Starfall (Starflight #2)(84)
Kane listened for the MC to tell the players to stop fighting, but the announcement never came. There was another buzz, followed by a simultaneous moan of disappointment from the crowd, and then his boss told the next pair of players to step up to the doors.
The next round seemed shorter than the first, and so did the round after that. Each game ended with the same unsatisfied groan from the spectators. Kane was beginning to think the players weren’t making it to the battle platform at all. Then his boss called the fourth-round players, and Cutter strode to the door.
“Good luck,” Kane told him, but Cutter didn’t look back.
The buzzer sounded, and Kane returned his attention to the guests, whose tolerance seemed to have waned. Now they watched the game while cringing and sucking air through their teeth. Even more of them hid their eyes. At one point, there was a scream from the pit, and one man in the stands clapped a palm over his mouth and lurched as if to vomit.
Their reactions broke down Kane’s confidence. He peered at the doors to the maze while sweat slicked his body. The Gold in his system was no match for the adrenaline pumping a steady warning through his veins in time with his heartbeat: Don’t-go, don’t-go, don’t-go.
The MC’s voice called, “And our first champion—Brock Cutter!”
The crowd cheered. Kane was glad to hear Cutter had made it to the other side, though it didn’t escape his notice that the MC hadn’t told the players to stop fighting. Either Cutter was the only man to survive the maze, or he’d killed his opponent.
“Last team, you’re up.”
Kane shared a terrified glance with the other player, a tall guy he vaguely recognized from the dorm. Both of their chests rose and fell too quickly as they made their way to the doors. Their boss clapped his meaty hands as if to motivate them, but then frowned at the sweat stains on Kane’s bodysuit.
“Listen, you two,” the boss said. “It’s a horror show out there tonight, so I’m gonna break the rules and give you some pointers. Your ears are your best defense. Pay attention to the sounds inside the maze. If you hear a pop, get down. Same goes for a sizzle. If you hear a grinding noise, jump high and fast. Understood?”
Kane tried to say yes, but his mouth was too dry.
The door swung open before he was ready, revealing a short, walled-in passage that ended in a ninety-degree turn to the left. The floors and walls were painted glossy black, and here they were clean. He didn’t expect that to last long.
The MC announced the tall man’s name and then Kane’s alias, Jude Warren. “But you might know Jude by another name,” the MC said in a voice to build the crowd’s excitement. “Let’s give an extra-loud Vice Den welcome to our very own Wooooolf!”
Manic applause roared from the arena, and as much as Kane hated it, he was grateful for the crowd’s favor. It meant less sabotage in the pit. A push from behind set his feet in motion, and the door slammed shut behind him. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead as he strode to the end wall. He peeked around the corner and found a similar passageway, so he crossed that, too, and then darted a glance at the next leg of the maze.
A smear of blood on the floor warned him into a slow creep down the corridor. When he reached the crimson stain, he heard something grinding beneath the floor, and he leaped up barely in time to avoid a trio of whirling circular saws that rose through the floor and retracted just as quickly. Heart pounding, he took two steps and detected the scent of burnt hair. A fizz emitted from the left wall, and he dove for the floor, feeling the heat of open flames crackling above him. Pain seared the back of his neck, and he reached behind him to smother any live embers on his collar.
He stayed low after that, crawling on his belly and praying that the next threat would come from overhead. At the following stretch, a bubble popped, followed by a spray of pellets that burst into acid upon contact. They didn’t strike Kane directly, but the acid dripping down the walls made his eyes burn, temporarily blinding him as he pushed to his feet and stumbled around the next corner to face an electrified grate.
Before long, he noticed a pattern in each corridor—one death trap from below and then two from above. He made it through three more stretches by repeating the same jump-dive-dive sequence, then he picked up the pace in the next passageway, hoping to outrun the spectators trying to kill him from the stands.
Their controls were faster than his boots. New horrors faced him around every turn, each designed for maximum gore. The fans cheered him on, and he hated them for it—for taking pleasure in his pain. He fantasized about forcing them through the maze and barricading the end so they could never escape. Then he would sit in the stands with the ladies in white and let them press as many torture buttons as they wanted.
The daydream was sweet, but it distracted Kane from the next pop. He dove too late, feeling a stab at the top of his right arm. When he hit the floor, he found six inches of razor protruding from his flesh. He glanced ahead and saw the battle platform at the end of the corridor, so he left the blade in place and half crawled, half ran toward the finish line.
He crossed it with a sob of relief, bracing himself for a riotous cheer. But the applause didn’t come. Panting, he climbed the steps to the platform and raised his face to the stands, wondering why the crowd wasn’t celebrating. His opponent hadn’t emerged from the maze, and the sick twist in his gut told him that wouldn’t change. He’d just won these sadists a lot of money.