Arena Three

“What’s happening, Brooke?” she asks, clutching onto my arm. “Is it something bad?”

I shake my head. “Not bad at all. Someone’s made contact with us. From another camp in America.”

Her eyes widen with astonishment.

As we race through the gates, I see that literally everyone from Fort Noix is gathered in the main square where we hold our bonfire parties. With all the Forest Dwellers crammed in as well, it’s completely packed. There are so many people all squashed in together, some are spilling out into the side streets. I don’t think I’ve seen so many people in one place since before the war.

Someone’s made a small makeshift stage and other guards are busy hooking up some speakers. They’re going to use solar power to broadcast the message for us all to hear. The benches that are usually around the bonfire pit have been stretched out in front so that some people can sit, but no one does. They’re too busy pacing restlessly, or standing around looking concerned. Everyone’s feeling disconcerted by the news. But while most are reacting with anguish, the main emotion coursing through me is excitement. This could be the trigger, the moment I’ve been waiting for, to begin my search for survivors.

Trixie, Molly, Ryan, and I weave through the crowds. I search for Bree, knowing she’ll be here somewhere, but there’s too many people and I can’t see her.

Suddenly, the crowd falls into a hushed silence. I look up and see the Commander take to the stage.

“I believe most of you have heard the news in some form or another,” he says. “So I’m here to confirm that yes, we have indeed picked up a radio transmission from America.”

The crowd gasps. There’s a hum as people start whispering. Someone moves through the crowd and slips beside me. It’s Zeke. I can tell the instant I look into his eyes that he’s thinking the same thing as me—that this could be the catalyst that turns the tide, that makes the majority of people realize that we have a duty to go out and look for survivors. Because here, at last, is the definitive proof that they exist.

The Commander tries to quiet the crowd down with his arms. “It is a recorded message,” he explains. “We can’t establish how long ago it was made. It could even have been from before the war.”

I catch Zeke’s eye.

“What did the message say?” someone cries.

“The frequency wasn’t clear,” the Commander replies. “And at times the message cuts out. But we will play it for you.”

He nods to one of the guards, who goes over to the radio that’s been hooked up to the loudspeakers, and flips a switch. Immediately, the crowd groans and covers their ears as a high-pitched squeak blasts out of the speakers. The guard quickly adjusts the volume to cancel out the horrible noise. Now the sound of crackling fills the square. It’s intermittently punctuated by silence from where the transmission cuts out. Everyone listens intently.

“This is — of the — battalion. Our base — Texas. — survivors. — — — more.”

My heart clenches. That’s all there is. A garbled message about battalions, Texas, and survivors. But two things strike me more than anything else. The first is that this message has come from another military compound. The second is the last word: more. Because I can’t help thinking it wasn’t “more,” but “Moore.” The voice is too distorted to work out if it belongs to my dad. And though there’s no way of making out the words that filled the silence before it was spoken, the person could easily have said, “there are many more,” but he also had time to fit in, “This is Laurence Moore.”

The message repeats again. I strain to hear the words, to recognize the voice, to fully understand what is being said and by whom. But it’s no use. The volume of the crowd has notched up another level, there’s too much interference, and the silences cut out the most important words. All I know for sure is that somewhere in Texas there’s a military faction that survived long enough to send out a message about survivors and, though it would be a huge coincidence, there’s a small chance that it could be from my dad.

“Have we been able to message them back?” a woman shouts.

“Do we have any idea who sent it?” another cries.

“That’s not the point,” someone else shouts. “The point is that there are other camps! We’re not the only one.”

It feels like pandemonium is descending on the compound.

The Commander waves his arms, trying to get everyone to shut up. “We have not been able to make radio contact with them. As I said, the message is recorded and repeats on a loop. There’s no way of knowing if the people who sent it are even still alive.”

“We’ve been combing the airwaves for four years!” Zeke shouts from beside me. “Wouldn’t we have heard it before now if it was old?”

The crowd agrees and the Commander looks flustered, like he’s starting to lose control. Everyone begins shouting at once.

“We need to make contact!”

“Can we send a search-and-rescue team?”