As I leaned against the wall for support and weighed my options, I noticed a faint red blip emitting from my epidermal implant, as if a tiny firefly was trapped beneath my skin. The longer I stayed in place, the faster it pulsed, and it continued to brighten. I was already camping. Even a few minutes in one spot was starting to trigger whatever it was that this device did – and I didn’t want to wait around and find out.
Fifteen minutes of hobbling did little to alleviate the swelling in my knee, but at least I was mobile. I arrived at Chelsea Park and remained hidden in the shadows, crouching behind some trees near the soccer pitch. And then I saw it: a casket. The shimmering gold treasure chest reflected rays of bright morning sunlight in every direction, beckoning to be opened.
I lowered my visor so I could look directly at it. “Darken and magnify,” I whispered, and the voice-activated chip in my helmet responded. The tinted shield allowed for clearer vision, and my eyes zoomed in on the lid. The gold insignia was there, just as I recalled from the satellite photo. I tried to identify a pattern, a symbol, or some indication as to how it was different than the identical chests that were adorned with the silver ornament. As far as I could tell, at least from this distance, the color was the only distinction. I had a feeling that one set of boxes could be hazardous, but I didn’t want to be the first person to flip the lid and test that theory.
Fortunately I wouldn’t have to wait long for an unwitting volunteer.
The weight of Dozer’s steps caused motion tremors, like tiny earthquakes growing more intense as he approached. I could feel him coming before I saw him. Then he appeared, right out in the open; a powerful bronze figure strutting confidently onto the field, directly towards the casket.
I stared intently as he reached down and flipped open the lid, exposing the treasure inside: an axe. A silver, double-bladed battle axe with a long wooden handle, bearing inscriptions in the metal that appeared to be Viking in origin. It looked enormous. The axe must have weighed fifty pounds. I wasn’t sure I could have swung it with any precision if I had acquired it, but in Glendinning’s hands this weapon could be frighteningly effective.
When he lifted his newfound treasure to inspect it, a dark shadow loomed overhead. Sergei Taktarov flew into view, cape billowing behind him, and touched down on the field near the opposing goal posts.
A stare-down ensued. The first one-on-one battle was about to begin, and I had a front row seat.
Dozer smiled and invited Taktarov forward with a cocky wave.
The Russian obliged.
They stalked towards each other slowly and then picked up the pace, increasing their speed with every step. The Canadian raised the axe above his head, preparing to swing. His opponent made no attempt to avoid it. When he brought the blade down onto Taktarov’s forehead, it crumpled, and the thick wooden handle splintered like a broken toothpick.
Unfazed, the bronze strongman followed up with a series of rapid-fire hooks and uppercuts, displaying what appeared to be some very extensive boxing experience. The Russian’s head didn’t even move when the Canadian’s fists collided with his jaw line.
Taktarov retaliated with a stiff kick to the chest, sending his opponent across the length of the field. Glendinning’s enormous weight crushed the goal posts, and tore a significant chunk of turf from the pitch.
The battle continued. They exchanged a series of powerful strikes, but it became clear that neither could inflict any significant damage.
Taktarov clenched his fists and grit his teeth. “You have experienced only two-tenths of my power!” he shouted. “Do not underestimate the heat of my rage!”
Russia’s Son had a number of impressive abilities, but apparently public speaking, especially in English, wasn’t one of them. I suddenly understood why he let his little sister handle his PR.
Taktarov stunned Glendinning with a series of lightning fast punches that actually dented his bronze jaw. The force of the blows sounded like a church bell ringing, echoing down the abandoned streets. Before the Canadian could react, Sergei applied a choke hold with both hands and leaped, taking flight. He soared into the bright blue sky and disappeared from my line of sight, dragging his flailing victim along for the ride.
“Maximum vision enhance,” I said, and focused my visor’s telescopic sight. I scanned the sky and found them drifting next to one of the media’s hover drones, thousands of feet in the air. All of the major networks sent small, unmanned hovercrafts above the city to film the tournament, using ultra high-definition cameras to zoom in on the action below. Taktarov seemed to be trying to attract its attention. It looked as if he was saying something; giving a live, unedited speech directly to the media, all while he clutched more than two-thousand pounds of bronze without giving it a second thought. When he’d finished the impromptu press conference, he took off again, rocketing vertically through the clouds and out of view.
A tense minute ticked by.
Then another.
And then, without warning, the most unbelievable event ever captured on a live simulcast (up until that moment, anyway) happened as I looked on in awe. Paul Glendinning plummeted from the sky, flailing and spinning. His body cannonballed into the Hudson River, causing a small tidal wave that capsized boats and tore apart docks – but not before crashing through the Holland Bridge. Like a one-ton missile, his metallic torso caused an explosion of steel and mortar, tearing the overpass completely in half. Police cruisers, fire trucks and more than twenty people splashed into the water after him.
I hoped that Glendinning died before the fall. That Taktarov was somehow able to snap his neck, or choke the life out of him before releasing his grip. Either one would have been more merciful than allowing the man to drop, fully conscious and aware, for several agonizing miles.
I knew that lives were on the line in this tournament. Every competitor did. But this was a stark reminder of the ferocity of Arena Mode and of how sudden, and mercilessly, an elimination could take place.
Every step was agony. I felt as if someone was rotating a screwdriver into the cartilage behind my knee cap, like some twisted form of medieval torture. I tried to put the pain out of my mind, and remind myself that Times Square was just a mile away. It was the location of several weapon caskets, and more importantly, a doctor.
According to the pre-game briefing, there would be a number of medical stations scattered throughout Manhattan as per state regulations, but their locations were not revealed to the competitors. Just another one of Frost’s little twists to keep the game interesting. Based on the satellite imaging, I saw a preliminary set-up for a medical tent in Times Square, but the rest of the stations had yet to be put in place.
I was in desperate need of a cortisone injection. One small dose administered to my joint would reduce the inflammation, and provide a considerable amount of pain relief. Without it, I don’t know how much longer I could last before tapping out.
I swallowed my pride and looked at the situation logically: I’d be seen as the first competitor to seek medical assistance, but it wouldn’t necessarily be perceived as a sign of weakness. Some of the most prolific athletes in history required similar treatment to get through a championship game – throwing a final touchdown, or scoring a winning goal. I was certainly not among the elite when it came to athletics, and there was no shame in admitting it to myself. Still, I didn’t want my competition to single me out as a weak link (any more than they already had based on my absence from the weigh-ins).
I stayed off the main roads and took as many shortcuts as I could, clinging close to walls and stalking through narrow alleyways. As I neared the heart of Times Square, I was particularly cautious. The hordes of tourists and endless rows of yellow taxis were nowhere to be found, leaving the streets and sidewalks wide open for an attack. It was a strange sight. It looked as if someone had snapped a picture of the busiest intersection in the world and carefully Photoshopped out every single pedestrian.
Although the area wa
s abandoned, giving it a somewhat hollow resonance, the trademark signs remained alive with an energy all their own. Towering holograms rotated overhead. Multi-layer screens stretched from one building to another, enticing onlookers to purchase everything from 3D printers to the latest virtual reality glasses. If an unnecessary trinket or gadget existed, you were being instructed to buy it – and the message was being delivered with the subtlety of a bullhorn.
As an art form, it was beautiful, but the crass commercialism was lost on most people – mainly because of the intoxicating effect of the blinking lights. I wasn’t immune. Whenever I was in the vicinity, more often than not I’d catch myself staring slack-jawed at the enormous three-dimensional Japanese model that emerged from a projector near Broadway and West 46th, sipping a bottle of Coke before winking at the tourists below. They call New York ‘the city that never sleeps’ – which is true. It’s also the city that never stops selling. And Americans, as always, are the people who never stop buying.
As I looked down my nose at mindless consumerism, I had to stop and remind myself that I was participating in a glorified reality show – a show where contestants signed a contract, agreeing to kill each other for obscene piles of cash. As far as entertainment goes, it doesn’t get any more mindless.
But maybe this event was simply a manifestation of what people craved. It’s not as if Cameron Frost was forcing Arena Mode on anyone; we volunteered to participate, and viewers elected to watch.
As the world’s middle class continued to corrode, life inevitably became more difficult; years wore on with no improvement in sight, and greater distractions were necessary to escape the relentless grind of reality. Shopping, drugs, sex – no diversion was extreme enough. When it came to sports, Arena Mode was a reflection of the moral vacuum that was slowly consuming our country – and I was certainly playing my part. If mindless excess was the machine deconstructing civil society, I had willingly become one of the cogs.
I refocused my attention on the task at hand and rounded the corner. The medical station off to the side of the intersection was in precisely the same location as the satellite image had indicated. It was basic: no more than a white canopy, marked with an easily identifiable red cross. Two nurses and a doctor dressed in scrubs occupied the makeshift operating room, standing at the ready to deal with whatever horrific injury they could be faced with. I wasn’t sure how prepared they’d be to deal with a complex surgical procedure, but I wasn’t in need of anything so elaborate. One quick injection and I’d be on my way.
I craned my neck in every direction in search of competitors. The towering holo-screen that dominated most of the building next to the medical center showed a live feed of the tournament broadcast. It was my first chance to take a look at what the viewers were seeing at home.
Jérôme Fontaine, the French-Canadian runner known as ‘Vitesse’, was racing through the streets at a rapid clip, barely visible as hover-cams struggled to keep pace. He was moving so quickly that I couldn’t get a clear look at his surroundings to pinpoint a location. But I did notice he’d already acquired a weapon: a long, two-handled staff with a curved blade on each end.
Feeling confident that the coast was clear I stepped out of the shadows and into the street, only to be blown backwards by the jet stream of Fontaine racing by. It was like having a bullet train miss me by less than a foot.
The air pressure caused me to stumble and fall, toppling into a pile of trash bags and discarded boxes on the street corner. He had covered several blocks in a matter of moments, and had blown by me so fast that he didn’t even notice my presence.
I barely had time to regain my footing before I heard the screams; the chilling sound that one of the nurses made before Vitesse sliced her arm off. In a whirlwind of spattered blood and tearing flesh he hacked the three medics to pieces. The bladed staff was more than just a weapon in his hands – coupled with his blistering speed, it was effectively an oversized buzz saw.
He vanished into the distance, sprinting down Broadway and out of view. The massacre that Vitesse left behind was being highlighted on the holo-screen for the world to see: a high definition, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle of random body parts were scattered beneath the medical tent. If the audience wanted carnage and excess, they were certainly getting it.
I paused and considered the possibility of Fontaine being disqualified, but then it occurred to me that he hadn’t broken a rule. Not technically. It was against tournament regulations to attack a competitor while they received medical attention, but there was never a rule to prevent someone from slaughtering the medics themselves. It was a loophole – they were fair game.
It was an interesting strategy: get noticed by the audience, and more importantly the other players, by starting the game with some gruesome kills. I couldn’t have been the only competitor who was watching a screen somewhere inside The Arena when Fontaine launched his attack, and I couldn’t be the only one who was horrified by what they witnessed.
I guessed he was speeding off in search of the other medical stations, poised to eviscerate the remaining staff (if they hadn’t already fled their posts in terror, which was a very real possibility.)
The odds-makers seemed to have made a big mistake. Vitesse wasn’t one of the frontrunners when the betting lines were being calculated, but he was quickly proving them wrong.
I was nauseated by the sloshing beneath my feet as I tiptoed through human entrails. The sights and smells weren’t exactly pleasant, but hearing random organs squish with each step was especially disturbing.
Rummaging through the cabinets and first aid kits, I searched for the cortisone I required. Time was running short. I couldn’t have been the only one who was thinking about raiding the medical station in Times Square. Surely there would be some useful items in the now-unguarded facility, and others would be interested.
I was able to locate and administer a shot to my throbbing knee, and not a moment too soon. The feeling of relief was instantaneous. I popped a couple of acetaminophen pills to further reduce the pain and swelling, and prepared to leave. And then it occurred to me: an ambulance was parked around the corner.
It was time to get dirty. I removed my metal gauntlets and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. I activated my helmet’s air filter and sifted through the blood-soaked remains of the medics, searching for a key. What I recovered was even better. I plucked a gold access card from what must have been a pocket, stuck beneath a piece of meat that resembled a portion of a thigh. I polished it with sterilized gauze until I could see my reflection. This was the Holy Grail: an all-access pass to every car, truck and building in The City.
I discarded the gloves, pocketed the card and headed towards my new vehicle.
It was quite a find. Modern ambulances were still somewhat bulky, but they were fast and reliable. Solar powered and easily manoeuvrable, I could weave my way through the abandoned streets with ease, avoiding confrontations. And as an added bonus I’d continually be in motion, so I wouldn’t be camping. Equally important was the space – I’d have ample room to store all of my supplies. I could navigate from one weapon location to another, gathering the items before other competitors had a chance to scoop them up.
I slid the gold card into the ignition slot and powered it on. A moment later, the ambulance quietly hummed with energy and a small screen blinked to life on the dashboard, illuminating a multipurpose communication panel. Without hesitation, I called Gavin, who was watching the tournament with Peyton at Excelsior.
“You’re alive!” Gavin shouted, with far too much surprise in his voice.
“Of course I am,” I frowned.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “It’s just that you haven’t been on-screen for most of the simulcast. For the last twenty minutes they’ve been tracking that French runner around. He’s been slashing doctors and nurses to pieces all over the city.”
“I figured as much. I saw him in action just a few minutes ago.”<
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Peyton leaned into the screen. “Are you okay?” She asked, nervously twisting her pink ponytail with both hands.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I replied, not quite ready to acknowledge the fact I had just dug through entrails and robbed a corpse. “I screwed up my knee a bit when I parachuted in, but I’ll be all right. What else is happening? What have you seen since the tournament started?”
“Did you see that bronze guy get dropped from space?” Gavin asked. “That shit was insane.”
“Space? Are you sure it was space? Like outer-space?” My face contorted and for some reason I couldn’t stop saying ‘space’.
“Yes,” Gavin replied, “that black place in the sky where you see the stars at night. Space-space. Russia’s Son flew him so high that the hover-cams couldn’t see them anymore, so a satellite tracked them. They’ve been replaying it non-stop ... up until that French dude started slicing and dicing.”
I was fascinated. I couldn’t believe that Russia’s Son had that capability. “Were they just in the stratosphere, or did he break through the ozone layer?”
Gavin threw his hands up. “What am I, an astrophysicist? It was dark up there, that’s all I know.”
I was momentarily speechless.
“Don’t worry,” Peyton added. “After he dropped that guy he just flew to a rooftop in SoHo, and he’s been there ever since. Maybe he needs to recharge or something? Like he spent too much energy flying that far?”
It was an interesting theory, and I hoped she was right. It gave me a small measure of comfort to believe that Russia’s Son was at least somewhat limited in his abilities. Just the fact that the tournament had been going on that long and he’d only eliminated one competitor indicated that his endurance wasn’t infinite. As far as vulnerabilities go, it wasn’t exactly the Kryptonite I was hoping for, but it was better than nothing. “If you notice any weaknesses in the superhumans, anything at all, make a note of it. I’ll check back in with you guys every chance I get.”
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