Arena One: Slaverunners

SLAVERUNNERS

(BOOK #1 OF THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY)

MORGAN RICE

ABOUT MORGAN RICE
 

Morgan Rice is the #1 Bestselling author of THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, which has sold over 100,000 copies and has been translated into
six
languages. Morgan lives in New York City.

ACCLAIM FOR MORGAN RICE
’S BOOKS

“Grabbed my attention from the beginning and did not let go….This story is an amazing adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There is not a dull moment to be found.”

--Paranormal Romance Guild {regarding
Turned
}

“A great plot, and this especially was the kind of book you will have trouble putting down at night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular that you will immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens.”

--The Dallas Examiner{regarding
Loved
}

"A book to rival
Twilight
and
The Vampire Diaries
, and one that will have you wanting to keep reading until the very last page! If you are into adventure, love and vampires this book is the one for you!"

--vampirebooksite.com {regarding
Turned
}

"An ideal story for young readers. Morgan Rice did a good job spinning an interesting twist on what could have been a typical vampire tale. Refreshing and unique, has the classic elements found in many Young Adult paranormal stories."

--The Romance Reviews {regarding
Turned
}

“Rice does a great job of pulling you into the story from the beginning, utilizing a great descriptive quality that transcends the mere painting of the setting….Nicely written and an extremely fast read, this is a good start to a new vampire series sure to be a hit with readers who are looking for a light, yet entertaining story.”

--Black Lagoon Reviews {regarding
Turned
}

“Jam packed with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. This book is a wonderful addition to this series and will have you wanting more from Morgan Rice.”

--vampirebooksite.com
{regarding
Loved
}

“Morgan Rice proves herself again to be an extremely talented storyteller….
This
would appeal to a wide range of audiences, including younger fans of the vampire/fantasy genre. It ended with an unexpected cliffhanger that leaves you shocked.”

--THE ROMANCE REVIEWS
{regarding
Loved
}

Also by Morgan Rice

TURNED (Book #1 in the Vampire Journals)

LOVED (Book #2 in the Vampire Journals)

BETRAYED (Book #3 in the Vampire Journals)

DESTINED (Book #4 in the Vampire Journals)

DESIRED (Book #5 in the Vampire Journals)

BETROTHED (Book #6 in the Vampire Journals)

VOWED (Book #7 in the Vampire Journals)

Copyright © 201
2
by Morgan Rice

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you
’
re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author
’
s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

“Had I but died an hour before this chance,
I had lived a blessed time; for, from this instant,

There’s nothing serious in mortality.”

--Shakespeare,
Macbeth

Today is less forgiving than most. The wind whips relentlessly, brushing clumps of snow off the heavy pine and right into my face as I hike straight up the mountain face. My feet, crammed into hiking boots a size too small, disappear in the six inches of snow. I slip and slide, struggling to find my footing. The wind comes in gusts, so cold it takes my breath away. I feel as if I’m walking into a living snow globe.

Bree tells me it’s December. She likes to count down the days to Christmas, scratching off the numbers each day on an old calendar she found. She does it with such enthusiasm, I can’t bring myself to tell her we’re nowhere near December. I won’t tell her that her calendar is three years old, or that we’ll never get a new one, because they stopped making them the day the world ended. I won’t deny her her fantasy. That’s what big sisters are for.

Bree clings to her beliefs anyway, and she’s always believed that snow means December, and even if I told her, I doubt it would change her mind. That’s a ten-year-old for you.

What Bree refuses to see is that winter comes early up here. We’re high up in the Catskills, and here, there’s a different sense of time, a different turn to the seasons. Here, three hours north of what-was-once New York City, the leaves drop by the end of August, scattering across mountain ranges that stretch as far as the eye can see.

Our calendar was current once. When we first arrived, three years ago, I remember seeing the first snow and then checking it in disbelief. I couldn’t understand how the page read October. I assumed such early snow was a freak. But I soon learned it wasn’t. These mountains are just high enough, just cold enough, for winter to cannibalize Fall.

If Bree would just flip back the calendar, she’d see it right there, the old year, in big, tacky letters: 2117. Obviously, three years old. I tell myself she’s just too caught up in her excitement to check closely. This is what I hope. But lately, a part of me is beginning to suspect that she really knows, that she’s just chosen to lose herself in fantasy. I can’t blame her.

Of course, we haven’t had a working calendar for years. Or cell phone, or computer, or TV, or radio, or internet, or technology of any kind—not to mention electricity, or running water. Yet somehow, we’ve managed to make it, just the two of us, for three years like this. The summers have been tolerable, with fewer hungry days. We can at least fish then, and the mountain creeks always seemed to carry salmon. There are also berries, and even a few wild apple and pear orchards that still, after all this time, bear fruit. Once in a while, we even manage to catch a rabbit.

But the winters are intolerable. Everything is frozen, or dead, and each year I am certain that we will not make it. And this has been the worst winter of all. I keep telling myself that things will turn around; but it’s been days now without a decent meal, and Winter has just begun. We are both weak from hunger, and now, Bree is also sick. It doesn’t bode well.

As I trudge up the mountain face, retracing the same luckless steps I took yesterday, searching for our next meal, I am beginning to feel our luck has run out. It is only the thought of Bree lying there, waiting at home, that urges me forward. I stop pitying myself and instead hold her face in my mind. I know I can’t find her medicine, but I am hoping it’s just a passing fever, and that a good meal and some warmth is all she needs. What she really needs is a fire. I never light fires in our fireplace anymore, as it’s too dangerous: I can’t risk the smoke, the smell, tipping off a slaverunner to our location. But tonight I will surprise her, and just for a little while, take the chance. Bree lives for fires, and it will lift her spirits. And if I can just find a meal to complement it—even something as small as a rabbit—it will complete her recovery. Not just physically. I’ve noticed her starting to lose hope these last few days—I can see it in her eyes—and I need her to stay strong. I refuse to sit back and watch her slip away, like Mom did.

A new gust of wind slaps me in the face, and this one is so long and vicious I need to lower my head and wait until it passes. The wind roars in my ears, and I would do anything for a real winter coat. I wear only a worn hoodie, one I found years ago by the side of the road. I think it was a boy’s, but that’s good, because the sleeves are long enough to cover my hands and almost double as gloves. At five six I’m not exactly short, so whoever owned this must have been tall. Sometimes I wonder if he’d care that I’m wearing his clothing. But then I realize he’s probably dead. Just like everybody else.

My pants aren’t much better: I still wear the same pair of jeans, I’m embarrassed to mote, that I’ve had on since we escaped the city all those years ago. If there’s one thing I regret, it’s leaving so hastily. I guess I’d assumed I’d find some clothes up here, that maybe a clothing store would still be open somewhere, or even a salvation army. That was stupid of me: of course, all the clothing stores had long ago been looted. It was as if, overnight, the world went from a place of plenty to a place of scarcity. I’d managed to find a few pieces of clothing scattered in drawers in my Dad’s house. These I gave to Bree. I was happy that at least some of his clothes, like his thermals and socks, could keep her warm.

The wind finally stops, and I raise my head and hurry straight up before it can pick up again, forcing myself up at double speed, until I reach the plateau.

I reach the top, breathing hard, my legs on fire, and slowly look around. The trees are more sparse up here and in the distance is a small mountain lake. It’s frozen, like all the others, and the sun glares off of it with enough intensity to make me squint.

I immediately look over at my fishing rod, the one I’d left the day before, wedged between two boulders. It sticks out over the lake, a long piece of string dangling from it into a small hole in the ice. If the rod is bent, it means Bree and I will have dinner tonight. If not, I’ll know it didn’t work—again. I hurry between a cluster of trees, through the snow, and get a good look.

It’s straight. Of course.

My heart sinks. I debate walking out onto the ice, using my small axe to chop a hole elsewhere. But I already know it won’t make a difference. The problem is not its position—the problem is this lake. The ground is too frozen for me to dig up worms, and I don’t even know where to look for them. I’m not a natural hunter, or trapper. If I knew I’d end up where I am now, I would have devoted my entire childhood to outward bound, to survival techniques. But now I find myself useless in most everything. I don’t know how to set traps, and my fishing lines have rarely caught a thing.

Being my father’s daughter, a Marine’s daughter, the one thing that I am good at— knowing how to fight—is useless up here. If I am helpless against the animal kingdom, at least I can handle myself against the two-legged ones. From the time I was young, like it or not, Dad insisted I be his daughter—a Marine’s daughter, and proud of it. He also wanted me to be the son he never had. He enrolled me in boxing, wrestling, mixed-martial arts…there were endless lessons on how to use a knife, how to fire a gun, how to find pressure points, how to fight dirty. Most of all, he insisted I be tough, that I never show fear, and that I never cry.

Ironically, I have never had a chance to use a single thing he taught me, and it all couldn’t be more useless up here: there is not another person in sight. What I really need is to know how to find food—not to know how to kick someone. And if I do ever run into another person, I’m not going to be flipping him, but asking for help.

I think hard and recall that there is another lake up here somewhere, a smaller one; I saw it once, one summer when I was adventurous and hiked further up the mountain. It’s a steep quarter mile, and I haven’t tried to go up there since.

I look up and sigh. The sun is already beginning to set, a morose winter sunset cast in a reddish hue, and I’m already weak, tired and frozen. It will take most of what I’ve got just to make it back down the mountain. The last thing I want is to hike further up. But a small voice inside me urges me to keep climbing. The more time I spend alone these days, the stronger Dad’s voice is becoming in my head. I resent it, and I want to block it out, but somehow, I can’t.

S
top whining and k
eep pushing
,
Moore
!

Dad always liked to call me by my last name. Moore. It annoyed me, but he didn’t care.

I know that if I go back now, Bree will have nothing to eat tonight. That lake up there is the best I can come up with, our only other source of food. I also want Bree to have a fire, and all the wood down here is soaked. Up there, where the wind is stronger, I might find wood dry enough for kindling. I take one more look straight up the mountain, and decide to go for it. I lower my head, and begin the hike, taking my rod with me.

Each step is painful, a million sharp needles pulsing in my thighs, icy air piercing my lungs. The wind picks up and the snow whips, like sandpaper on my face. A bird caws way up high, as if mocking me. Just when I feel I can’t take one more step, I reach the next plateau.

This one, so high up, is different than all the others: it is so densely packed with pine trees, it’s hard to see more than ten feet. The sky is shut out under their huge canopy, and the snow is covered with their green needles. The huge tree trunks manage to shut out the wind, too. I feel like I’ve entered a small private kingdom, hidden from the rest of the world.

I stop and turn, taking in the vista: the view is amazing. I’d always thought we had a great view from Dad’s house, halfway up the mountain, but from here, up top, it is spectacular. Mountain peaks soar in every direction, and beyond them, in the distance, I can even see the Hudson River, sparkling. I also see the winding roads that cut their way through the mountain, remarkably intact. Probably because so few people ever come up here. I’ve never, in fact, seen a car, or any other vehicle. Despite the snow, the roads are remarkably clear; the steep, angular roads, basking in the sun, lend themselves perfectly to drainage, and amazingly, much of the snow has melted off.

I am struck by a pang of worry. I prefer when the roads are covered in snow and ice, when they are impassable to vehicles, because the only people that have cars and fuel these days are slaverunners—merciless bounty hunters that work to feed Arena One. They patrol everywhere, looking for any survivors, to kidnap them and bring them to the arena as slaves. There, I’m told, they make them fight to the death for entertainment.

Bree and I have been lucky. We haven’t seen any slaverunners in the years we’ve been up here—but I think that’s only because we live so high up, in such a remote area. Only once did I hear the high-pitched whine of a slaverunner’s engine, far off in the distance, on the other side of the river, I think. I know they are down there, somewhere, patrolling. And I don’t take any chances—I make sure we keep a low profile, rarely burning wood unless we need to, and keeping a close eye on Bree at all times. Most of the times I take her hunting with me—I would have today if she weren’t so sick.

I turn back to the plateau and fix my eyes on the smaller lake. Frozen solid, shining in the afternoon light, it sits there like a lost jewel, hiding between a copse of trees. I approach it, taking a few tentative steps on the ice to make sure it doesn’t crack. Once I feel it’s solid, I take a few more. I find a spot, remove the small axe from my belt and chop down hard, several times. A crack appears. I remove my knife, take a knee and strike hard, right in the center of the crack. I work the tip of the knife in there and carve a small hole, just big enough to extract a fish.

I hurry back to shore, slipping and sliding, then wedge the fishing rod between two tree branches, unravel the string, and run back out and drop it in the hole. I yank it a few times, hoping that the flash of the metal hook might attract some living creatures beneath the ice. But I can’t help feeling it’s a futile endeavor, can’t help suspecting that anything that ever lived in these mountain lakes died long ago.

It’s even colder up here, and I can’t just stand here, staring at the line. I have to keep moving. I turn and walk away from the lake, the superstitious part of me telling me I might just catch a fish if I don’t stand there staring. I walk in small circles around the trees, rubbing my hands, trying to keep warm. It does little good.

That’s when I remember the other reason I hiked up here: dry wood. I look down and search the ground for kindling, but it is a futile task. The ground is covered in snow. I look up at the trees, and see the trunks and branches are mostly covered in snow, too. But there, in the distance, I spot a few wind-swept trees free of snow. I make my way over to them and inspect the bark, running my hand along it. I am relieved to see that some of the branches are dry. I take out my axe and chop one of the bigger branches. All I need is an armful of wood, and this large branch will do perfectly.

I catch it as it comes down, not wanting to let it hit the snow, then brace it against the trunk and chop it again, clean in half. I do this again and again, until I have a small stack of kindling, enough to carry in my arms. I set it down in the nook of a branch, safe and dry from the snow below.

I look around, inspecting the other trunks, and as I look closer, something gives me pause. I approach one of the trees, looking closely, and realize its bark is different than the others. I look up, and realize it’s not a Pine. It’s a Maple. I am surprised to see a Maple so high up here, and even more surprise that I actually recognize it. In fact, a Maple is probably the only one thing in nature that I
would
recognize. Despite myself, a memory comes flooding back.

Once, when I was young, my Dad got it into his head to take me on a nature outing. God knows why, he decided to take me to tap Maple trees. We drove for hours to some godforsaken part of the country, me carrying a metal bucket, he carrying a spout, and then spent hours more roaming the woods with a guide, searching for the perfect Maples. I remember the look of disappointment on his face after he tapped his first tree and a clear liquid oozed out into our bucket. He had been expecting syrup.