Arena One: Slaverunners (3 page)

I am ecstatic as I slide across the ice and set it down on the shore, packing it in the snow, afraid it will somehow come back to life and jump back into the lake. I take down the rod and line and hold it one hand, then grab the fish in the other. I can feel the mason jar of jam in one pocket, and the thermos of sap in the other, crammed in with the chocolate bar, and the teddy bear on my waist. Bree will have an abundance of riches tonight.

There is just one thing left to grab. I walk over to the stack of dry wood, balance the rod in my arm, and with my free hand grab as many logs as I can hold. I drop a few, and can’t take as many as I’d like, but I’m not complaining. I can always come back for the rest of it in the morning.

Hands, arms and pockets full, I slip and slide down the steep mountain face in the last light of day, careful not to drop any of my treasure. As I go, I can’t stop thinking about the cottage. It’s perfect, and my heart beats faster at the possibilities. This is exactly what we need. Our Dad’s house is too conspicuous, built on a main road. I’ve been worrying for months that we’re too vulnerable being there. All we’d need is one random slaverunner to pass by, and we’d be in trouble. I’ve been wanting to move us for a long time, but just had no idea where. I haven’t seen any other houses up here at all.

That little cottage, so high up, so far from any road—and built literally into the mountain—is so well camouflaged, it’s almost as if it were built just for us. No one would ever be able to find us there. And even if they did, they couldn’t come anywhere near us with a vehicle. They’d have to hike up on foot, and from that vantage point, I’d spot them a mile away.

The house also has a fresh water source, a running stream right in front of its door; I wouldn’t have to leave Bree alone every time I go hiking to bathe and wash our clothes. And I wouldn’t have to carry buckets of water one at a time all the way from the lake every time I prepare a meal. Not to mention that, with that huge canopy of trees, we would be concealed enough to light fires in the fireplace every night. We would be safer, warmer, in a place teeming with fish and game—and stocked with a basement full of food. My mind is made up. I’m going to move us there tomorrow.

It’s like a weight off my shoulders. I feel reborn. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t feel the hunger gnawing away, don’t feel the cold piercing my fingertips. Even the wind, as I climb down, seems to be at my back, helping me along, and I know that things have finally turned around. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I know that now, we can make it.

Now, we can survive.

By the time I reach Dad’s house it is twilight, the temperature dropping, the snow beginning to harden and crunch beneath my feet. I exit the woods and see our house sitting there, perched so conspicuously on the side of the road, and am relieved to see that all looks undisturbed, exactly as I left it. I immediately check the snow for any footprints—or animal prints—in or out, and find none.

There are no lights on inside the house, but that is normal. I would be concerned if there were. We have no electric, and lights would only mean that Bree has lit candles—and she wouldn’t without me. I stop and listen for several seconds, and all is still. No noises of struggle, no cries for help, no cries of sickness. I breathe a sigh of relief.

A part of me is always afraid I will return to find the door wide open, the window shattered, footprints leading into the house, Bree abducted. I’ve had this nightmare several times, and always wake up sweating, and walk into the other room to make sure Bree is there. She always is, safe and sound, and I reprimand myself. I know I should stop worrying, after all these years. But for some reason, I just can’t shake it: every time I have to leave Bree alone, it’s like a little knife in my heart.

Still on alert, sensing everything around me, I examine our house in the fading light of day. It was honestly never nice to begin with. A typical mountain ranch, it sits as a rectangular box with no character whatsoever, festooned with cheap, aqua vinyl siding, which looked old from day one, and which now just looks rotted. The windows are small and far and few between and made of a cheap plastic. It looks like it belongs in a trailer park. Maybe fifteen feet wide by about thirty feet deep, it should really be a one bedroom, but whoever built it, in their wisdom, carved it into two small bedrooms and an even smaller living room.

I remember visiting it as a child, before the war, when the world was still normal. Dad, when he was home, would bring us up here for weekends, to get away from the city. I didn’t want to be ungrateful, and I always put on a good face for him, but silently, I never liked it: it always felt dark and cramped, and had a musty smell to it. As a kid, I remember being unable to wait for the weekend to be over, to get far away from this place. I remember silently vowing that when I was older, I would never come back here.

Now, ironically, I am grateful for this place. This house saved my life—and Bree’s. When the war broke out and we had to flee from the city, we had no options. If it weren’t for this place, I don’t know where we would have gone. And if this place weren’t as remote and high up as it is, then we would have probably been captured by slaverunners long ago. It’s funny how you can hate things so much as a kid that you end up appreciating as an adult. Well, almost adult. At 17, I consider myself an adult, anyway. I’ve probably aged more than most of them, anyway, in the last few years.

If this house wasn’t built right on the road, so exposed—if it were just a bit smaller, more protected, deeper in the woods, I don’t think I’d worry so much. Of course, we’d still have to put up with the paper-thin walls, the leaking roof, and the windows that let in the wind. It would never be a comfortable, or a warm house. But at least it would be safe. Now, every time I look at it, and look out at the sweeping vista beyond it, I can’t help but think it’s a sitting target.

My feet crunch in the snow as I approach our vinyl door, and barking erupts from inside. Sasha, doing what I trained her to do: protect Bree. I am so grateful for her. She watches over Bree so carefully, barks at the slightest noise; it allows me just enough peace of mind to leave her when I hunt. Although at the same time, her barking also sometimes worries me that she’ll tip us off: after all, a barking dog usually means humans. And that’s exactly what a slaverunner would listen for.

I hurriedly step into the house and quickly silence her. I close the door behind me, juggling the logs in my hand, and step into the blackened room. Sasha quiets, wagging her tail and jumping up on me. A chocolate lab, six years old, Sasha is the most loyal dog I could ever imagine—and the best company. If it weren’t for her, I think Bree would have fallen into a depression long ago. I might have, too.

Sasha licks my face, whining, and seems even more excited than usual; I can tell from her sniffing at my waistline, at my pockets, that she already senses I’ve brought home something special. I set down the logs so that I can pet her, and as I do, I can feel her ribs. She’s way too skinny. I feel a fresh pang of guilt. Then again, Bree and I are, too. We always share with her whatever we forage, so the three of us are a team of equals. Still, I wish I could give her more.

She pokes her nose at the fish, and as she does, it flies out of my hand and onto the floor. Sasha immediately pounces on it, her claws sending it sliding across the floor. She jumps on it again, this time biting it. But she must not like the taste of raw fish, so she lets it go. Instead, she plays with it, pouncing on it again and again as it slides across the floor.

“Sasha, stop!” I say quietly, not wanting to wake Bree. I also fear that if she plays with it too much, she might tear it open and waste some of the valuable meat. Obediently, Sasha stops. I can see how excited she is, though, and I want to give her something. I reach into my pocket, twist open the tin lid to the mason jar, scoop out some of the raspberry jam with my finger, and hold it out to her.

Without missing a beat she licks my finger, and in three big licks, she has eaten the whole scoop. She licks her lips and stares back at me wide-eyed, already wanting more.

I stroke her head, give her a kiss, then rise back to my feet. Now I wonder whether it was kind to give her some, or just cruel to give her so little.

The house is dark as I stumble through, as it always is at night. Rarely will I set a fire. As much as we need the heat, I don’t want to risk attracting the attention. But tonight is different: Bree has to get well, both physically and emotionally, and I know a fire will do the trick. I also feel more open to throwing caution to the wind, given that we will move out of here tomorrow.

I cross the room to the cupboard and remove a lighter and candle. One of the best things about this place was its huge stash of candles, one of the very few good byproducts of my Dad’s being a Marine, of his being such a survival nut. When we’d visit as kids, the electricity would go out during every storm, and so he’d stockpile candles, determined to beat the elements. I remember I used to make fun of him for it, call him a hoarder when I discovered his entire closet full of candles. Now that I’m down to the last few candles, I wish he’d hoarded more.

I’ve been keeping our only lighter alive by using it sparingly, and by siphoning off a tiny bit of gas from the motorcycle once every few weeks. I thank God every day for Dad’s bike, and I am also grateful that he fueled it up one last time: it is the one thing we have that makes me think we still have an advantage, that we have something really valuable, some way of surviving if things go to hell. Dad always kept the bike in the small garage attached to the house, but when we first arrived, after the war, the first thing I did was remove it and roll it up the hill, into the woods, hiding it beneath bushes and branches and thorns so thick that no one could ever possibly find it. I figured, if our house is ever discovered, the first thing they’d do is check the garage.

I’m also grateful that Dad taught me how to drive it when I was young, despite Mom’s protests. He told me it was harder to learn than most bikes, because of the attached sidecar. I remember back when I was twelve, terrified, learning to ride the bike while Dad sat in the sidecar, barking orders at me every time I stalled. I learned on these steep, unforgiving mountain roads, and I remember feeling like we were going to die. I remember looking out over the edge, seeing the drop, and crying, insisting that he drive. But he refused. He sat there stubbornly for over an hour, until I finally stopped crying and tried again. And somehow, I learned to drive it. That was my upbringing in a nutshell.

I haven’t touched the bike since the day I hid it, and I don’t even risk going up to look at it except when I need to siphon off the gas—and even that I will only do at night. I imagine that if ever one day we’re in trouble and need to get out of here fast, I’ll put Bree and Sasha in the sidecar and drive us all off to wherever we need to go. But in reality, I have no idea where else we’d possibly go. From everything I’ve seen and heard, the rest of the world is a wasteland, filled with violent criminals, gangs, and few survivors. The violent few who’ve managed to survive have congregated in the cities, kidnapping and enslaving whoever they can find, either for their own ends, or to service the death matches in the arenas. I am guessing that Bree and I are among very few survivors who still live freely, on our own, outside the cities. And among the very few who haven’t yet starved to death.

I light the candle, and Sasha follows as I walk slowly through the darkened house. I assume Bree is asleep, and this worries me: she normally doesn’t sleep this much. I stop before her door, debating whether to wake her. As I stand there, I look up and am startled by my own reflection in the small mirror. I look much older, as I do every time I see myself. My face, thin and angular, is flush from the cold, my light brown hair falls down, framing my face, to my shoulders, and my steel-grey eyes stare back at me as if they belong to someone I don’t recognize. They are hard, intense eyes. Dad always said they were the eyes of a wolf. Mom always said they were beautiful. I wasn’t sure who to believe.

I quickly look away, not wanting to see myself. I reach out and turn the mirror backwards, so that it won’t happen again.

I slowly open Bree’s door. The second I do, Sasha charges in and rushes to Bree’s side, lying down and resting her chin on Bree’s chest as she licks her face. It never ceases to amaze me how close those two are—sometimes I feel like they are even closer than we are.

Bree slowly opens her eyes, and squints into the darkness.

“Brooke?” she asks.

“It’s me,” I say, softly. “I’m home.”

She sits up and smiles as her eyes light up with recognition. She lies on a cheap mattress on the floor, and throws off her thin blanket and begins to get out of bed, still in her pajamas. She is moving more slowly than usually, and it is obvious she is still sick.

I lean down and give her a hug.

“I have a surprise for you,” I say, barely able to contain my excitement.

She looks up wide-eyed, then closes her eyes and opens her hands, waiting. She is so believing, so trusting, it amazes me. I debate what to give her first, then settle on the chocolate. I reach into my pocket and pull out the bar, and place it slowly in her palm. She opens her eyes and looks down at her hand, squinting in the light, unsure. I hold the candle up to it.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Chocolate,” I answer.

She looks up as if I’m playing a trick on her.

“Really,” I say.

“But where did you get it?” she asks, uncomprehending. She looks down as if an asteroid has just landed in her hand. I don’t blame her: there are no stores anymore, no people around, and no place within a hundred miles of here that I could conceivably find such a thing.

I smile down at her. “Santa gave it to me, for you. It’s an early Christmas present.”

She wrinkles her brows. “No,
really
,” she insists.

I take a deep breath, realizing it’s time to tell her about our new home, about leaving here tomorrow. I try to figure the best way to phrase it. I hope she will be as excited as I am—but with kids, you never know. A part of me worries she might be attached to this place, and not want to leave.

“Bree, I have some big news,” I say, as I lean down and hold her shoulders. “I discovered the most amazing place today, high up. It’s a small, stone cottage, and it’s perfect for us. It’s cozy, and warm, and safe, and it has the most beautiful fireplace, which we can light every night. And best of all, it has all kinds of food right there. Like this chocolate.”

Bree looks back down at the chocolate, studying it, and her eyes open twice as wide as she realizes it’s real. She gently pulls back the wrapper, and smells it. She closes her eyes and smiles, then leans in to take a bite—but suddenly stops herself. She looks up at me in concern.

“What about you?” she asks. “Is there only one bar?”

That’s Bree, always so considerate, even if she’s starving. “You go first,” I say. “It’s okay.”

She pulls the wrapper back, and takes a big bite. Her face, hollowed-out from hunger, crumbles in ecstasy.

“Chew slowly,” I warn. “You don’t want to get a stomach ache.”

She slows down, savoring each bite. She breaks off a big piece and puts it in my palm. “Your turn,” she says.

I slowly put it into my mouth, taking a small bite, letting it sit on the tip of my tongue. I suck on it, then chew it slowly, savoring every moment. The taste and smell of chocolate fills my senses. It is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever had.

Sasha whines, pushing her nose close to the chocolate, and Bree breaks off a chunk and gives it to her. Sasha snaps it out of her fingers and swallows it in a single gulp. Bree laughs, delighted by her, as always. Then, in an impressive show of self-restraint, Bree wraps up the remaining half of the bar, rationing it. She reaches up and wisely places it way up high on the dresser, out of Sasha’s reach. She still looks weak, but I can see her spirits starting to return.

“What’s that?” she asks, pointing at my waist.

For a moment I don’t realize what she’s talking about, then I look down and see the teddy bear. In all the excitement, I’d almost forgotten. I reach down and hand it to her.

“I found it in our new home,” I say. “It’s for you.”

Bree’s eyes open wide in excitement as she clutches the bear, wrapping it to her chest and rocking it back and forth.

“I love it!” Bree exclaims, her eyes shining. “When can we move? I can’t wait!”

I am relieved. Before I can respond, Sasha leans in and sticks her nose in Bree’s new teddy bear, sniffing it; Bree rubs it playfully in Sasha’s face, and Sasha snatches it and runs out the room.