It stared at me curiously, cocking its head with a low grumble. I stared back, frozen. I tightened my grip around the handles of the motorcycle until I felt like I might rip them off. “Hey,” I whispered without moving my lips. “There’s a goddamned manticore. In front of us.”
“Melvin?” She shouted, popping her head out from around my shoulder. “Is that you?” It floated behind me and grunted its approval at the sight of Brynja, rubbing noses with her in mid-air. She ran her fingers through its mane and greeted him with a warm smile.
“You have a pet manticore?” I shouted, unintentionally loud. “It never occurred to you that this might be some important information?!” I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of being so close to that thing; I wasn’t even a cat person, let alone a ‘cat with wings and a scorpion tail’ person.
She threw her head back and laughed while she continued to scratch behind the manticore’s ear, much to its delight. “It’s not my pet, Mox. Kenneth made it for me before we split up and searched for you. Melvin disappeared when he died – just turned to dust and blew away. I never thought I’d see him again.”
I leaned back to give it some additional space. I didn’t want to get near it, even though it appeared friendly. “And his name ... the manticore’s name is actually Melvin?”
She shrugged. “Well, that’s what I call him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. We didn’t have much of a chance to bond before he disappeared on me.”
The questions spun through my mind. How was one of Kenneth’s manifestations still intact hours after his death, and did it somehow have a mind of its own? Did this thing exist in another dimension before arriving here? I didn’t have time to ponder metaphysics. We needed to move.
“Can you control it? Melvin, I mean?”
“I have no idea,” Brynja replied, cupping it’s chin in her hands. “He communicates with me in thoughts, but they’re broken and hard to decipher. It’s like having a conversation with a sleepy toddler – I usually just get one word at a time.”
Melvin dipped his head, and his ears perked up; a tiny growl rumbled from deep inside his chest.
“He can hear something,” she said.
A silhouette emerged from between two buildings a few blocks north, moving unnaturally fast.
It was coming our way.
“I think I know who he heard.” I hit the throttle and lowered my chin, flipping up the kickstand with my heel. “Hold on tight.”
At top speed, he was almost a blur. It was disconcerting, like watching a video with missing frames, creating the illusion that he was teleporting from one spot to the other. I got a first-hand look at Vitesse’s uncanny agility back in Times Square, but now he seemed to be moving with an additional spring in his step. Possibly invigorated by the thrill of the hunt.
Jérôme Fontaine ran from one intersection to the next, stopping on a dime to look each way in search of his targets.
We were just a block away and had yet to attract his attention. His eyesight must be worse than I thought, which is what I’d hoped for – it was an integral part of our plan. “Can you get him to chase us?” I asked.
“Well I don’t speak French,” Brynja said with a trace of disappointment, “but luckily, I happen to know some sign language.” She whistled, extended her middle finger, and smiled sweetly.
Apparently Fontaine received the message. He raced towards us, breaking into a sprint.
“Drive, Mox!” Brynja frantically slapped the back of my shoulder and I raced off, leaving a patch of burnt rubber streaked across the pavement beneath us. As we took off, Melvin flapped his wings and disappeared into the sky.
I accelerated and glanced into the rear view mirror, shocked that Vitesse was keeping pace. His long blade was extended in front of him, like a jouster ready to unhorse a galloping knight. I continued to increase my speed, but he had no trouble following, even as I narrowly avoided lamp posts, garbage cans and other obstacles.
I could see his teeth grinding as he swiped his blade in wild arcing loops, attempting to catch our back tire with his weapon. Fortunately he was still at least a few car lengths out of range, but it didn’t stop him from trying.
After a sharp right turn, the bike drifted through a wide intersection, nearly tipping over. Thankfully my armored boot extended up beyond my knee; it scraped across the ground during the turn, spraying sparks behind us as the metal met the pavement. I leaned hard and kept it upright. During the recovery, we avoided spilling into the street, but the mistake cost me. Vitesse was closer than ever, nearing the perfect distance for a slash.
Bryjna looked back and noticed Fontaine closing the distance.
I screamed as loud as I could against the rushing wind. “Now!”
As the blade whipped forward, it passed directly through her. Bryjna ghosted just as the sharp metal tip neared her skin, and grazed the armor plate protecting my back. She disappeared into the distance as I raced forward, and Vitesse followed.
Fontaine had taken the bait, and we’d been in pursuit long enough. I’d circled several blocks, and led him back to the alley where my partner and I had formulated our plan. This was the moment of truth. I turned towards the narrow gap between the buildings and raced forward, hoping my pursuer would follow as recklessly as he’d been for the last several minutes.
I was halfway into the alley when I saw it: the length of rope I’d secured to a drainage pipe, attached to the grappling hook that Brynja fastened to the security bars across the alley; it created a tight black clothesline five feet off the ground. In the darkened space between the buildings I hoped it wasn’t clearly visible, and with Fontaine’s poor vision it would be difficult to spot – in theory.
When I ducked to avoid being decapitated, the motorcycle skidded out from under me, spiralling into the brick wall with a thunderous smash. I slid down the rugged asphalt, protecting my head with both arms. If it wasn’t for the armor, my flesh would have been torn from my bones like soft cheese through a grater.
I looked back just in time. I saw Vitesse’s neck catch on the rope while he was in a full sprint, spiralling him through the air. His body cartwheeled several times before colliding with the unforgiving pavement, sagging into a twisted heap.
I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to move, but my legs were badly bruised. Even the slightest muscle twitch caused a searing pain. I was moving slowly, but I had to fight through it; I needed to check his body for anything worth salvaging and make my escape. Anyone could have seen or heard this encounter, and backed into a dead-end, I was a sitting duck.
With a grunt I pressed on my own knee for support, stood upright, and took a few measured steps towards Fontaine’s corpse. At least I assumed it was a corpse based on the brutal collision – until he moved. He moaned and rolled to his back, sitting upright. We made eye contact and he sprang to his feet with surprising speed.
Vitesse had lost his weapon in the shadows of the alley, and I glanced around, hoping to grab it before he did. It was my first tactical mistake. With my eyes averted, he rushed forward, slamming his fist into my chest. The strike dented my breastplate and sent me sailing backwards. When I collided with the brick wall behind me, it forced the air from my lungs. I wasn’t sure how powerful the impact was until I hacked out a ragged cough, dotting the palm of my hand with specks of blood.
Vitesse looked like a punch-drunk boxer who had just recovered from his latest knockout. He stumbled a few times, rocking back and forth while he regained his sense of balance.
I was still working my way back to my feet when he pinned me to the wall with one hand, choking the life from me, and produced a small pocket knife with the other.
He raised the blade threateningly ... then his eyes bulged, wide and bloodshot, before a thick bluish foam erupted from his throat. The knife fell, clanging to the ground, and he collapsed forward into my arms. When I dropped Fontaine’s limp body, a long scorpion tail retracted from his brain stem with a sickening pop, grey mat
ter dripping from the meat-hook-sized stinger.
Melvin hovered triumphantly. Over the sound of its flapping wings and my jackhammering heart, I swear I could hear him purr with satisfaction. I reached out and scratched his ear.
I’d never been a cat person, but Melvin was converting me.
Brynja arrived as I was checking Fontaine’s body for anything useful.
“Are you all right?” she shouted, jogging down the alley before kneeling next to me.
“Yeah, it’s all good. I got some help from your little blue friend.”
“Melvin?” she asked with surprise. We both glanced at the far wall and saw him curled into a tight ball inside a discarded crate, eyes closed. He was taking a well-deserved post-murder nap.
I continued to pat Vitesse down, but his spandex running suit left few places for concealment (and also left very little to the imagination; I’m surprised his skin-tight leggings were able to pass the pre-game decency examination). He did have two back pockets, and I pulled a folded piece of paper from one. A computer printout.
“What is it?” Brynja asked, leaning into my shoulder.
“It’s a map of Manhattan, with the location of every weapon casket. One of the locations was circled by a pen; I’m guessing that’s where his blade was located. But that’s not all.” I ran my fingertip along the rumpled sheet of paper, indicating several red crosses that were strategically placed throughout The Arena. “And these are the medical stations. Son of a bitch.”
“He cheated,” she said bluntly. “Just like you.”
“No, not like me. The day before the tournament I memorized some satellite images, and it showed me the hiding spots for all the caskets. But it didn’t have the locations of the medics.”
She shook her head. “I don’t get it.”
“The doctors and nurses, they pulled into The Arena this morning when we arrived – I saw an ambulance following my limo when I crossed the South Bridge. The only medical station that was set up in advance was the one in Times Square.” We stood, and I handed her the map. “I have no idea how Jérôme Fontaine got this, but whoever slipped it to him did it after the tournament started.”
“What?” Brynja shouted, placing her hands on her hips. “So this piece of shit is somehow getting new information from the outside? Who’s getting it to him? And how are the cameras not catching it?”
“I don’t think it’s from the outside,” I said, glancing down at his lifeless body. “I think whoever gave him the map is already here.”
“You piece of shit!” Brynja shouted as she repeatedly stomped Fontaine’s body. “I wish my superpower was resurrection so I could bring you back to life and then beat your worthless ass to death!”
“All right,” I said calmly. “This isn’t helping. And we can’t stay here any longer.” As I wrapped my hands around her arms to pull her away, Brynja extended her leg and snuck in one last kick.
It was becoming clear that Vitesse was a ringer: someone who was planted inside the tournament with the intention of eliminating the medical staff. He also knew exactly where to find the caskets, as well as his specific weapon. His detailed map was printed this morning and was handed to him at some point before he was dropped into The Arena.
I considered the possibility that Vitesse had accomplished this himself: he was fast enough that he might have considered leaving Manhattan to obtain the map, and raced back undetected, but it seemed unlikely. There was one remaining way to leave the island by foot: the north skyway to The Fringe (and without another bridge or medical station, it was now the only way to tap out). There’s no way he’d be able to cross that bridge in broad daylight without being spotted.
There were no doubts left in my mind – he wasn’t working alone.
Fudō has been hot on his trail, and also seemed to get lucky with a weapon, but his intentions weren’t clear. They could have formed an alliance, but it would seem logical that they’d have stayed together if that were the case.
An explosion rang out in the west end of the city, followed by the sound of a building collapse. Judging by the echo, it was more than a couple blocks away, but it wasn’t far enough for my liking. We couldn’t stand in one spot and strategize. Brynja and I needed to locate more caskets and hope for some serious firepower if we were going to survive until the final four.
It was a short jog towards the Empire State Building, an area where three of the caskets were dispersed across a relatively small area. Odds were that at least one would contain something marginally useful. Our first stop was the New York Public Library, where we discovered a chest sitting next to one of the iconic stone lions that sat guard outside the main staircase. I was surprised no one had spotted it until that point, but there it was, sitting in plain view: a large ornate treasure chest adorned with a gold logo, waiting to be opened. I flipped the lid to reveal a gun.
The U:C:K m/09, or ‘K9’,was a relatively powerful handgun, and a common sidearm for self defense. The Swedish-designed weapon was inexpensive, lightweight, and easily obtainable, making it a popular choice for novices. It had been a big seller for years, but sales skyrocketed when it was discovered that, unlike many other cutting-edge nitrogen powered guns, it was easily customizable – a must-have for criminals and enthusiasts alike.
As the multi-decade recession continued to deepen, the public started to backlash. Large scale riots became a frequent occurrence, and law enforcement was unequipped to deal with the sheer number of protestors. To combat social disobedience, The White House began censoring the internet and blocking cell phone reception in key areas; it was an attempt to control the flow of information, limiting people’s ability to assemble. It only served to further enrage a well-armed populace. As the unemployment rate continued to escalate, the unrest followed suit; assassination attempts on politicians became commonplace, and the government went into a panic. Widespread gun bans were enacted in order to stem the violence, but the legislation was useless. With hundreds of millions of firearms already in circulation, there was no way to seize them without inciting a second civil war.
A new, Machiavellian idea was put forth: a ban on bullets. It became a federal offence to manufacture, distribute or import bullets. Prison lobbyists rejoiced as citizens were incarcerated by the thousands, and the lower-class, on the brink of rebellion, were now effectively unarmed against the world’s most powerful military.
When bullet supplies dried up, American ingenuity took over. Using the K9’s nitrogen cells, the gun was modified to include a second, wider barrel that attached to the frame. Not unlike the muzzle-loading blunderbuss that was used until the mid-19th century, the shotgun-like tube could fire virtually anything: coins, nails, pebbles – it was limited only by your imagination. Whatever you fed into it could be fired out, and with surprising effectiveness. It lacked the punch and accuracy of a bullet, but if you were close enough to a target, you could cause some serious damage with no more than a modded K9 and the contents of your pocket.
We now had a K9 in our arsenal, which was the good news. The bad news was that the Green Scorpion was too big to fit the primary barrel. The military-grade bullet was designed for a rifle, not a handgun.
“Damn!” Brynja shouted. “I can’t believe this! So you’re telling me we have a gun, and a bullet – but the bullet won’t fire from our gun?”
“Pretty much,” I replied, shaking my head. “It won’t fit. The secondary barrel will fire pretty much anything solid, but if we try and jam an acid-filled bullet in there, the force of the nitrogen could blow it apart, or melt the gun. It’s not worth the risk.”
Frustrated, we left in pursuit of another casket. En route, we discovered an overturned ambulance and peered inside. The driver, a middle-aged man wearing a white uniform, was dead behind the wheel – a gruesome slash across his midsection spilled his insides across the dashboard. It didn’t take a criminologist to tell that he hadn’t died from the accident. I guessed that there was a medical station ne
arby, and he fled while being pursued by one of the superhumans (most likely Vitesse, during his rampage that occurred earlier in the day). During a sharp turn, the ambulance overturned, seriously injuring the driver during the crash. A stroke of a blade finished the job.
A multipurpose com-unit was wrapped tightly in his hand, blinking on stand-by mode with only a few minutes of remaining power. I reached through the broken window and peeled each of his stiffened, blood-soaked fingers from the device.
I contacted Excelsior. When Gavin and Peyton’s faces appeared on the flickering hologram, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I actually had to fight back tears. It was a strange sensation having spoken to them just hours ago, but in the fog of combat, it felt like a year.
“Thank god,” Peyton whispered, covering her mouth with both hands. “You’re all right.”
Gavin’s beaming smile was as bright as ever. “You hadn’t been on-screen for a while, so you had her worried.” He stuck a thumb in his sister’s direction and shook his head. “Total drama queen, this one. I knew you were gonna be all right.”
“We saw this freaky blue lion thing flying around,” Peyton said, her voice trembling. “It had dragon wings, and a tail with a spike on it.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I saw it too. I’m doing fine here, but I only have a couple minutes of power on this com, and you could cut out anytime. Can you guys give me a quick update on the leader board?”
“Arena Mode, leader board,” Gavin commanded, and the holographic chart flickered into view.
Matthew Moxon - 3 eliminations, 3 kills
Fudō-myōō - 2 eliminations, 1 kill
Sergei Taktarov - 1 elimination, 1 kill
Dwayne Lewis - 0 eliminations
Winston Ramsley - 0 eliminations
Arena Mode Page 17