Free Arena One: Slaverunners by Morgan Rice Page A

recognize: it is the voice of a crazy person.
    But every door is wide open, and everything is empty.
    The slaverunners have taken my sister.
     

 
     
FOUR
     
     
    I stand there, in the living room of my Dad’s house, in shock. On the one hand, I’ve always feared that 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 instinct? Looking back, I can’t help feeling that Dad really did warn me. Why didn’t I listen? 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, preparing to 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, and I pull it out and check it 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 am relieved to see that it fits too, 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