Page 14

Two years go by. I play by the rules.

I give my own rations to the hungry children instead of stealing extras from the cafeteria.

I keep my thoughts to myself.

Jonah and I only spend time together when we are given permission.

And yet I’m still forced to fight in the Colosseum.

Not as punishment. I’m the main attraction now.

Doctore’s favorite gladiator.

Well, the only one.

Maybe it was all a trap set by Doctore.

My first appearance at the Colosseum.

Putting me against Jonah.

A test to see where my allegiance lies; to myself or Jonah.

I chose to save Jonah because he’s all I have left in this world, even if he isn’t the same boy I fell in love with.

Doesn’t really matter if it was a test. Every few months, I’m whisked away to the surface to fight hordes of zombies at the behest of entertaining Doctore and his minions while Jonah is back on track to becoming a legatus.

Sometimes Doctore throws in non-infected humans who’ve broken the rules in his empire.

I’m forced to kill them when they are given a weapon to fight against me for their lives.

It is my life or theirs.

Unlike with Jonah, I’ve always chosen my own survival.

Fight. Survive. Live.

Each fight is a test. Doctore is constantly testing my strength, my stamina, and how quickly I can heal from each wound.

I’ve learned a lot from these fights too.

That I’m fast. That I heal incredibly quickly, even when dealt fatal blows.

And I’m strong. Maybe not super hero strength strong, but stronger than I ever thought I was, considering I don’t lift weights in the gym like Jonah does.

I’ve also learned a lot about zombies.

How they move. How they kill.

How they die. The fast ones—freshies—are newly turned zombies.

They are quick, strong, and hard to outrun.

When I look back at how Jonah and I survived prom night, I can’t help but think how lucky we were to have escaped without even a scratch.

Then, there are grabbers.

These guys are slow, but if you are not careful, they’ll grab you.

Some of them can run too, so it’s always best to stay alert.

Deadies are old, withered zombies that move incredibly slow.

It is easy to walk away from them unscathed.

The easiest way to tell a deadie from a grabber is by how much skin they have left.

These things have been dead for at least a year.

Their skin is in the advanced stage of decay, making them mostly bone.

I don’t understand how these monsters can still move by how much muscle and skin have decayed.

I guess it’s why they walk so slow.

Grabbers still have plenty of freshly dead muscle.

Their skin has a grayish tint and their eyes are a foggy red color.

As I walk the hallways of the bunker on my own, I wonder when my next fight will be.

Not that I’m eager to fight.

I’m anxious not knowing when it will be.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

I don’t want to fight.

I don’t want to kill.

I can feel defeat deep in my bones.

Doctore has taken so much from me.

Denied me a life. A life I know I can no longer have.

So why fight for it?

I know now that there is no other future for me.

This is it. A dank bunker and a bloody arena pit.

That is all I know now.

And yes, every so often I get a reprieve from the horrors of this life when Doctore allows me a night with Jonah.

But I no longer cherish those moments.

I don’t love Jonah anymore.

The thought should hurt.

I’m numb to it. After years of torture.

Of fighting. I’ve accepted defeat.

My only regret is that I will die before killing you , I think to myself as I look into Doctore’s soulless eyes.

No. I cannot die. I cannot let him win.

As much as I want to throw myself at the horde of zombies I know are waiting for me, let them devour every morsel of my flesh, leaving nothing to heal, I can’t.

Even if my mind and heart are ready to die, I don’t think my body will let me.

When I turn toward the groans and shuffling I know to be the sound of deadies, five zombies are waiting for me.

I look up at Doctore again, trying to read his thoughts.

I can put down five deadies effortlessly.

Though I know the crowd in the stands are cheering to be entertained, I don’t take my time with these deadies.

After putting them down quickly, a door at the far end of the arena opens.

Five more zombies come pouring onto the sandy floor.

Two of them are grabbers.

Another glance at Doctore tells me all I need to know.

Another challenge. He will not go easy on me.

Though I know I can take these five just as easily, this wave isn’t the last awaiting me.

I put all five down without a scratch using my trusty mace.

But I’m losing my stamina.

When I turn to look at Doctore, who loves to watch from his VIP box, perched like the emperors of his beloved Roman Empire, I want nothing more than to kill him.

I want to rip that fucking smile right off his face.

Three doors open, each one with three freshies sprinting out into the pit.

I know they can’t see me, that the sound of the crowd impairs their hearing, but my breathing is so loud from fighting ten zombies already.

They might not know exactly where I am, but there’s nowhere for me to go.

I could maybe take on two or three freshies at once, but nine?

I swallow hard, pushing the fear down as deep as it allows me.

Trying to calm my breaths, I ready myself for battle, still unwilling to give up even though I was ready to die a real death just a few moments ago.

I twist my fingers tighter around my mace and charge.

The first two freshies go down with three swings of my mace.

As I double tap the second one, another freshie tackles me from behind, sinking its rancid teeth into my neck.

I kick it off me, roll onto my stomach, and push myself up.

Then I sprint, giving me some distance from the horde of freshies, but two of them hear my movement and barrel toward me on wobbly legs.

They look like a pair of drunk teens.

Where did Doctore get all these newly turned zombies?

It looks like they had been alive only a few hours ago.

But I can’t let that thought stop me from putting them down.

They aren’t alive. They aren’t human.

They are monsters.

I ground myself, digging my toes into the sandy ground and swing when the first one is in reach.

If its head wasn’t firmly attached to its body, I would have scored a home run.

No time for jokes. I spin around, narrowly missing the second one, and jab up, smashing the back of its head with my mace.

When the freshie drops to the ground, I land another blow to its skull.

Three more freshies are so close my shadow tries to tear itself away from me.

I’m running out of steam, but I keep pushing myself.

I look behind me for a second to see how close they are when another one comes at me from the side.

I dive to the ground, rolling sideways to avoid being trampled by four zombies.

One of them grabs my foot.

My bare foot. I hold in a scream when I feel teeth gnaw on the sensitive tendons.

Using what energy I have left, I raise my mace and bring it down with a force that shatters the zombie’s face.

Another freshie grabs my shoulder, anchoring its teeth to the bone as another reaches for my abdomen.

I swing my mace in every direction, attempting to knock the zombies far enough away so that I can get out from under them.

But one of the freshies knocks the mace out of my hand.

I’m unarmed. Defenseless.

Lying in a death pit.

There is no way out.

A scream ruptures the air around me as my entrails are pulled from my stomach and my arm is ripped out of its socket simultaneously.

Thankfully, the pain knocks me out, saving me from witnessing the rest of my body being ripped to pieces.