Arena Three

Ben’s head immediately snaps up. He frowns. I can’t help but wonder why Ben insisted on coming with us. I don’t want him lingering around me like a dark storm cloud, casting suspicious glances in my direction. We’re on the same team, we always have been, and I don’t like seeing him like this. It reminds me too much of the way he acted with Logan; jealous, wanting more from me than I am able to give.

At least Ryan doesn’t seem to pick up on the tension. He strolls confidently across the compound, like someone who has never seen real death or destruction. Not like Ben and me, whose very steps seem to reveal our past torments.

“Here we go,” Ryan says with an air of pride as he hauls open a huge steel door.

A cloud of dust swirls into the air, obscuring my vision. As it settles, I get my first glimpse of the treasures inside the arsenal. My mouth drops open as I step inside and take in the sight of pistols and sniper rifles, automatic crossbows and AK47s. I feel like a kid in a candy shop.

As I scan the walls, something catches my eye. A shotgun. It reminds me of the antique one Dad used to have displayed behind glass at home. I go over to it and pick it up.

“Are you sure you want to take that thing?” Ryan asks, as I test the weight of it in my hands. “Something smaller would be better for your stature.”

In a matter of seconds, I lock and load the shotgun, before hitching it on my shoulder in firing position. I go through the motions expertly; thanks to Dad, I’m at ease with a shotgun.

“I think this one will suit me just fine,” I say.

Ryan’s eyes widen with surprise. He seems impressed by my knowledge of the weapons and I can’t help but feel a surge of pride.

Ben narrows his eyes and grabs his own weapon, a rifle.

“So you guys have used guns before?” Ryan asks.

“Of course,” Ben replies, a little too harshly.

I think back to the first time I met Ben, when we were speeding through the frozen wastelands chasing after the slaverunners who had kidnapped our siblings. He’d been useless with the gun, and had even dropped it at one point.

“Ben’s more of a bow and arrow kind of guy,” I say, gently mocking him, trying to coax him into the conversation.

Ben frowns, clearly not taking the joke well. Ben’s always been sensitive, but he’s clearly feeling more sensitive than usual. I remind myself to be more careful with him. I don’t want him to think I’m making a joke at his expense or that I’m letting Ryan’s jovial attitude rub off on me.

“No problem,” Ryan says. “We have plenty of bows and arrows if you’d prefer.”

“I’m fine with this,” Ben answers tersely.

Ryan shrugs, once again seemingly oblivious to the building tension in the air.

I then notice a wall display of knives. I go over and see the same kind of knife my dad had when I was a kid, with a military insignia brandished into the handle. A wave of nostalgia washes over me.

I touch my fingertips to the cool metal blade. “Can I take this too?”

“Of course,” Ryan replies, suddenly coming up very closely behind me. “Take what you want.”

I can feel the warmth radiating from his body as I snatch up the knife, holding the weight of it in my hand. It feels like mine, like it was always supposed to be in my grasp. Then I dart out of Ryan’s shadow, stashing the knife at my hip as I go. I load up with the gun on one shoulder, and a bow and arrow slung across my back.

Ryan whistles as he takes in the sight of me.

“Ready for duty,” he says, giving me a light-hearted salute.

I can’t help but smile to myself. I feel every inch a guard and I’m practically itching to get out there, to learn the ropes and prove to the Commander that I deserve my place here.

Ben, on the other hand, is fumbling around and getting frustrated with a twisted strap. Ryan goes over to help him. As he tightens his straps, I can’t help but think that Ben looks like a lost, vulnerable child being dressed by his parent on their first day at school.

We head out of the arsenal and my stomach swirls with anticipation as I catch sight of the group of ten other guards up ahead that we’ll be patrolling with. They’ve congregated by one of the huge iron barbed-wire-topped gates. A few dogs mill around, pawing tufts of grass at the base of the fence, sniffing the air, cocking their heads at every noise. It occurs to me that they’ve all been trained to help with patrolling and to offer protection against attacks. The Commander was right when he said everyone at Fort Noix has a job to do—even the animals. I’m grateful again that he conceded to keep Penelope, and I hope she gets a chance to prove that despite being the size of a cat and having only one eye, she’s the smartest dog he’ll ever meet.