Arena One: Slaverunners (17 page)

But I don’t know how long I can hang on. My muscles are already weak, and as I cling to the cage, suddenly, I feel it swaying. I look down and see that the brute has grabbed the cage wall with both hands, and is shaking it violently. I cling to it like a buoy in a storm-tossed sea. I sway violently, but no matter how much he shakes it, I refuse to let go.

The crowd screams its approval, and laughs at him. I glance down and see his skin turn a darkening shade of red. He looks humiliated.

He reaches out, grabs the metal, and begins to pull himself up. But he is slow, awkward. He is far too heavy to be agile, and this cage is not meant to hold someone of his bulk. He climbs towards me, but now I have the advantage. He uses both hands to pull himself up, and as he gets close, I swing back one leg and kick him hard in the face, connecting on the corner of his temple, right at the corner of his facemask, with my steel-tipped toe.

It is a solid kick, one he does not expect—and to my surprise, it works. He falls back off the fence, a good ten feet, and lands hard, flat on his back, on the ground. He lands with such force, the entire ring shakes. It sounds as if a tree trunk has been dropped from the sky. The crowd roars, screaming its approval.

As I look down, I see that my kick has dislodged his facemask, which goes flying across the floor. He gets to his feet and scowls up at me, and for the first time, I can see his face.

I wish that I hadn’t.

It is a hideous, grotesque face, and barely even looks human. Now I understand why he wears the mask. His face is entirely burnt and charred, with huge lumps all over it. He is a Biovictim, and the worst I’ve ever seen. He’s missing a nose, and has slits for eyes. He looks more like a beast than a man.

He snarls and roars up at me, and if I wasn’t afraid before, my heart pounds with fear now. I feel as if I’m fighting something out of a nightmare.

But for now, at least, I am safe. I have outsmarted him. There is nothing he can do except stand down there and look up at me. We are at a stalemate.

That is, until suddenly, everything changes.

Stupidly, I am looking down, over my shoulder, at the ring below me. I never bother to look in front of me, never imagined there could be any danger from that direction. But one of the slaverunners, outside the ring, has managed to sneak up on me, with a huge pole, and shock me with it, right in the chest. I feel an electric jolt run through my entire body. It must be some sort of cattle prod; they probably reserve it for situations like this.

The electric shock sends me flying back, off the cage, falling through the air, and landing flat on my back on the floor. The force of it knocks the wind out of me again, and my body is still shaking from being electrified. The crowd roars in delight as I’m back down on the floor of the ring, helpless.

I can barely breathe, or feel my fingertips. But I have no time to reflect. The brute charges right for me, and looks madder than ever. He leaps into the air and raises his knees high, preparing to bring both feet down on my face, to stomp me to oblivion.

Somehow, at the last second, I manage to roll out of the way. I feel the wind of his kick rush past my ear, and then the thunderous stomp. It is enough to shake the floor, and I go bouncing off it like a plaything. I roll away, get to my hands and knees, then run to the far side of the ring.

Something suddenly drops from the sky, lands on the floor in the center of the ring. I look down and am surprised to see it is a medieval mace, with a short wooden handle and a foot-long chain, at the end of which is a spiked, metal ball. I’ve seen these before, in pictures of knights in armor: it was a deadly weapon used in the Middle Ages.

I run for, reach down and grab it before he can. Not that he even shows any interest in grabbing it. He doesn’t even go for it, clearly feeling he doesn’t need it. I don’t blame him.

I grab hold of the shaft and swing it, filled with a newfound confidence. If I can just connect, with just one blow, maybe I can actually win. It is a weapon of beauty, and the spiked metal ball swings around and around at the end of the chain, establishing a perimeter before me, keeping him at bay. I swing it again and again, like a helicopter, and it manages to keep him off guard, wary.

But he still slowly approaches, and as he does, I back up. As I take another step back, though, I suddenly slip on a pool of blood: my feet go out from under me, and I fall flat on my back. As I do, I lose my grip on the mace, and it goes flying across the cage. It actually by chance flies right at his head; but he is more agile than I suspect and ducks it easily. It goes over his head and smashes into the wall of the cage. The crowd ooohs at the close call.

I’m flat on my back, and before I can get up, he’s standing over me and reaches down, grabs my shirt and picks me up by my chest with both hands. He lifts me up high, way over his head, like a wrestler, then parades me across the ring, before the thousands of revelers. They eat it up, going wild.

“MAL-COLM! MAL-COLM! MAL-COLM!”

Maybe this is his trademark move, before he finishes people off for good. As I dangle there in the air, so high above his head, helpless, I squirm, but it is futile. I know that there is nothing I can do. I am at his disposal. And I feel that any second will be my last.

He slowly walks me around the ring, again and again, savoring the adulation, the victory. The noise of the crowd grows to a deafening pitch. He lifts me, even higher, preparing to hurl me, and the last thing I think, before I go flying, is that I’m glad that Bree isn’t here to see my death.

He throws me and I go flying through the air at full speed, not knowing I could move that fast, and land hard on the floor on the opposite side of the ring. I feel another rib crack, and as my head rolls and smashes into the metal, I feel another welt form on my forehead. I wonder how much more abuse my body can take.

I sense him coming at me again, and this time, I am just too beat up to move. I lay there, on the floor, face down, struggling to catch my breath. He takes his time. It is clear that he will kill me when he reaches me. It is a death walk.

I’m too tired and weak and delirious to do anything more than accept my fate. I feel I am destined to die. Here, in this place. At this moment. I feel as if I’ve failed, let Bree down.

As I lay there, breathing hard, blood coming from my mouth, slowly, over the sound of the ringing in my ears, over the din of the crowd, there gradually comes another sound. It is a voice. The voice of my Dad. It is a stern voice. The voice he always used to chastise me. To force me to push myself. To be more than I could be.

Be tough,
M
arine! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! If you think you’re a failure, then you are! Be strong! BE STRONG!

His voice becomes deafening, drowning out everything. I look up, my vision blurry, and for a moment I could swear I actually see Dad standing there, hands on his hips, scowling down. There is disapproval—even disgust—on his face. And that is what motivates me. That is what makes something snap inside.

I could never stand to see my father disapproving of me. I would always do whatever it took just to silence him, just to prove him wrong. This time is no different. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I feel myself surge with anger, with the need to prove him wrong. I’m filled with a new fury, and it forces me to my hands and knees.

BE STRONG!

The brute takes three big steps, winding up to deliver a knockout kick to my face. I can already tell that if the kick connects, it will break every bone in my face.

But now, I am ready. I surprise him by rolling out of the way at the last second, a split second before the kick reaches me. He misses and instead kicks the metal fence. He kicks it with such force that his foot lodges into one of the metal chain links.

I jump to my feet and in the same motion run across the ring and grab the mace. The brute yanks at his foot, trying to get it out of the cage—but he is stuck.

This time, I don’t wait. This time, I don’t hesitate. Finally, I have learned my lesson.

I charge across the ring, and with all I have, I swing the mace, wind up the ball. I realize I only have one shot at this, and I take aim for his huge, bald, muscular head.

I get closer to him. Ten feet…five.… I swing and let the ball go.

Suddenly, he yanks his foot out of the cage and turns and faces me.

I’ve already set the chain in motion and the ball is already spinning, flying over my head, through the air. And just as he turns to face me, the ball comes swinging around and lodges right into the side of his head. It lodges into his temple, and as it does, blood squirts out. I let go of the shaft.

The crowd is stunned into silence.

The brute takes a step back, stumbles, then reaches up in shock, grabs the shaft, and yanks it out of his own head. As he does, brains and blood come out.

I stand there, horrified, frozen. I can’t fathom how someone could continue to function after a blow like that.

But then, after a moment, he drops the shaft, and buckles to his knees. He falls forward on his face. His hands lay limp at his side, and a second later, to my  shock, I realize he is dead. I have killed him.

After a second of stunned silence, the crowd suddenly leaps to its feet. It roars and screams louder than I’ve ever heard. And this time, they chant my name.

“BROOKE! BROOKE! BROOKE!”

I barely even hear it. Whatever strength was left in me suddenly disappears, and a moment later, I feel the world spinning, feel my knees go weak, feel myself collapsing. The last thing I see is the floor racing up towards me, striking me in the face.

And then my world is blackness.

I’m not sure if I’m dead or alive. My body aches more than I could imagine, and I wonder if this is what it’s like to be on the other side. Somehow, I feel as if I’m still alive: if I were dead, I am hoping it would not be this painful.

I peel open one eye and see I am lying, face down, on a metal floor, in a darkened room, lit by red emergency lights. I look up, and struggle to make out the shape before me.

“Brooke?” a voice asks. It is a male voice, and I know I recognize it from somewhere, but can’t remember where.

“Brooke?” he asks again, softly.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, gently prodding me.

I manage to open my eye a bit more, and finally recognize the face: Ben. He leans over me, gently prodding me, trying to see if I’m alive.

“This is for you,” he says.

There is the sound of plastic scraping against the metal floor, and I am struck by the smell of food. But I’m too groggy to look at it, and I don’t really register what’s happening.

“I have to go now,” he says. “Please. I want you to have this.”

A second later there comes the sound of a door opening, and light floods the room. There is the sound of marching boots, chains, handcuffs being released. Then footsteps recede and the door closes, and as it does, suddenly, I realize: they have just taken Ben away.

I want to raise my head, to open my eyes, to call out to him. To thank him. To warn him. To say goodbye.

But my head, too heavy, won’t lift, and my eyes begin to shut of their own accord. Moments later, I fall back into a heavy sleep.

*

I don’t know how much time has passed when I wake again. I feel the cold metal of the floor on the side of my face, and this time I am able to gradually lift my head, peel myself off. My head is splitting, and every ounce of my body is killing me.

As I sit up, I feel a sharp pain in my ribs, now on both sides. My face is swollen, welts and bruises all over it, and my shoulder is killing me. Worst of all, there’s an intense throbbing in my calf, an unbearable pain as I attempt to straighten my leg. At first, I don’t know what it’s from, and then I remember: the snakebite.

Propping myself with one hand, I manage to sit halfway up. I look around the darkened room for any sign of Ben. But he is gone. I am alone.

I look down and see a tray of food before me, untouched. His food. I reach out and touch it: it is cold. I feel bad that he has left it; I’m sure he needed it at least as much as me. I realize what it took to sacrifice this meal. If this was his last meal, that means they’ve taken him away, to fight. My heart leaps at the realization. Surely, that means he is already dead.

I look down again at his food, and it feels like the food of a dead man. I can’t bring myself to touch it.

There is a sound of boots, and the metal door slams open. In march four slaverunners, who drag me to my feet and prod me out the room. The pain is indescribable as I stand, walk. My head is so heavy, and the room spins, and I don’t know if I’m going to make it without collapsing.

I am pushed and prodded down the corridor, and as I go, the sound of a distant crowd grows louder. My heart drops as I realize I’m being led back to the arena.

If they think I can fight again, it is a joke. I can barely walk. Anyone who squares off with me will have easy pickings. I don’t have any will left to fight—or any strength, even if I did. I have already given this arena everything I have.

I am shoved one last time as the tunnel to the arena opens up. The roar becomes deafening. I squint at the harsh light as I am lead down the ramp, as I realize that I’m counting my final minutes.

The crowd jumps to its feet as they see me. They stomp violently. This time, instead of hisses and jeers, they seem to love me.

“BROOKE! BROOKE! BROOKE!”

It is a surreal feeling. I feel like I’ve achieved fame, but for actions that I detest, and in the last place on earth I’d ever want it.

I’m prodded again, all the way to ringside, back to the metal ladder. I look up and see the cage open, and climb and walk in helplessly.

As I enter, the crowd goes wild.

I am still half-asleep, and this is all so surreal, I can’t help wondering if I did this before, or if it was all a dream. I look down and see the huge welt on my calf, and know that it was real. I can’t believe it. I am back here again. This time, for a certain death.

They weren’t kidding when they said no survivors. Now I know there will be no exceptions.

I stand in the empty ring and survey the stadium, wondering who my next opponent will be, where he will enter from. As I do, suddenly, there comes a cheer from the far side of the stadium. The tunnel opens up, and in marches another contestant. I can’t see who it is, as he’s blocked by an entourage of slaverunners. The crowd goes crazy as he gets closer. But my view is so obscured, it’s not until he reaches the very edge of the ring, until he is climbing the ladder, until the cage opens and he’s actually pushed inside, that I see who it is.

As I do, any ounce of fight that is left in me falls away.

I am horrified.

It can’t be.

Standing before me, staring back with equal shock, is Ben.