Arena One: Slaverunners by Morgan Rice

drawn in the sand, military and police assets were divided, and battles ensued in 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, before it engulfed the entire nation. They advised him to use local, targeted nuclear missiles. He consented.
    The next day nuclear payloads were dropped in strategic places across America, strategic Republican strongholds. 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 left to even 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, and 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,