Arena One: Slaverunners by Morgan Rice Page B

am back in the mountains, in Dad ’ s house, sitting in his favorite chair beside the fire. Dad is sitting there, on the couch, and he leans forward, head down, playing with his Marine Corps knife. I am horrified to notice that h alf his face i s 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 t hey ’ ll come for you . Take Bree and hide. ”
    H e rises to his feet, comes over to me , grab s me by the shoulders and shakes me, his eyes burning with intensity . “ D ID YOU HEAR ME, SOLDIER!? ” h e screams.
    H e disappears, and as he does, all the doors and windows crash open at once , in a cacophony of shattered glass.
    In to 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.
    I wake screaming, disoriented.
    I feel fingers digging into my arm, and confused between my dream state and reality, I am ready to strike. I look over and see that it’s Bree, standing there, shaking my arm.
    I am still sitting in Dad’s chair, and now the room is flooded with sunlight. Bree is crying, hysterical.
    I blink several times as I sit up, trying to get my bearings. Was it all just a dream? It had felt so real.
    “I had a scary dream!” Bree cries, still gripping my arm.
    I look over and see the fire has gone out long ago. I see the bright sunlight, and realize it must be late morning. I can’t believe I have fallen asleep in the chair—I have never done this before.
    I shake my head, trying to get the cobwebs out. That dream felt so real, it’s still hard to believe it didn’t happen. I’ve dreamt of Dad before, many times, but never anything with such immediacy. I find it hard to conceive that he’s not still in the room with me now, and I look around the room again, just to make sure.
    Bree tugs on my arm, inconsolable. I have never seen her quite like this, either.
    I kneel down and give her a hug. She clings to me.
    “I dreamed these mean men came and took me away! And you weren’t here to save me!” Bree cries, over my shoulder. “Don’t go!” she pleads, hysterical. “Please, don’t go. Don’t leave me!”
    “I’m not going anywhere,” I say, hugging her tight. “Shhh…. It’s OK…. There’s nothing to worry about. Everything is fine.”
    But deep down, I can’t help feeling that everything is not fine. On the contrary. My dream really disturbs me, and Bree’s having such a bad dream, too—and about the same thing—doesn’t give me much solace. I’m not a big believer in omens, but I can’t help wondering if it’s all a sign. But I don’t hear any kind of noise or commotion, and if there was anybody with a mile of here, surely I would know.
    I lift Bree’s chin, wiping her tears. “Take a deep breath,” I say.
    Bree listens, slowly catching her breath. I force myself to smile. “See,” I say. “I’m right here. Nothing’s wrong. It was just a bad dream. Okay?”
    Slowly, Bree nods.
    “You’re just overtired,” I said. “And you have a fever. So you had bad dreams. It’s all going to be fine.”
    As I kneel there, hugging Bree, I realize that I need to get going, to climb the mountain and scout out our new house, and to find us food. My stomach drops as I consider breaking the news to Bree, and how she’ll react. Clearly, my timing couldn’t be worse. How can I possibly tell her that I need to leave her now? Even if only for an hour or two? A part of me wants to stay here, to watch over her all day; yet I also know that I need to go, and that the sooner I get it over with, the