Arena 3. Morgan Rice

shoves his hands into his pockets and looks shy.

      “Thanks,” I reply, grateful for the darkness that is hiding my blush.

      “Brooke,” he says hurriedly, “I know it’s early but…I wanted to ask you if maybe one day you’d want to go on a date with me? I mean, I know ‘date’ isn’t really the right word for it anymore, but I just mean, well…you know what I mean.”

      His voice drops as he speaks and his gaze falls to my lips. I realize he’s thinking about kissing me.

      I want to say yes to a date, want to consent to a kiss, but something inside is holding me back. It’s the shadow of Logan in my mind. It’s the echo of Ben’s kiss on my lips. And it’s the horror of everything I’ve been through.

      Ryan must sense my hesitation because he starts to rub his neck awkwardly. “Sorry, bad timing on my part, right? I mean we almost all died today and here I am asking you on a date.”

      “I’d love to,” I interrupt him with a hurried whisper. “But I can’t. Not now. Not yet.”

      “Because of what you went through in the arenas?” he asks.

      I glance away, feeling suddenly uncomfortable and embarrassed.

      “I have to figure out how to live in this new world first,” I say. “I’ve spent so long fighting, I don’t know who I am anymore. Do you understand?”

      He looks a little hurt, but nods all the same.

      Just then, I feel something cold land on my nose. It feels like rain, but softer. I look up and see that it’s starting to snow.

      “Winter comes early in Quebec,” Ryan explains.

      I keep gazing up, watching the snowflakes fall. I feel happy and content, grateful to be alive and well fed. But I also feel like staying at Fort Noix forever just won’t be possible.

      Out of the corner of my eye I can see Ryan watching me, studying me, trying to work me out.

      “Will you at least stay for the winter?” Ryan says. “After everything you’ve been through, you deserve that much, don’t you? It’s not selfish to want to recuperate and rest. And you can help far more people in the spring. You don’t know what our winters are like here.”

      I don’t answer, but keep looking up at the falling snow, reflecting the twinkling starlight. I don’t want to promise Ryan anything I won’t be able to give.

      “If you won’t stay for me,” he adds, quietly, “stay for Ben.”

      Finally, my head snaps over to look at Ryan. “What do you mean?” I challenge him.

      “I’ve seen guys like that before,” Ryan says. “I’m worried he might have PTSD.”

      I nod. I’d been thinking the same thing.

      “You know everyone has to work here, right?” he adds. “The Commander isn’t particularly kind when it comes to things like that.”

      “What do you mean?” I whisper.

      “I mean the Commander wouldn’t keep a useless soldier around. He doesn’t have the resources or the motivation to rehabilitate damaged people.”

      My insides turn to ice at the thought of Ben being turfed out of Fort Noix and left to fend for himself when at his most vulnerable. If I’d had any concerns about leaving my friends and sister before, they’re now magnified by ten times. If the Commander finds out about Ben’s PTSD, he’ll be kicked out for sure.

      Which means for now, I have no choice but to stay and look after him.

      I’ll stay, I realize.

      At least for now, I’ll stay.

SIX MONTHS LATER

      CHAPTER SIX

      “Brooke! Brooke! Brooke!”

      The crowd is cheering my name. My heartbeat races. My palms are sweaty. I start to tremble as I raise my bow. I poise, holding my stance, whispering a silent prayer under my breath. Then I let my arrow fly.

      Bull’s-eye.

      I hit my target dead center. Flooded with relief, I turn to face the audience and squint against the spring sunshine. As my eyes orient to my surroundings, I remember where I am. Not in an arena, but on the firing range in Fort Noix: a big grassy field, beautiful and tranquil, peppered with the first flowering buds of spring. I’m not fighting to the death, but taking part in Fort Noix’s annual shooting competition.

      Beside me, Molly takes her own shot, hitting the bull’s-eye too.

      “Molly, Molly, Molly!” the crowd chants.

      My competitiveness is set alight. Molly and I are the last two left in the knock-out competition. Now we have to go head to head, taking on an assault course, shooting moving targets that pop up as we go. It’s made up of cars, tires, ropes, and climbing nets and has become my favorite thing to do in training. In fact, I’ve done it so many times now, I know how to jump and weave like a ninja.

      A horn blares and we’re off. I leap from one car hood onto a net, swiveling around to fire a shot at the target that’s just popped up behind me. I get it right between the eyes and it pops back down again.

      I quickly climb up the rope and heave myself onto a platform. Immediately another target pops up down below me. I crouch down and fire. I hit my target and it pops down again. The crowd starts cheering.

      I shimmy down the netting on the other side and race past the tire stack. A target appears the other side. I can just about see it through a gap in the tires. I shoot through the hole and it disappears. Straightaway, another appears at the end of the stack, just by the finish line. I race toward it and shoot it out of my way, not even slowing down in the process. The crowd screams and cheers as I pass over the finishing line.

      I’ve won.

      “Brooke! Brooke! Brooke!”

      Panting, I bend forward, exhausted from my run, and let the sound of the cheering crowd filter into my mind, reminding myself that it is not the braying cry of biovictims but the cheer and support of my friends and allies. I catch sight of my instructor, General Reece, standing in her typical arms folded pose. There’s a sliver of a smile on her lips, one that tells me she’s pleased with my performance.

      “The winner of our annual shooting competition,” she announces, “is Brooke Moore!”

      In the audience I see Bree and Charlie going wild and feel a swell of pride. Over the last six months that we’ve been in Fort Noix, they’ve both grown. Bree celebrated her eleventh birthday and is looking more like a teenager every day. It’s amazing what a healthy diet of vegetables and meat can do to a girl.

      Neena’s also in the audience, looking on proudly like the surrogate mother she has become to me. Neena’s one of the kindest women I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. She takes good care of all the girls in the house, making sure our bedding is clean and our clothes are mended, and though she can be fierce, life is harmonious.

      But then I catch sight of Ben. He’s clapping in the muted, emotionless way I’ve come to now expect from him. I feel a knot form in my stomach. I’m surprised that he even came to watch me compete since he’s been doing everything he can to keep his distance from me.

      Molly and Ryan come over to congratulate me on my win, quickly distracting me from my thoughts.

      “And this is the girl who said she wasn’t going to compete,” Ryan says, kissing me on the cheek cordially.

      It’s true. It took General Reece more than a bit of encouragement to get me to compete. I was terrified about standing in front of an audience again after everything I’ve been through in the arenas, worried it would cause another flashback. But having people cheer me for my skill rather than bray for my blood is beyond healing. My only wish is that she could have convinced Ben to take part as well, but he hasn’t touched a weapon since that first night at the outpost.

      “Typical,” Molly says, rolling her eyes playfully.