Authors: Morgan Rice
“
Why do you care so much?” he asks.
His question catches me off guard. I look away, thinking. I search my feelings, and try to figure out the right way to phrase it. I turn and look back to him.
“
Because you mean a lot to me,” I say. “Because I care about you. Because I would be devastated if anything happened to you.”
He looks into my eyes for a long time, as if searching to see if I’m telling the truth. It is easy for me to, because I am. I really do have feelings for Logan, too.
Finally, he nods, satisfied.
“
OK,” he says. “You got tomorrow. I promise you that. But you’ve got to find a way to get us out of here. You’ve got to.”
His words echo in my head, as he closes his eyes and turns away.
You’ve got to
.
*
I awaken to the sound of a loud buzzer, a steel door opening, and the room flooded with light, and realize that I’ve fallen asleep. I was so tired, so physically exhausted, that I must have let my eyes close on me after eating.
Dozens of slaverunners march in and round up everyone. We already wear the uniforms, but they dole them out to the newbies and drag everyone to their feet. Slowly, I get to my feet, my body creaking and groaning in protest. All the others do as well, except Logan. He sits there, in a lot of pain, and I have to help him stand. This doesn’t bode well.
I make sure Bree is by my side as we are marched out of the room, down the now familiar tunnels. As we go I look in every direction for any signs of any escape routes, thinking about what Charlie said. As we pass deeper through one tunnel, he elbows me in the ribs. Wordlessly, I turn and follow his gaze; he nods, gesturing in one direction. I see a tunnel that veers off to the side, and realize he thinks that’s an escape route.
As we are marched forward I realize it would be too risky to attempt any sort of escape now; it would also leave the others vulnerable to getting killed—especially Logan. But I file away that tunnel in the back of my head. Maybe another time.
Soon we are prodded outside, onto the familiar dirt pathway, the sun shining down on the winter day. It is another mild day, the snow entirely melted, and this time, the path veers off to the right. We march and march, until my legs grow weary.
We round a hill, onto a new path, and as we do, I see it is lined with hundreds of screaming spectators, jeering as we go. I can’t help feeling as if this is a walk of death, our final steps towards execution.
The path twists and turns, and as we take one final turn, the new arena opens up before us. My heart stops.
Before us lies a giant mound of sand—more like a mountain. Its base is about a hundred feet wide, and it rises probably two hundred feet high, reaching a point, like a pyramid. It is comprised of smooth, fine sand. All around it stand hundreds of cheering spectators, in a broad circle. Their leader sits in his throne, hoisted above the others, smiling and watching.
At first, I can’t understand what this arena is. But as I study it, it begins to become clear. With a sinking feeling, I realize the mountain of sand is the arena. Somehow, we’re going to be thrown into that sand. But with what objective? To reach the top?
We are prodded and shoved, and soon we stand at the periphery of the mountain. The crowd quiets as the leader stands and holds out his arms.
“
My fellow mutants,” he booms, then pauses dramatically. “I present to you this day’s contestants!”
There’s a huge cheer.
The leader raises his arms, and the crowd quiets.
“
There are six returning victors today, and for these, we salute you.”
The crowd cheers as they look at us. I hardly think of myself as a victor.
“
The object of today’s arena, contestants,” he booms, looking at all of us, “is to reach the top of the sand mountain. Whoever reaches the top wins, and will be spared from death. Yesterday’s victors are granted the privilege of a brief head start. Step forward, victors!”
Bree clutches my hand hard, and I step forward with her, and the others. As we do, the crowd cheers wildly. We all walk towards the huge mountain of sand, and I don’t know what to do. I follow Flo, as she leans forward and begins to climb up the sand. I put my hands into the soft sand, then my feet, and take a few steps. My feet sink, and it is hard to walk. For every two steps I take, I slip back one. It reminds me of a time when I was a child, trying to climb a steep sand dune.
“
Something’s fishy,” Ben says. “It can’t be this easy. Just climb to the top?”
“
It’s not,” Flo says.
I turn and look at her. She has her game face on, looking stoically straight ahead.
“
What tricks do they have in store for us?” I ask her.
She looks at me hard.
“
You saved Charlie yesterday, so I’m going to give you one more piece of advice,” she says. “Nothing is what it seems,” she says. “Remember that. Don’t be hasty. Don’t race for the top. You let the others go before you. You hear me? Whoever tries to win will lose.”
We are all climbing, about ten feet up the mountain, when suddenly, a buzzer sounds.
There is a huge cheer, and the dozens of new kids race behind us, climbing the mountain. They scramble up in all directions, all around us.
As a reflex I start climbing faster, as do the others; but I spot Flo hanging back and remember her words, and I put out my hand and stop Bree and Ben. Logan is going slower than the rest of us, so I don’t have to stop him.
“
What are you doing?” Ben asks.
“
Let them go,” I say.
“
But if we don’t reach the top we’ll lose!” Bree pleads.
“
Trust me,” I say.
Ben reluctantly stops and lets a group of about a dozen kids pass him. We sit back and watch the others race up the mountain. I see two kids scramble past me and watch as one reaches out and grabs the other from behind. He yanks him backwards with a jerk and the other goes flying through the air and tumbles down the mountain.
As he tumbles there is a loud noise, and when he nears the base, long metal spikes rise up in all directions. He rolls right onto them and gets impaled by the spikes, screaming.
The crowd cheers in ecstasy.
Now I realize. Of course, it was not as easy as it seemed. The stakes have increased. This is no longer an innocent game of King of the Mountain. Falling back means falling to your death.
Suddenly, I feel a wrist grab my ankle, and look back to see a desperate girl, maybe 18, with long, greasy hair that clings to her face. She digs her fingers into my skin and pulls hard. I feel myself begin to slide backwards down the mountain. I am losing my grip, my fingernails slipping through the sand, and know that in a moment I will fall backwards and get impaled in the spikes.
Before I can react, I look over and see Bree reach out, grab a handful of sand, then turn and throw it right into the girl’s eyes. The girl lets go of my ankle, grabbing her eyes. I pull up my leg and kick her hard in the throat. She goes tumbling backwards, and gets impaled on the spikes. The crowd cheers wildly.
I look over at Bree, amazed by her ingenuity and so grateful to her for saving my life. “Thank you,” I say.
Other kids are scrambling up behind us.
“
Let them go,” I say to the others, wanting to avoid another confrontation.
Bree and I part ways from Charlie and Flo, creating a path in the middle. Several kids scramble past us, racing for the top.
But one of them stops and grabs Bree, apparently thinking he’ll have an easy kill. He starts to yank her backwards when I reach out and grab his hand, pulling him off. At the same time, Logan swings around and elbows him in the chest, sending him toppling down the mountain. He gets impaled in the spikes, face first, and the crowd cheers.
I look over at Logan, impressed by his burst of energy. I had nearly written him off, but see his fighting spirit is still there.
Several more kids race past us, and I look up and already see one girl getting farther than the others, at least halfway up. But then something goes wrong. As I watch, her feet start to sink. Soon, she’s in up to her waist—then her chest. Her hands are up, flailing, and I realize: she is stuck in a sand trap. Quicksand.
She screams as she sinks, her head getting lower. Soon, her screams are muffled, as she’s completely swallowed up by the sand.
The crowd cheers.
I realize now how truly treacherous this arena is. It might be even worse than the last, and I start to wonder if there’s any way out. I make a mental note of where she ran, to make sure we don’t step in the same spot twice.
Some of the other kids hesitate, but another boy runs farther past where she was, until he suddenly stops, screaming in agony. A blade has risen up from the sand, impaling his foot. He stands there, stuck, screaming, trying to get out. But he can’t. Blood pours from his wound, staining the sand red.
The crowd screams.
All around me, blades pop up, impaling many kids. In other places, more sand traps open, swallowing other kids. I realize this arena is a giant trap. Like a minefield. Flo was right: better not to rush. That “head start” for the victors was just a trick. Flo’s advice, once again, saved our lives.
A buzzer sounds, and I hear something whirl in the air. All around me I spot objects landing in the sand, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s a hailstorm. But then I get hit by something hard in the back, and I realize: the arena is now open for spectators to throw rocks. All around me, rocks are being thrown, hitting the sand everywhere. Several hit me in the back of the arms and legs. One barely misses my head. It is painful, and obviously meant to keep us moving.
We have no choice but to continue our way up the mountain.
“
Drag your hands!” Flo yells. “Don’t pick them up and drop them. If a blade is going to pop, you’ll feel it beforehand, something hard in the sand. Pull back your hand.”
It’s good advice, and we all continue up, dragging our hands as we go. After several feet I feel something, and quickly retract my hand. A split-second later, a huge blade pops, missing me by a millisecond.
More rocks fly at me, and a large rock bounces off the back of my spine. It hurts like hell. I have an idea. I pick it up and grab it.
“
Collect all the rocks!” I say to the others.
Bree, Ben, Logan and the others begin to collect the rocks.
“
Throw them in the sand, before you move. It will set off any traps.”
At the same we all start chucking the rocks ahead of us. We set off dozens of blades and we clear a path most of the way.
I save one rock, though, and turn around and aim for a spectator. I hurl it back, hitting him between the eyes, knocking him down. The crowd boos.
I turn around and smile to myself. It is a small satisfaction. It barely made a dent, but it sure felt good to give them a taste of their own medicine.
There are about thirty kids still alive, higher up on the mountain. These are starting to realize how treacherous it is, and some get a new strategy, stopping and wait for others to pass them. Others have yet another strategy: to retreat back down the mountain and kill off everyone below them. I guess they think that reaching the top is impossible and eliminating everyone else is the way to win.
Three kids scramble down right for us. One of them, running right at me, steps on a trap and a metal spike impales him; he drops to his knees and falls face first, dead. The other two, though, make it. One charges right down the mountain for me, his momentum carrying him, and before I can react, he tackles me hard.
I land flat on my back, and the two of us go sliding down the mountain, fast. I’m heading right for the blades at the base, and I need to think quick.
I arch my back and lift my legs up with all my strength, as if doing a backflip, and manage to use his momentum to send him flying over my head. Just in time: he gets impaled on the spikes at the base, and it just stops my free-fall.
But now I’m back down the mountain, rocks flying at me painfully, and I scramble back up as quickly as I can, trying to carefully retrace my steps. The other remaining kid dives into our group, aiming for Logan, going for the weakest link. He tackles him hard, and they go sliding down the mountain at full speed.
They are sliding for the spikes at the base, and my heart stops. It seems like in moments, Logan will be impaled. The crowd cheers wildly.
At the last second, Logan summons his strength. He reaches out, grabs the boy and spins around. As they reach the spikes, the boy gets impaled, back first, blood gushing from his mouth.
The crowd cheers.
But something is wrong. Logan is stuck, too, not moving, and as I look closely, my heart drops: I see that the spike has gone through the boy and into Logan’s arm. Logan screams out, and the pain looks excruciating.
I scramble back down the mountain, as do the others, and hurry over to him and yank him out. The others help, and as we do, he shrieks. The steel slowly leaves his flesh, blood gushing everywhere. He’s breathing hard, sweating, and I reach down and tear a strip off my shirt and use it as a tourniquet, tying it around his wound. It quickly fills with blood.
Flo and I each take one of his arms around our shoulders, and begin to drag him up the mountain, away from the jeering spectators and the flying rocks.
“
Leave me,” he grunts.
“
No way,” I say.
Together, we all hobble back up the mountain. I look up and notice there are hardly a dozen kids left, sitting there, higher up the mountain, probably waiting for us to pass them. They all seem scared to move on, not knowing what’s in store for them.
And then, everything changes.
Another buzzer sounds, and high up, I detect a strange motion in the sand. At first I can’t understand what it is. And when I do, I can’t believe it.
Slithering out of the sand, in every direction, come dozens of brightly colored snakes.