Arena One: Slaverunners

“Who’s Bree?” he asks.

“My sister.”

“And I’m not going without my brother,” Ben adds.

“We came down here for a reason,” I explain. “To rescue our siblings. And to bring them back. I’m not leaving without her.”

Logan shakes head, as if annoyed.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says. “I’m giving you a way out. A free ticket. Don’t you realize there’s no other way out of here? They’ll hunt you down before you go ten feet. And even if you find your sister – then what?”

I stand there and cross my arms, fuming. There’s no way I’ll let him talk me out of it.

“Besides, I hate to say this but…” he trails off, checking himself.

“But what?” I press.

He hesitates, as if debating whether to say anything. He takes a deep breath.

“There’s no way you’ll ever find them.”

I feel my heart drop at his words. I stare at him, wondering what he’s holding back.

“What aren’t you telling us?” I ask.

He shifts his eyes from mine to Ben’s to the floor, avoiding my gaze.

“What do you know?” I press. My heart is pounding – I am afraid he is going to tell me Bree is dead.

He hesitates, toeing the ground, looking down. Finally, he begins to talk.

“They were separated,” he begins. “They were too young. They always separate the older from the younger. The stronger from the weaker. The boys from the girls. The stronger, older ones are set aside for the arena. But the younger, weaker ones…” He trails off.

My heart pounds, as I wonder what he’s going to say.

“Well?” Ben prods.

“The young boys, they send to the mines.”

“The mines?” Ben asks, stepping forward in indignation.

“The coal mines. Crosstown. Beneath Grand Central. They put them on a train crosstown. Put them down in the shafts, far beneath the earth. They use the coal for fire. That’s where your brother is. That’s where that train was going. I’m sorry,” he says, and sounds genuine.

Ben suddenly marches for the door, his face red.

“Where are you going?” I ask, alarmed.

“To get my brother,” Ben snaps back, not even slowing.

Logan steps up and holds out an arm, blocking Ben’s way. Now that I look at them side by side, Logan towers over Ben, half a foot taller and twice as broad, with huge, muscular shoulders. Beside him, Ben seems tiny. They are starkly different-looking people, polar opposites: Logan is the all-American jock type, while Ben, thin and unshaven, with his longish hair and soulful eyes, is the sensitive, artist type. They couldn’t be more different. But they each share a strong will, a streak of defiance.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Logan says in his deep, authoritative voice.

Ben looks up at him, scowling.

“You walk out that door,” Logan continues, “and you give us away. Then we’ll all be dead.”

Ben’s shoulders relax and he relents.

“You want to find your brother,” Logan continues, “you can. But you need to wait till dawn, when we all bust out of here together. Just a few more hours. Then you can go to your death if you want.”

Ben slowly turns his back and resentfully crosses to our side of the room.

“What about Bree?” I say, my voice steely cold. I am afraid to ask it. But I need to know. “Where did they take her?”

Logan slowly shakes his head, avoiding my gaze.

“WHERE?” I press, stepping forward, my voice venomous. My heart is pounding with terror.

He clears his throat.

“The young girls,” he begins, “the ones who are too young for the arena…they ship them off to slavery,” he says. He looks up at me. “The sex trade.”

My heart rips in two. I want to run out the door, screaming, looking for her anywhere. But I know that would be futile. I need to know more. I feel my face redden, my entire body rise with heat, my fists clench with indignation.

“Where did they take her?” I press, my voice steely cold.

“They ship the sex slaves to Governors Island. They load them on buses and send them downtown. Then they put them on a boat. The next bus leaves at dawn. Your sister will be on it.”

“Where are these buses?” I demand.

“Across the street,” he says. “34

and 8

. They leave from the old post office.”

Without thinking I march for the door, feeling the horrific pain in my leg as I go. Again, Logan holds out his arm and stops me. It is strong and muscular, like a wall.

“You have to wait, too,” he says. “Until daybreak. It would do you no good to look for her now. She’s not on the bus yet. They keep them underground until loading time, in a cell somewhere. I don’t even know where. I promise you. At dawn, they’ll bring them up and load them. If you want to go after her, that’s when you can do it.”

I stare into his eyes, scrutinizing them, and see the sincerity. Slowly, I relent, breathing deep to control myself.

“But you need to know it’s a lost cause,” he says. “You’ll never bust her out. She’ll be chained to a group of slaves, who will be chained to an armored bus. The bus will be flanked by dozens of soldiers and vehicles. You won’t be able to get anywhere near it. You’ll just end up killing yourself. Not to mention,” he adds, “most of the buses don’t even make it through the wasteland.”

“The wasteland?” I press.

He clears his throat, reluctant.