Arena One: Slaverunners

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 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 toward 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.

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 I hadn’t.

It is hideous, grotesque, and barely 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, 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’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.

Then everything changes.

Stupidly, I keep looking down, never bothering to look in front of me, never imagining 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. He shocks me with it, right in the chest. An electric jolt runs through my entire body. It must be some sort of cattle prod; they probably reserve it for situations like this.

The shock sends me flying back, off the cage. I fall through the air and land flat on my back. The force of it knocks the wind out of me again, and I’m 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, looking 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. The wind of his kick rushes past my ear, and then comes the thunderous stomp. It is enough to shake the floor, and I go bouncing off it like a plaything. I roll away, stand up, and run to the far side of the ring.

Another weapon suddenly drops from the sky, lands on the floor in the center of the ring. A medieval mace. It has 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 get to it before he can – not that he shows any interest. 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 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, though, I 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. He uses both hands to pick me up by my chest. 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. There is nothing I can do. I am at his disposal. Any second could 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.

Nineteen

He throws me and I fly through the air at full speed, not knowing I could move that fast, landing hard on the floor on the opposite side of the ring. I feel another rib crack, while my head smashes into the metal and another welt forms 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 face-down, struggling to catch my breath. He takes his time. It is clear 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 am destined to die. Here, in this place. At this moment. I’ve failed. I’ve 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, Marine! 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 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 have my father disapprove of me and 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 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. If he connects, he 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 with such force his foot lodges into the 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, swing the mace, wind up the ball. I only have one shot at this, so 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 frees his foot from the cage and wheels 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 swings around and lodges in his temple. Blood squirts out, and 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 ever before. 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, the world spins, my knees go weak, and I collapse. The last thing I see is the floor racing up towards me, striking me in the face.

And then my world is blackness.

Twenty

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.