Arena One: Slaverunners

A chance to survive. To be free. Not just for me – but for Bree. If I kill Ben, it will save her. It is my chance. It is my ticket out.

As I see Ben looking at the knife, I can see the same thoughts racing through his mind, too. It is a chance for him to save his little brother.

I lunge for it, and in a single motion, reach down and pick it up.

Getting it is easy. Ben never even makes a move for it.

But I’m cut from a different cloth than him. I need to do what I have to in order to survive. For Bree to survive.

So I lean back, take aim, and prepare to throw my Dad’s knife.

Do it, Brooke! Save your sister! You have a responsibility! DO IT!

I lean forward and launch it with all my might.

And that is the moment that changes everything.

Part IV

Twenty Two

I throw my Dad’s knife with everything I have, and in that moment, the crowd holds its breath, completely silent. The blade glimmers in the light as it goes flying end over end, through the air, racing. It is the strongest and most accurate throw I’ve ever made. I already know it will find its target. And that it will mean certain death.

In moments, I will be free.

A second later, the sound of metal meeting flesh punctures the air, and I see that it was, indeed, a perfect strike.

The entire crowd gasps, horrified.

For once in my life, I have ignored my father’s advice. I have not killed Ben.

I have killed their leader.

* * *

The knife lodges in the center of the leader’s forehead; I’d managed to throw it perfectly, just high enough to clear the fence, by a millimeter, and yet still maintain the perfect angle to hit him, thirty yards away. It hits him so hard, it pins his head to the chair. He sits there, eyes wide open, frozen in shock, dead.

There is stunned silence in the arena. For several seconds, the crowd is too shocked to even react. I can hear a pin drop.

And then, pandemonium. Thousands of people jump up from their seats and run in every direction. Some, terrified, flee for their lives; others see this as their chance to be set free, and run for the exits; some start fighting among themselves, while others start fighting with the slaverunners. It is as if a violent energy, long contained, has been set loose.

Slaverunners scurry in every direction, trying to maintain order.

I look to the cage door, wondering if we can escape that way, but already guards are fiddling with its lock, trying to unchain it so that they can come and get us.

I run to Ben, who still stands there, shocked, and grab him by the arm.

“FOLLOW ME!” I scream.

I take his hand as I run across the ring, jump up onto the cage and scale its wall. I climb straight up, relieved to see Ben beside me.

Just in time. The slaverunners burst open the metal gate and rush right for us.

But we are already at the top of the cage, fifteen feet high. I look over the edge and hesitate for a moment: it is a steep drop, and a hard landing. Ben hesitates, too.

But we have no choice. It’s now or never.

I jump.

I land hard on my feet, fifteen feet below on the concrete. My calf explodes in pain as I tumble to the ground. As I hit, rolling, my cracked ribs hurt just as much. The pain is excruciating, but at least I don’t feel as if I’ve broken anything else. I’ve made it.

I look over, hoping to see Ben beside me in the chaos, as the crowd scurries in every direction around me. But my heart drops to see he’s not there. He is still high on the cage wall, hesitating at the top. He’s afraid to jump.

The slaverunners are reaching up, beginning to climb, about to get him. He is terrified, frozen in inaction.

I scramble to my feet and yell up at him.

“BEN!” I scream. “JUMP! DO IT!”

I can hear the panic in my voice. There is no time. If he doesn’t jump now, I’ll have to leave without him.

Suddenly, thankfully, Ben plunges into the crowd. He hits the ground hard, tumbling. And then, after a moment, he gets up. He looks dazed, but as far as I can tell, unhurt. I grab his arm and we run.

It is such pandemonium no one even notices us. People are brawling with each other, fighting to get out. I manage to weave through the masses, hiding in anonymity. I check back and see the group of slaverunners behind us, on our trail.

I head toward one of the exit tunnels where hundreds are fleeing, and we blend in with the stampede, ducking and weaving through the people. Behind us, I sense the slaverunners parting ways through the crowd, coming after us. I don’t know how far we can make it. The thick crowd is barely moving.

I enter the blackness of one of the tunnels, and as I do, a hand grabs me hard around my mouth and yanks me backwards. Another hand clasps Ben by the mouth and drags him back, too.

We’ve been caught, pulled back into the blackness. I am being held tight in a recess in the wall, and my captor holds me in a strong, deadly grip. I’m unable to resist. As I stand there, I wonder if I’m about to die.

The group of slaverunners runs past us, down the tunnel, thinking they are following us. I can’t believe it: we’ve lost them.

Now I’m thankful for being pulled aside. And as the grip around my mouth loosens, I wonder why my captor just did us a favor. He releases his grip completely, and I look back over my shoulder to see a large soldier, dressed in black but not wearing a mask. He looks different than the others. He looks to be about 22, and his chiseled features are perfect, with a strong jawline and short, cropped brown hair. He towers over us, and stares down with green eyes that are a surprising contrast to his demeanor: they exude softness, and are starkly out of place here.

“Come with me,” he says urgently.

He turns and disappears into a side door, hidden in the wall. Ben and I exchange a glance, then instantly follow, ducking under the door and into the side chamber.

This man has just saved our lives. And I have no idea who he is.

* * *

The soldier closes and locks the door behind us. It is a small room, like a cell, with a tiny window at the top. No sunlight comes through, so I assume it’s still night. The room is also lit only by a small red emergency light. He turns to us and we all stand there, facing each other.

“Why did you save us?” I ask.

“You’re not saved yet,” he answers, coldly. “There are still thousands of those things out there, looking for you. You’ll have to sit tight, wait it out, until daylight. Then we can make a break for it. Our chances are slim. But we have no choice.”