by Morgan Rice
My head is ringing, and I’m disoriented as I lay on my face. Out of the corner my eye, Sumo charges, but I’m too beat to move.
Move, soldier! MOVE!
Somehow, I force myself into motion. I scramble to my knees, crawl over to the axe as fast as I can, grab it with both hands, and spin around with it.
My timing is perfect. As Sumo is gearing up to stomp me, the axe comes flying around and connects with his calf. I feel the blade entering his flesh. Blood squirts all over me.
There is a tremendous roar from the crowd. I must’ve done some serious damage.
He falls over like a log and lands with a crash. He screams and reaches for where his foot once was, and I am shocked to see that my axe has chopped it off. Blood gushes everywhere while he screams and grabs at his stump.
“KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” the crowd chants.
I know this is my chance, and I should finish him off. But still, as I stand over him, holding the axe, I just can’t bring myself to.
Instead, I just want to get far away from him. But I am stuck in one corner, and his body is blocking my path. So I run and jump over him, trying to get to the opposite side.
Another mistake. Once again, I have underestimated him. He reaches up and grabs my ankle in mid-air. I fall to the ground, face-first, hitting it hard. The crowd screams.
He grabs my ankle and drags me towards him, one hand at a time. I feel like I’m being pulled into a conveyor belt, as I slide on my stomach, inevitably towards him. In another second I’ll be on top of him, and he’ll crush me to death with his arms.
I am still clutching the axe handle, and with my final bit of energy, I manage to twist my upper body around and, with both hands, bring the axe down hard. There is a sickening noise as the blade lodges into his forehead.
For a moment, I freeze, as does the crowd. His hand still grips my ankle, and I wonder if the blade went deep enough. Then, finally, his hand releases and his eyes open wide. He is dead. I have killed him.
The crowd is completely silent. I scramble away from him, not trusting that anyone his size could actually be dead, that I could have actually killed him. I stand at the far end of the ring, breathing hard, warily looking down, waiting for him to resurrect. But he does not. He is dead. Really dead.
Suddenly, the crowd roars, jumps to its feet, erupts in a huge cheer. They whistle and clap and stomp, and it never ends.
And that is when I realize: I have won. I can really do it. I can survive.
*
I sense motion, and look up.
The leader sits high on his own pedestal, watching over all of us. Slowly, he stands, and as he does, the crowd begins to quiet. Even from here, I can see the look of surprise on his face. Clearly, he had not expected this.
He nods, and the cage door opens. In march a half dozen slaverunners, holding guns. Two of them march right for me, holding guns, and for a moment, I wonder if they’re going to kill me. But then I see the other four going to drag out the bodies of the last two victims. These two are just standing guard, in case I make any rash moves. They aren’t taking any chances.
The other four each grab hold of Sumo, and with a supreme effort drag his immense weight across the ring. It must be a real struggle for them, because they go slowly, and I can hear them straining. After about a minute, they finally managed to drag him off, trailing blood. One of them comes back and takes down the small man’s impaled body from the cage, as if an afterthought. The other two slaverunners march out and slam the cage door behind them.
I now stand alone, wondering what might come next. I wait for a few moments, wondering if maybe they will release me now, although I know, even as I think it, that it’s a silly idea. I know that there are no survivors in Arena One. Ever.
Sure enough, moments later, the crowd erupts into an enormous cheer as another contestant is marched towards the ring. I’m surprised to see that this one is a woman. She marches right to the metal ladder, looking confident and defiant, and as they open the door, she ascends the ladder in three quick steps and jumps in.
“SHI-RA! SHI-RA! SHI-RA!” the crowd roars.
With long black hair and black eyes, Shira looks to be in her thirties; she is incredibly well-built, her muscles bulging, with large breasts. She wears just a tight elastic top and tight black shorts, and her toned, muscular legs and arms ripple. She looks like a curvy, female action model. Curiously, she wears a small backpack on her back, and I wonder if it’s part of her outfit, or if she wears it for a reason.
She stares at me coolly from the opposite side of the ring. Unlike Sumo, she doesn’t seem to take me for granted, studies me as if I’m a serious contender. And that worries me. She seems much craftier. Oddly, I feel more on-edge facing her than I did him. I sense she has tricks up her sleeve.
She slowly begins to circle the perimeter of the ring, so I circle, too, keeping my distance. We circle each other, two wary opponents, each waiting for the other to make the first move. After a few seconds of this, she suddenly shrieks and charges, her hands held out before her like claws, aimed right for my face.
I wait until the last second, then sidestep her, holding out my foot as I do. It works: she charges right past me, trips, and falls on her face. The crowd screams in approval.
But she spins around in the same motion and with one hand grabs the back of my leg and with the other, grabs my hair from behind. It is a dirty trick, and she pulls me down, backwards, and I fall flat on my back, hitting the floor with a painful thud. In the same motion, she rolls over on top of me, and grabs me in a bear hug, like a wrestler. She holds me tight and won’t let go, rolling over with me again and again.
She has my arms in a vice, and I can’t wriggle free. I feel her slowly squeezing the life out of me, and my breathing becomes more shallow.
“BITE HER! BITE HER!” the crowd chants.
I don’t understand why they’re chanting this, until Shira leans her head back and opens her mouth wide. She’s sharpened her teeth with a file to make fangs. She lowers her head, aiming right for my shoulder.
I struggle to get free, but she’s deceptively strong, and she has me in a lock I just can’t get out of. Next thing I know I’m in horrific pain, as her two teeth sink into my shoulder blade. I feel them puncturing my skin, feel hot blood pouring out of it, and I scream out in pain.
The intense pain gives me a newfound rush of adrenaline though, and in a sudden burst of strength I manage to get my hands down into her solar plexus and push for all I can. This time, it works. She flies off me.
I roll over quickly, my face red with exertion, my shoulder burning from the pain; I reach over and feel it, and my hand comes back red, covered in blood. Now I’m pissed.
I charge her, and before she can gain her knees I wind up and kick her hard, connecting in her midsection. There is a sound of cracking ribs, and the crowd ooohs. Without waiting, I wind up and kick her again, hard in the face.
She collapses, blood pouring from her face. She is confused, squarely on the ground, and now I have the advantage.
I know I should kick her in the head repeatedly, finish her off. But still, somehow, I can’t bring myself to. I still feel bad killing this woman, lying there, defenseless. I stand there, hesitating, as the crowd erupts into a chant.
“KILL HER! KILL HER!”
Still, I can’t bring myself to. I hesitate. And it is another stupid mistake.
I don’t see her hand reaching slowly behind her back, unlatching her backpack. And by the time I realize what she’s doing, it’s too late.
Her pack opens and suddenly, out comes a bright, multi-colored snake.
It slithers right for me.
E I G H T E E N
The snake hits the ground and darts at me in a flash. I’m so shocked, I don’t even know how to react. The snake doesn’t hesitate, though. It retracts its fangs and sinks them into my calf.
The pain is excruciating. I drop to one knee as the three-inch fangs pierce my flesh. It feels like m
y skin is on fire, as if it is going to burn off in pain.
My reflexes take over, and without thinking, I grab the snake by its head, yank it off, and hold it out in front of me. It hisses back as I pull back my arm and throw it across the ring. It slams into the metal cage and drops to the ground. The crowd cheers.
The snake immediately darts across the floor, coming right back at me. Now my calf is on fire, hurting so bad it makes me forget the pain in my shoulder. Making matters worse, Shira is beginning to get up again.
I hear a clang, and look down to see another weapon has been dropped: this time, it’s a spear.
I run over and pick it up. As the snake slithers back towards me, I hurl the spear down at it. I miss.
The snake lunges at me, and I sidestep just in time. But the snake slithers around, coming back. I raise the spear again, spin around, and bring it down. This time, it’s a perfect strike.
The spear lodges right in the snake’s head, pinning it into the ground. It goes limp.
The crowd roars.
Just when I think I can relax, I am slammed from behind, an elbow hitting me hard, right on my spine. I fly forward, head smashing into the metal railing, barely missing a protruding spike. My head spins from the pain.
I turn around and see Shira charging, her face contorted with fury. She jumps high in the air, feet flying forward, to kick me in the chest. I notice that her toes have sharpened metal blades protruding from them: if she kicks me, it will be fatal.
I spin away at the last second, and she kicks the gate instead, bouncing off it and falling hard on her back. The crowd roars.
I try to run across the ring, to go for the spear, but as I move past her, she reaches out and grabs my foot with her hand, tripping me. I land hard, face-first, on the ground. A second later, I feel her on top of me, bear-hugging me from behind, wrapping her arms and legs around my body. The crowd roars.
I roll over, so now she is on her back on the floor, grabbing me from behind. She wraps her muscular legs around mine, and then reaches up with her forearm, solid muscle, and wraps it over my throat. She is going to choke me to death. I have no leverage to maneuver. Once again, I’m losing.
With my free hand, I try to reach back over my shoulder. Just a foot behind me, out of reach, is the spear, still lodged in the snake. I stretch as much as I can, reaching with my fingertips, and they just graze the spear shaft. I am so close. But I am losing air.
I bend my leg, still in excruciating pain from the snake bite, dig my heel into the floor and push, sliding us both back. I manage to move us an inch. Just enough to grab hold of the spear.
Finally, I have it. But the world is getting dizzy, and I am seeing stars as I lose oxygen. I know I only have a few seconds left to live.
With one last supreme effort, I lift the spear and bring it down towards me, and at the last second dodge my head out of the way. I bring it down hard, with both hands.
The spear barely misses my face and instead lodges into Shira’s throat. I push down harder and harder, hearing the awful sound of metal penetrating flesh, until her grip around my throat finally loosens.
She goes limp beneath me, her hands and legs slowly letting go. I feel her hot blood pouring out of her neck, onto my own. Finally, I am able to break free, to roll away and jump to my feet.
I stand over her and look down, rubbing my throat, gasping for breath. Her eyes are open wide, staring off to the side.
After a moment of stunned silence, the crowd again jumps to its feet, roaring with approval, even more thunderous than before. Now, they love me.
*
As I look down at Shira’s corpse, I don’t feel a sense of pride; rather, I think only of the snakebite, the burning pain in my calf, and wonder if it’s poisonous. My calf is already red and swollen, and each step I take brings a fresh stab of pain. I am guessing that if it was poisonous I’d already be dead, or at least paralyzed. Still, the pain is incredible, and walking is difficult. I don’t know how I’ll be able to continue fighting like this.
Not to mention the rest of me: my cracked ribs, the wound on my arm from the shrapnel, the new bite wound on my shoulder, my swollen face…. I cling to the fence and catch my breath. I really don’t know how I’ll be able to fight another person. Now I understand why Arena One has no survivors.
I sense motion and look up to see the leader scowling down. He does not look pleased. The crowd continues to cheer, and I can’t help wondering if maybe I’ve embarrassed the leader in some way. Clearly, the arena bouts are designed to be quick, meant to be basically a glorified execution. They don’t seem to be meant to last more than one round. Clearly, he had expected me to die sooner.
Making matters worse, people are trading money furiously in the crowd. I wonder if the leader and his people had placed bets against me—and if my victory has cost the house money. I wonder what the odds were. If I were betting, I’d guess it would be 500 to 1 against me.
His advisors huddle around him, looking flustered, whispering in his ear, as if devising a plan. Slowly, he nods in response.
As he does, the cage gate opens, and in march two slaverunners. They hurry to Shira’s corpse and drag her dead body across the ring. One of them reaches down and grabs the spear and the limp carcass of the snake. More blood stains the floor, which is now red and slick. I take it all in, still catching my breath, when I hear a faint rumbling. This is followed by something more distinct, and the ground beneath me tremors, then shake. Soon, it becomes a deafening roar.
The entire crowd jumps to its feet, stomping like crazy as each person turns around to face one of the entrance tunnels. In march a dozen men, all holding torches. They clear a path for one obviously very special person. The crowd roars louder and louder, until their stomping grows deafening. I don’t like the sound of this. They must know who it is.
After several more seconds, I catch a glimpse of what they’re screaming about. Behind an entourage of a dozen torchbearers, I spot what can only be my new opponent. I gulp.
He is quite possibly the largest and most muscular man I have ever seen. He towers over the torchbearers by at least a foot, every square inch of his body bulging with muscles. He’s easily three times the size of any man I’ve ever seen. He wears a black face mask, ominous and threatening, so I can’t see his face. Maybe I’m better off.
His hands and forearms are each covered in black gauntlets, made of a hard material and covered in spikes. He is naked save for his tight, black shorts and black combat boots. The muscles in his thighs ripple with every step.
As he gets closer to the ring, the crowd goes crazy. Finally, they break into a chant:
“MAL-COLM! MAL-COLM! MAL-COLM!”
He seems impervious to the chanting; he just doesn’t care. Surrounded by an entourage of two dozen people, he is a caged beast, ready to tear apart anything in his path. I can’t even conceive that this person is coming to fight me. It is a joke. I don’t stand a chance.
I got lucky with Sumo because he was overconfident and careless; I got lucky with Shira, too, but it nearly went the other way. But this man: it is obvious he can overpower me with a single hand. I’m not a pessimist. But as he climbs the ladder, enters the ring, and stands there, twice my size, it is enough to make my knees weak. He’s not a man—he is a monster, something out of a fairy tale. I wonder if they save him for special occasions, to sic on people who have defied the games, who have embarrassed the leader. Or if perhaps they save him as a last resort, to put people to death quickly and easily, without taking any more chances.
He holds his arms out wide and throws back his head, and the crowd goes crazy. The roar is so loud it actually hurts my ears. The brute never takes his eyes off me, which I can see through the mask. I can feel them piercing me—soulless, black eyes. He slowly lowers his arms, still staring. I let go of the cage and stand on my own two feet, facing him. I do my best to stand upright, to appear fearless. I doubt it works.
I don’t know what to do next. In this arena
there is no official noise or signal to mark the start of a match. And if there was, I have a feeling no one would pay attention to it anyway. Matches seem to begin whenever the contestants decide they do. And I’m in no mood to start this match. He is taking his time, too, savoring each moment, trying to intimidate me. It’s working.
My only hope is for the leaders to throw down another weapon. And as I look up at their scowling faces, I see no sign of that.
He moves. He saunters slowly towards me, as if he has all the time in the world. As if he wants to savor this. I study his physique, looking for any possible weakness. But I find none: he is a wall of solid muscle.
As he gets close I slowly back away, circling the wall of the cage. I realize this will make me seem weak, and probably embolden him. But I can’t see how he could be more emboldened than he already is, and I still don’t know how to fight this guy. Maybe, if I evade him long enough, I’ll get an idea. Or they’ll throw me a weapon. Or I’ll tire him out. Although these all seem doubtful.
He slowly approaches, and I keep backing away. The crowd gets antsy, hissing and booing, heckling me. They want blood. And I am no longer their favorite.
He walks a bit faster towards me, and I retreat just as quickly. He sidesteps left so I sidestep right. I can’t keep this up forever: he’s getting closer.
He gets impatient and lunges at me, racing to grab me; at the last second, I sidestep and run to the side. I’m already on the other side of him; he grabs nothing but thin air.
The crowd laughs at him. He spins around, his neck turning a shade of crimson. Now he’s really pissed. He charges me, sprinting with all he has. I have nowhere left to go.
At the last second, I try to sidestep to my right, but this time he sees it coming, and reaches out and grabs hold of my shirt. Without pausing, he turns and, with one hand, spins and throws me. I fly like a ragdoll across the ring, slamming into the metal cage. Luckily, I just miss a protruding spike.