Arena One: Slaverunners

The war began. Battles ensued on American soil. Pittsburgh became the new Gettysburg, with two hundred thousand dead in a week. Tanks mobilized against tanks. Planes against planes. Every day, every week, the violence escalated. Lines were drawn in the sand, military and police assets were divided, and battles spread to every state in the nation. Everywhere, everyone fought against each other, friend against friend, brother against brother. It reached a point where no one even knew what they were fighting about anymore. The entire nation was spilled with blood, and no one seemed able to stop it. This became known as the Second Wave.

Up to that moment, as bloody as it was, it was still conventional warfare. But then came the Third Wave, the worst of all. The President, in desperation, operating from a secret bunker, decided there was only one way to quell what he still insisted on calling “the Rebellion.” Summoning his best military officers, they advised him to use the strongest assets he had to quell the rebellion once and for all: local, targeted nuclear missiles. He consented.

The next day nuclear payloads were dropped in strategic Republican strongholds across America. Hundreds of thousands died on that day, in places like Nevada, Texas, Mississippi. Millions died on the second.

The Republicans responded. They seized hold of their own assets, ambushed NORAD, and launched their own nuclear payloads onto Democratic strongholds. States like Maine and New Hampshire were mostly eviscerated. Within the next ten days, nearly all of America was destroyed, one city after another. It was wave after wave of sheer devastation, and those who weren’t killed by direct attack died soon after from the toxic air and water. Within a matter of a month, there was no one even left to fight. Streets and buildings emptied out one at a time, as people were marched off to fight against former neighbors.

But Dad didn’t even wait for the draft – and that is why I hate him. He left way before. He’d been an officer in the Marine Corps for twenty years before any of this broke out, and he’d seen it all coming sooner than most. Every time he watched the news, every time he saw two politicians screaming at each other in the most disrespectful way, always upping the ante, Dad would shake his head and say, “This will lead to war. Trust me.”

And he was right. Ironically, Dad had already served his time and had been retired from Corps for years before this happened; but when that first shot was fired, on that day, he re-enlisted. Before there was even talk of a full-out war. He was probably the very first person to volunteer, for a war that hadn’t even started yet.

And that is why I’m still mad at him. Why did he have to do this? Why couldn’t he have just let everyone else kill each other? Why couldn’t he have stayed home, protected us? Why did he care more about his country than his family?

I still remember, vividly, the day he left us. I came home from school that day, and before I even opened the door, I heard shouting coming from inside. I braced myself. I hated it when Mom and Dad fought, which seemed like all the time, and I thought this was just another one of their arguments.

I opened the door and knew right away that this was different. That something was very, very wrong. Dad stood there in full uniform. It didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t worn his uniform in years. Why would he be wearing it now?

“You’re not a man!” Mom screamed at him. “You’re a coward! Leaving your family. For what? To go and kill innocent people?”

Dad’s face turned red, as it always did when he got angry.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he screamed back. “I’m doing my duty for my country. It’s the right thing to do.”

“The right thing for who?” she spat back. “You don’t even know what you’re fighting for. For a stupid bunch of politicians?”

“I know exactly what I’m fighting for: to hold our nation together.”

“Oh, well, excuse me, Mister America!” she screamed back at him. “You can justify this in your head anyway you want, but the truth is, you’re leaving because you can’t stand me. Because you never knew how to handle domestic life. Because you’re too stupid to make something of your life after the Corps. So you jump up and run off at the first opportunity – ”

Dad stopped her with a hard slap across the face. I can still hear the noise in my head.

I was shocked; I’d never seen him lay a hand on her before. I felt the wind rush out of me, as if I’d been slapped myself. I stared at him, and almost didn’t recognize him. Was that really my father? I was so stunned that I dropped my book and it landed with a thud.

They both turned and looked at me. Mortified, I turned and ran down the hall to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me. I didn’t know how to react to it all and just had to get away from them.

Moments later, there was a soft knock on my door.

“Brooke, it’s me,” Dad said in a soft, remorseful voice. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Please, let me in.”

“Go away!” I yelled back.

A long silence followed. But he still didn’t leave.

“Brooke, I have to leave now. I’d like to see you one last time before I go. Please. Come out and say goodbye.”

I started to cry.

“Go away!” I snapped again. I was so overwhelmed, so mad at him for hitting Mom, and even more mad at him for leaving us. And deep down, I was scared he would never come back.

“I’m leaving now, Brooke,” he said. “You don’t have to open the door. But I want you to know how much I love you. And that I’ll always be with you. Remember, Brooke, you’re the tough one. Take care of this family. I’m counting on you. Take care of them.”

And then I heard my father’s footsteps, walking away. They grew softer and softer. Moments later I heard the front door open, then close.

And then, nothing.

Minutes – it felt like days – later, I slowly opened my door. I already sensed it. He was gone. And I already regretted it; I wished I’d said goodbye. Because I already sensed, deep down, that he was never coming back.

Mom sat at the kitchen table, head in her hands, crying softly. I knew that things had changed permanently that day, that they would never be the same – that she would never be the same. And that I wouldn’t, either.

And I was right. As I sit here now, staring into the embers of the dying fire, my eyes heavy, I realize that, since that day, nothing has ever been the same again.

* * *

I am standing in our old apartment, in Manhattan. I don’t know what I’m doing here, or how I got here. Nothing seems to make sense, because the apartment is not at all as I remember. It is completely empty of furniture, as if we had never lived in it. I’m the only one here.

There is a sudden knock on the door, and in walks Dad, in full uniform, holding a briefcase. He has a hollow look to his eyes, as if he has just been to hell and back.

“Daddy!” I try to scream. But the words don’t come out. I look down and realize I am glued to the floor, hidden behind a wall, and that he can’t see me. As much as I struggle to break free, to run to him, to call out his name, I cannot. I’m forced to watch helplessly, as he walks into the empty apartment, looking all around.

“Brooke?” he yells out. “Are you here? Is anybody home?”

I try to answer again, but my voice won’t work. He searches from room to room.

“I said I’d come back,” he says. “Why didn’t anyone wait for me?”

Then, he breaks into tears.

My heart breaks, and I try with all I have to call out to him. But no matter how hard I try, nothing comes out.

He finally turns and leaves the apartment, gently closing the door behind him. The click of the handle reverberates in the emptiness.

“DADDY!” I scream, finally finding my voice.

But it is too late. I know he is gone forever, and somehow it is all my fault.

I blink, and the next thing I know I am back in the mountains, in Dad’s house, sitting in his favorite chair beside the fire. Dad sits on the couch, leaning forward, head down, playing with his Marine Corps knife. I am horrified to notice that half his face is melted away, all the way to the bone; I can actually see half his skull.

He looks up at me, and I am afraid.

“You can’t hide here forever, Brooke,” he says, in a measured tone. “You think you’re safe here. But they’ll come for you. Take Bree and hide.”

He rises to his feet, comes over to me, grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me, his eyes burning with intensity. “DID YOU HEAR ME, SOLDIER!?” he screams.

He disappears, and as he does, all the doors and windows crash open at once, in a cacophony of shattered glass.

Into our house rush a dozen slaverunners, guns drawn. They’re dressed in their signature all-black uniforms, from head to toe, with black facemasks, and they race to every corner of the house. One of them grabs Bree off the couch and carries her away, screaming, while another runs right up to me, digs his fingers into my arm and aims his pistol right to my face.

He fires.