Arena One: Slaverunners Read Online Free PDF

grateful that Dad taught me how to drive it when I was young, despite Mom’s protests. He told me it was harder to learn than most bikes, because of the attached sidecar. I remember back when I was twelve, terrified, learning to ride the bike while Dad sat in the sidecar, barking orders at me every time I stalled. I learned on these steep, unforgiving mountain roads, and I remember feeling like we were going to die. I remember looking out over the edge, seeing the drop, and crying, insisting that he drive. But he refused. He sat there stubbornly for over an hour, until I finally stopped crying and tried again. And somehow, I learned to drive it. That was my upbringing in a nutshell.
    I haven’t touched the bike since the day I hid it, and I don’t even risk going up to look at it except when I need to siphon off the gas—and even that I will only do at night. I imagine that if ever one day we’re in trouble and need to get out of here fast, I’ll put Bree and Sasha in the sidecar and drive us all off to wherever we need to go. But in reality, I have no idea where else we’d possibly go. From everything I’ve seen and heard, the rest of the world is a wasteland, filled with violent criminals, gangs, and few survivors. The violent few who’ve managed to survive have congregated in the cities, kidnapping and enslaving whoever they can find, either for their own ends, or to service the death matches in the arenas. I am guessing that Bree and I are among very few survivors who still live freely, on our own, outside the cities. And among the very few who haven’t yet starved to death.
    I light the candle, and Sasha follows as I walk slowly through the darkened house. I assume Bree is asleep, and this worries me: she normally doesn’t sleep this much. I stop before her door, debating whether to wake her. As I stand there, I look up and am startled by my own reflection in the small mirror. I look much older, as I do every time I see myself. My face, thin and angular, is flush from the cold, my light brown hair falls down, framing my face, to my shoulders, and my steel-grey eyes stare back at me as if they belong to someone I don’t recognize. They are hard, intense eyes. Dad always said they were the eyes of a wolf. Mom always said they were beautiful. I wasn’t sure who to believe.
    I quickly look away, not wanting to see myself. I reach out and turn the mirror backwards, so that it won’t happen again.
    I slowly open Bree’s door. The second I do, Sasha charges in and rushes to Bree’s side, lying down and resting her chin on Bree’s chest as she licks her face. It never ceases to amaze me how close those two are—sometimes I feel like they are even closer than we are.
    Bree slowly opens her eyes, and squints into the darkness.
    “Brooke?” she asks.
    “It’s me,” I say, softly. “I’m home.”
    She sits up and smiles as her eyes light up with recognition. She lies on a cheap mattress on the floor, and throws off her thin blanket and begins to get out of bed, still in her pajamas. She is moving more slowly than usually, and it is obvious she is still sick.
    I lean down and give her a hug.
    “I have a surprise for you,” I say, barely able to contain my excitement.
    She looks up wide-eyed, then closes her eyes and opens her hands, waiting. She is so believing, so trusting, it amazes me. I debate what to give her first, then settle on the chocolate. I reach into my pocket and pull out the bar, and place it slowly in her palm. She opens her eyes and looks down at her hand, squinting in the light, unsure. I hold the candle up to it.
    “What is it?” she asks.
    “Chocolate,” I answer.
    She looks up as if I’m playing a trick on her.
    “Really,” I say.
    “But where did you get it?” she asks, uncomprehending. She looks down as if an asteroid has just landed in her hand. I don’t blame her: there are no stores anymore, no people around, and no place within a hundred miles of here that I could