Arena Three

I turn on top of the wall and watch the one opposite as it begins to lower. Then I jump, right into the enclosed space. It’s a complete dead end. The audience has no idea what I’m doing and must think I’ve chosen suicide, because they all gasp in unison.

I back away, my heart hammering, prepared for the wall ahead of me to lower and my opponents to race in and devour me. The screeching, grinding noise of the walls begins to sound out, and it starts to lower. The rats are clambering over one another, trying to be the first into the small space. Then, just as I hoped, the wall my back is pressed against begins to rotate. I barely have a second to press myself through the gap before it slams shut with a humongous crunching noise. The rats are locked up inside the tiny room on the other side. Within a matter of seconds, I hear the sounds of them tearing one another to pieces. The crowd erupts with applause, thrilled by the spectacle I’m giving them.

But of course, it’s not over. There will be more deformed creatures to fight. More races to run and hoops to leap through. I’m their entertainment for the evening. My only chance of survival is if I can draw the game out long into the evening, long enough for the troops back at the compound to realize I’m in trouble. Right now, I don’t care if I die in their bomb blasts. Anything would be preferable to playing this disgusting death game. Right now, a bomb strike would feel like mercy.

As the ground shakes and the maze disappears, I get my first look at the other competitors. Only three of them remain. The boy who attacked me is gone, swallowed by one of the putrid rodents. The sight makes me feel hollow, but the crowd loves it. They roar their approval, loving the entertainment and the way we are being slowly tortured to death. Of all the arenas I’ve fought, of all the crowds I’ve faced, these are by far the worst because they know better but have adopted a “rather you than me” attitude. The hatred I feel for them is all consuming.

The ground begins to shake again and when I look down, I see hot, boiling water bubbling up through the grid at my feet. It’s so hot, steam curls up with it, and bubbles pop on the surface. Then platforms rise up.

I have no choice. My instinct to survive is stronger than anything inside of me that wants to give up. I grab hold of a rope attached to a podium and start to swing across the burning water. I’m moving like a pendulum, back and forth, the whole time looking down to see what hybrid creature will be sent up to terrorize me. But instead of a creature, the water keeps on rising. My muscles scream in protest as I force myself to climb up the rope, inching myself away from the water that just keeps on rising.

At the other end of the arena, one of the boys loses his grip on the rope. He slips into the boiling water and lets out a bloodcurdling scream. I climb even quicker and manage to pull myself, stomach first, onto the platform. When I look down, I realize that the water is filled with giant, wriggling maggots, at least fifty foot long and completely see-through. Clearly, these animals evolved in hot, radiated, toxic waters.

The crowd squeals as though they find the sight squeamish. I’m so angry with them, with the way they’re treating us and the pleasure they’re deriding from our fear and misery. But the fight is leaving me. I have no energy to spare to scream at them. All that’s left in me will have to go into fighting the maggot-like creatures.

In the water beneath me, they writhe and wriggle around. More keep appearing, squirming, their disgusting transparent bodies making me feel sick. If the audience is expecting me to kill them, they’re going to be sorely disappointed. There’s no way I’ll be able to fight all those disgusting creatures; there are literally hundreds of them.

But the waters are rising, bringing them closer and closer, and there’s nowhere left to climb. I can’t get any higher.

That’s when I realize I’m not supposed to climb or fight. This is the end of the line. For the crowd, the enjoyment comes with the toe-curling anticipation of knowing one of us is about to die, of watching the terror on our faces. I have no choice but to delight them by cowering back from the platform edge.

The water begins lapping at the side of the platform. The maggoty worms are so close to me now I can see their bulbous eyes. They have rows of perforated teeth, like needles. The crowd squeals with delight as another quake begins to shake the podiums. I hear the shrill scream of a girl and know another one of the competitors has fallen into the deathly waters.

I cling on for dear life, praying that I make it out of here alive. But I know it’s futile. The end has come.