Arena One: Slaverunners by Morgan Rice Page B

He looks dazed, too, on his hands and knees, breathing hard, his cheeks black with soot. But at least he is alive.
    I hear the roar of an engine, and look over and see that in the distance, the other car has caught traction. It is already taking off down the highway, gaining speed, with my sister inside. I am furious at Ben for making me lose her. I have to catch them.
    I turn to the slaverunner car before me, still on its side, and wonder if it runs. I run over to it, determined to try.
    I push it for all I have, trying to get it back on all four tires. But it’s too heavy, barely rocking.
    “Help me!” I yell to Ben.
    He gets up and hurries to my side, limping. He takes position beside me, and together, we push with all we have. The car is heavier than I imagine, weighed down by all its iron bars. It rocks more and more, and finally, after one big heave, we get it back onto all four tires. It lands in the snow with a crash.
    I waste no time. I open the driver’s side door and reach in and grab the dead driver with both hands by the shirt and yank him out of the seat. His torso is covered in blood, and my hands turn red as I throw him into the snow.
    I lean in and examine the slaverunner in the passenger seat. His face is covered in blood, too, but I am not certain he is dead. In fact, as I look closer, I detect some signs of movement. Then he shifts in his seat. He’s alive.
    I lean across the car and grab him by his shirt, tight in a fist. I hold my gun to his head and shake him roughly. Finally, his eyes bat open. He blinks, disoriented.
    I assume the other slaverunners are heading to Arena One. But I need to know for sure. They have such a big head start on us, that I need to know. I lean in close.
    He turns and looks at me, and for a moment, I am stunned: half his face is melted away. It is an old wound, not from the accident, which means he must be a Biovictim. I’ve heard rumors of these people, but I’ve never seen one up close. When the nuclear payloads were dropped in the cities, those few who survived a direct attack carried the scars, and were rumored to be more sadistic and aggressive than others. We call them the Crazies.
    I have to be extra careful with this one. I tighten my grip on the gun.
    “Where are they taking her?” I demand, through gritted teeth.
    He looks back blankly, as if trying to comprehend. I feel certain, though, that he understands.
    I shove the barrel tight against his cheek, letting him know I mean business. And I do. Every passing moment is precious, and I can feel Bree getting further away from me.
    “I said, where are they taking her?”
    Finally, his eyes open in what seems to be fear. I think he gets the message.
    “The arena,” he finally says, his voice raspy.
    My heart flutters, my worst fears confirmed.
    “Which one?” I snap.
    I pray he does not say Arena One .
    He pauses, and I can see he is debating whether or not to tell me. I jab the pistol tighter against his cheekbone.
    “Tell me now or you’re wasted!” I yell, surprising myself with the anger in my voice.
    Finally, after a long pause, he answers: “Arena One.”
    My heart pounds, my worst fears confirmed. Arena One. Manhattan. It is rumored to be the worst of them all. That can only mean one thing: a certain death for Bree.
    I feel a fresh rage towards this man, this bottom feeder, this slaverunner, the lowest rung of society, who has come up here to kidnap my sister, and God knows who else, to feed the machine, just so that others can watch helpless people kill each other. All this senseless death, just for their own entertainment. It is enough to make me want to kill him on the spot.
    But I pull the gun back, and loosen my grip. I know that I should kill him, but a part of me can’t bring myself to. He answered my questions, and somehow I feel killing him now wouldn’t be fair. So instead, I decide I will abandon him here. I will kick him out of the car and leave him here, which will mean a slow death