Arena Two. Morgan Rice
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my surprise, the truck hangs in there. It is like a bulldog. Soon we are past the worst of it, and as we turn a bend, I suddenly spot our former house.
“Hey! Dad’s house!” Bree yells out, sitting up in excitement.
I’m relieved to see it, too. We’re here, and we made good time.
“See,” I say to Logan, “that wasn’t so bad.”
Logan doesn’t seem relieved, though; his face is set in a grimace, on edge as he watches the trees.
“We made it here,” he grumbles. “We didn’t make it back.”
Typical. Refusing to admit he was wrong.
I pull up in front of our house and see the old slaverunner tracks. It brings flashing back all the memories, all the dread I’d felt when they’d taken Bree. I reach over and drape an arm around her shoulder, clutch her tight, resolve to never let her out of my sight again.
I cut the ignition and we all jump out and head quickly towards the house.
“Sorry if it’s a mess,” I say to Logan as I step past him, up to the front door. “I wasn’t expecting guests.”
Despite himself, he suppresses a smile.
“Ha ha,” he says, flatly. “Should I take off my shoes?”
A sense of humor. That surprises me.
As I open the door and step inside, any sense of humor I had suddenly falls away. When I see the site before me, my heart drops. There is Sasha, lying there, her blood dried, her body stiff and frozen. Just a few feet away is the corpse of the slaverunner Sasha had killed, his corpse frozen, too, stuck to the floor.
I look down at the jacket I’m wearing – his jacket – the clothes I’m wearing – his clothes – my boots – his boots – and it gives me a funny feeling. Almost as if I’m his walking double.
Logan looks over at me and must realize it too.
“You didn’t take his pants?” he asks.
I look down and remember I did not. It was too much.
I shake my head.
“Stupid,” he says.
Now that he mentions it, I realize he is right. My old jeans are wet and cold, and sticking to me. And even if I don’t want them, Ben might. It’s a shame to waste them: after all, it is perfectly good clothing.
I hear muffled cries and look over to see Bree standing there, looking down at Sasha. It breaks my heart to see her face like that, crumpled up, staring down at her former dog.
I walk over to her and put an arm around her.
“It’s okay, Bree,” I say. “Look away.”
I kiss her on the forehead and try to turn her away, but she throws me off with surprising strength.
“No,” she says.
She steps forward, kneels down and hugs Sasha on the ground. She wraps her arms around her neck, and leans over and kisses her head.
Logan I exchange a glance. Neither of us know what to do.
“We haven’t time,” Logan says. “You need to bury her, and move on.”
I kneel down beside her, lean over and stroke Sasha’s head.
“It’s going to be okay, Bree. Sasha’s in a better place now. She’s happy now. Do you hear me?”
Tears drop from her eyes, and she reaches up, takes a deep breath, and wipes them away with the back of her hand.
“We can’t leave her here like this,” she says. “We have to bury her.”
“We will,” I say.
“We can’t,” Logan says. “The ground is frozen solid.”
I stand and look at Logan, more annoyed than ever. Especially because I realize he is right. I should have thought of that.
“Then what do you suggest?” I ask.
“It’s not my problem. I’ll stand guard outside.”
Logan turns and marches outside, slamming the front door behind him.
I turn back to Bree, trying to think quick.
“He’s right,” I say. “We don’t have time to bury her.”
“NO!” she wails. “You promised. You promised!”
She’s right. I did promise. But I hadn’t thought it all through carefully. The thought of leaving Sasha here like this kills me. But I can’t risk our own lives either. Sasha wouldn’t want that.
I have an idea.
“What about the river, Bree?”
She turns and looks at me.
“What if we give her a water burial? You know, like they do for soldiers who die in honor?”
“What soldiers?” she asks.
“When soldiers die at sea, sometimes they bury them at sea. It’s a burial of honor. Sasha loved the river. I’m sure she’d be happy there. We can bring her down and bury her there. Would that be okay?”
My heart is pounding as I wait for a response. We are running out of time, and I know how intransigent Bree can be if something means a lot to her.
To my relief, she nods.
“Okay,” she says. “But I get to carry her.”
“I think she’s too heavy for you.”
“I’m not going unless I get to carry her,” she says, her eyes flashing with determination as she stands, faces me, hands on her hips. I can see from her eyes that she will never give in otherwise.
“Okay,” I say. “You can carry her.”
We both pry Sasha off the floor, and then I quickly scan the house for anything we can salvage. I hurry to the slaverunner’s corpse, strip his pants off, and as I do, feel something in his back pocket. I’m happily surprised to discover something bulky and metal inside. I pull out a small switch blade. I’m thrilled to have it, and cram it in my pocket.
I do a quick run-through of the rest of the house, hurrying from room to room, looking for anything that might be useful. I find a few old, empty burlap sacks and take them all. I open one and throw in Bree’s favorite book, The Giving Tree, and my copy of Lord of the Flies. I run to a closet, grab the remaining candles and matches and throw them in.
I run through the kitchen and out to the garage, the doors already busted open from when the slaverunners raided it. I hope desperately they didn’t take time to search in the back, deeper in the garage, for his tool chest. I hid it well, in a recess in the wall, and I hurry back and am relieved to see it’s still there. It’s too heavy to carry the entire toolbox, so I rifle through it and cherry pick whatever might be useful. I take a small hammer, screwdriver, a small box of nails. I find a flashlight, with the battery inside. I test it, and it works. I grab a small set of pliers and a wrench and close it and get ready to leave.
As I’m about to run out, something catches my eye, high on the wall. It’s a large zip line, all bunched up, tied up neatly and hanging on a hook. I forgot all about it. Years ago, dad bought this zip line and tied it between the trees, thinking we could all have fun. We did it once, and never again, and then he hung it in the garage. Looking at it now, I feel that it might be valuable. I jump up on the tool bench, reach up and take it down, slinging it over one shoulder and my burlap sack over the other.
I hurry out the garage and back into the house and Bree is standing there, holding Sasha in both her arms, looking down at her.
“I’m ready,” she says.
We hurry out the front door, and Logan turns and sees Sasha. He shakes his head.
“Where are you taking her?” he asks.
“The river,” I say.
He