by Morgan Rice
*
The knife lodges in the center of the leader’s forehead; I’d managed to throw it perfectly, just high enough to clear the fence, by a millimeter, and yet still maintain the perfect angle to hit him, thirty yards away. It hits him so hard, it pins his head to the chair. He sits there, eyes wide open, frozen in shock, dead.
There is stunned silence in the arena. For several seconds, the crowd is too shocked to even react. I can hear a pin drop.
And then, pandemonium. Thousands of people jump up from their seats and run in every direction. Some, terrified, flee for their lives; others see this as their chance to be set free, and run for the exits; others start fighting with each other, while others start fighting with the slaverunners. It is as if a violent energy, long contained, has been set loose.
Slaverunners scurry in every direction, trying to maintain order.
I look to the cage door, wondering if we can escape that way, but already guards are fiddling with its lock, trying to unchain it so that they can come and get us.
I run to Ben, who still stands there, shocked, and grab him by the arm.
“FOLLOW ME!” I scream.
I take his hand as I run across the ring, jump up onto the cage and scale its wall. I climb straight up, relieved to see Ben beside me.
Just in time. The slaverunners burst open the metal gate and rush right for us.
But we are already at the top of the cage, fifteen feet high. I look over the edge and hesitate for a moment: it is a steep drop, and a hard landing. Ben hesitates, too.
But we have no choice. It’s now or never.
I jump.
I land hard on my feet, fifteen feet below on the concrete. My calf explodes in pain as I tumble to the ground. As I hit, rolling, my cracked ribs hurt just as much. The pain is excruciating, but at least I don’t feel as if I’ve broken anything else. I’ve made it.
I look over, hoping to see Ben beside me in the chaos, as the crowd scurries in every direction around me. But my heart drops to see he’s not there. I turn and look up and see he is still up there, high on the cage wall. He’s hesitating at the top. He’s afraid to jump.
The slaverunners are reaching up, beginning to climb, about to get him. He is terrified, frozen in inaction.
I scramble to my feet and yell up at him.
“BEN!” I scream. “JUMP! DO IT!”
I can hear the panic in my voice. There is no time. If he doesn’t jump now, I’ll have to leave without him.
Suddenly, thankfully, Ben plunges into the crowd. He hits the ground hard, tumbling. And then, after a moment, he gets up. He looks dazed, but as far as I can tell, unhurt. I grab his arm and we run.
It is such pandemonium, no one even notices us. People are brawling with each other, fighting to get out. I manage to weave through the masses, hiding in anonymity. I check back and see the group of slaverunners behind us, on our trail.
I head towards one of the exit tunnels where hundreds are fleeing, and we blend in with the stampede, ducking and weaving through the people. Behind us, I sense the slaverunners parting ways through the crowd, coming after us. I don’t know how far we can make it. The thick crowd is barely moving.
I enter the blackness of one of the tunnels, and as I do, I suddenly feel a hand grab me hard around my mouth and yank me backwards. Another hand clasps Ben by the mouth and drags him back, too.
We’ve been caught, yanked back into the blackness. I am being held tight in a recess in the wall, and my captor holds me in a strong, deadly grip. I’m unable to resist. As I stand there, I wonder if I’m about to die.
Suddenly, right in front of me, the group of slaverunners runs past. They keep running down the tunnel, thinking they are following us. I can’t believe it: we’ve lost them.
Now I’m thankful for being pulled aside. And as the grip around my mouth loosens, I wonder why my captor just did us a favor. He releases his grip completely, and I look back over my shoulder and see a large soldier, dressed in black but not wearing a mask. He looks different than the others. He looks to be about 22, and his chiseled features are perfect, with a strong jawline and short, cropped brown hair. He towers over us, and stares down with green eyes that are a surprising contrast to his demeanor: they exude softness, and are starkly out of place here.
“Come with me,” he says urgently.
He turns and disappears into a side door, hidden in the wall. Ben and I exchange a glance, then instantly follow, ducking under the door and into the side chamber.
This man has just saved our lives. And I have no idea who he is.
