Arena One: Slaverunners

Twenty Seven

I frantically scan our surroundings and spot the façade of what was once a Whole Foods. It is abandoned, like everything else, completely gutted. But unlike the other stores, it appears the doors are still intact. I wonder if maybe we can get in and lock them behind us.

“This way!” I scream to Logan, who stands there, frozen in indecision.

We run to the entrance of the Whole Foods, the Crazies just 30 yards behind us. I expect them to be yelling, but they are dead silent. With all the snow, they don’t even make a sound, and that somehow is even more eerie than if they were screaming.

We reach the doors and I try the handle and am relieved it’s open. I run in, Logan behind me, then turn and slam it behind us. Logan removes the heavy machinegun from his shoulder and shoves it between the door handles, barring the doors. He wedges it in there, and it is a perfect fit. I test the doors, and they don’t budge.

We turn and run deeper into the store. It is cold in here, empty, gutted. There are no remnants of food, just torn and empty packaging all over the floor. No weapons, no supplies. No hiding places. Nothing. Whatever was once here was looted long ago. I scan for exits, but see none.

“Now what?” Logan asks.

There’s a sudden crash against the metal door as dozens of Crazies slam into it. Our lock won’t last long. I search the store again, frantic for an idea. And then, in the distance, I spot something: a stairwell.

“There!” I yell, pointing.

We both run across the store, burst through the door, and into the stairwell. Logan looks at me.

“Up or down?” he asks.

It’s a good question. If we go down, maybe there’s a basement. Maybe there are some sort of supplies, and maybe we can barricade ourselves in down there. Then again, it could be a death trap. And judging from the look of this place, I doubt there are any supplies. If we go up, maybe there’s something on a higher floor. Maybe an exit through the roof.

My claustrophobic side gets the better of me.

“UP!” I say, despite the pain in my leg.

We start ascending the metal steps. Logan climbs so fast, it is a struggle for me to catch up. He runs back, wraps an arm around me, holds me tight, and pulls me up the steps faster than I can manage on my own. Each step is torture, feels like a knife entering my calf. I curse the day that snake was born.

We run up flight after flight. When we cross the fourth flight I have to stop, gasping for breath. My breath is raspy, and sounds scary even to me: I sound like a 90-year-old woman. My body has endured too much in the last 48 hours.

Suddenly, there is a horrific crash. We both look at each other, then look down the stairwell. We both realize at the same time that the Crazies have broken in.

“COME ON!” he screams.

He grabs me, and I feel a surge of adrenaline as we run twice as fast up the steps. We clear the sixth flight, then the seventh. I hear the sound of the Crazies barging into the stairwell. They’re starting to sprint up the steps. They know exactly where we are.

We have only one more flight to go. I force myself, gasping for breath, up the last flight of steps. We reach the landing and race for the metal door to the roof. Logan puts a shoulder into it, but it won’t open. It’s locked. Apparently, from the outside. I can’t believe it.

The mob of Crazies is getting closer, the sound of them on the metal stairwell deafening. In moments, we will be torn to bits.

“STAND BACK!” I scream to Logan, getting an idea.

This is as good a place as any to use my last round. I pull out my gun, take aim, and with the last round I have left, fire at the knob. I know it’s risky to fire in such close quarters – but I don’t see what choice we have.

The bullet ricochets off the metal, missing us by an inch, and the lock opens.

We run through the door, out into daylight. I survey the roof, wondering where we can go, if there’s any possible escape. But I see nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Logan takes my hand and runs with me to the far corner. As we reach the edge I look over and see, below us, a huge stone wall. It spans University Place, running across 14

Street and blocking off everything south of it.

“The 14

Street wall!” Logan screams. “It separates the wasteland from the desert.”

“The desert?” I ask.

“It’s where the bomb went off. It’s all radiated – everything south of 14

street. No one goes there. Not even the Crazies. It’s too dangerous.”

There’s a sudden crash of metal, and the door to the roof slams open. The mob pours out, running right for us.

Far below I see a snow bank, about eight feet high. The snow is thick, and if we land just right, maybe, just maybe, it can cushion our fall. But it is a far jump, about fifty feet. And it would put us on the Desert side of the wall.

But I don’t see what choice we have.

“That snow bank!” I yell, pointing. “We can jump for it!”

Logan looks down and shakes his head, looking scared.

I check over our shoulder: the Crazies are 30 yards away.

“We have no choice!” I yell.

“I’m scared of heights,” he finally admits, looking very pale.

I reach over and take his hand, and step up on the ledge. He pauses for a second, fear his eyes, but then comes.

“Close your eyes!” I yell. “Trust me!”

And then, with the Crazies only a few feet away, we jump.

Twenty Eight

As we plummet through the air, screaming, I hope my aim is accurate. We rush towards the ground so fast, if we miss, we will surely die.

A moment later we are immersed in a cloud of snow as we land dead center in the eight-foot snow bank, Logan still holding my hand. We hit it with tremendous speed and sink down into it, all the way to the bottom, until our feet hit hard on the cement. Luckily, the snow is thick, and it cushions most of the impact of the fall. When I hit bottom, it only feels as if I’ve jumped from a few feet up.

I sit at the bottom, snow piled high above my head, in complete shock. Sunlight pokes through the snow several feet above me. I sit there, frozen, afraid to move, to claw my way out of the mountain of snow, to find out if anything is broken. I feel like I’m on the beach, buried under a pile of sand.

Slowly, I move a hand, then an arm, then a shoulder… I gradually pull myself out, free myself from the hole I’m in. It is awkward, but I claw my way up and out of the pile of snow. I stick my head out, like a gopher coming up from a hole in a lawn. I turn and see Logan doing the same.

I crane my neck and look up: all the way up there, still standing on the roof, looking down, is the mob of crazies. They are arguing amongst themselves, and it appears they aren’t willing to do the jump we just did. I don’t blame them: I look up at the height and marvel I had the guts to take such a leap myself. I probably wouldn’t do it again if I stopped to think about it.

I stand, breaking free of the snow bank, and Logan does, too. I am completely covered in snow and reach up and brush it off. I take a few steps, testing myself, checking to see if anything is broken. My calf still hurts – worse than ever – but otherwise, remarkably, I think I survived relatively intact, with only a few more aches and bruises to show for it.