Read Online Arena One: Slaverunners by Morgan Rice - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Morgan Rice
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction, Action & Adventure, Survival, Young Adult, Dystopian Future, gangs, Sisters, Slaves, Gladiators, (v4.0), arena, Apocalyptic Literature
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stream. I check the snow carefully, looking for any signs of prints going in or out (aside from mine), since yesterday. I find none.
I walk up to the door, stand in front of the house and do a 360, scanning the woods in every direction, checking the trees, looking for any signs of disturbance, any evidence that anyone else has been here. I stand for at least a minute, listening. There is nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Finally, I am satisfied, relieved that this place is truly ours, and ours alone.
I pull back the heavy door, jammed by the snow, and bright light floods the interior. As I duck my head and enter, I feel as if I’m seeing it for the first time in the light. It is as small and cozy as I remember. I see that it has original, wide-plank wood flooring, which looks to be at least a hundred years old. It is quiet in here. The small, open windows on either side let in a good deal of light, too.
I scan the room in the light, looking for anything I might have overlooked—but find nothing. I look down and find the handle to the trap door, kneel down and yank it open. It opens up with a whirl of dust, which swims in the sunlight.
I scramble down the ladder, and this time, with all the reflected light, I have a much better view of the stash down here. There must be hundreds of jars. I spot several more jars of raspberry jam, and grab two of them, cramming one in each pocket. Bree will love this. So will Sasha.
I do a cursory scan of the other jars, and see all sorts of foods: pickles, tomatoes, olives, sauerkraut. I also see several different flavors of jams, with at least a dozen jars of each. There is even more in the back, but I don’t have time to look carefully. Thoughts of Bree are weighing heavily on my mind.
I scramble up the ladder, close the trap door and hurry out the cottage, closing the front door tight behind me. I stand there and survey my surroundings again, bracing myself for anyone who may have been watching. I am still afraid this is all too good to be true. But once again, there is nothing. Maybe I’ve just become too on-edge.
I head off in the direction where I spotted the deer, about thirty yards away. As I reach it, I take out Dad’s hunting knife, and hold it at my side. I know it’s a long shot for me to see it again, but maybe this animal, like me, is a creature of habit. If I should be lucky enough to see it again, there’s no way I’m fast enough to chase it down, or quick enough to pounce—nor do I have a gun or any real hunting weapons. But the way I see it, I do have one chance, and that is my knife. I’ve always been proud of my ability to hit a bull’s-eye thirty yards away. Knife-throwing was the one skill of mine that Dad always seemed impressed by—at least impressed enough to never try to correct or improve me. Instead, he took credit for it, saying my talent was due to him. In reality, though, he couldn’t throw a knife half as well as I could.
I kneel in the place I was before, hiding behind a tree, watching the plateau, holding the knife in my hand, waiting. Praying. All I hear is the sound of the wind.
I run through in my head what I will do if I see it: I will slowly stand, take aim, and throw the knife. I first think I will aim for its eye, but then decide to aim for its throat: if I miss by a few inches, then there will still be a chance of hitting it somewhere. If my hands aren’t too frozen, and if I’m accurate, I figure that maybe, just maybe, I can wound it. But I realize those are all big “ifs.”
Minutes pass. It feels like ten, twenty, thirty…. The wind dies, then reappears in gusts, and as it does, I feel the fine flakes of snow being blown off the trees and into my face. As more time passes, I grow colder, more numb, and I begin to wonder if this is a bad idea. I get another sharp hunger pain, though, and know that I have to try. I will need all the protein I can get to make this move happen—especially if I’m going to push that motorcycle
I walk up to the door, stand in front of the house and do a 360, scanning the woods in every direction, checking the trees, looking for any signs of disturbance, any evidence that anyone else has been here. I stand for at least a minute, listening. There is nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Finally, I am satisfied, relieved that this place is truly ours, and ours alone.
I pull back the heavy door, jammed by the snow, and bright light floods the interior. As I duck my head and enter, I feel as if I’m seeing it for the first time in the light. It is as small and cozy as I remember. I see that it has original, wide-plank wood flooring, which looks to be at least a hundred years old. It is quiet in here. The small, open windows on either side let in a good deal of light, too.
I scan the room in the light, looking for anything I might have overlooked—but find nothing. I look down and find the handle to the trap door, kneel down and yank it open. It opens up with a whirl of dust, which swims in the sunlight.
I scramble down the ladder, and this time, with all the reflected light, I have a much better view of the stash down here. There must be hundreds of jars. I spot several more jars of raspberry jam, and grab two of them, cramming one in each pocket. Bree will love this. So will Sasha.
I do a cursory scan of the other jars, and see all sorts of foods: pickles, tomatoes, olives, sauerkraut. I also see several different flavors of jams, with at least a dozen jars of each. There is even more in the back, but I don’t have time to look carefully. Thoughts of Bree are weighing heavily on my mind.
I scramble up the ladder, close the trap door and hurry out the cottage, closing the front door tight behind me. I stand there and survey my surroundings again, bracing myself for anyone who may have been watching. I am still afraid this is all too good to be true. But once again, there is nothing. Maybe I’ve just become too on-edge.
I head off in the direction where I spotted the deer, about thirty yards away. As I reach it, I take out Dad’s hunting knife, and hold it at my side. I know it’s a long shot for me to see it again, but maybe this animal, like me, is a creature of habit. If I should be lucky enough to see it again, there’s no way I’m fast enough to chase it down, or quick enough to pounce—nor do I have a gun or any real hunting weapons. But the way I see it, I do have one chance, and that is my knife. I’ve always been proud of my ability to hit a bull’s-eye thirty yards away. Knife-throwing was the one skill of mine that Dad always seemed impressed by—at least impressed enough to never try to correct or improve me. Instead, he took credit for it, saying my talent was due to him. In reality, though, he couldn’t throw a knife half as well as I could.
I kneel in the place I was before, hiding behind a tree, watching the plateau, holding the knife in my hand, waiting. Praying. All I hear is the sound of the wind.
I run through in my head what I will do if I see it: I will slowly stand, take aim, and throw the knife. I first think I will aim for its eye, but then decide to aim for its throat: if I miss by a few inches, then there will still be a chance of hitting it somewhere. If my hands aren’t too frozen, and if I’m accurate, I figure that maybe, just maybe, I can wound it. But I realize those are all big “ifs.”
Minutes pass. It feels like ten, twenty, thirty…. The wind dies, then reappears in gusts, and as it does, I feel the fine flakes of snow being blown off the trees and into my face. As more time passes, I grow colder, more numb, and I begin to wonder if this is a bad idea. I get another sharp hunger pain, though, and know that I have to try. I will need all the protein I can get to make this move happen—especially if I’m going to push that motorcycle
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