by Morgan Rice
*
I sense motion, and look up.
The leader sits up there, 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 out their 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. I realize 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 they 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 grabs the small man’s impaled body off 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, and I look down and see another contestant being 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 30s; 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, and 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 tight 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 wiggle free. I feel her slowly squeezing the life out of me, and my breathing becomes more shallow.
“BITE HER! BITE HER! BITE HER!” the crowd chants.
I don’t understand why they’re chanting this, until suddenly, Shira leans back ahead and opens her mouth wide. She’s sharpened her teeth with a file, and they are pointy, like 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. She lowers her head, and 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 solo plexus and push for all I can. This time, it works. She goes flying off of 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 ribs. There is a sound of cracking ribs, and the crowd ooohs. Without waiting, I wind up again 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 that 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! 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
