Arena One: Slaverunners by Morgan Rice Page A

excruciating pain on my right, in my ribs, enough to take my breath away. It feels like I’ve cracked one of them. With a supreme effort, I am able to turn over to my side. I lift my visor, look over and take in the scene.
    It looks like I hit the first car with such force that I knocked it on its side; it lays there, its wheels spinning. The other vehicle has spun out, but is still upright; it sits in a ditch on the side of the road, about fifty yards ahead of us. Ben still sits in the sidecar; I can’t tell if he’s dead or alive. It seems I am the first one to regain consciousness. There seems to be no other signs of life from anyone.
    I don’t waste any time. I feel more achy than ever—as if I’ve just been run over by a Mack Truck—but I think again of Bree, and somehow summon the energy to move. I have the advantage now, while everyone else is recovering.
    Limping, feeling a throbbing pain in my ribs, I hobble over to the car on its side. I pray that Bree is in there, that she’s unhurt, and that I can get her out of here somehow. I reach down and take out the gun as I approach, holding it cautiously in front of me.
    I look in and see that both slaverunners are slumped in their seats, covered in blood. One’s eyes are open, clearly dead. The other appears to be dead, too. I quickly check the backseats, hoping to see Bree.
    But she’s not there. Instead, I find two other teenagers—a boy and a girl. They sit there, frozen with fear. I can’t believe it. I hit the wrong car.
    I immediately look over to the car on the horizon, the one in the ditch, and as I do, it suddenly revs its engine and its wheels spin. It is trying to get out. I prepare to sprint towards it, to reach it before it pulls out. My heart thumps in my throat, knowing Bree is right there, barely fifty yards away.
    Just as I’m about to burst into action, I suddenly hear a voice.
    “HELP ME!”
    I look over and see Ben, sitting in the sidecar, trying to get out. I look behind him and see flames spreading on the bike, behind the gas tank. My bike is on fire. And Ben is stuck. I stand there, torn, looking back and forth between Ben and the car that holds my sister. I need to go and rescue her. But at the same time, I can’t let him die. Not like this.
    Furious, I run to him. I grab him, feeling the heat from the flames behind him, and yank on him, trying to get him out. But the metal of the sidecar has bent in on his legs, and it’s not easy. He tries to help, too, and I yank, again and again, the flames growing higher. I am sweating, grunting, as I yank with all I have. Finally, I pry him loose.
    And just as I do, suddenly, the bike explodes.
     

 
     
EIGHT
     
     
    The explosion sends us both flying back through the air, and I land hard on my back in the snow. For the third time this morning, the wind is knocked out of me.
    I look up at the sky, seeing stars, trying to clear my head. I can still feel the heat on my face from the force of the flames, and my ears ring from the noise.
    As I struggle to my knees, I feel a searing pain in my right arm. I look over and see that a small piece of shrapnel is sticking through the edge of my bicep, maybe two inches long; it looks like a piece of twisted metal. It hurts like crazy.
    I reach over and, without thinking, in one quick motion grab the end of it, grit my teeth and yank. For a moment, I am in the worst pain of my life, as the metal goes completely through my arm and out the other side. Blood rushes down my arm and into the snow, staining my coat.
    I quickly take off one sleeve of the coat and can see the blood on my shirt. I tear off a piece of the sleeve with my teeth and take a strip of cloth and tie it tight over the wound, then put my coat back on. I hope it will staunch the flow of blood. I manage to sit up, and as I look over, I see what was once my Dad’s bike: now it is just a heap of useless metal, on fire. It will clearly never run again. Now we’re stuck.
    I look over at Ben.