9
LEVEL ONE: THE DRAGON STONES
REMAINING CONTESTANTS: 9,655,184
TIME UNTIL CULLING: 59 days
NAME: JACK REN
CURRENT RANK: 447,135
Earl doesn’t need to scream, ‘Run!’ but he does it anyway. Elizabeth’s way ahead of us, has already turned tail and is sprinting toward the nearest copse of trees, maybe figuring it’ll be easier to lose this colossus in the undergrowth. She’s probably right—assuming we can make it there before we’re caught.
There’s a little voice in my head that’s tempted to call my two friends to action and take a stand against the giant chasing us. Level seventeen is, obviously, a serious fucking problem, but there are three of us, and it isn’t impossible, I think, that we could find a way to win…and just how great would the reward be if we did?
But I’m being a fool. The colossus would tear us to pieces, I know it would.
And so I run.
As I run, I deliberately infuse each of my steps with a small amount of bounce. The Spring Boots do the rest, and I find myself almost gliding across the grassy field, overtaking both Earl and Elizabeth, the wind in my hair and whipping at my face. Others, I can see, are similarly scattering; humans, goblins, elves, and other species’ that, at a glance, I can scarcely make sense of.
I risk a glance over my shoulder.
The giant in black armor is close. Closer than I’d thought.
And now I can see enough of the face showing beneath the helmet to see that it’s not an it at all.
There’s a man underneath all that armor. A human man.
A thousand questions slide through my mind. How has he advanced so quickly? Who is he? Is there any chance that we could talk to him, reason with him, even find a way to work together?
But the giant, flaming sword in his hands is answer enough. I feel the heat of it scorching the back of my neck. My heart pounds harder and my breath emerges as a dry rasp. Clad in so much armor, how can that motherfucker even move so fast?
Thunder drowns out my thoughts, a low and not-so-distant rumble.
Then I realize that it isn’t thunder.
It’s the laughter of the man chasing us.
My lungs and legs are burning, but even still, I press in. I’m suffering from adrenaline dump now, my limbs becoming leaden, bone-deep exhaustion seeping into my very core. But slowing down isn't an option.
We crash through the undergrowth, branches tearing at our clothes, leaves brushing across our flesh. Smoke fills the air, and I realize that our hunter’s sword has just set the greenery around us ablaze.
I don’t know how long I run for. I can see Elizabeth, in front of me the whole time, and all I do is focus on her back, following her wherever she goes, mirroring her movements as trees blur past. There’s movement elsewhere throughout the woods—other contestants sprinting—but, as though by unspoken agreement, we all leave each other alone, deciding that the man in black armor is too much of a threat for us to worry about anything else.
And eventually we become aware that the heat is no longer at our back, and that the thunderous crashing of the giant wading through the undergrowth has been replaced by a deep silence. By then, the sun is starting to set, plunging the world into a state of deepened-shadows and chirping cicadas.
I slow to a stop, bend over, panting and gasping for breath.
Elizabeth stops in front of me. It takes us ten minutes or more to gather our breath enough to actually speak.
At which point I say, “Where’s Earl?”
We whirl around and call out his name, but there’s no sign of the man, and behind us, the direction we’d come from, there’s no sound, no sign of any movement.
It’s as though Earl has simply vanished.
I cover my hands with my face, take another deep breath. Fuck this place. Fuck these games. Fuck it all.
“We have to keep moving,” Elizabeth tugs at my sleeve.
“We can’t leave him.”
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“He’s probably fine,” Elizabeth grunts, but I don’t think she really believes that.
“What do you mean he’s probably fine?” I snap. “We left him back there with that fucking monster. That man. He’s probably dead!”
“And if that’s the case,” Elizabeth says, now perfectly calm, “then there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it. So, we keep moving. And if he is still alive…then he’ll be fine. What did he say he was? Delta force? He’ll find a way.”
It sounds cold, but I know she’s probably right. If we go back and cross paths with the armored man again, there’ll be absolutely nothing we can do except die. And while I hate to leave Earl behind—Earl, who I already consider a friend—if it’s between him or Sarah, it’s going to be Sarah every single time.
So, we keep moving.
We walk for an hour or so. The trees continue to spread out around us, with more and more space between each of them. The ground becomes uneven and hilly, and when I look up, I see we’re headed toward a range of mountains outlined darkly against the sky.
“We need to stop,” Elizabeth declares, “and set up camp.”
I don’t like the idea of stopping. I don’t feel as though we’re safe yet. We’re only an hour or two away from where the battle was being held, and I’m quite sure that we’re not the only ones to get away. It stands to reason, then, that they’ll be people in the vicinity. Hunters searching for the weak and the wounded, ready to take out the opposition now that they’re vulnerable.
But then, walking onward, through the night, is hardly a better alternative, and I’m so sore and hungry that I need to rest, ‘else I’ll just collapse entirely.
We set up amongst a series of large rocks jutting out of the ground. The rocks cover us from most directions and, at the very least, if we’re surrounded in the night, they’ll serve as obstacles. It isn’t very comforting, but it’s something. Already, I find myself missing Earl. I miss his confidence. His knowledge. The sense that I didn’t have to worry, because at least I had someone as experienced as he was to guide me. And while Elizabeth also strikes me as being extremely competent in her own way, it’s not quite the same, and I don’t trust her anywhere near as much. I can’t forget that she was an assassin. That she’s almost certainly murdered in cold blood for her own profit.
I can’t help myself. As we’re setting up, I ask her about it.
“So,” I say, as she sits down with her back against a rock, tearing at a piece of stale bread. “You used to kill people.”
“Still do, as it turns out.”
I acknowledge that with a nod. We’re all killers now. It’s what the Games make us be.
“Why’d you do it?”
She stares at me with narrowed eyes. “Why do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Why do you beat people up for a living?”
“Money, mostly,” I say. “Plus, I’m good at it. And most of the time, I enjoy it.”
“Money,” she echoes. “Well, there you go.”
“Difference is,” I continue, “when I beat people up, they were trying to beat me up, and they wanted to be there. We’re all professionals. There’s an understanding. Killing folk, on the other hand…”
“What is this?” She asks. “The judgement circle? Why the fuck are you asking?”
I let out a breath, realize that I’ve clenched my fists and they’ve remained clenched. I relax them. “I’m just trying to get to know you better. Especially now that it’s just the two of us. I don’t know about you, but I reckon it’d be a lot easier to get through this ordeal with friends rather than alone.”
“Friends is a dangerous concept in a game where only one person can win.”
“I figure we cross that bridge when we get to it.”
Elizabeth shrugs. “If you say so. And for what it’s worth, the sort of people I kill, you wouldn’t shed many tears for. It’s not like I’m out there shooting children and kittens.”
“How’d you get into it?”
Elizabeth scowls. “Family.”
“Like, as in your family are also assassins?”
“Not quite. My father was involved in some things. Had connections. Then he passed. Then my brothers took up the mantle. Then I decided I wanted to get involved. Figured out I had some certain skills.”
“Murdering you mean?” I hold up my hands. “Sorry, that wasn’t meant to come across as judgemental as it did.” Although I am judging her a little, of course.
“No,” she says blandly. “I’m more talking about the ability to go completely cold. To shut certain parts of one’s mind off.”
I shiver. “And how does a person do that?”
“Listen,” Elizabeth says, “if we must talk, can we talk about something else? What about you? How’d you get into fighting?”
I lean back against the rock opposite her. “I was fourteen. Fat. Covered in acne. Bullied mercilessly by just about everyone. And I thought, fuck it. So, I convinced my dad to sign me up for a local boxing club. Boxed exclusively for two years, liked it a lot, but didn’t like the idea that your average MMA guy would fuck me up. They’d fuck any boxer up, no matter how good. Grappling. Leg kicks. All the rest. And, you know, at the time, I wasn’t doing it for sport reasons. It was about self-esteem. About feeling like I could handle myself; and that no one could push me around. So, I switched to an MMA club and never looked back. Rack up enough wins on the ammy circuit—amateur—and you’re eventually pressured into going pro.” I yawn. “Never had any aspirations of being a champ. But I just kept winning, so…”
“Good problem to have.”
I grunt.
“And you don’t worry about the effect?” She asks. “Like, brain damage?”
I wince. I get that question a lot, and never enjoy answering it. Sarah used to bring it up all the time. In the beginning, she hated the idea of me fighting, used to ask me to retire and find something else. Eventually, I convinced her that it wouldn’t be forever; just a few more years, a few more fights, and then I’d get out.
Truth is, I do worry about the damage. I’ve had symptoms, and will probably have even worse ones as time goes on, assuming I get out of this arena.
But in later years of my life, I’ve come to realize something.
There’s something great about being great.
And greatness always comes with a price.
What should the theme of level two be?
