The cheering grows louder and I look up. I am in the bottom of the indoor swimming pool—the deep end where the diving boards and platforms used to be. Above me is a thick sheet of Plexiglas, a seal locking me in. Around the glass seal are stadium seats crammed with people—sitting in laps, spilling over the edges, lining the walkways. And they are all staring at me and cheering.
In the front row sits a man dressed in a suit and tie, with a white-collared shirt. He is flanked on both sides by four short-haired men in black uniforms, with automatic weapons in their hands. I have seen this guarded man before. In a fire lit alley. The man who told the raiders to catch me and keep me, and kill me. His eyes are locked on mine. I stare into his narrowed eyes and slowly climb to my feet. He is the governor.
“Now that you’ve clapped eyes on this beastly sweetie, you might want to change your bets. Or increase them,” the commentator says, the timbre of his voice niggling at my memory. I break eye contact with the governor and look around but can’t see the commentator. The noise dies down as people scramble to give slips of paper to several men dressed in black, wearing black caps.
“And now. Brace yourselves! Men, cover your wives’ eyes! The moment you’ve all been waiting for is here.” Everyone leans forward in their seats. “It is time,” the commentator continues in a quiet voice, “to introduce the other three before we open their doors. Door number one holds a Level Three male. Don’t let his small size fool you, my friends. We’ve been trying to catch this wily Fec for years. He’s the craftiest, fastest thing on two legs that has ever come from the tunnels. In fact, get this. He’s the Fec that usually sells the other Fecs to the pits! What a cruel turn of fate for him.” The commentator chuckles, and I recognize his voice. He is the man from the tunnels who always hid in the shadows. Shadow Man.
“Door number three,” the commentator continues, “holds our second female. She’s only a Five, but you know how female beasts are—they kill all other females so they can be queen bee. She’s clawing at the door to get to our Ten as I speak!
“And from door number four, you’ll see our second Ten. He’s …” The crowd shrieks so loudly, the commentator’s voice is completely swallowed. Even the black-dressed guards in the front row lean forward to peer down into the pool. Only the governor seems unaffected. When the frenzy dies down, the commentator continues, “This Ten is a male with a broken ankle and some superficial skin wounds. But don’t let that stop you from betting on him. He’s the strongest beast we have ever seen. He bent the bars of his cage trying to get at our little Level Ten female down there. Steel bars, mind you! No beast has ever done that.”
I grit my teeth and force my legs not to buckle. Why does it have to be him in here with me? What kind of sick and twisted reality have I been thrown into? I wonder. And where are you, Bowen?
The ground beneath my feet rumbles as the crowd stomps their feet on the bleachers in unison. Stomp, stomp, stomp. Just like at a high school basketball game.
“And now. Silence, please. We will open the other three doors,” the commentator says, his voice reverent. The noise disappears, as if it has been clapped beneath a hand. My ears ring with its aftermath.
Slowly, one of three doors built into the side of the pool slides open. A person is shoved into the light.
It’s Arrin, cuffed hands shading her face. She uncovers her eyes and squints. Her face has been scrubbed clean, her hair isn’t in her face, and her clothes are dripping. With her face clean, and her—my—clothes plastered to her body, she looks … male—square shoulders, hairy legs, and a beaky nose too big for her face. I can see it, now, what Bowen has said all along. I am looking at Arris—not Arrin. She is male. He grins at me and I shiver.
Arris’s eyes flicker away from mine, up to the bleachers above, and lock onto the governor’s face. He mouths the words, Kill her and I’ll get you out. Arris nods and grins.
The other two doors open, and two freshly scrubbed beasts, wearing