Arena 3. Morgan Rice

love you,” he says, his voice etched with pain.

      Then he lets go, drifting away, and quickly disappears into the black depths.

      I scream so loud it wakes me up. I sit bolt upright, my heart thudding so fast in my chest it feels like it could burst. I’m trembling all over. I touch my body all over as though checking that it’s real. My skin is clammy to the touch, and I’m drenched in a cold sweat.

      Reeling from the horror of the dream, I wait a long while for my heartbeat to slow. It’s only then that I realize I have no idea where I am. I listen, immediately on guard, trying desperately to remember, and hear a soft beeping noise in the background. I smell the stench of antiseptic in the air.

      I look around me and discover that I’m in some kind of hospital. Dawn is breaking, casting a pale red light on the clean walls, and as I look around I see I am lying in a bed, a blanket over me and a pillow beneath my head. I feel a tug on my arm and look down to see an IV, while a machine to my left beeps in time to my heartbeat.

      The entire scene seems unbelievable, a place so quiet, so clean, so civilized. I feel as if I’ve gone back in time to the world before the war. I can’t help but think I’m having another dream, and half expect it to turn into another soul-crushing nightmare.

      Cautiously, I get out of bed, surprised to find my legs sturdy beneath me. I rub the puncture wound on my leg, from the snake bite I got in Arena 1, now mostly healed. So this is real.

      The IV is attached to a metal stand with wheels. I hold on to it and pull it toward the window with me. I open the blinds, and as they inch up, I take in the sight and gasp.

      There, sprawled out before me, lies a perfectly preserved town. It looks impossibly pristine, untouched by the war. All the buildings are intact, their clean windows shining. There are no bombed out buildings, no rusting, abandoned hulls of cars.

      Then my heart quickens as I see that there are people milling about, leaving buildings that look like homes, heading down paved streets toward fields and farmyards. They look carefree, clean, well fed, well dressed. I even see one smile.

      I blink several times, wondering if I am dreaming.

      I am not.

      A rush of hope hits me as I think of the rumored town in Canada, the one Charlie and Logan both believed existed. Have we made it here?

      It’s then that I think of the others. I realize I am completely alone in this hospital room. I spin around and of course see no sign of Charlie or Ben, no sign of Bree.

      Fear takes hold of me. I rush to the door and find it locked. Panicking, I wonder if I’m a prisoner. Whoever put me here decided to lock me in, which doesn’t bode well.

      Just as I’m rattling the handle and pounding frantically against the door, it swings open, and I stagger back as a small group of people enter.

      They wear strange uniforms, and there’s something militaristic about the way they move as they swarm into my room with a brutal sort of efficiency.

      “General Reece,” a woman says, introducing herself as she raises her hand up in a salute. I notice her Canadian accent. “And you are?” she demands.

      “Brooke,” I say. “Brooke Moore___.” My voice sounds startled and breathless, weaker than I would have liked.

      “Brooke,” she repeats, nodding.

      I stand there, stunned, not knowing what is going on.

      “Where am I?” I say.

      “Fort Noix,” she replies. “Quebec.”

      I can hardly breathe. It’s true. We really made it.

      “How?” I stammer. “How do you exist?”

      General Reece looks at me expressionlessly.

      “We are defectors from the American and Canadian armies. We left before the war, because none of us wanted to be a part of it.”

      I can’t help but think bitterly of my dad, of the way he volunteered to join the war before he was even called. Maybe if he’d been idealistic like General Reece and the other soldiers here we’d never have gone through everything we did. Maybe we’d all still be a family.

      “We’ve created a safe society here,” she continued. “We have farms to grow food, reservoirs for water.”

      I can’t believe it. I sit back on my bed, overwhelmed, feeling relief wash over me. I’d given up all hope of ever being safe, of ever living a life again where I wouldn’t need to fight.

      But she isn’t about to give me time to bask in the moment.

      “We have some questions for you, Brooke,” she says. “It’s important that we know where you heard about us and how you found us. Staying out of sight is paramount to our survival. Do you understand?”

      I take a deep breath. Where do I even begin?

      I recount my story for the General and her troops, beginning with the Catskills, the house Bree and I shared on the mountains, before going into the trauma of the slaverunners. I tell her about escaping Arena 1, about rescuing the girls who’d been taken to become sex slaves. She watches me with a grim expression as my story unfolds, our capture and ordeal in Arena 2. The only thing I leave out is Logan. It’s too painful to even say his name.

      “Where are my friends?” I demand when I’m finished. “My sister? Are they okay?”

      She nods.

      “They’re all fine. All recovering. We had to speak to each of you in turn, separately. I hope you understand why.”

      I nod. I do. They had to make sure our stories corroborated, that we’re genuine and not slaverunner spies. Suspicion is the only thing that keeps you alive.

      “Can I see them?” I ask.

      She puts her hands behind her back, a position I remember my dad adopting all the time. It was called “at ease” even though it doesn’t look remotely relaxed.

      “You can,” she says in her clipped, emotionless voice. “But before I take you to them I need you to pledge to never speak about what you see here to anyone. Absolute secrecy is the only way Fort Noix can survive.”

      I nod.

      “I will,” I say.

      “Good,” she replies. “I must say I admire your bravery. Everything you’ve been through. Your survival instinct.”

      I can’t help but feel a swell of pride. Even though my dad will never be able to see me and tell me he is proud of my achievements, hearing this from the General feels almost as good.

      “So I’m not a prisoner?” I say.

      The General shakes her head and opens the door for me. “You’re free to go.”

      In my thin hospital gown, I begin to take small steps down the corridor. General Reece and her soldiers escort me, one wheeling the IV on my behalf.

      Just a few rooms down, the corridor opens up into a small dormitory. The first person I see is Charlie, cross-legged upon a bed reading a book. He looks up, and the second he realizes, his eyes fill with relief.

      “Brooke,” he says, discarding his book, standing from the bed and coming toward me.

      Movement from the other side of the dormitory catches my eye. Ben emerges into the brightening dawn light. Tears glitter in his eyes. Beside him, I see the small figure of Bree, with Penelope, her one-eyed Chihuahua, in her arms.

      Bree begins sobbing with joy.

      I can’t help myself. Tears spring into my eyes at the sight of them all.

      The four of us fall into an embrace. We made it. We really made it. After everything we’ve been through, it’s finally all over.

      As I cling to Charlie, Bree, and Ben, I let my tears consume me, shedding them cathartically, realizing this is the first time I’ve cried since the war began. We’ve all got a lot of healing to do. For the first time, I think we’re going to get the chance to mourn.

      Because