Arena One: Slaverunners (Book #1 of the Survival Trilogy)

F O U R-1

F O U R

I stand there, in the living room of my Dad’s house, in shock. On the one hand, I’ve always feared this day would come; yet now that it has, I can hardly believe it. I am overcome with guilt. Did last night’s fire tip us off? Did they see the smoke? Why couldn’t I have been more cautious?

I also hate myself for leaving Bree alone this morning—especially after we’d both had such bad dreams. I see her face, crying, pleading with me not to leave. Why didn’t I listen to her? Trust my own instincts? Looking back, I can’t help feeling that Dad really did warn me. Why didn’t I pay attention?

None of that matters now, and I only pause for a moment. I am in action mode, and in no way prepared to give up and let her go. I am already running through the house so I do not lose any precious time in chasing down the slaverunners and rescuing Bree.

I run over to the corpse of the slaverunner and examine him quickly: he is dressed in their signature all-black, military uniform, with black combat boots, black military fatigues, and a long-sleeved black shirt covered by a tightly-fitting black bomber coat. He still wears a black face mask with the insignia of Arena One—the hallmark of a slaverunner—and also wears a small black helmet. Little good that did him: Sasha still managed to lodge her teeth into his throat. I glance over at Sasha and choke up at the sight. I’m so grateful to her for putting up such a fight. I feel guilty for leaving her alone, too. I glance at her corpse, and vow to myself that after I get Bree back, I will return and give her a proper burial.

I quickly strip the slaverunner’s corpse for valuables. I begin by taking his weapons belt and clipping it around my own waist, fastening it tight. It contains a holster and a handgun, which I pull out and check quickly: filled with ammo, it appears to be in perfect working order. This is like gold—and now it is mine. Also on the belt are several backup clips of ammo.

I remove his helmet and see his face: I’m surprised to see he is much younger than I’d thought. He can’t be older than 18. Not all slaverunners are merciless bounty hunters; some of them are pressed into service, at the mercy of the Arena makers, who are the real power-holders. Still, I don’t feel any sympathy for him. After all, pressed into service or not, he’d come up here to take my sister’s life—and mine, too.

I want to just run out and chase them down, but I discipline myself to stop and salvage what I can first. I know that I will need it out there, and that another minute or two spent here can end up making the difference. So I reach down and try his helmet on and am relieved to see that it fits. Its black visor will come in handy in blocking out the blinding light off the snow. I raid his clothing next, which I desperately need. I strip his gloves, made of an ultra-light, padded material, and am relieved to see they fit my hands perfectly. My friends always teased me about my big hands and feet and I always felt embarrassed by it—but now, for once, I am glad. I strip his jacket next and it fits too, though just a tad too big. I look down and see how small his frame is, and realize I am lucky. We are nearly the same size. The jacket is thick and padded, lined with some sort of down material. I have never worn anything as warm and luxurious in my life, and I am so grateful. Now, finally, I can brave the cold.

I look down and know I should strip his shirt, too—but I just can’t bring myself to wear it. Somehow, it’s too personal.

I hold my feet up to his, and am thrilled to see we are the same size. I waste no time stripping my old, worn boots, a size too small, then stripping his and putting them on my feet. I stand. They are a perfect fit, and feel amazing. Black combat boots with steel-tip toes, the inside lined with fur, they climb all the way up my shin. They are a thousand times warmer—and more comfortable—than my current boots.

Wearing my new boots, coat, gloves, and with his weapons belt snug around me, g*n and ammo inside, I feel like a new person, ready for battle. I glance down at Sasha’s corpse and then look over and, nearby, see Bree’s new teddy bear, on the floor and covered in blood. I fight back tears. A part of me wants to spit in this slaverunner’s face before I walk out the door, but I simply turn and run out the house.

I moved quickly, managing to strip him and dress myself in under a minute, and now I race out of the house at breakneck speed, making up for lost time. As I burst out the front door, I can still hear the distant whine of their engines. They can’t have more than a mile on me, and I’m determined to close that gap. All I need is a small stroke of luck—for them to get stuck in just one snow bank, to hit one bad turn—and maybe, just maybe, I can catch them. And with this g*n and ammo, I might even be able to give them a run for their money. If not, I will go down fighting. There is absolutely no way I’m ever coming back here without Bree by my side.

I run up the hill, into the woods, as fast as I can, racing for Dad’s motorcycle. I glance over and see the garage doors blown open. The slaverunners must have searched it for a vehicle. I am so grateful I had the foresight to hide the bike long ago.

I scramble up the hill in the melting snow, and hurry to the bushes concealing the bike. The new gloves, thickly padded, come in handy: I grab hold of thorny branches and tear them out of my way. Within moments, I clear a path to the bike. I am relieved to find it’s still there, and well-sheltered from the elements. Without wasting a beat, I tighten my new helmet, grab the key from its hiding place in the spoke, and jump onto the bike. I turn the ignition and kickstart it.

The engine turns over, but doesn’t catch. My heart plummets. I haven’t started it in years. Could it be dead? I try to start it, kicking and revving it again and again. It makes noise, louder and louder, but still nothing. I feel more and more frantic. If I can’t get this started, I have no chance of catching them. Bree will be gone to me forever.

“Come on, COME ON!” I scream, my entire body shaking.

I kick it again and again. Each time it makes more and more noise, and I feel like I’m getting closer.

I raise my head back to the sky.

“DAD!” I scream. “PLEASE!”

I kick it again, and this time, it catches. I am flooded with relief. I rev it several times, louder and louder, and small black clouds of exhaust exit the tailpipe.

Now, at least, I have a fighting chance.

*

I turn the heavy handlebars and walk the bike back a few feet; it is almost more weight than I can manage. I turn the handlebars again and give it just a little bit of throttle, and the bike starts rolling down the steep mountain, still covered in snow and branches.

The paved road is about fifty yards ahead of me, and going down the mountain, through these woods, is treacherous. The motorcycle slips and slides, and even when I hit the brakes, I can’t really control it. It is more of a controlled slide. I slide by trees, barely missing them, and get jolted as I ride over large holes in the dirt or bump hard over rocks. I pray I don’t blow a tire.

After about thirty seconds of the roughest, bumpiest ride I can imagine, the bike finally clears the dirt and lands onto the paved road with a bang. I turn and give it gas, and it is responsive: it flies down the steep, paved mountain road. Now, I am rolling.

I gain some real speed, the engine roaring, wind racing over my helmet. It is freezing, colder than ever, and I am grateful I stripped the gloves and coat. I don’t know what I would have done without them.

Still, I can’t go too fast. This mountain road twists sharply and there is no shoulder; one turn too sharp and I will plummet, dropping hundreds of feet straight down the cliff. I go as fast as I can, yet slow before each turn.

It feels great to be driving again; I had forgotten what real freedom felt like. My new coat flaps like crazy in the wind. I lower the black visor, and the bright white of the snowy landscape changes to a subdued gray.

If I have one advantage over the slaverunners, it is that I know these roads better than anyone. I’ve been coming up here since I was a kid, and I know where the road bends, how steep it is, and shortcuts they could never possibly know. They’re in my territory now. And even though I’m probably a mile or more behind them, I feel optimistic I can find a way to catch them. This bike, as old as it is, must be at least as fast as their muscle cars.

I also feel confident I know where they’re going. If you want back on the highway—which they surely do—then there’s only one way out of these mountains, and that’s Route 23, heading east. And if they’re heading for the city, then there’s no other way but to cross the Hudson via the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. It’s their only way out. And I’m determined to beat them to it.

I’m getting used to the bike and gaining good speed, good enough that the whine of their engines is becoming louder. Encouraged, I g*n the motorcycle faster than I should: I glance down and see I am doing 60. I know it’s reckless, since these hairpin turns force me to slow down to about 10 miles an hour if I want any chance of not wiping out in the snow. So I accelerate, and then decelerate, turn after turn. I finally gain enough ground that I can actually see, about a mile in the distance, the bumper of one of their cars, just disappearing around a bend. I am encouraged. I’m going to catch these guys—or die trying.

I take another turn, slowing down to about 10 and getting ready to speed up again, when suddenly, I almost run into a person, standing there in the road, right in front of me. He appears out of nowhere, and it’s too late for me to even react.

I’m about to hit him, and I have no choice but to slam on the brakes. Luckily I’m not going fast, but my bike still slides in the snow, unable to gain traction. I do a 360, spinning twice, and finally come to a stop as my bike slams against the granite face of the mountainside.

I’m lucky. If I had spun the other way, I would have spun right off the cliff.

It all happened so fast, I am in shock. I sit there on the bike, gripping the bars, and turn and look up the road. My first instinct is that the man is a slaverunner, placed in the road to derail me. In one quick move, I kill the ignition and draw the g*n, aiming it right at the man, who is still standing there, about twenty feet from me. I release the safety and pull back the pin, like Dad taught me so many times in the firing range. I aim it right for his heart, instead of his head, so if I miss, I’ll still hit him somewhere.

My hands are shaking, even with the gloves on, and I realize how nervous I am to pull the trigger. I’ve never killed anyone before.

The man suddenly raises his hands, high into the air, and takes a step towards me.

“Don’t shoot!” he yells.

“Stay where you are!” I yell back, still not quite prepared to kill him.

He stops in his tracks, obedient.

“I’m not one of them!” he yells. “I’m a survivor. Like you. They took my brother!”

I wonder if it’s a trap. But then I raise my visor and look him up and down, see his worn jeans, filled with holes, just like mine, see that he’s only wearing one sock. I look closer and see that he has no gloves, and that his hands are blue; he has no coat either and wears only a worn, grey thermal shirt, with holes in it. Most of all, I see that his face is emaciated, more hollowed-out than mine, and I notice the dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t shaved in a long time, either. I also can’t help noticing how strikingly attractive he is, despite all of this. He looks to be about my age, maybe 17, with a big shock of light brown hair, and large, light blue eyes.