by Morgan Rice
I am marched down the corridor by the slaverunners, and as I walk down the endless, narrow halls, I begin to hear a faint rumbling. At first, it is hard to make out. But as I get closer, it begins to sound like the noise of a crowd. A cheering crowd, with shouts coming in fits.
We turn down yet another hallway, and the noise becomes more distinct. There is a huge roar, followed by a rumbling, like an earthquake. The corridor actually trembles as I walk down it. It feels like the vibration of a hundred thousand people stomping their feet.
I am pushed to the right, down yet another hallway. I resent being poked and prodded by these slaverunners, especially as I am being marched to my death, and I would like nothing more than to turn around and deck one of them. But I’m unarmed, and they are bigger and stronger, and it would be a no-win situation. Besides, I need to conserve my strength.
I am prodded one last time, and the hallway opens up. In the distance there appears a harsh light, like a floodlight, and the noise of the crowd grows inconceivably loud, like a living thing. The hallway opens into a broad and high tunnel. The light gets brighter and brighter, and for a moment I wonder if I am walking out to daylight.
But the temperature hasn’t changed and I realize I am still underground and being walked down an entrance tunnel. To the arena. I think of the time Dad took me to a baseball game, when we were heading to our seats, walking inside the stadium—when we walked down a tunnel and suddenly the stadium opened up before us. As I walk out, down the ramp, it feels like that. Except this time, I am the star of the show. I stop and stare, in awe.
Spread out before me is an enormous stadium, packed with thousands and thousands of people. In its center is a ring, shaped in an octagon; it resembles a boxing ring, except instead of ropes around its perimeter, there is a metal cage. The cage rises high in the air, about fifteen feet, completely enclosing the ring except for its open roof. It reminds me of the cage ring once used by the Ultimate Fighting Championship, but bigger. And this cage, covered in blood stains, with spikes on the inside, protruding from it every ten feet or so, clearly is not meant for sport—but for death.
There is the sound of clanging metal, and I look up and see two people fighting inside the ring, one of them just thrown against the cage. His body slams into the metal, narrowly missing a spike, and the crowd erupts into a cheer.
The smaller opponent, covered in blood, bounces off the cage and looks disoriented. The bigger one, enormous, looks like a sumo wrestler. He is Asian, and must be at least five hundred pounds. After throwing the small, wiry man, the sumo wrestler charges, grabs him with two hands and lifts him easily over his head, as if he were a doll. He walks him in slow circles, and the crowd cheers wildly.
He throws the man completely across the ring. He goes flying and smashes sideways into the cage, again narrowly missing a spike. He lands on the hard floor of the ring, not moving.
The entire crowd erupts in a roar and jumps to its feet, screaming.
“FINISH HIM!” a crowd member screams, above the din.
“KILL HIM!” screams another.
“CRUSH HIM!”
Thousands of people start screaming, stomping their boots on the metal bleachers, and the noise becomes deafening. Sumo holds out his arms, taking it all in, slowly circling, savoring the moment. The cheers grow louder.
Sumo slowly, ominously, crosses the ring, heading towards the unconscious man, who is lying face first on the floor. As he gets close, he suddenly drops heavily to one knee, landing right on the small of the man’s back. There is a sickening cracking noise as his 500 pounds make impact on the small man’s spine, shattering it. The crowd groans, as it becomes clear that he’s broken the small man’s back.
I turn away, not wanting to look, feeling horrible for the little, defenseless man. I wonder why they don’t end this. Clearly, the wrestler has won.
But apparently, they don’t plan on ending it—and sumo is not finished. He grabs the man’s limp body with two hands, picks him up, and throws him face first across the ring. The man smashes into the metal cage face-first, and collapses to the floor again. The crowd roars. His body lands in an unnatural position, and I can’t tell if he’s dead or not.
The wrestler is still not satisfied. He raises his arms, slowly circling, as the crowd chants.
“SU-MO! SU-MO! SU-MO!”
The roar reaches a deafening pitch, until sumo crosses the ring one last time, raises a foot, and lowers it on the defenseless man’s throat. He stands with both feet on the man’s throat, crushing it. The man’s eyes open wide as he reaches up with both hands, trying to get the feet off his neck. But it is futile, and after a few seconds of struggle, finally, he stops. His hands fall to his side, limp. He is dead.
The crowd jumps to its feet, roaring.
Sumo picks up the dead body, hoists it high above his head, then hurls it across the ring. This time he aims for one of the protruding spikes, and impales the body into it. The body clings to the side of the cage, a spike sticking through the stomach, blood dripping down.
The crowd roars even louder.
I’m shoved hard from behind, and I stumble out into the bright light, heading down the ramp, into the open stadium. As I enter, I finally realize where exactly I am: it is the former Madison Square Garden. Except now the place is dilapidated, the roof caving in, with sunlight and water getting in in places, and the bleachers rusted and corroded.
The crowd must spot me, because they turn to me, and let out a cheer of anticipation. I look closely at the faces, screaming and cheering, and see they are all Biovictims. Their faces are deformed, melted away. Most are as thin as racks, emaciated. They comprise some of the most sadistic-looking types I’ve ever seen, and there are an endless array of them.
I am led down the ramp, towards the ring, and as I reach it, I can feel the thousands of eyes fixate on me. There are jeers and boos. Apparently, they don’t like newcomers. Or maybe they just don’t like me.
I am marched ringside and prodded to a small metal ladder on one side of the cage. I look up at Sumo, who scowls down at me from inside the ring. I look over at the dead body, still impaled on the cage. I hesitate: I’m not eager to enter this ring.
I am prodded roughly by a gunpoint in the small of my back, and I have no choice but to take my first step on the ladder. Then another, and another. The crowd cheers, and I feel weak in the knees.
A slaverunner opens the cage door, and I take my first step in. He slams it behind me, and I can’t help but flinch. The crowd cheers again.
I turn and survey the stadium, looking for any sign of Bree, of Ben, of his brother—of any friendly face. But there are none. I force myself to look across the ring, at my opponent. Sumo stands there, looking down at me. He smiles, then erupts into laughter at the sight of me. I’m sure he thinks I will be an easy kill. I don’t blame him.
Sumo turns his back on me and raises his arms out wide, facing the crowd, craving adulation. Clearly, he is not troubled by me, and thinks this match is already over. He is already reveling in his victory to come.
Dad’s voice suddenly fills my head:
Always be the one to start a fight. Never hesitate. Surprise is your best weapon. A fight starts when YOU start it. If you wait for your opponent to start it, you’ve already lost. The first three seconds of a fight always determine its outcome. Go. GO!
Dad’s voice screams in my head, and I let it take over me. I don’t stop to think how crazy this is, how outmatched I am. All I know is that, if I do nothing, I will die.
I let Dad’s voice carry me away, and it is as if my body is being controlled by someone else. I find myself charging across the ring, focusing on Sumo. His back is still to me, his arms are still out, he is still enjoying the spectacle. And now, at least for this moment, he is exposed.
I race across the ring, every second feeling like an eternity. I focus on the fact that I am still wearing these combat boots, with their steel-tipped toes. I take three huge steps, and before Sumo can react, I leap into t
he air. I fly through the air, letting my momentum carry me, and aim carefully, right for the back of his left knee.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall, I hear Dad say.
I pray he’s right.
I wind up, knowing I only have one shot at this.
I kick him in the back of his knee with all that I have. I feel the impact of my steel-tipped toe in his soft flesh, and I pray that it works.
To my amazement, his knee buckles out from under him, and he lands on one knee on the floor of the ring, his weight shaking it.
The crowd suddenly roars in delight and surprise, clearly not expecting this.
The biggest mistake you can make in a fight is to hit someone and walk away. You don’t win a fight with a single punch, or a single kick You win it with combinations. After you kick him, kick him again. And again. And again. Don’t stop until he can’t get up.
Sumo begins to turn towards me, and I can see the shock on his face. I don’t wait.
I swing around and plant a roundhouse kick perfectly on the back of his neck. He goes down, face first, hitting the floor hard, shaking it with his weight. The crowd roars.
Again, I don’t wait. I jump up high and do a dropkick, digging the heel of my boot, right into the small of his back. Then, without pausing, I wind up and kick him hard in the side of the face my steel tip, aiming for his temple. The soft spot. I kick it again and again and again. Soon, he’s covered in blood, and he’s reaching up to protect his head.
The crowd goes insane. They jump to their feet, screaming.
“KILL HIM!” they scream. “FINISH HIM!”
But I hesitate. The sight of him lying there, limp like that, makes me feel bad. I know that I shouldn’t, that he’s a merciless killer, but still, I can’t quite bring myself to finish him off.
And that is my big mistake.
Sumo takes advantage of my hesitation. Before I know it, he reaches out and grabs my ankle. His hand is huge, impossibly huge, wrapping around my leg as if it were a twig. With one easy motion, he pulls me by the leg, spins me, and sends me flying across the ring.
I slam into the metal cage, missing one of the sharp spikes by an inch, and fall to the floor.
The crowd cheers. I look up, stunned, my head spinning. Sumo is already getting to his feet and charging. Blood trickles down his face. I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe he’s even vulnerable. And now, he must be really pissed.
I’m shocked by how fast he is. In the flash of an eye he’s almost on top of me, leaping into the air, preparing to land on top of me. If I don’t get out of the way fast, I’ll be crushed.
At the last second I roll and just barely manage to evade him as he lands hard beside me, shaking the floor so hard that it actually bounces and sends me up into the air.
I roll away, and keep rolling until I’m on the far side of the ring. I hurry to my feet, and he gets up, too. We stand there on opposite sides of the ring, facing each other, each breathing hard. The crowd is going crazy. I can’t believe I’ve managed to live this long.
He’s gearing up to charge, and I realize I’m out of options. There aren’t many places to go in this ring, especially with a man this size. One wrong move, and I’m finished. I got lucky with the element of surprise. But now I actually have to fight.
Suddenly, something falls through the air. I look up and see that something is being dropped down through the open roof of the cage. It lands with a crash on the floor between us. It is a weapon. A huge battle axe. I never expected this. I guess this is their way of keeping the games even, prolonging their entertainment. The axe lands in the center, equidistant between us, about ten feet away.
I don’t hesitate. I race for it, and am relieved to see I am faster than he is: I get there and grab it first.
But he is quicker than I’d imagined, and just as I bend over and pick it up, I feel his huge hands around my rib cage, and he is picking me up, hoisting me from behind in a huge bear hug. He hoists me higher, effortlessly, as if I were an insect. The crowd roars.
He squeezes harder and harder, and I feel all the air crushed out of me, feel as if each one of my ribs is going to crack. I manage to hold onto the axe—but that does little good. I can’t even maneuver my shoulders.
He spins me before the crowd, having fun with me. The crowd reacts, screaming in delight. If I can just get my arms free, I can use the axe.
But I can’t. I feel all the air leaving my body, and realize that in another moment or two, I’ll be suffocated.
Finally, I realize, my luck has run out.
S E V E N T E E N
