Arena One: Slaverunners (Book #1 of the Survival Trilogy)

  *

  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 killing me.

  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.

  I look down and see a tray of food before me, untouched. His food. I reach out and touch it: it is cold. I feel bad that he has 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, that means 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 his food, 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, 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 have 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 lead down the ramp, as I realize that I’m 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 feel like I’ve achieved fame, but for actions that 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, suddenly, there 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