Морган Райс
Arena One: Slaverunners
“I’m sorry,” he says, flustered, and his voice is already that of a broken man. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Slowly, I soften. I realize it’s not his fault. He’s not the bad guy.
“Where did they take you?” I ask.
“To their leader. He asked me to join them.”
“Did you accept?” I ask. My heart flutters as I wait for the answer. If he says yes, I would think so much less of him; in fact, I wouldn’t even be able to look at him again.
“Of course not,” he says.
My heart swells with relief and admiration. I know what a sacrifice that is. Like me, he has just written his own death sentence.
“Did you?” he asks.
“What do you think?” I say.
“No,” he says. “I suspect not.”
I look over and see that he cradles one of his fingers, which is bent out of shape. He looks like he’s in pain.
“What happened?” I ask.
He looks down at his finger. “It’s from the car accident.”
“Which one?” I ask, and can’t help but break into a small, wry smile, thinking of all the accidents we had in the last 24 hours.
He smiles back, even as he winces in pain. “The last one. When you decided to crash into a train. Nice move,” he says, and I can’t tell whether he means it or is being sarcastic.
“My brother was on the train,” he adds. “Did you see him?”
“I saw him board,” I say. “Then I lost him.”
“Do you know where the train was going?”
I shake my head. “Did you see my sister on it?”
He shakes his head. “I couldn’t really tell. It all happened so fast.”
He looks down, distraught. A heavy silence follows. He seems so lost. The sight of his crooked finger bothers me, and my heart goes out to him. I decide to stop being so edgy, and to show him some compassion.
I reach out and take his injured hand in both of mine. He looks up at me, surprised.
His skin is smoother than I’d expected; it feels as if he’s never worked a day in his life. I hold his fingertips gently in mine, and am surprised to feel slight butterflies in my stomach.
“Let me help you,” I say, softly. “This is going to hurt. But it needs to be done. We have to straighten it before it sets,” I add, lifting his broken finger and examining it. I think back to when I was young, when I’d fallen in the street and come in with a broken pinky finger. Mom had insisted on taking me to a hospital. Dad had refused, and had taken my finger in his hands and snapped it back into place in one quick motion, before my Mom could react. I had screamed in pain, and I remember even now how much it hurt. But it worked.
Ben looks back at me with fear in his eyes.
“I hope you know what you’re doing – ”
Before he can finish, I have already snapped his crooked finger back into place.
He screams out, and backs away from me, holding his hand.
“Damn it!” he screams, pacing around, holding his hand. Soon he calms, breathing hard. “You should have warned me!”
I tear a thin strip of cloth off of my sleeve, take his hand again, and tie the injured finger to its neighbor. It is a lame stint, but it will have to do. Ben stands inches away, and I can feel him looking down at me.
“Thanks,” he whispers, and there is something in his voice, something intimate, that I haven’t sensed before.
I feel the butterflies again, and suddenly feel I am too close to him. I need to stay clear-headed, strong, detached. I back away quickly, walking over to my side of the cell.
I glance over and see that Ben looks disappointed. He also looks exhausted, dejected. He leans back to the wall, and slowly slumps down to a sitting position, resting his head on his knees.
It’s a good idea. I do the same, suddenly feeling the exhaustion in my legs.
I take a seat opposite him in the cell, and lower my head into my hands. I’m so hungry. So tired. Everything aches. I would do anything for food, water, painkillers, a bed. A hot shower. I just want to sleep – forever. I just want this whole thing behind me. If I’m going to die, I just want it to happen quickly.
We sit there for I don’t know how long, both in silence. Maybe an hour passes, maybe two. I can’t keep track anymore.
I hear the sound of his belabored breathing, through his broken nose, and my heart goes out to him. I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. I wonder when they will come for us, when I will hear those boots again, marching us to our deaths.
Ben’s voice fills the air, a soft, sad, broken voice: “I just want to know where they took my brother,” he says, softly. I can hear the pain in his voice, how much he cares for him. It makes me think of Bree.
I feel the need to force myself to be tough, to force myself to stop all of this self-pitying.
“Why?” I snap back. “What good would it do? There’s nothing we can do about it anyway.” But in truth, I want to know the same thing – where they’ve taken her.
Ben shakes his head sadly, looking crushed.
“I just want to know,” he says softly. “For my own sake. Just to know.”
I sigh, trying not to think of it, not to think about what’s happening to her right now. About whether she thinks I’ve let her down. Abandoned her.
“Did they tell you they’re putting you in the arena?” he asks. I can hear the fear in his voice.
My heart flutters at the thought. Slowly, I nod.
“You?” I ask, already guessing the answer.
Grimly, he nods back.
“They say no one survives,” he says.
“I know,” I snap back. I don’t need reminding of this. In fact, I don’t want to think about it at all.
“So, what are you gonna do?” he asks.
I look back at him.
“What do you mean? It’s not like I have any options.”
“You seem to have a way out of everything,” he says. “Some last-minute way of dodging things. What’s your way out of this one?”
I shake my head. I’ve been wondering the same thing, but to no avail.
“I’m out of ways,” I say. “I’ve got nothing.”
“So that’s it?” he snaps back, annoyed. “You’re just going to give up? Let them bring you to the arena? Kill you?”
“What else is there?” I snap back, annoyed myself.
He squirms. “I don’t know,” he says. “You must have a plan. We can’t just sit here. We can’t just let them march us off to our deaths. Something.”
I shake my head. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m hurt. I’m starving. This room is solid metal. There are hundreds of armed guards out there. We’re underground somewhere. I don’t even know where. We have no weapons. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing.
Except one thing, I realize. I can go down fighting.
“I’m not letting them march me to my death,” I suddenly say, in the darkness.
He looks up at me. “What do you mean?”
“I’m going to fight,” I say. “In the arena.”
Ben laughs, more like a derisive snort.
“You’re kidding. Arena One is filled with professional killers. And even those killers get killed. No one survives. Ever. It’s just a prolonged death sentence. For their amusement.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t try,” I snap back, my voice rising, furious at his pessimism.
But Ben just looks back down, head in his hands, and shakes his head.
“Well, I won’t stand a chance,” he says.
“If you think that way, then you won’t,” I snap back. It is a phrase that Dad often used with me, and I am surprised to hear those same words now coming out of my mouth. It disturbs me, as I wonder how much of him, exactly, I’ve absorbed. I can hear the toughness in my own voice, a toughness I never recognized until this day, and I almost feel as if he’s speaking through me. It’s an eerie feeling.
“Ben,” I say. “If you think you can survive, if you can see yourself surviving, then you will. It’s about what you force yourself to imagine in your head. About what you tell yourself.”
“That’s just lying to yourself,” Ben says.
“No it’s not,” I answer. “It’s training yourself. There’s a difference. It’s seeing your own future, the way you want it to be, and creating it in your head, and then making it happen. If you can’t see it, then you can’t create it.”
“You sound like you actually believe you can survive,” Ben says, sounding amazed.
“I don’t believe it,” I snap. “I know it. I am going to survive. I will survive,” I hear myself saying, with growing confidence. I have always had an ability to psych myself up, to get myself so into a head that there’s no turning back. Despite everything, I find myself swelling with a newfound confidence, a new optimism.
And suddenly, at that moment, I make a decision: I am determined to survive. Not for me. But for Bree. After all, I don’t know that she is dead yet. She might be alive. And the only chance I have of saving her is if I can stay alive. If I survive this arena. And if that’s what it takes, then that is what I will do.
I will survive.
I don’t see why I wouldn’t stand a chance. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s fight. That’s what I’ve been raised to be good at. I’ve been in a ring before. I’ve gotten my butt kicked. And I’ve gotten stronger for it. I’m not afraid.
“So then how are you going to win?” Ben asks. This time his question sounds genuine, sounds as if he really believes I might. Maybe something in my voice has convinced him.
“I don’t need to win,” I say back, calmly. “That’s the thing. I only need to survive.”
Barely do I finish uttering the words when I hear the sound of combat boots marching down the hall. A moment later, there comes the sound of our door opening.
They have come for me.
Fifteen
Our cell door groans open and light floods in from the hallway. I raise my hands to my eyes, shielding them, and see the silhouette of a slaverunner. I expect him to march over and take me away, but instead he leans down, drops something hard and plastic on the floor, and kicks it. It scrapes across the floor and stops abruptly as it slams against my foot.
“Your last meal,” he announces in a dark voice.
Then he marches out and slams the door, locking it.
I can already smell the food from here, and my stomach reacts with a sharp hunger pang. I lean over and pick up the plastic container carefully, barely able to make it out in the dim light: it is long and flat, sealed with a foil top. I pull back the foil and immediately the smell of food – real, cooked food, which I haven’t had in years – comes rushing up at me, even more powerful. It smells like steak. And chicken. And potatoes. I lean over and examine it: there is a large, juicy steak, two chicken legs, mashed potatoes, and vegetables. It is the best smell of my life. I feel guilty that Bree is not here to share it.
I wonder why they’ve given me such an extravagant meal, and then I realize it’s not an act of kindness, but a self-serving act: they want me strong for the arena. Perhaps they are also tempting me one last time, offering me a preview of what life would be like if I accept their offer. Real meals. Hot food. A life of luxury.
As the smell infiltrates every pore of my body, their offer becomes more tempting. I haven’t smelled real food in years. I suddenly realized how hungry I am, how malnourished, and I seriously wonder if, without this meal, I would even have strength to fight.
Ben sits up and leans forward, looking over. Of course. I suddenly feel selfish for not thinking of him. He must be as starving as I am, and I am sure the smell, which fills the room, is driving him crazy.
“Share it with me,” I say in the darkness. It takes all my willpower to make this offer – but it is the right thing to do.
He shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “They said it was for you. Have it. When they come for me, they’ll give me a meal, too. You need this now. You’re the one that’s about to fight.”
He’s right. I do need it now. Especially because I don’t just plan on fighting – I plan on winning.
It doesn’t take much convincing. The smell of the food overwhelms me, and I reach out and grab the chicken leg and devour it in seconds. I take bite after bite, barely slowing to swallow. It is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. But I force myself to set one of the chicken legs aside, saving it for Ben. Ben might get his own meal – or he might not. Either way, after all we’ve been through, I feel it’s only right to share.
I turn to the mashed potatoes, using my fingers to shovel them into my mouth. My stomach growls in pain, and I realize I need this meal, more than any meal I’ve ever had. My body screams out for me to take another bite, and another. I eat way too fast, and within moments, I’ve devoured more than half of them. I force myself to save the rest for Ben.
I lift the steak with my fingers and take big bites, chewing slowly, trying to savor each morsel. It is the best thing I’ve had in my life. If this turns out to be my last meal, I’d be content with it. I save half the steak and move on to the vegetables, eating only half of these. Within moments, I’m done – and I still don’t feel satisfied. I look down at what I set aside for Ben and want to devour every last bite. But I summon my willpower, slowly rise to my feet, cross the room, and hold the tray out before him.
He sits there, head resting on his knees, not looking up. He’s the most defeated-looking person I’ve ever seen. If it were me sitting there, I would have watched him eat every bite, would have imagined what it tasted like. But it seems that he just has no will left to live.
He must smell the food, so close, because he finally raises his head. He looks up at me, eyes open in surprise. I smile.
“You didn’t really think I’d eat it all, did you?” I ask.
He smiles, but shakes his head and lowers it. “I can’t,” he says. “It’s yours.”
“It’s yours now,” I say, and shove it into his hands. He has no choice but to take it.
“But it’s not fair – ” he begins.
“I’ve had enough,” I lie. “Plus, I need to stay light for the fight. I can’t maneuver on a full stomach, can I?”
My lie isn’t very convincing, and I can tell he doesn’t really buy it. But I can also see the effect the smell of the food has on him, can see his primal urge taking over. It is the same impulse I felt just a few minutes ago.
He reaches down and devours it. He closes his eyes and leans back and breathes deeply as he chews, savoring each bite. I watch him finish, and can see how much he needed it.
Instead of crossing back to my side of the room, I take a seat on the wall beside him. I don’t know how much longer I have until they come for me, and for some reason I feel like being closer to him in the last minutes we have together.
We sit there, silently beside each other, for I don’t know how long. I am on edge, listening for any sound, constantly wondering if they are coming. As I think about what lies ahead, my heart begins to beat faster, and I try to put it out of my mind.
I had assumed they would take us both to the arena together and am surprised they are separating us. It makes me wonder what other surprises they have in store. I try not to think about them.
I can’t help wondering if this is the last time I will see Ben. I haven’t known him long, and I really shouldn’t care either way. I know I should keep my head clear, my emotions calm, and focus just on the fight before me.
But for some reason I can’t stop thinking about him. I’m not sure why, but somehow I am beginning to feel attached to him. I will miss him. It doesn’t make any sense, and I am mad at myself for even thinking this way. I barely know him. It annoys me that I will be upset – more upset than I should be – about saying goodbye.
We sit there in a relaxed silence, a silence between friends. It is no longer awkward. We don’t speak, but I feel that in the silence he is hearing me, hearing me say goodbye. And that he’s saying goodbye, too.
I wait for him to say something – anything – to me. After a few minutes, a part of me starts to wonder if maybe he’s not speaking for a reason, if maybe he doesn’t feel the same way about me. Maybe he doesn’t even care for me at all; maybe he even resents me for getting him into this mess. Suddenly, I doubt myself. I need to know.
“Ben?” I whisper, in the silence.
I wait, but all that I hear is the labored sound of his breathing, through his broken nose. I look over, and see that he is fast asleep. That explains the silence.
I study his face, and even as bruised up as it is, it is beautiful. I hate the idea of our being separated. And of his dying. He’s too young to die. I guess I am, too.
The meal makes me sleepy, and in the darkness, despite myself, I find my eyes closing. Before I know it, I am slumped against the wall, sliding my head over until it rests on Ben’s shoulder. I know I should wake, stay on edge, prepare myself for the arena.
But in moments, despite my efforts, I am fast asleep.
* * *
I am awakened by the echo of boots marching down the corridor. At first I think it’s just a nightmare – but then I realize it’s not. I don’t know how many hours have passed. My body feels rested, though, and that tells me I must have been asleep for a long time.
The boots grow louder and soon stop at the door. There is a dangling of keys, and I sit up straighter, my heart pounding out of my chest. They have come for me.
I don’t know how to say goodbye to Ben, and I don’t know if he even wants me to. So instead, I just stand, every muscle in my body aching, and prepare to leave.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my wrist. It is surprisingly strong, and the intensity of his grip ripples through me.
I’m afraid to look down at him, to look into those eyes – but I have no choice. He’s staring right at me. His eyes radiate concern, and in that moment, I can see how much cares for me. The intensity of it scares me.
“You did good,” he says, “getting us this far. We never should have lived this long.”
I stare back, not knowing how to respond. I want to tell him that I’m sorry for all this. I also want to tell him that I care for him. That I hope he survives. That I survive. That I see him again. That we find our siblings. That we make it home.
But I feel that he knows this already. And so I end up not saying a word.
The door swings open, and in march the slaverunners. I turn to go, but Ben yanks on my wrist, forcing me to turn back to him.
“Survive,” he says, with the intensity of a dying man.
I stare back.
“Survive. For me. For your sister. For my brother. Survive.”
The words ring in the air, like a mandate, and I can’t help but feel as if they come from Dad, channeled through Ben. It sends a shiver up my spine. Before, I was determined to survive. Now, I feel as if I have no choice.
The slaverunners march over and stand behind me.
Ben lets go and I turn and stand proudly, facing them. I feel a surge of strength from the meal and the sleep, and I stare back at them defiantly.
One of them holds out a key. At first, I don’t understand why – but then I remember: my handcuffs. They have been on so long, I’ve forgotten they were there.
I reach out, and he unlocks them. There is a huge relief of tension, as the metal unclasps and is taken away. I rub my wrists where the circular marks are.
I march out the room before they can shove me, wanting the advantage. I know that Ben is watching me, but I can’t bear to turn around and look at him. I have to be strong.
I have to survive.
Sixteen
I am marched down the corridor by the slaverunners, and as I walk down the endless, narrow halls, I begin to hear a faint rumbling. At first, it is hard to make out. But as I get closer, it begins to sound like the noise of a crowd. A cheering crowd, with shouts coming in fits.
We turn down yet another hallway, and the noise becomes more distinct. There is a huge roar, followed by a rumbling, like an earthquake. The corridor actually trembles. It feels like the vibration of a hundred thousand people stomping their feet.
I am pushed to the right, down yet another hallway. I resent being poked and prodded by these slaverunners, especially as I am being marched to my death, and I would like nothing more than to turn around and deck one of them. But I’m unarmed, and they are bigger and stronger, and it would be a no-win situation. Besides, I need to conserve my strength.
I am prodded one last time, and the hallway opens up. In the distance there appears a harsh light, like a floodlight, and the noise of the crowd grows inconceivably loud, like a living thing. The hallway opens into a broad and high tunnel. The light gets brighter and brighter, and for a moment I wonder if I am walking out to daylight.
But the temperature hasn’t changed. I am still underground and being walked down an entrance tunnel. To the arena. I think of the time Dad took me to a baseball game, when we were heading to our seats, walking inside the stadium – when we walked down a tunnel and suddenly the stadium opened up before us. As I walk out, down the ramp, it feels like that. Except this time, I am the star of the show. I stop and stare, in awe.
Spread out before me is an enormous stadium, packed with thousands and thousands of people. In its center is a ring, shaped like an octagon; it resembles a boxing ring, except instead of ropes around its perimeter, there is a metal cage. The cage rises high in the air, about fifteen feet, completely enclosing the ring except for its open roof. It reminds me of the cage ring once used by the Ultimate Fighting Championship, but bigger. And this cage, covered in blood stains, with spikes on the inside, protruding from it every ten feet or so, clearly is not meant for sport – but for death.
There is the sound of clanging metal. Two people are fighting inside the ring and one of them was just thrown against the cage. His body slams into the metal, narrowly missing a spike, and the crowd erupts into a cheer.
The smaller opponent, covered in blood, bounces off the cage, disoriented. The bigger one, enormous, looks like a sumo wrestler. He is Asian, and must be at least five hundred pounds. After throwing the small, wiry man, the sumo wrestler charges, grabs him with two hands and lifts him easily over his head, as if he were a doll. He walks him in slow circles, and the crowd cheers wildly.
He throws the man completely across the ring, who smashes sideways into the cage, again narrowly missing a spike. He lands on the hard floor, not moving.
The entire crowd erupts in a roar and jumps to its feet, screaming.
“FINISH HIM!” a crowd member screams, above the din.
“KILL HIM!” screams another.
“CRUSH HIM!”
Thousands of people start screaming, stomping their boots on the metal bleachers, and the noise becomes deafening. Sumo holds out his arms, taking it all in, slowly circling, savoring the moment. The cheers grow louder.
Sumo slowly, ominously, crosses the ring, heading towards the unconscious man, lying facedown on the floor. As he gets close, he suddenly drops heavily to one knee, landing right on the small of the man’s back. There is a sickening cracking noise as his 500 pounds make impact on the small man’s spine, shattering it. The crowd groans, as it becomes clear that he’s broken the small man’s back.
I turn away, not wanting to look, feeling horrible for the small, defenseless man. I wonder why they don’t end this. Clearly, the wrestler has won.
But apparently, they don’t plan on ending it – and Sumo is not finished. He grabs the man’s limp body with two hands, picks him up, and throws him face-first across the ring. The man smashes into the metal cage and collapses to the floor again. The crowd roars. His body lands in an unnatural position, and I can’t tell whether he’s dead or not.
The wrestler is still not satisfied. He raises his arms, slowly circling, as the crowd chants.
“SU-MO! SU-MO! SU-MO!”
The roar reaches a deafening pitch, until Sumo crosses the ring one last time, raises a foot, and lowers it on the defenseless man’s throat. He stands with both feet on the man’s throat, crushing it. The man’s eyes open wide as he reaches up with both hands, trying to get the feet off his neck. But it is futile, and after a few seconds of struggle, he finally stops. His hands fall to his side, limp. He is dead.
The crowd jumps to its feet, roaring.
Sumo picks up the dead body, hoists it high above his head, then hurls it across the ring. This time he aims for one of the protruding spikes, and impales the body into it. The body clings to the side of the cage, a spike sticking through the stomach, blood dripping down.
The crowd roars even louder.
I’m shoved hard from behind, and I stumble out into the bright light, heading down the ramp, into the open stadium. As I enter, I finally realize where exactly I am: it is the former Madison Square Garden. Except now the place is dilapidated, the roof caving in, with sunlight and water getting in, the bleachers rusted and corroded.
The crowd must spot me, because they turn to me, and let out a cheer of anticipation. I look closely at the faces, screaming and cheering, and see they are all Biovictims. Their faces are deformed, melted away. Most are as thin as racks, emaciated. They comprise some of the most sadistic-looking types I’ve ever seen, and there are an endless array of them.
I am led down the ramp, towards the ring, and as I reach it, I can feel thousands of eyes fixate on me. There are jeers and boos. Apparently, they don’t like newcomers. Or maybe they just don’t like me.
I am marched ringside and prodded to a small metal ladder on one side of the cage. I look up at Sumo, who scowls down at me from inside the ring. I look over at the dead body, still impaled on the cage. I hesitate: I’m not eager to enter this ring.
I am prodded roughly by a gunpoint in the small of my back, and I have no choice but to take my first step on the ladder. Then another, and another. The crowd cheers, and I feel weak in the knees.
A slaverunner opens the cage door, and I take my first step in. He slams it behind me, and I can’t help but flinch. The crowd cheers again.
I turn and survey the stadium, looking for any sign of Bree, of Ben, of his brother – of any friendly face. But there are none. I force myself to look across the ring, at my opponent. Sumo stands there, looking down at me. He smiles, then erupts into laughter at the sight of me. I’m sure he thinks I will be an easy kill. I don’t blame him.
Sumo turns his back on me and raises his arms out wide, facing the crowd, craving adulation. Clearly, he is not troubled by me, and thinks this match is already over. He is already reveling in his victory to come.
Dad’s voice suddenly fills my head:
Always be the one to start a fight. Never hesitate. Surprise is your best weapon. A fight starts when YOU start it. If you wait for your opponent to start it, you’ve already lost. The first three seconds of a fight always determine its outcome. Go. GO!
Dad’s voice screams in my head, and I let it take over me. I don’t stop to think how crazy this is, how outmatched I am. All I know is that, if I do nothing, I will die.
I let Dad’s voice carry me away, and it is as if my body is being controlled by someone else. I find myself charging across the ring, focusing on Sumo. His back is still to me, his arms are still out, he is still enjoying the spectacle. And now, at least for this moment, he is exposed.
I race across the ring, every second feeling like an eternity. I focus on the fact that I am still wearing these combat boots, with their steel-tipped toes. I take three huge steps, and before Sumo can react, I leap into the air. I fly through the air, letting my momentum carry me, and aim carefully, right for the back of his left knee.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall, I hear Dad say.
I pray he’s right.
I only have one shot at this.
I kick him in the back of his knee with all I have. I feel the impact of my steel-tipped toe in his soft flesh, and I pray it works.
To my amazement, his knee buckles out from under him, and he lands on one knee on the floor of the ring, his weight shaking it.
The crowd suddenly roars in delight and surprise, clearly not expecting this.
The biggest mistake you can make in a fight is to hit someone and walk away. You don’t win a fight with a single punch, or a single kick You win it with combinations. After you kick him, kick him again. And again. And again. Don’t stop until he can’t get up.
Sumo begins to turn towards me, shock on his face. I don’t wait.
I swing around and plant a roundhouse kick perfectly on the back of his neck. He goes down, face first, hitting the floor hard, shaking it with his weight. The crowd roars.
Again, I don’t wait. I jump up high for a dropkick, digging the heel of my boot into the small of his back. Then, without pausing, I wind up and kick him hard in the side of the face, my steel tip aiming for his temple. The soft spot. I kick it again and again and again. Soon, he’s covered in blood, and he’s reaching up to protect his head.
The crowd goes insane. They jump to their feet, screaming.
“KILL HIM!” they scream. “FINISH HIM!”
But I hesitate. The sight of him lying there, limp, makes me feel bad. I know I shouldn’t – he’s a merciless killer – but still, I can’t quite bring myself to finish him off.
And that is my big mistake.
Sumo takes advantage of my hesitation. Before I know it, he reaches out and grabs my ankle. His hand is huge, impossibly huge, wrapping around my leg as if it were a twig. With one easy motion, he pulls me by the leg, spins me, and sends me flying across the ring.
I slam into the metal cage, missing one of the sharp spikes by an inch, and fall to the floor.
The crowd cheers. I look up, stunned, my head spinning. Sumo is already getting to his feet and charging. Blood trickles down his face. I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe he’s even vulnerable. And now, he must be really pissed.
I’m shocked by how fast he is. In the flash of an eye he’s almost on top of me, leaping into the air, preparing to land on top of me. If I don’t get out of the way fast, I’ll be crushed.
At the last second I roll and just barely manage to evade him as he lands hard beside me, shaking the floor so hard it actually bounces and sends me into the air.
I roll away, and keep rolling until I’m on the far side of the ring. I hurry to my feet while Sumo gets up, too. We stand there on opposite sides of the ring, facing each other, each breathing hard. The crowd is going crazy. I can’t believe I’ve managed to live this long.
He’s gearing up to charge, and I realize I’m out of options. There aren’t many places to go in this ring, especially with a man this size. One wrong move, and I’m finished. I got lucky with the element of surprise. But now I actually have to fight.
