Arena of Doom (Clone Squad #1)

by Connor Brixton

  The chainsaw could fell a tree without issue, and an opponent with twice the ease.

  The noise, however, could be a problem.

  It meant Yrsa did not hear the other Nazi running up behind her. She only felt the blade as it jabbed into her side.

  The fool had been aiming for her lungs. But his knife was too short, could not cut through enough of her thick muscle. The flesh wound only fueled her anger.

  Yrsa dropped the chainsaw, a cloud of sandy dust bursting from the ground as she turned to face the Nazi.

  He swallowed hard, his foot trembling as Yrsa grabbed him by the arm and leg, hoisting him high up above her head.

  The crowd cheered once more as Yrsa slammed his spine onto the back of her knee. The chainsaw engine idly rumbling, this time she could hear as the Nazi gasped for air, hear the cracks in his bones.

  He was hurt, but still alive.

  That simply would not do.

  There was too much history in the beyond time to keep track of it all, but Yrsa had remembered the story of the Nazis. They had industrialized the slaughtering of innocents. Families, civilians.

  Children.

  Which was why Yrsa had no hesitation shoving both her hands into the Nazi’s mouth. Clasping the top and bottom of the jaw, she pulled with all her might.

  His screams were drowned out by the sound of the crowd cheering as the bones began to crack, the flesh beginning to tear open.

  A burst of blood, and the body went limp, screaming no more.

  “YRSA! YRSA! YRSA!” the crowd began to chant her name. Yrsa shoved her left hand into the pool of blood, smearing it across her face before she held the jaw in her hand up in victory. The tongue dropped out, picking up sand as it rolled across the ground.

  She might not be the headline for the fights, but she was certainly tonight’s winner.

  Yrsa threw the jaw up into the crowd, forgetting for a moment about the invisible shield. It bounced off the air, landing back in the arena instead of into the hand of an adoring fan.

  With that, Yrsa wiped her hands on the ground, picking up more sand than drying off the blood. Either way, the sand on her palms meant she could grip the chainsaw with ease, revving up the engine as she looked across the arena. Blood dripped down from her forehead onto her cheeks as she took in her surroundings.

  But there was only a handful of Nazis left. The barbarian had his chainsaw in the gut of one of them, pulling the weapon up towards the neck, slicing him in two from the inside out.

  The Roman soldier had ditched his chainsaw, holding the Nazi from behind, stabbing him in the belly with his knife over and over again.

  The cavewoman hadn’t figured out how to turn her chainsaw on, but was still slamming the bladed end into the neck of the Nazi. Her grunts of primal rage were encouraging, and even though she was thicker than pig shit, it was oddly comforting to have another woman on the battlefield.

  Another sign she wasn’t in Valhalla. Where were all her warrior sisters? There were hardly a handful in the arena she was trapped in. The cavewoman, the ninja. That dreaded tricksy pirate. Where was her mother, her grandmother?

  Why had they gone to Valhalla while Yrsa was stuck in this strange Hel?

  When the bell rang out across the arena, Yrsa couldn’t help but grunt. It meant all the Nazis had been taken care of.

  That her time in the arena was up.

  It would be days until she could spill blood again. Feel the fire of a fight burning in her stomach. Outside of the arena was comfortable, but nowhere near the feasting halls she was promised.

  With much regret, Yrsa began to walk to the open door of the arena. There were five entrances, but there was only one for gladiators. The rest were for enemies. Or occasionally Hitler, the leader of the foul Nazis.

  As the barbarian and the Roman jogged to the exit, Yrsa glanced over at the cavewoman.

  From a time so old, humans hadn’t even mastered iron. The cavewoman was a primal being. Even her bones were different, her brow larger and thicker than anyone Yrsa had ever seen.

  Though the cavewoman had heard the alarm dozens of times, she still looked up and around her in confusion.

  Yrsa sighed, walking over to the cavewoman, offering out one of her sandy bloody hands.

  “Come with me,” she said, “it’s okay. Promise.”

  The cavewoman grunted once, dropping the chainsaw to the ground, clutching Yrsa’s hand tight like a nervous child.

  They were supposed to bring any weapons they had back in with. But Yrsa had her own chainsaw in one hand, the cavewoman clutching onto the other. It would take far too long to explain to her she needed to carry the chainsaw back, so instead Yrsa led her to the gate, the crowd beginning to settle as the action died down.

  They headed down into the holding chamber, the wide corridor leading out of the arena. The arena walls were stone, while the corridor inside was made of metal. So much metal to spare, the people of Hel used it for buildings, instead of just weapons.

  The cavewoman dragging her other hand through the sand, she let go of Yrsa’s hand as the gate behind them slid back down. Yrsa put her chainsaw back into the weapon rack, the weapon disappearing inside the metal wall as she looked back out into the arena, waiting for the scoreboard to tally up their kills.

  “Octavius!”

  The Roman soldier rushed into the arms of his husband, the two hugging one another. Yrsa wasn’t too sure why they worried so much; both of them were more than competent warriors. But she supposed if she had anyone she cared about along with her in Hel, she would worry as well.

  Not one other Viking. What had Yrsa done to condemn her soul to Hel? She’d died on the battlefield, axe in her hand. She’d slain hundreds of enemies.

  Yet here she was in Hel. Alone.

  As the Roman husbands hugged, the cavewoman scampered over on all fours. She wore animal hide on her torso and thighs, but none on her feet. Without warning, she wrapped her meaty arms around the two men, hugging them both tight.

  “Oh, er…”

  The two men shrugged, enjoying the extra person wrapping her arms around them, as a chime rang out through the arena.

  Yrsa turned back to the scoreboard.

  YRSA the Viking – 13

  OCTAVIUS the Roman – 6

  GRIMSAW the Barbarian – 4

  OOG the cavewoman – 3

  Yrsa smiled to herself, although no one else seemed to be paying her or the scoreboard much attention.

  They were all looking at the bed on wheels, moving through the metal corridor up to the iron gates.

  Along with the demon doctor.

  The skin of a lizard, tail and teeth to match. Dr. Victor Cunningham followed close behind as the stretcher came to a halt in front of the gate. Yrsa took a step back, looking at the man in the bed. She frowned, the blood that had been drying on her forehead cracking slightly.

  Was that Logan Rexington? The one who’d bumped her from the headline match?

  Thick black hair, white skin, a bit of stubble on his face. He was wearing strange black armor, pads on his shoulders and chest, black fabric underneath.

  “Is he fresh from the land of the living?” Yrsa asked, peering over the shoulder of the demon doctor and the two servants who had wheeled him to the gates.

  The journey from the land of the living to Hel took a toll on every soul. Yrsa herself hadn’t been able to lift an axe for the first couple of days.

  To throw a mewling babe like that onto the battlefield was beyond cruel. Definitely Hel.

  “Yes!” Victor sneered at the two servants. “Even though the muscle growth is still in the middle of its cycle!”

  “Look.” One of the servants, a younger man with sun-kissed red hair, turned to face Victor. “Either we put him out there or Lord Zemka throws us to your dino-friends. We don’t have a choice.”

  “He doesn’t even know he’s a clone!” Victor snapped.

  Yrsa had heard the word a dozen times. She still didn’t fully understand
it. It was a word from the beyond time, to describe someone who’d arrived in Hel. Did Logan Rexington not even know he was dead?

  The sun-kissed servant shrugged.

  “Wake him up already.”

  Victor snapped his jaw once, hissing as he pulled the strange needle out of one of his many pockets. Medicine was no longer eaten or drunk, it was a magic now stabbed into the body. The demon doctor stabbed with excellent precision.

  Logan sat bolt upright in the bed, yelling.

  “AAAAAHHH!!!”

  Yrsa stood by the gate. She could head into the arena proper, clean herself in wonderfully warm water, eat some food.

  But she wanted to see what the man who’d bumped her down from the headline would do. Her and the two soldiers from World War II. It was supposed to be the three of them against the beast of the week.

  The Roman husbands, the barbarian, and of course Oog, all began to walk down the corridor. Leaving Yrsa by the gate, about to watch the fight from behind the bars.

  Alone.

  Chapter 5

  Logan Rexington screamed as the chemicals flooded through his body. His skin was on fire. His eyes stung. His heart was beating so fast it threatened to smash his ribcage from the inside.

  He hardly ever drank coffee, let alone took stims like that. What the hell had they just put into his body?

  Practically jumping out of the bed, Logan was surprised when his polished black boots hit the sandy ground.

  Where the hell was he now?!

  The mainframe.

  He’d blown it up. Someone had told him that.

  The velociraptor with a monocle. Victor. He’d told him that. But they weren’t in the medical wing anymore.

  They were in front of a gate. An iron gate, like something from an old Earth ruin.

  And they weren’t alone.

  Two people stood next to the bed. Logan clutched the edge of the gate tight, blinking hard. His body was filled with energy; his foot couldn’t stop tapping. He wanted to run, to punch, to fuck.

  Instead, he looked at the two people. At least they were humans. Not dinosaurs. One was a ginger man, the other a black woman. They both wore black trousers, frilly white shirts. Like something out of a school play.

  “Remember to breathe,” a voice said from behind.

  Logan spun around, his fists clenched, jaw snapped shut as he breathed in through his teeth.

  The woman was huge: maybe a foot taller than him, the muscles bulging on her arms. Her thighs looked big enough to crush his skull between them.

  All his soldiers had some strength to them, but it didn’t take much to pick up a plasma rifle.

  This woman could easily carry ten plasma rifles. And enough cartridges for a hundred skirmishes.

  Logan frowned, looking at the strange rash on her face. It took him a moment to realize it was blood, caked onto the forehead, drips running down the nose and cheeks. And she wasn’t wearing a uniform, or a flower in her jacket, or a frilly white shirt.

  She was wearing animal skins.

  Like a Viking.

  “Welcome to Hel,” she said, a smirk spreading across her face, some caked blood cracking on her top lip.

  “We don’t have much time.” The scaly hand of Victor grabbed Logan by the shoulder, turning him around.

  Logan snarled, clenching his fists. It was like someone had packed ten kilos of hate into his chest. He was ready to tear apart anyone that got too close, rip them limb from limb.

  Instead he breathed in deep, looking the velociraptor up and down.

  “What have you done to me now?!” First the tattoo and scar removals, now the stims? What was the dinosaur doctor doing to him? How the hell was there a dinosaur with a medical license?

  “Look, just kill anything that moves. But not too quickly; Lord Zemka wants a good show.”

  “Who? Kill what?” Was Logan supposed to fight the large muscular woman? If he had his plasma rifle, sure. No problem. But hand to hand, Logan would be turned into a pretzel. Even with the stims flooding his system.

  Victor shoved something into his hands instead of saying anything else.

  Logan grabbed onto the plasma cutter tight. A handle, a three-foot metal bar on the top. Like a large baton law enforcement used. Except those batons didn’t have a string of superheated purple plasma running up one side, hot enough to cut through steel and bone.

  “The muscle growth is still in effect.” Victor grabbed Logan by the jaw, his claws digging into his skin. He peered at Logan through his monocle, looking directly into his pupils. “You’ll be getting stronger by the minute. Five and you’ll be fighting fit. Bide your time until then. Stay alive, and watch out for all the legs.”

  “Legs? Muscle growth? What?!”

  Victor had promised him answers before he’d knocked him out.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  “AND NOW! THE MOMENT YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!”

  The voice of the announcer rang out. Logan looked out through the gate. There was sand, blood, body parts. Like a field after battle. Except they weren’t wearing the black polycarbonate-steel blends of a space marine. It looked like black leather. And…. Swastikas?

  There were robots cleaning up the remains. Sliding the bodies of the Nazis into carts, quickly darting into open gates on either side of the arena.

  The arena? Yep. Logan couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. A vast sandy pit.

  “LOGAN REXINGTON!”

  The iron gates slid up, the two people in shirts pushing Logan out from behind. His black boots kicked up sand as he stumbled through, Logan swinging around on instinct. His hands shaking with rage and adrenaline, he swung out at the iron gates.

  He missed, standing too far away from the gate. Stumbling back, Logan turned to face the rest of the sand pit.

  No. Not a sandy pit.

  A big colosseum. Like something out of a history file. Or one of the ancient films that ran on the screens in the early hours of the morning.

  Except the people in the stands didn’t look like ancient peasants. They were dressed in modern day clothes. Sort of. Logan wasn’t one for fashion, but he didn’t recognize the cut of the collars. The odd cuts.

  But there was a lot of black. And eye makeup.

  Logan looked at a child in the front row. He had a red line painted over his left eye. A perfect scar.

  Just like the one Logan had.

  Or used to have.

  Was the child dressed up as him?

  He looked out into the crowd. There were dozens, maybe even hundreds of people amongst the thousands dressed like him. Wearing lots of black, a scar drawn across their left face.

  Logan touched his face, just to double check. It was still smooth. His scar still missing.

  “DOES THIS LOOK LIKE THE BEST ARENA FOR LOGAN REXINGTON?!”

  It was like an announcer at a boxing match. Loud, over the top.

  Logan got the distinct feeling wherever he was, the military had nothing to do with it.

  Had someone else picked up his wounded body?

  But how had he even survived?

  Where was the dinosaur doctor who’d promised answers? He glanced back at the iron gate, seeing the giant woman covered in bloody remains, leaning on the bars, looking him up and down. Like she was waiting for him to impress her.

  The ground beneath Logan’s feet began to shake. Logan recognized the digipatterns as solid rocks began to rise out of the ground. They used the same environmental simulators at boot camp. A soldier never knew what terrain they’d be dropping into. It could be a nice farming moon like New Belarus. It could be a lava-crusted nightmare like Harrington.

  The arena was simulating what looked like ruins from old Earth. Logan had only ever seen pictures; only the obscenely rich could afford the money and time back to the old system. But there were crumbled rocks, resembling rooms that had caved in. Like the ruins of any city that had been bombarded from air support. Except the structures were mostly stone, wit
h little metal like the cities Logan was used to.

  Either way, there was lots of cover.

  Except Logan wasn’t holding his usual plasma rifle. He was holding a plasma cutter. It looked sleeker than the maintenance tools, more a weapon than a device. The line of heated plasma even curved up and above the top: perfect for stabbing.

  Even though it was getting heavy in his arms.

  Victor had mentioned his muscles were growing. Why would they need to grow? He started every day with one hundred push-ups, even when he was obscenely hungover.

  But the plasma cutter felt like a curling iron on the highest setting. Logan breathed out hard, using the adrenaline and rage fueling him to lift his new weapon up.

  “AND NOW! WHAT FOUL BEAST WILL LOGAN REXINGTON BE FACING TONIGHT?!”

  The audience began to cheer at the voice of the cheesy announcer.

  Foul beast?

  A weapon.

  Stims.

  A colosseum.

  Logan clutched the plasma cutter tight, the top of his index finger beginning to sweat from the heat of the weapon.

  “Is this a gladiator arena?”

  He looked around him. The cheering crowd, the several gates.

  Why was he in a gladiator arena?

  He looked up behind him, two people watching him. Victor curled his clawed hands together, giving him something of a thumbs-up. The large blood-covered woman leaned up against the gate, looking him up and down like he’d offended her somehow.

  Logan frowned, something catching his eyes from above as he looked away.

  A large billboard of sorts. A giant glowing sign above the crowd at the top of the colosseum.

  ARENA OF DOOM

  “What the…”

  The hell was the Arena of Doom?

  Logan had no one to ask, the new question bouncing around in his brain as he heard the rattling of chains. One of the other gates had begun to open, the crowd going silent. Thousands of eyes looked to the open gate as Logan heard the pounding of feet.

  Was he about to fight? Victor had mentioned a show, like a boxing match?

  The thumping steps were large, but oddly fast. A creature of some sort?

  He saw the eyes first. Dozens of them. Clustered together. Followed by the eight legs.