You know I write thrillers, well did you also know that I write post-apocalyptic and dystopian fiction under the super-secret pen name J.E. Heskett?
Well, yeah, I do. Here’s the first chapter of THE SLAVES GAMES TRILOGY,
STRIKE, chapter 1:
Rosia led, head down to stay far below the rim of the foxholes. Yorick was directly behind her, one hand on her shoulder to keep close. Also, to make sure she didn’t spin around and shoot him, thinking him a Red trying to sneak up on her. She was like a rabbit, darting left and right. He did everything he could to keep up with her.
While this quadrant of the battlefield was known as “the foxholes,” it wasn’t a complete description. Two dozen trails snaked around the dirt area comprising this quadrant. But there were also deeper caves and tunnels connecting some holes to others. And in those tunnels, there were bunker areas and sub-tunnels. Yorick hadn’t explored them all, and might never do so. Guerreros were only allowed on the battlefield during battles, so he had to map it as he went. All guerrero training happened off-site, usually in the gym and meeting rooms in the lower levels of the dorms.
These four quadrants were like hallowed ground, and only accessible by a chosen few who lived on the plantación. Four quadrants, with a hill in the center. The only place you could see all four at once.
They ducked left, into a tunnel. Crouched down. Rosia, panting, set her rifle in the dirt and wiped her palms on her suit. Yorick put a hand on his knee, rubbing it.
“Feeling okay?” she asked.
“It’s sore, but I’m fine. It won’t slow me down.”
They shared a look, and while Rosia didn’t say anything, Yorick knew she didn’t have to. She would stay with him during the round even if she had to pace herself. And he wished she wouldn’t sacrifice for him. Better for her to push on, accumulating points, rather than protecting him for no good reason.
But he wasn’t done yet. He could take a few more Reds today before he needed a rest.
She rolled her shoulders. “You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
They burst out of the tunnel and sprinted into the light. “Turning right,” Rosia said as they came to an intersection in the foxholes. Above their heads, rubber bullets whizzed by, slashing the air. They’d become separated from the remaining cluster of Blues a few minutes back when they’d turned left at the lip of a tunnel, but everyone else had turned right. Too easy to get lost in this spiderweb.
This separation was a problem because, by Yorick’s count, they were down to five guerreros left on the Blue team. The Reds didn’t have many more, but with numbers that small, any imbalance could spell doom for the leaderboard rank.
The idea of any Blue guerrero shuffling off toward the mansion, never to be seen again, filled him with dread.
Yorick hated this time of year when the battles became a daily occurrence. They were allowed to spend most of the winters and early spring indoors, with only weekly battles, and only then if weather permitted. But in the height of summer, they had to fight almost every day. It took a toll on their minds and bodies.
At the dirt intersection, Rosia shifted right, and Yorick followed a half second later. And he saw them before she did. Five meters down, two Reds, rifles raised. They each spit a few shots, and bullets thumped across Rosia’s midsection. She let out a quick yelp, and then the blue lights running along her suit dimmed. She’d have little round bruises all over her chest and stomach later.
The guards kept firing, trying to shoot past her to get to Yorick. But she steadied her body, standing wide, letting the bullets strike her to act as a human shield. He had only a couple seconds to take advantage of her sacrifice. Yorick backpedaled, skittering around the corner from which he’d come. Rosia gave him one last look before he disappeared.
Now disqualified for the rest of the round, she would have to carry her weapon to the southeast edge of the battleground, to wait with the other inactive ones.
So, the Blue team was now four, or possibly even fewer. Yorick checked the magazine in his rifle and found it light, which was another problem. Maybe ten rounds left. He flicked the switch to change from full to semi-auto. He sighed and tried not to let the pressure of failure settle over him.
Voices rumbled from behind. He craned his neck to find the two Reds who’d shot Rosia fast approaching. Another foxhole intersected with this one a few meters ahead, but he might not get there in time.
He made a choice. As he twisted, he kicked his legs out and hoisted his rifle, pushing the stock against his chest to aim it in the direction he faced. Yorick pressed the trigger and swung the rifle left and right, spraying his two pursuers with rubber bullets.
Their suits had faded from red to black in an instant. Both stood, mouths agape. Dumbstruck. Yorick had survived, for a few more seconds, at least. But he’d emptied his rifle’s magazine, and he would have to return to the starting point at the warehouse to retrieve more ammunition. The bullets in the Reds’ rifles were coded to only register hits against Blues. And, it’s not as if they would give up their spare ammo, anyway. No, they would take their rifles and ammo and mope back to the neutral zone with the others. Blanked. Same with Rosia’s ammo or any other disqualified Blue.
So, Yorick had no choice but to sneak back to the warehouse and retrieve extra magazines. Either that, or sit down and wait to be eliminated.
He jumped to his feet and blinked a few times to rid himself of the pressure weighing on him. The two guerreros he’d shot glared at him as they climbed up the dirt embankment out of the foxhole.
Yorick glanced around to get his bearings. The warehouses were to the northeast, so he needed to figure out the best way to exit the foxholes safely. No telling how many guerreros in red-tinged suits stood between him and his destination.
Something caught his eye, near the top of the foxhole. Paulo, the young Blue guerrero. He knelt at the edge, clutching his rifle to his chest.
“Hey,” Paulo said, loud-whispering it down into the foxhole.
Panting, breathless, Yorick licked his lips and tried to respond, but nothing came out. His throat had closed up.
“It’s bad up here,” Paulo said, “but I don’t know if it’s any better down in the ‘holes. I’m going to skip on over to the forest to find a place to hide for a minute. I think I saw some Blues headed that way a few minutes ago. If you want to give me your hand, I can help you up.”
Yorick shook his head, cleared his throat. “Go on without me. I’m out of ammo. Need a refill. I’ll see what I can do about getting over there after.”
Paulo hoisted his rifle and ejected the magazine, then frowned at the contents. “Sorry, I don’t have any to spare.”
“No problem. Get on out of here.”
Paulo shoved the magazine back in and then did a double take as his eyes grew wide. “Mierda,” he said, staggering to his feet. He scrambled and rushed out of sight. A flurry of bullets whizzed by, from somewhere beyond Yorick’s sight line. And then, the alarm beeped, a single chirp. That meant their team had only one guerrero remaining. Paulo was gone.
Only Yorick remained.
“Damn it,” he said. As good as dead unless he could display some elite-level heroics. To act like Rosia or Hamon and save the day.
Elite or not, he wasn’t about to give up now. He launched himself at the lip of the foxhole, stabbing the stock of the rifle into the dirt to gain leverage and scramble to the top. As soon as he reached it, he found himself face to face with Diego.
Grinning.
The long-haired Red guerrero squeezed the trigger, and a volley of shots pelted Yorick in the stomach. Like a relentless series of punches to the midsection. He staggered back, lost his footing, and slammed into the dirt in the foxhole below. The air whooshed out of his lungs, making him gasp to breathe. The blue sky above dotted with a million points of white.
Diego leaned over the edge, grinning at him. “Couldn’t find a way to cheat today, pendejo1?”
* * *
Yorick’s chest hurt during the whole trip back to the platform at the edge of the lord’s mansion grounds. He met up with Rosia along the way, and she frowned and then rubbed a hand across his back. He carried extra guilt, knowing he’d been the last one remaining on the Blue team. She said nothing, and he wouldn’t have wanted her to say anything. She would try to convince him it wasn’t his fault, that they all shared a portion of the blame, but he didn’t want to hear consoling words right now.
The Blues lost, and that meant one of their number would be removed from the team. Yeah, it happened sometimes, and more often during these daily summer battles, but it never stopped feeling like a kick to the stomach. That someone’s life would be voided because of the results of silly war games played at the whim of a lord.
Standing on the grass before the platform, Diego and his Reds gloated, making a big show of returning their weapons to the Quartermaster. The older Red made kissy faces at Yorick and Hamon as he handed his chip in.
Hamon gritted his teeth and lurched forward, but Yorick snatched his hand and kept him back. He shook his head at Hamon. If the Blues leader even made it onto the platform, he could count on the guards smacking him down with the butts of their rifles. Maybe even spending a day in the cages to learn his lesson.
Standing at his podium, Lord Wybert cleared his throat. Today, instead of his usual jumpsuit, he was wearing slacks and a button-down shirt with a bright orange tie. He straightened his tie and ran a hand through his voluminous hair before speaking.
“Good morning and good harvest, guerreros. Excellent performance out there this morning. Some of you were more excellent than others, and I don’t have to tell you which was which. We’re going to find out in a moment. But that’s why we do this, isn’t it? It’s not just about being excellent; it’s about striving for it. So, without further ado…”
The lord waved a hand toward the nearby screen as it flickered on, unveiling the scoreboard.
Diego was at the top of the Red side. Hamon, as usual, at the top of the Blue side. But the only name that mattered was the last place name on the Blue board. Carlos, a redheaded kid who couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Rarely spoke and had a small circle of friends. He had made the bottom of the leaderboard by only a single point. One lousy point.
To Carlos, this would mean death. Or imprisonment, or whatever happened inside that mansion.
When he saw his name highlighted as the last-place guerrero, Carlos hung his head but didn’t cry or protest. His face said he’d already grieved, had already given up. He ascended the platform and let the guards escort him off, never to be seen again.
From across the podium, Diego put his hands up to the sides of his mouth to shout, “one down, nineteen more to go!”
1 Pendejo: jerk
