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

by Morgan Rice

I stand there, in the living room of my Dad’s house, in shock. On the one hand, I’ve always feared that this day would come; yet now that it has, I can hardly believe it. I am overcome with guilt. Did last night’s fire tip us off? Did they see the smoke? Why couldn’t I have been more cautious?

  I also hate myself for leaving Bree alone this morning—especially after we’d both had such bad dreams. I see her face, crying, pleading with me not to leave. Why didn’t I listen to her? Trust my own instinct? Looking back, I can’t help feeling that Dad really did warn me. Why didn’t I listen? None of that matters now, and I only pause for a moment. I am in action mode, and in no way prepared to give up and let her go. I am already running through the house, preparing to not lose any precious time in chasing down the slaverunners and rescuing Bree.

  I run over to the corpse of the slaverunner and examine him quickly: he is dressed in their signature all-black, military uniform, with black combat boots, black military fatigues, and a long-sleeved black shirt covered by a tightly-fitting black bomber coat. He still wears a black face mask with the insignia of Arena One—the hallmark of a slaverunner—and also wears a small black helmet. Little good that did him: Sasha still managed to lodge her teeth into his throat. I glance over at Sasha and choke up at the sight. I’m so grateful to her for putting up such a fight. I feel guilty for leaving her alone, too. I glance at her corpse, and vow to myself that after I get Bree back, I will return and give her a proper burial.

  I quickly strip the slaverunner’s corpse for valuables. I begin by taking his weapons belt and clipping it around my own waist, fastening it tight. It contains a holster and a handgun, and I pull it out and check it quickly: filled with ammo, it appears to be in perfect working order. This is like gold—and now it is mine. Also on the belt are several backup clips of ammo.

  I remove his helmet and see his face: I’m surprised to see he is much younger than I’d thought. He can’t be older than 18. Not all slaverunners are merciless bounty hunters; some of them are pressed into service, at the mercy of the Arena makers, who are the real power-holders. Still, I don’t feel any sympathy for him. After all, pressed into service or not, he’d come up here to take my sister’s life—and mine, too.

  I want to just run out and chase them down, but I discipline myself to stop and salvage what I can first. I know that I will need it out there, and that another minute or two spent here can end up making the difference. So I reach down and try his helmet on and am relieved to see that it fits. Its black visor will come in handy in blocking out the blinding light off the snow. I raid his clothing next, which I desperately need. I strip his gloves, made of an ultra-light, padded material, and am relieved to see they fit my hands perfectly. My friends always teased me about my big hands and feet and I always felt embarrassed by it—but now, for once, I am glad. I strip his jacket next and am relieved to see that it fits too, just a tad too big. I look down and see how small his frame is, and realize I am lucky. We are nearly the same size. The jacket is thick and padded, lined with some sort of down material. I have never worn anything as warm and luxurious in my life, and I am so grateful. Now, finally, I can brave the cold.

  I look down and know I should strip his shirt, too—but I just can’t bring myself to wear it. Somehow, it’s too personal.

  I hold my feet up to his, and am thrilled to see we are the same size. I waste no time stripping my old, worn boots, a size too small, then stripping his and putting them on my feet. I stand. They are a perfect fit, and feel amazing. Black combat boots with steel-tip toes, the inside lined with fur, they climb all the way up my shin. They are a thousand times warmer—and more comfortable—than my current boots.

  Wearing my new boots, coat, gloves, and with his weapons belt snug around me, gun and ammo inside, I feel like a new person, ready for battle. I glance down at Sasha’s corpse and then look over and, nearby, see Bree’s new teddy bear, on the floor and covered in blood. I fight back tears. A part of me wants to spit in this slaverunner’s face before I walk out the door, but I simply turn and run out the house.

  I moved quickly, managing to strip him and dress myself in under a minute, and now I race out of the house at breakneck speed, making up for lost time. As I burst out the front door, I can still hear the distant whine of their engines. They can’t have more than a mile on me, and I’m determined to close that gap. All I need is a small stroke of luck—for them to get stuck in just one snow bank, to hit one bad turn—and maybe, just maybe, I can catch them. And with this gun and ammo, I might even be able to give them a run for their money. If not, I will go down fighting. There is absolutely no way that I’m ever coming back here without Bree by my side.

  I run up the hill, into the woods, as fast as I can, racing for my Dad’s motorcycle. I glance over and see that the garage doors were blown open, and realize the slaverunners must have searched it for a vehicle. I am so grateful I had the foresight to hide the bike long ago.

  I scramble up the hill in the melting snow, and hurry to the bushes concealing the bike. The new gloves, thickly padded, come in handy: I am able to grab hold of thorny branches and tear them out of my way. Within moments, I clear a path, and see the bike. I am relieved to find it’s still there, and well-sheltered from the elements. Without wasting a beat, I tighten my new helmet, grab the key from its hiding place in the spoke, and jump onto the bike. I turn the ignition, and kickstart it.

  The engine turns over, but doesn’t catch. My heart plummets. I haven’t started it in years. Could it be dead? I try to start it, kicking and revving it again and again. It makes noise, louder and louder, but still nothing. I feel more and more frantic. If I can’t get this started, I have no chance of catching them. Bree will be gone to me forever.

  “Come on, COME ON!” I scream, my entire body shaking.

  I kick it again and again. Each time it makes more and more noise, and I feel like I’m getting closer.

  I raise my head back to the sky.

  “DAD!” I scream. “PLEASE!”

  I kick it again, and this time, it catches. I am flooded with relief. I rev it several times, louder and louder, and small black clouds of exhaust exit the tailpipe.

  Now, at least, I have a fighting chance.