the first fateful shot was fired. A young soldier thought he saw an officer reach for a gun, and he fired first. And once the first soldier fell, there was no turning back. The final line had been crossed. An American had killed an American. A firefight ensued, with dozens of officers dead. The Republican leadership was whisked away to a secret location. And from that moment on, the military split into. The government split in two. Towns, villages, counties, and states all split in two. This was known as the First Wave.

  During the first few days, crisis managers and government factions desperately tried to make peace. But it was too little, too late. Nothing seemed able to stop the coming storm. A faction of hawkish generals took matters into their own hands, wanting the glory, wanting to be the first in war, wanting the advantage of speed and surprise. They figured that crushing the opposition immediately was the best way to put an end to all of this.