The snake hits the ground and darts at me in a flash. I’m so shocked, I don’t even know how to react. The snake doesn’t hesitate, though. It retracts its fangs and sinks them into my calf.
The pain is excruciating. I drop to one knee as the three-inch fangs pierce my flesh. It feels like my skin is on fire, as if it is going to burn off in pain.
My reflexes take over, and without thinking, I grab the snake by its head, yank it off, and hold it out in front of me. It hisses back as I pull back my arm and throw it across the ring. It slams into the metal cage and drops to the ground. The crowd cheers.
The snake immediately darts across the floor, coming right back at me. Now my calf is on fire, hurting so bad it makes me forget the pain in my shoulder. Making matters worse, Shira is beginning to get up again.
I hear a clang, and look down to see another weapon has been dropped: this time, it’s a spear.
I run over and pick it up. As the snake slithers back towards me, I hurl the spear down at it. I miss.
The snake lunges at me, and I sidestep just in time. But the snake slithers around, coming back. I raise the spear again, spin around, and bring it down. This time, it’s a perfect strike.
The spear lodges right in the snake’s head, pinning it into the ground. It goes limp.
The crowd roars.
Just when I think I can relax, I am slammed from behind, an elbow hitting me hard, right on my spine. I fly forward, head smashing into the metal railing, barely missing a protruding spike. My head spins from the pain.
I turn around and see Shira charging, her face contorted with fury. She jumps high in the air, feet flying forward, to kick me in the chest. I notice that her toes have sharpened metal blades protruding from them: if she kicks me, it will be fatal.
I spin away at the last second, and she kicks the gate instead, bouncing off it and falling hard on her back. The crowd roars.
I try to run across the ring, to go for the spear, but as I move past her, she reaches out and grabs my foot with her hand, tripping me. I land hard, face-first, on the ground. A second later, I feel her on top of me, bear-hugging me from behind, wrapping her arms and legs around my body. The crowd roars.
I roll over, so now she is on her back on the floor, grabbing me from behind. She wraps her muscular legs around mine, and then reaches up with her forearm, solid muscle, and wraps it over my throat. She is going to choke me to death. I have no leverage to maneuver. Once again, I’m losing.
With my free hand, I try to reach back over my shoulder. Just a foot behind me, out of reach, is the spear, still lodged in the snake. I stretch as much as I can, reaching with my fingertips, and they just graze the spear shaft. I am so close. But I am losing air.
I bend my leg, still in excruciating pain from the snake bite, dig my heel into the floor and push, sliding us both back. I manage to move us an inch. Just enough to grab hold of the spear.
Finally, I have it. But the world is getting dizzy, and I am seeing stars as I lose oxygen. I know I only have a few seconds left to live.
With one last supreme effort, I lift the spear and bring it down towards me, and at the last second dodge my head out of the way. I bring it down hard, with both hands.
The spear barely misses my face and instead lodges into Shira’s throat. I push down harder and harder, hearing the awful sound of metal penetrating flesh, until her grip around my throat finally loosens.
She goes limp beneath me, her hands and legs slowly letting go. I feel her hot blood pouring out of her neck, onto my own. Finally, I am able to break free, to roll away and jump to my feet.
I stand over her and look down, rubbing my throat, gasping for breath. Her eyes are open wide, staring off to the side.
After a moment of stunned silence, the crowd again jumps to its feet, roaring with approval, even more thunderous than before. Now, they love me.
*
As I look down at Shira’s corpse, I don’t feel a sense of pride; rather, I think only of the snakebite, the burning pain in my calf, and wonder if it’s poisonous. My calf is already red and swollen, and each step I take brings a fresh stab of pain. I am guessing that if it was poisonous I’d already be dead, or at least paralyzed. Still, the pain is incredible, and walking is difficult. I don’t know how I’ll be able to continue fighting like this.
Not to mention the rest of me: my cracked ribs, the wound on my arm from the shrapnel, the new bite wound on my shoulder, my swollen face…. I cling to the fence and catch my breath. I really don’t know how I’ll be able to fight another person. Now I understand why Arena One has no survivors.
I sense motion and look up to see the leader scowling down. He does not look pleased. The crowd continues to cheer, and I can’t help wondering if maybe I’ve embarrassed the leader in some way. Clearly, the arena bouts are designed to be quick, meant to be basically a glorified execution. They don’t seem to be meant to last more than one round. Clearly, he had expected me to die sooner.
Making matters worse, people are trading money furiously in the crowd. I wonder if the leader and his people had placed bets against me—and if my victory has cost the house money. I wonder what the odds were. If I were betting, I’d guess it would be 500 to 1 against me.
His advisors huddle around him, looking flustered, whispering in his ear, as if devising a plan. Slowly, he nods in response.
As he does, the cage gate opens, and in march two slaverunners. They hurry to Shira’s corpse and drag her dead body across the ring. One of them reaches down and grabs the spear and the limp carcass of the snake. More blood stains the floor, which is now red and slick. I take it all in, still catching my breath, when I hear a faint rumbling. This is followed by something more distinct, and the ground beneath me tremors, then shake. Soon, it becomes a deafening roar.
The entire crowd jumps to its feet, stomping like crazy as each person turns around to face one of the entrance tunnels. In march a dozen men, all holding torches. They clear a path for one obviously very special person. The crowd roars louder and louder, until their stomping grows deafening. I don’t like the sound of this. They must know who it is.
After several more seconds, I catch a glimpse of what they’re screaming about. Behind an entourage of a dozen torchbearers, I spot what can only be my new opponent. I gulp.
He is quite possibly the largest and most muscular man I have ever seen. He towers over the torchbearers by at least a foot, every square inch of his body bulging with muscles. He’s easily three times the size of any man I’ve ever seen. He wears a black face mask, ominous and threatening, so I can’t see his face. Maybe I’m better off.
His hands and forearms are each covered in black gauntlets, made of a hard material and covered in spikes. He is naked save for his tight, black shorts and black combat boots. The muscles in his thighs ripple with every step.
As he gets closer to the ring, the crowd goes crazy. Finally, they break into a chant:
“MAL-COLM! MAL-COLM! MAL-COLM!”
He seems impervious to the chanting; he just doesn’t care. Surrounded by an entourage of two dozen people, he is a caged beast, ready to tear apart anything in his path. I can’t even conceive that this person is coming to fight me. It is a joke. I don’t stand a chance.
I got lucky with Sumo because he was overconfident and careless; I got lucky with Shira, too, but it nearly went the other way. But this man: it is obvious he can overpower me with a single hand. I’m not a pessimist. But as he climbs the ladder, enters the ring, and stands there, twice my size, it is enough to make my knees weak. He’s not a man—he is a monster, something out of a fairy tale. I wonder if they save him for special occasions, to sic on people who have defied the games, who have embarrassed the leader. Or if perhaps they save him as a last resort, to put people to death quickly and easily, without taking any more chances.
He holds his arms out wide and throws back his head, and the crowd goes crazy. The roar is so loud it actually hurts my ears. The brute never takes his eyes off me, which I can see through the mask. I can feel them piercing me—soulless, black eyes. He slowly lowers his arms, still staring. I let go of the cage and stand on my own two feet, facing him. I do my best to stand upright, to appear fearless. I doubt it works.
I don’t know what to do next. In this arena there is no official noise or signal to mark the start of a match. And if there was, I have a feeling no one would pay attention to it anyway. Matches seem to begin whenever the contestants decide they do. And I’m in no mood to start this match. He is taking his time, too, savoring each moment, trying to intimidate me. It’s working.
My only hope is for the leaders to throw down another weapon. And as I look up at their scowling faces, I see no sign of that.
He moves. He saunters slowly towards me, as if he has all the time in the world. As if he wants to savor this. I study his physique, looking for any possible weakness. But I find none: he is a wall of solid muscle.
As he gets close I slowly back away, circling the wall of the cage. I realize this will make me seem weak, and probably embolden him. But I can’t see how he could be more emboldened than he already is, and I still don’t know how to fight this guy. Maybe, if I evade him long enough, I’ll get an idea. Or they’ll throw me a weapon. Or I’ll tire him out. Although these all seem doubtful.
He slowly approaches, and I keep backing away. The crowd gets antsy, hissing and booing, heckling me. They want blood. And I am no longer their favorite.
He walks a bit faster towards me, and I retreat just as quickly. He sidesteps left so I sidestep right. I can’t keep this up forever: he’s getting closer.
He gets impatient and lunges at me, racing to grab me; at the last second, I sidestep and run to the side. I’m already on the other side of him; he grabs nothing but thin air.
The crowd laughs at him. He spins around, his neck turning a shade of crimson. Now he’s really pissed. He charges me, sprinting with all he has. I have nowhere left to go.
At the last second, I try to sidestep to my right, but this time he sees it coming, and reaches out and grabs hold of my shirt. Without pausing, he turns and, with one hand, spins and throws me. I fly like a ragdoll across the ring, slamming into the metal cage. Luckily, I just miss a protruding spike.
The crowd roars in approval. I lie there, the wind knocked out of me, my calf and shoulder throbbing. With a supreme effort, I manage to get to my hands and knees, but as soon as I do, I feel his hands on my back, grabbing my shirt. He throws me again, headfirst.
I fly like a cannonball across the other side of the ring. I feel myself airborne, and then smash headfirst into the metal cage. The pain is deafening. I bounce off it, and land on my back, on the floor, and am winded again.
The crowd roars, stomping its feet.
I look up just in time to see a huge foot coming down, right at my face. At the last second I manage to roll out of the way, the air rushing by my ear as his foot slams into the floor just inches away. The crowd ooohs. It was a close call. A split-second more, and his foot would have crushed my face to bits.
I roll over and without thinking, sink my teeth into his foot. I feel them pierce his flesh, and taste his salty blood as it trickles down my lips. I hear him grunt in pain. He’s human. I’m surprised by that. It’s a dirty move, but it’s all I can think of.
He snaps his leg away and kicks me hard across the face. I go flying, turning over several times, and slam into the corner of the cage.
He touches his bloody foot, examines his hand, and sneers down at me with a newfound hatred. I wonder if he has just decided to kill me slowly instead of quickly.
I scramble to my feet to face him, and this time, I feel I need the element of surprise. As crazy as it is, I charge him.
I leap into the air and do a flying front kick, aiming for his groin. I’m hoping that if I can kick him hard, in just the right spot, with my steel-tipped toes, maybe I can make an impact.
But he is too good a fighter for that. He must spot my telegraphed action a mile away, because without even making an effort, he reaches down and blocks my leg. His metal gauntlet smashes into my calf, right into my wound, before I can make an impact. The pain is numbing. It stops me cold, and I drop to the ground, grabbing my calf in agony.
I try to get up, but he backhands me with his other gauntlet, hard across the face, and the force of it knocks me back, face-down, to the ground. I taste blood in my mouth, and look down at the floor covered in dark red. The crowd cheers.
I try to get up again, but before I can, I feel his hands on my back as he picks me up, winds back, and throws me. He aims high, towards the top of the cage, and I fly across the ring right into it. This time, I think quickly.
I reach out and, as I hit it the wall, grab hold of the chain-link, clutching it. The wall sways a few times, but I manage to hang on. I’m up high on the metal cage, nearly fifteen feet off the ground, clinging for my life.
The brute looks annoyed. He charges towards me, reaching up to grab me and pull me down. But I scramble up, even higher. He reaches up to grab my leg, but I pull it up in the nick of time. I’m just out of his reach.
He looks perplexed, and I can see the skin on his neck redden with frustration. He hadn’t expected this.
The crowd jumps to its feet, roaring its approval. Clearly, they haven’t seen this tactic before.
But I don’t know how long I can hang on. My muscles are already weak, and as I cling to the cage, it begins to sway. The brute is shaking it violently. I cling to it like a buoy in a storm-tossed sea. But no matter how much he shakes it, I refuse to let go.
The crowd screams its approval and laughs at him. I glance down and see his skin turn a darkening shade of red. He looks humiliated.
He begins to pull himself up. But he is slow, awkward. He is far too heavy to be agile, and this cage is not meant to hold someone of his bulk. He climbs toward me, but now I have the advantage. He uses both hands to pull himself up, and as he gets close, I swing back one leg and kick him hard in the face, connecting on the corner of his temple, right at the corner of his facemask, with my steel-tipped toe.
It is a solid kick, one he does not expect—and to my surprise, it works. He falls back off the fence, a good ten feet, and lands hard, flat on his back, on the ground. He lands with such force the entire ring shakes. It sounds as if a tree trunk has been dropped from the sky. The crowd roars, screaming its approval.
My kick has dislodged his facemask, which goes flying across the floor. He gets to his feet and scowls up at me, and for the first time, I can see his face.
I wish I hadn’t.
It is hideous, grotesque, and barely looks human. Now I understand why he wears the mask. His face is entirely burnt and charred, with huge lumps all over it. He is a Biovictim, the worst I’ve ever seen. He’s missing a nose and has slits for eyes. He looks more like a beast than a man.
He snarls and roars up at me, and if I wasn’t afraid before, my heart pounds with fear now. I’m fighting something out of a nightmare.
But for now, at least, I am safe. I have outsmarted him. There is nothing he can do except stand down there and look up at me. We are at a stalemate.
Then everything changes.
Stupidly, I keep looking down, never bothering to look in front of me, never imagining there could be any danger from that direction. But one of the slaverunners outside the ring has managed to sneak up on me with a huge pole. He shocks me with it, right in the chest. An electric jolt runs through my entire body. It must be some sort of cattle prod; they probably reserve it for situations like this.
The shock sends me flying back, off the cage. I fall through the air and land flat on my back. The force of it knocks the wind out of me again, and I’m still shaking from being electrified. The crowd roars in delight as I’m back down on the floor of the ring, helpless.
I can barely breathe, or feel my fingertips. But I have no time to reflect. The brute charges right for me, looking madder than ever. He leaps into the air and raises his knees high, preparing to bring both feet down on my face, to stomp me to oblivion.
Somehow, at the last second, I manage to roll out of the way. The wind of his kick rushes past my ear, and then comes the thunderous stomp. It is enough to shake the floor, and I go bouncing off it like a plaything. I roll away, stand up, and run to the far side of the ring.
Another weapon suddenly drops from the sky, lands on the floor in the center of the ring. A medieval mace. It has a short wooden handle and a foot-long chain, at the end of which is a spiked, metal ball. I’ve seen these before, in pictures of knights in armor: it was a deadly weapon used in the Middle Ages.
I get to it before he can—not that he shows any interest. He doesn’t even go for it, clearly feeling he doesn’t need it. I don’t blame him.
I grab hold of the shaft and swing it, filled with a newfound confidence. If I can connect with just one blow, maybe I can actually win. It is a weapon of beauty, and the spiked metal ball swings around and around at the end of the chain, establishing a perimeter before me, keeping him at bay. I swing it again and again, like a helicopter, and it manages to keep him off guard, wary.
But he still slowly approaches, and as he does, I back up. As I take another step, though, I slip on a pool of blood: my feet go out from under me, and I fall flat on my back. As I do, I lose my grip on the mace, and it goes flying across the cage. It actually by chance flies right at his head; but he is more agile than I suspect and ducks it easily. It goes over his head and smashes into the wall of the cage. The crowd ooohs at the close call.
I’m flat on my back, and before I can get up, he’s standing over me. He uses both hands to pick me up by my chest. He lifts me up high, way over his head, like a wrestler, then parades me across the ring, before the thousands of revelers. They eat it up, going wild.
“MAL-COLM! MAL-COLM! MAL-COLM!”
Maybe this is his trademark move before he finishes people off for good. As I dangle there in the air, so high above his head, helpless, I squirm, but it is futile. There is nothing I can do. I am at his disposal. Any second could be my last.
He slowly walks me around the ring, again and again, savoring the adulation, the victory. The noise of the crowd grows to a deafening pitch. He lifts me, even higher, preparing to hurl me, and the last thing I think, before I go flying, is that I’m glad that Bree isn’t here to see my death.