by Morgan Rice
The crowd roars in approval. I lie there, the wind knocked out of me, my calf and shoulder throbbing. With a supreme effort, I manage to get to my hands and knees, but as soon as I do, I feel his hands on my back, grabbing my shirt. He throws me again, headfirst.
I fly like a cannonball across the other side of the ring. I feel myself airborne, and then smash headfirst into the metal cage. The pain is deafening. I bounce off it, and land on my back, on the floor, and am winded again.
The crowd roars, stomping its feet.
I look up just in time to see a huge foot coming down, right at my face. At the last second I manage to roll out of the way, the air rushing by my ear as his foot slams into the floor just inches away. The crowd ooohs. It was a close call. A split-second more, and his foot would have crushed my face to bits.
I roll over and without thinking, sink my teeth into his foot. I feel them pierce his flesh, and taste his salty blood as it trickles down my lips. I hear him grunt in pain. He’s human. I’m surprised by that. It’s a dirty move, but it’s all I can think of.
He snaps his leg away and kicks me hard across the face. I go flying, turning over several times, and slam into the corner of the cage.
He touches his bloody foot, examines his hand, and sneers down at me with a newfound hatred. I wonder if he has just decided to kill me slowly instead of quickly.
I scramble to my feet to face him, and this time, I feel I need the element of surprise. As crazy as it is, I charge him.
I leap into the air and do a flying front kick, aiming for his groin. I’m hoping that if I can kick him hard, in just the right spot, with my steel-tipped toes, maybe I can make an impact.
But he is too good a fighter for that. He must spot my telegraphed action a mile away, because without even making an effort, he reaches down and blocks my leg. His metal gauntlet smashes into my calf, right into my wound, before I can make an impact. The pain is numbing. It stops me cold, and I drop to the ground, grabbing my calf in agony.
I try to get up, but he backhands me with his other gauntlet, hard across the face, and the force of it knocks me back, facedown, to the ground. I taste blood in my mouth, and look down at the floor covered in dark red. The crowd cheers.
I try to get up again, but before I can, I feel his hands on my back as he picks me up, winds back, and throws me. He aims high, towards the top of the cage, and I fly across the ring right into it. This time, I think quickly.
I reach out and, as I hit it the wall, grab hold of the chain-link, clutching it. The wall sways a few times, but I manage to hang on. I’m up high on the metal cage, nearly fifteen feet off the ground, clinging for my life.
The brute looks annoyed. He charges towards me, reaching up to grab me and pull me down. But I scramble up, even higher. He reaches up to grab my leg, but I pull it up in the nick of time. I’m just out of his reach.
He looks perplexed, and I can see the skin on his neck redden with frustration. He hadn’t expected this.
The crowd jumps to its feet, roaring its approval. Clearly, they haven’t seen this tactic before.
But I don’t know how long I can hang on. My muscles are already weak, and as I cling to the cage, it begins to sway. The brute is shaking it violently. I cling to it like a buoy in a storm-tossed sea. But no matter how much he shakes it, I refuse to let go.
The crowd screams its approval and laughs at him. I glance down and see his skin turn a darkening shade of red. He looks humiliated.
He begins to pull himself up. But he is slow, awkward. He is far too heavy to be agile, and this cage is not meant to hold someone of his bulk. He climbs toward me, but now I have the advantage. He uses both hands to pull himself up, and as he gets close, I swing back one leg and kick him hard in the face, connecting on the corner of his temple, right at the corner of his facemask, with my steel-tipped toe.
It is a solid kick, one he does not expect—and to my surprise, it works. He falls back off the fence, a good ten feet, and lands hard, flat on his back, on the ground. He lands with such force the entire ring shakes. It sounds as if a tree trunk has been dropped from the sky. The crowd roars, screaming its approval.
My kick has dislodged his facemask, which goes flying across the floor. He gets to his feet and scowls up at me, and for the first time, I can see his face.
I wish I hadn’t.
It is hideous, grotesque, and barely looks human. Now I understand why he wears the mask. His face is entirely burnt and charred, with huge lumps all over it. He is a Biovictim, the worst I’ve ever seen. He’s missing a nose and has slits for eyes. He looks more like a beast than a man.
He snarls and roars up at me, and if I wasn’t afraid before, my heart pounds with fear now. I’m fighting something out of a nightmare.
But for now, at least, I am safe. I have outsmarted him. There is nothing he can do except stand down there and look up at me. We are at a stalemate.
Then everything changes.
Stupidly, I keep looking down, never bothering to look in front of me, never imagining there could be any danger from that direction. But one of the slaverunners outside the ring has managed to sneak up on me with a huge pole. He shocks me with it, right in the chest. An electric jolt runs through my entire body. It must be some sort of cattle prod; they probably reserve it for situations like this.
The shock sends me flying back, off the cage. I fall through the air and land flat on my back. The force of it knocks the wind out of me again, and I’m still shaking from being electrified. The crowd roars in delight as I’m back down on the floor of the ring, helpless.
I can barely breathe, or feel my fingertips. But I have no time to reflect. The brute charges right for me, looking madder than ever. He leaps into the air and raises his knees high, preparing to bring both feet down on my face, to stomp me to oblivion.
Somehow, at the last second, I manage to roll out of the way. The wind of his kick rushes past my ear, and then comes the thunderous stomp. It is enough to shake the floor, and I go bouncing off it like a plaything. I roll away, stand up, and run to the far side of the ring.
Another weapon suddenly drops from the sky, lands on the floor in the center of the ring. A medieval mace. It has a short wooden handle and a foot-long chain, at the end of which is a spiked, metal ball. I’ve seen these before, in pictures of knights in armor: it was a deadly weapon used in the Middle Ages.
I get to it before he can—not that he shows any interest. He doesn’t even go for it, clearly feeling he doesn’t need it. I don’t blame him.
I grab hold of the shaft and swing it, filled with a newfound confidence. If I can connect with just one blow, maybe I can actually win. It is a weapon of beauty, and the spiked metal ball swings around and around at the end of the chain, establishing a perimeter before me, keeping him at bay. I swing it again and again, like a helicopter, and it manages to keep him off guard, wary.
But he still slowly approaches, and as he does, I back up. As I take another step, though, I slip on a pool of blood: my feet go out from under me, and I fall flat on my back. As I do, I lose my grip on the mace, and it goes flying across the cage. It actually by chance flies right at his head; but he is more agile than I suspect and ducks it easily. It goes over his head and smashes into the wall of the cage. The crowd ooohs at the close call.
I’m flat on my back, and before I can get up, he’s standing over me. He uses both hands to pick me up by my chest. He lifts me up high, way over his head, like a wrestler, then parades me across the ring, before the thousands of revelers. They eat it up, going wild.
“MAL-COLM! MAL-COLM! MAL-COLM!”
Maybe this is his trademark move before he finishes people off for good. As I dangle there in the air, so high above his head, helpless, I squirm, but it is futile. There is nothing I can do. I am at his disposal. Any second could be my last.
He slowly walks me around the ring, again and again, savoring the adulation, the victory. The noise of the crowd grows to a deafening pitch. He lifts
me, even higher, preparing to hurl me, and the last thing I think, before I go flying, is that I’m glad that Bree isn’t here to see my death.
N I N E T E E N
He throws me and I fly through the air at full speed, not knowing I could move that fast, landing hard on the floor on the opposite side of the ring. I feel another rib crack, while my head smashes into the metal and another welt forms on my forehead. I wonder how much more abuse my body can take.
I sense him coming at me again, and this time, I am just too beat up to move. I lay there facedown, struggling to catch my breath. He takes his time. It is clear he will kill me when he reaches me. It is a death walk.
I’m too tired and weak and delirious to do anything more than accept my fate. I am destined to die. Here, in this place. At this moment. I’ve failed. I’ve let Bree down.
As I lay there, breathing hard, blood coming from my mouth, slowly, over the sound of the ringing in my ears, over the din of the crowd, there gradually comes another sound. It is a voice. The voice of my Dad. It is a stern voice. The voice he always used to chastise me. To force me to push myself. To be more than I could be.
Be tough, Marine! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! If you think you’re a failure, then you are! Be strong! BE STRONG!
His voice becomes deafening, drowning out everything. I look up, my vision blurry, and for a moment I swear I actually see Dad standing there, hands on his hips, scowling down. There is disapproval—even disgust—on his face. And that is what motivates me. That is what makes something snap inside.
I could never stand to have my father disapprove of me and would always do whatever it took just to silence him, just to prove him wrong. This time is no different. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I surge with anger, with the need to prove him wrong. I’m filled with a new fury, and it forces me to my hands and knees.
BE STRONG!
The brute takes three big steps, winding up to deliver a knockout kick to my face. If he connects, he will break every bone in my face.
But now I am ready. I surprise him by rolling out of the way at the last second, a split-second before the kick reaches me. He misses and instead kicks the metal fence with such force his foot lodges into the chain links.
I jump to my feet and in the same motion run across the ring and grab the mace. The brute yanks at his foot, trying to get it out of the cage—but he is stuck.
This time, I don’t wait. This time, I don’t hesitate. Finally, I have learned my lesson.
I charge across the ring, and with all I have, swing the mace, wind up the ball. I only have one shot at this, so I take aim for his huge, bald, muscular head.
I get closer to him. Ten feet…five.… I swing and let the ball go.
Suddenly, he frees his foot from the cage and wheels and faces me.
I’ve already set the chain in motion and the ball is already spinning, flying over my head, through the air. And just as he turns to face me, the ball swings around and lodges in his temple. Blood squirts out, and I let go of the shaft.
The crowd is stunned into silence.
The brute takes a step back, stumbles, then reaches up in shock, grabs the shaft, and yanks it out of his own head. As he does, brains and blood come out.
I stand there, horrified, frozen. I can’t fathom how someone could continue to function after a blow like that.
But then, after a moment, he drops the shaft, and buckles to his knees. He falls forward on his face. His hands lay limp at his side, and a second later, to my shock, I realize he is dead. I have killed him.
After a second of stunned silence, the crowd suddenly leaps to its feet. It roars and screams louder than ever before. And this time, they chant my name.
“BROOKE! BROOKE! BROOKE!”
I barely even hear it. Whatever strength was left in me suddenly disappears, and a moment later, the world spins, my knees go weak, and I collapse. The last thing I see is the floor racing up towards me, striking me in the face.
And then my world is blackness.
T W E N T Y
I’m not sure if I’m dead or alive. My body aches more than I could imagine, and I wonder if this is what it’s like to be on the other side. Somehow, I feel as if I’m still alive: if I were dead, I am hoping it would not be this painful.
I peel open one eye and see I am lying, face down, on a metal floor, in a darkened room, lit by red emergency lights. I look up and struggle to make out the shape before me.
“Brooke?” a voice asks. It is a male voice, and I know I recognize it from somewhere, but can’t remember where.
“Brooke?” he asks again, softly.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, gently prodding me.
I manage to open my eye a bit more, and finally recognize the face: Ben. He leans over me, gently prodding me, trying to see if I’m alive.
“This is for you,” he says.
There is the sound of plastic scraping against the metal floor, and I am struck by the smell of food. But I’m too groggy to look at it, and I don’t really register what’s happening.
“I have to go now,” he says. “Please. I want you to have this.”
A second later comes the sound of a door opening, and light floods the room. There is the sound of marching boots, chains, handcuffs being released. Then footsteps recede and the door closes, and as it does, suddenly, I realize: they have just taken Ben away.
I want to raise my head, to open my eyes, to call out to him. To thank him. To warn him. To say goodbye.
But my head, too heavy, won’t lift, and my eyes begin to shut of their own accord. Moments later, I fall back into a heavy sleep.
*
I don’t know how much time has passed when I wake again. I feel the cold metal of the floor on the side of my face, and this time I am able to gradually lift my head, peel myself off. My head is splitting, and every ounce of my body is in pain.
As I sit up, I feel a sharp pain in my ribs, now on both sides. My face is swollen, welts and bruises all over it, and my shoulder is killing me. Worst of all, there’s an intense throbbing in my calf, an unbearable pain as I attempt to straighten my leg. At first, I don’t know what it’s from, and then I remember: the snakebite.
Propping myself with one hand, I manage to sit halfway up. I look around the darkened room for any sign of Ben. But he is gone. I am alone.
There sits a tray of food before me, untouched. His food. I reach out and touch it: it is cold. I feel bad that he left it; I’m sure he needed it at least as much as me. I realize what it took to sacrifice this meal. If this was his last meal, then they’ve taken him away to fight. My heart leaps at the realization. Surely that means he is already dead.
I look down again at the tray, and it feels like the food of a dead man. I can’t bring myself to touch it.
There is a sound of boots, and the metal door slams open. In march four slaverunners, who drag me to my feet and prod me out the room. The pain is indescribable as I stand and walk. My head is so heavy, and the room spins, and I don’t know if I’m going to make it without collapsing.
I am pushed and prodded down the corridor, and as I go, the sound of a distant crowd grows louder. My heart drops as I realize I’m being led back to the arena.
If they think I can fight again, it is a joke. I can barely walk. Anyone who squares off with me will have easy pickings. I don’t have any will left to fight—or any strength, even if I did. I’ve already given this arena everything I have.
I am shoved one last time as the tunnel to the arena opens up. The roar becomes deafening. I squint at the harsh light as I am led down the ramp, counting my final minutes.
The crowd jumps to its feet as they see me. They stomp violently. This time, instead of hisses and jeers, they seem to love me.
“BROOKE! BROOKE! BROOKE!”
It is a surreal feeling. I’ve achieved fame, but for actions I detest and in the last place on earth I’d ever want it.
I’m prodded again, all the way to ringside, back to the metal
ladder. I look up and see the cage open, and climb and walk in helplessly.
As I enter, the crowd goes wild.
I am still half-asleep, and this is all so surreal, I can’t help wondering if I did this before or if it was all a dream. I look down and see the huge welt on my calf, and know that it was real. I can’t believe it. I am back here again. This time, for a certain death.
They weren’t kidding when they said no survivors. Now I know there will be no exceptions.
I stand in the empty ring and survey the stadium, wondering who my next opponent will be, where he will enter from. As I do, there suddenly comes a cheer from the far side of the stadium. The tunnel opens up, and in marches another contestant. I can’t see who it is, as he’s blocked by an entourage of slaverunners. The crowd goes crazy as he gets closer. But my view is so obscured, it’s not until he reaches the very edge of the ring, until he is climbing the ladder, until the cage opens, and he’s actually pushed inside, that I see who it is.
As I do, any ounce of fight that is left in me falls away.
I am horrified.
It can’t be.
Standing before me, staring back with equal shock, is Ben.
T W E N T Y O N E
I stand there in shock, staring back at Ben, who looks like a deer in headlights. I don’t know how they could be so cruel. Of all the people they could pit me against, why did it have to be him?
The crowd seems to sense our connection—and they love it: they scream and holler as the cage slams shut with a bang. They place bets furiously, eager to see which one of us is willing to kill the other first.
Ben stands there looking so lost, so out of place. Our eyes lock, and we share a moment. His large blue eyes, so gentle, are tearing up. He looks like a lost little boy. I can already see that he would never lift a finger to harm me.
Before this moment, I was resigned to just go quietly to my grave. But now, seeing Ben here, caught in this same predicament, so helpless, my will to live returns. I have to find a way to get us out of here. I have to save us. If not for me, than for him.