Free Arena One: Slaverunners by Morgan Rice Page B

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, gun 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 gun 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 that 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 my Dad’s motorcycle. I glance over and see that the garage doors were blown open, and realize 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 am able to grab hold of thorny branches and tear them out of my way. Within moments, I clear a path, and see 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 gas, 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 bike 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 the bike falls into large holes in the dirt, then bumps hard over rocks. I pray that I don’t blow a tire.
    After about thirty seconds of the roughest, bumpiest ride I can imagine, finally, the bike 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 what I would have done without them.
    Still, I can’t go