Arena Three

Finally, we draw to a halt. I get off the bike and help Bree down. Her face is streaked with tears and I realize she must have been crying about Zeke’s and Stephan’s deaths the whole way. I can’t say I blame her. If my dad hadn’t drilled it into me not to cry, I would have broken down too.

I want to comfort Bree but the guilt I feel over causing her so much pain holds me back. Luckily, Charlie comes over and hugs Bree close. She cries into his shoulder. Penelope goes over to her as well. I leave the three of them to it and walk over to the rest of the gang.

Ryan is slumped in a sitting position against a rock, cradling his dislocated arm.

“Want me to pop it back into place?” I say.

“Want is a strong word,” he says, wryly. “But yeah.”

I position myself, holding him by the top of the arm with one hand and holding the shoulder with the other. Then I yank. There’s a huge crunching noise as the bone pops back into its socket. Ryan cries out, causing Jack to run over and start licking him.

“It’s okay,” he says through gritted teeth as he pats the dog’s head. “I’m okay, boy.”

Ben comes over to my side.

“Remember when you did that to my broken nose?” he says.

I do. It feels like a million years ago, in a whole different world. Up north, the effects of nuclear war have turned the place to ice, making the winters harsh and unforgiving. But down here in the south, there’s been a different effect. Winters have been all but banished. There is perpetual, blistering sunshine. And we’re all suffering because of it. Dehydrated, sunburned, sweating.

Despite my grossness, I can’t help but throw my arms around Ben. The last time we spoke properly we were arguing. Now we’re both still here. Both still alive. We hold each other for a long time.

“Brooke?” Ryan says, breaking up my and Ben’s moment.

I let my arms fall from Ben and turn to look at him. I can’t help but feel angry. Ryan almost left Ben to die. It will take me a while before I can forgive him.

“I think we’d better try hunting,” he says. “The kids are starving.”

I move away from Ben and look around. “Hunt where?” I say. “There’s nowhere around for miles.”

“There are birds,” he says. Then he tips his eyes down. “Vultures.”

I know what that means. That somewhere nearby, the vultures are picking on the bones of dead people, other survivors who’ve lost their battle to the harsh desert landscape. As much as it revolts me, Ryan’s right to bring them up as a source of food.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

We leave Molly and Ben to set up a fire so we can roast whatever we come back with, and Ryan and I trudge out into the desert together.

All of our belongings were taken back in the prisons in Memphis, so the only weapons we have now are the crowbars, axes, and spades we managed to grab as we were leaving. It’s going to make hunting even more difficult, but we have no other choice. We take Jack with us too, hoping that he may be able to sniff out an easier catch for us.

We’re silent as we go, but after a while, Ryan begins to speak.

“I’m sorry about what happened back there,” he says.

“You mean about you almost leaving Ben to die?” I challenge him.

He looks away, ashamed. “Yeah.”

I shake my head, fuming. “How could you?”

“I thought it was a suicide mission. I didn’t think I’d make it.”

I realize then what Ryan did for me. He thought going back to get Ben would mean certain death, yet he still did it. I should be thanking him, not berating him. Feeling ashamed, I finally mumble an apology, and we carry on in silence.

After a good twenty minutes walking, Ryan freezes. “Look,” he says, pointing into the distance.

I can just make out a patch of trees. The sight is completely out of place in the harsh desert landscape. As we draw closer I realize the trees aren’t growing out of the ground at all, but leaning against something. A fence? My heart stops as I realize it’s a dwelling that’s been covered in branches to conceal it. Through the trunks I can make out signs of life: a shack, a tin roof, something that looks like a well.

Ryan and I exchange a look. Neither of us can handle more fighting and whoever lives inside could be dangerous. But we also can’t give up on the chance that we may have found shelter. Our group could seriously do with some shade.

“Shall we?” he says.

I nod my agreement and tighten my grip on the crowbar I’m carrying.

Carefully we approach the dwelling, which consists of little more than a wooden hut. It looks so out of place amongst the desolation. It must have been erected after the bombs. There’s no way it would have survived them if all the other buildings around here were eradicated. Someone, some survivor, decided to make this empty wasteland his home.

We get to the hut and Ryan opens the door, crowbar raised over his head. Inside, everything is in darkness. It smells of dust.

I go in first. Jack races in after me, sniffing all the corners and crevices.