July curled the toes of his right foot in the dry sand and listened to the muffled cries of a hundred Raiders thirsting for blood. Streaks of orange light seeped through the cracks in the arena door and snaked over the sand. July watched the shadow of a scorpion make its way across the room. July’s fellow contender was a sallow man who shivered and muttered to himself, “My wife…” he said over and over, “She needs me… I have to find her.” No doubt the man was the victim of one of Mitch Buster’s recent attacks.
No matter who the man was his nervous antics was putting July on edge – he was already disadvantaged enough with his leg.
“Hey, shut up.”
The man bit his thumbnail and looked at July. “I’ve seen what happens here. People like us… we don’t survive. I’ve seen it…”
“Well, gnawing your fingers off and mumbling to yourself isn’t gonna help anyone. We just need to stay calm. What’s your name?”
“My… name? Stephen.”
July lowered his voice so that the guards couldn’t hear. “We’re gonna get out of here, Stephen. I heard you mention your wife, okay, she needs you to get through this but the only way for us to do that is if we look out for each other.”
“My wife…” the man trailed off again. “My wife…”
The arena doors opened with a loud clanking noise and the burning orange light blared at July and Stephen, followed by a thunderous applause and the showcase voice of the commentator. July attempted to stand as straight as possible as he entered the arena but the rugged clothes he had been given didn’t help him hide his weakness. The arena was a wide gruesome pit, atop which, at the podium, stood the commentator, beside an empty chair that likely belonged to the game-master. All around were the leering faces of the crowd, shouting and cheering and spitting at July and Stephen. Along the walls were racks stocked with makeshift weapons; spears, clubs and shields.
“Where did we find this sorry bunch,” yelled the commentator to the laughs of the crowd. “Think twice before betting against the cripple though, he might just surprise you.”
July slowly backed closer to the walls, keeping his eyes on the far gate where he assumed his enemy would soon reveal itself.
“Ladies and gentlemen, here we have for you a wonderful little appetiser, but we realise these contenders might not put up such a good fight so we’re gonna spice things up a bit.” Someone hurled a pistol from the stand and it landed in the centre of the arena. “I hope you can shoot, my friend, because we only give you what you need. Miss the target and it’s over!” Another round of wild applause from the crowd as the far gate slowly lifted. “Let. The. Carnage. Begin!”
On instinct July scrambled towards the gun, it wasn’t until he was halfway that he saw the three ravenous desert hounds charge into the arena. The hounds were naked, their skin red and raw, with vertebrae and shoulder bones protruding from their backs, yellow saliva dripping from their teeth, eyes like a cloud of smoke. July had no idea where Stephen was but there was no time. He dived for the gun, rolled onto his side and shot the first hound between the eyes; it’s skull exploded and it collapsed a few feet away from him. He couldn’t get a shot before the second hound pounced, gnashing against him, its foul claws ripping into his torso as he threw it off. The hound rolled and recovered itself and as it came around for another attack July shot it in the jaw.
The cry of anguish sounded across the arena and July turned to see the final hound tearing at Stephen’s hand. July scrambled forwards and raised the gun but he didn’t pull the trigger, instead he collected a spear from the wall. By the time he returned, however, the hound had sunk its rotten teeth into Stephen’s neck. He was dead, or perhaps near death, by the time July impaled the hound, the spear sinking behind the ear. July tucked the pistol into the back of his pants.
“I don’t believe it, folks, the cripple has survived to the end of the round! Who knew—”
“Enough!” said July, throwing down his spear and looking straight at the podium. “My name is July Mundane, leader of the Deathly Quill.” There was a collective gasp from the crowd. July went on, “I demand an audience with your game-master.”
No one replied but the arena became filled with the low murmurs of the crowd and July waited there even though his leg was once again beginning to ache. Then, another loud clanking sound of the door opening, and a large burly man stepped out. He was fierce and heavily scarred, likely an ex-contender in this very arena. The man took a few paces towards July and then stopped, waiting for July to speak.
July pulled the gun and shot the game-master down. He died instantly and the crowd went into a shrill frenzy. A handful of guards rushed into the arena and dragged July away.
ns 172.69.59.15da2