walking overhead. I strain to hear what’s going on, waiting.
Something happens. Something changes. The air around me shifts, a faint stirring that carries with it the scents of fresh popcorn and body odor. Through the cracks in my door frame, I hear guttural breathing. I creep to the door and press my eye to the crack. My knees grow weak and I cling to the wall, but I don’t take my eye from the crack.
Two boy beasts, the baby fat barely gone from their cheeks, stand in a brightly lit pale-blue room. They are facing each other, circling, their muscular bodies tense. One leaps for the other, and a clap of noise—cheering—vibrates my bones. The beasts throw their arms around each other, topple, and start rolling around on the floor. Scratching. Biting. Clawing. And people are cheering, like they’re at a basketball game and their team just scored.
I shudder and move away from the door, swallowing down bile as I try to forget what I just saw. Yet, even over the thunderous cheering, sounds of the fight reach my ears—wet, smacking sounds and grunting. I press my hands against my ears and hum Beethoven’s Fifth as loud as I can. And all I can think is, Bowen, come and get me!
After I’ve hummed the entire song, the deep buzz of the voice echoes into my room. I cautiously take my damp hands from my ears, braced for the disturbing sounds of fighting.
“… in your seats! I know how eager you all are, but you need to wait to collect your winnings until after the second fight. Now, if you voted Beast One in this round, you … lose, lose, LOSE!” he yells. The crowd groans. “And now, we’ll take a quick moment to clean up the pit before we get on to what you really came here for. So, use the bathroom, place more bets, or just hunker down in your seats and give us a moment to prepare the pit.”
I mentally brace myself for something horrible and peer through the crack in the door again. Both beasts are in the bright room, one lying motionless on the floor, the other hunched over it and panting. Both are covered with streaks of blood.
My cuffs zing with a surge of electricity, and the sitting beast’s arm and ankle cuffs snap together. He snarls and writhes, tipping over onto the floor. Two men come into view and approach the beast with their hands up, palms forward. The beast lunges to his feet, and I gag. His face is nothing but scratches with eyes peering out.
My cuffs fill with electricity again, and the beast topples to the floor, his body convulsing, his stringy hair standing straight up with electricity. When the electricity stops, his eyes are shut and he doesn’t move. His unconscious body is lifted from the floor, placed into a wheelchair, and locked into place with metal bars identical to those that were on my wheelchair. His head lolls to the side as they push the chair out of the room.
The other beast, the one lying on the floor, is zipped into a black bag.
I have seen enough. Too much. So I lean against the wall and close my eyes. I have just witnessed my first pit fight. And now I understand. Unless Bowen shows up with his promised rescue, I am going to fight next. And I am going to die.
The door with the light seeping through—my door—swings open. I flinch and cover my eyes. The door behind me, the door I came in through, moves toward me. It presses against my back and I dig my shoes into the ground. I do not want to go into the pit! But it sweeps me, forces me out of my tiny room and into blinding light. I fall to my knees and stare at the floor—pale-blue cement smeared with streaks of brick red and brown.
The air explodes with cheering, and the commentator’s booming voice echoes over the sound. “Isn’t she a doozy? Our first Level Ten of the day! Of the year! Our first Level Ten … ever!” The crowd goes wild. “Don’t be fooled by her submissive appearance, folks. She might be on her knees right now, but it is all an act. She’s been living outside the wall. She’s tough. She’s a survivor. And she’s a Ten. She’s got the mark on her hand to prove it!”
I glance at my hand, at the oval with ten legs, and shudder.