Winning the tournament lets me go last in the arena on Saturday. The good news: I get to see how other recruits face the final test. The worst part is the wait, seeing myself in each fight, 24 before me. I still haven’t found a reliable distraction to keep Sam from looking for injured boys trying to escape.
The crowded concrete dugout reeks of sweat, fear, and dust from the arena. The stands roar with chants and jeers for individual favorites. Within the dugout, we watch the fights on large wall-screens.
Standing tall, Dara bumps fists with me and the others. “Knock them dead today. All of you. And I do mean dead. We’ve earned the right to be here. Let’s show our audience what we’re made of.”
“Hoo-rah,” most recruits chant in response.
I weep for the boys who won’t make it. I pray we can save Morgan and the others. Sam introduces a scrappy brunette and lets in a single male for a no-holds-barred fight to the death. Recruits can tap out, with armored mechs on hand should the boy fail to back off. The guys have no such option. For them it’s kill, force the recruit to yield, or die. Sam says it’s as close to combat as we’ll get in training. But it’s still wrong.
The door opens to let in another recruit, and I look up into the stands to see Mom, Janine, and Sarah. Mom’s face gives no indication as to whether we’re on. Next to them are Mama Helen, and Mama Grace’s eldest, June, another adoptee. No Therese, so much for sisterly support.
In box seats over one end of the arena, I spot the Governor, Emily, Captain Voss, and Lieutenant Scarlatti. What a cozy crew. How do Voss and Scarlatti feel watching what they failed? I’m certain they’ve bet against me.
“They want a gladiatorial spectacle; let’s give them one,” Dara says when the door closes.
“Hoo-rah.”
I mouth the chant with no enthusiasm. I can’t kill for the pleasure of spectators, particularly the bloated Governor Battani and her backstabbing daughter. I want to see Captain Voss and Lieutenant Scarlatti in the arena pleading for mercy. I stop my internal rant when mousy Zoe enters the arena.
With scraggly brown hair over a plain pale face, Zoe strikes me as the straight-A student who struggles to put what she knows into practice. Yet she survived this far.
The bald man who enters by the left door looks huge, with rippling muscles and a thick neck. Zoe charges. Good. Get him before he can use his size to advantage. Baldy braces himself, ready to pounce. At the last moment, Zoe jumps and kicks. He leaps and rams his fist into her face. Disoriented, she tumbles onto the dirt and scrambles away.
She runs for the padded centerpiece. He closes in. Zoe scrambles over a padded rock and up to the top to catch her breath. She hasn’t much time as she sizes him up. Zoe looks tiny in comparison. Where did Sam find this guy? Is he what I have to look forward to?
The bald man makes his way around the centerpiece. Zoe jumps him. She kicks his shoulder and tries to get away. He grabs her ankle, pulls her down, and slams her against the rock. Padding or not, that has to hurt. Phantom pain shoots up my spine.
He kicks her knee, snapping it like a twig. Zoe slumps to the ground. He grabs her right arm and rams the elbow. Before he does more damage, someone triggers his collar. The man collapses while a black-shielded mech warrior sprints into the arena.
Panting, Zoe lies against the rock. Her body twitching, she yells, “I could have taken him.”
The brutality and suddenness of her defeat stun me. While medics can repair her knee and elbow, she’s out of the program. I wipe sweat trickling down my neck. How much more of this can I take? And what’s the point? As mechs, we’ll fight in threes with mech suits. When will we ever face this type of situation?
I’m surprised Zoe, as the fourteenth fighter, is the first recruit to fail. Some won with kicks to the groin and gruesome acts like clawing a boy’s eyes out. Others like Amy made up in speed and agility what they lacked in body mass. She went for the throat.
Next recruit is Jane, a tough girl who fell in the second tournament round. Stronger in training than in the tournament–probably took a fall to avoid Dara–she fights hard in the opening minutes, then loses focus like I do. A blow to the head stuns her. Before she recovers, her opponent crushes her neck against the wall. The way she slumps to the ground tells me she’s gone.
I can’t breathe. The dugout closes in around me. I’m ready to lose it even before I get into the arena. Dara glares at me. I turn away.
The next few fights are tough, as Sam matches stronger opponents with the better recruits. One girl yields, while most survive. The male body count rises. Why couldn’t I save them? Is this part of Battani’s plan to eradicate boys? She sits in her box seat, cheering on fighters. We lost Jane. Other recruits suffered serious injuries. For what?
I’m numb by the time Vivian steps into the arena. She looks shell-shocked. I hope she yields before her opponent does irreparable harm. She hides behind the padded centerpiece. Bad move. A muscle-bound boy with goatee appears, looking around for his target. Not seeing her, he runs the perimeter of the arena. Vivian scoots around the centerpiece to avoid him.
The boy looks up at the crowd, raising his hands. The crowd yells. I can’t make out anything coherent as Vivian sprints toward him. Realizing what the crowd is yelling, he turns. She jumps and plants both feet into his belly. The boy crashes against the wall and hits his head. He doesn’t get up.
Vivian scrambles behind, grabs his neck and gets him into a chokehold. I suspect he’s already dead. Another boy I can’t help.
Vivian bows to the cheering crowd. I eye the door behind me, imagining gray underground tunnels leading back to the base. Craving escape, I don’t know where I’d go. If I’m captured, it’s off to Nashville or worse. I need to stay and find some way to distract Sam.
I worry when Brandy enters the dirt arena. I like her as a friend. She’s a good fighter, but she doesn’t have the killer instinct.
She opens with Vivian’s move, hiding behind the centerpiece. The crowd hisses at her. The light-bearded man who enters from the right door takes a jog around the arena and attacks the centerpiece, climbing to the top.
Towering over Brandy, the man jumps. Brandy leaps up and launches the full thrust of her fist to his throat. He lands on top of her. She crawls out from under, gets behind, and goes for a chokehold. He tries to loosen her arm, digging his fingers into her, until finally he relaxes and goes limp. She holds until the judge calls the fight.
So far, what I’ve seen, aside from brutality, are lucky moves.
Dara’s fight is the last one before mine. She swaggers into the arena and bows to the crowd. Cheers fill the chamber. Despite losing to me, she still has star power. She’s the one they came to see.
The left door opens, and a man enters. He is not the biggest I’ve seen, but still big. I suspect he’s also more agile than the others. Certainly, he’s the best Sam could find for Dara the Terror. I don’t want to think what Sam has for me.
Dara approaches the man. They exchange punches and kicks. The man attacks, Dara blocks. Anger fills her face when she attacks him. He’s bigger, but she makes up for that with viciousness. He hammers her; she hammers him. He tries to wrestle her to the ground. Dara kicks and punches him hard enough that he backs off.
So far, she’s been in the arena longer than anyone else. He attacks, trying to dominate with his size. Dara won’t have any of that. While they slug it out, he cuts her face and she bloodies his nose. He spits out a tooth and then another. Dara has met her match. She can’t dominate this opponent, and she doesn’t seem to know what to do.
I’m exhausted watching them. I root for her not out of friendship but because I see myself in there when she’s done.
They kick and bite and chop and slug their way around the arena, tearing each other apart. When the guy looks ready to knock home the winning blow, Dara digs deeper and hits him with a barrage that stuns him. Yet she can’t get the upper hand.
He’s waiting her out, letting her tire. Once she’s spent, shown all her tactics, he’ll move in for the kill. And this will be a kill. I see it in both their eyes. I pull away, ashamed by my involvement in this brutality. I can’t watch. I don’t want to see either get killed.
Turning my back to the screen, I lean against the concrete wall. The arena boots weigh heavily on my feet. I need to find a diversion. I’m alone now. All the other recruits have gone into the arena. If I run and make my break for freedom, that could create a diversion, but it would lead to lockdown and doom my family and the men.
The crowd cheers like thunder above me. I return my gaze to the screen. With blood-splattered face, Dara stands over the man, her foot on his chest.
She’s made for the arena. I’m not.
* * *
The announcer calls my name. I can’t breathe. The door to the arena opens. The reek of death clogs my sinuses, along with the stench of sweat and fear from dozens of earlier fights.
I push myself into the arena and hide behind the centerpiece. Time is not my ally. I break into a jog and feel a jolt of adrenalin. The middle door opens, revealing the outline of a large man. I stop behind the padded rocks.
None of my prior training, tournament, or arena contests prepared me to stand alone across the dirt arena from this muscle-man on steroids. He’s twice my size, built like a side of beef–hell, the entire bull. I have no weapons. My instinct is to yield, to climb the wall and escape.
Hiding behind the centerpiece, I clear my mind. Focus. I recognize the tuft of red hair, the man–boy really. It’s Morgan with rippling muscles. Though not much older than me, he carries the scars of steroid enhanced fights. His eyes betray that he doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to fight to the death. He doesn’t deserve to die.
How do I spare his life without giving up mine or having to ship off to Nashville? Where do I find a diversion so that he can escape with the others?
Jane died here today. Zoe almost did. It’s fight to the death. Whether I die or wash out, it’s terminal.
The boy is motivated. I see that in his eyes as he searches for me. He can die here. He has to make me yield, or kill me. Then he gets a reprieve to train warriors as my dad did. I won’t survive long in this struggle.
Morgan hesitates when I step out from behind the centerpiece. Does he recognize me? Does he remember how terrified I was when he jumped from the Dumpster behind that abandoned dorm? How I made no effort to stop him?
From across the dirt arena, he sizes me up. I see fear in his eyes. Me, too. “Hi,” I say, rather shyly.
“No talking,” a judge yells over the loudspeaker.
I glance up into stands packed with warriors, trainees, families, and Knoxville dignitaries. The Governor catches my attention, sitting next to Captain Voss in a box seat. Mom sits in the far back with an intense look on her face I interpret as worry. Next to her, Janine looks like she does when I lose focus in a game.
The boy glares at me. I stare back. It’s a staring contest. I can handle that. Stay focused; see his energy as part of my own.
He makes no attempt to lunge at me. Do you expect me to make the first move? Are you psyching me?
“Commence fighting or we will disqualify you.”
Thanks for the pressure, Sam. If the purpose is to get past my fear of facing bigger opponents, well, I’m standing my ground. The sheer mass of the boy reminds me that he can snap my limbs, like what happened to Zoe. Or he could squeeze the breath from my lungs until I pass out. Then there isn’t much I can do to avoid washing out, except die.
Jeering and chants float down from the stands. They help me focus. I won’t give up without a fight. Spare Morgan; create a distraction.
I move toward him, dance to the side. He moves with surprising agility given his bulk. I’ve watched him in earlier contests. He’s a tough competitor. As winner of the tournament, I’d expect nothing less. I can’t think of him as a brute, though. I fake a move to the left. He grabs for me. I scoot aside, slamming a kick to his solar plexus. Sorry.
He winces, rotates and grabs me. I pull away and kick his legs from under him. He doesn’t go down. Up close, I see scars on his face that weren’t there earlier. My eyes tear up. I don’t want to hurt you. Have they traumatized you, like a bull with no way out?
I can’t afford sentimentality. Looking up in the stands, I see Janine’s worried face. I know, Babe, focus. I need to put on a good show for the crowd first.
I spin around behind him and jump. When he moves to counter, I ram my fist into his neck. Sorry again. He coughs, flexes his biceps, and struggles for breath. He moves with me. I can’t take advantage, can’t get behind him.
I’m sweating; he isn’t. Not good. He looks like he can keep this up for hours. I’m not sure how to end this in my favor. I can spare him if I yield, but then what? Nashville re-socialization.
He kicks my legs from under me, grabs my waist and throws me down. I scramble away and get to my feet. Focus.
He lunges. I spin free, jump, and ram my arm into the back of his neck. He remains standing. I kick him hard in the gut. He grabs my foot, twists me off balance, and thrusts me onto the dirt. He jumps on top of me, grabs me from behind in a chokehold, and pins my legs.
Morgan is firm yet gentle. I could almost feel safe in his arms, except he’s choking me. I’m a turtle on its back. His aroma filters into my nostrils.
I can’t give up. This isn’t enough diversion. I can’t free Morgan this way or save myself. My mind scratches for options. I pray Sam doesn’t call the fight due to my racing heartbeat.
Engulfed in Morgan’s masculine odor of sweat and fear, I wrench at his arm clasped around my neck. Bulging biceps tighten, choking off my oxygen. I dig stubby fingernails into his flesh. Though he winces, he doesn’t loosen his grip. I look up and see Janine’s horrified expression: don’t do it, don’t die proving a point.
I can’t yield. That’s its own death sentence. I jerk my limbs in all directions but I can’t get leverage to free myself. I poke his face. He grabs my arms. I’m trapped. Beginning to fade.
Morgan whispers in my ear. “Finish me or wash out. Otherwise I have to finish you.”