The lead soldiers entered the arena ahead of them, their brisk march echoing in the vast foyer. Dirty tiles covered the floor, much like the ones in the mall. Cracks ran through many of them. Memories of what this place had once been surrounded them. Small kiosks on either side, they housed broken machines with faded labels.
Something changed the sound of the army’s steps. Max walked on tiptoes to peer over the heads of those in front of him. The foyer funnelled them into a tight corridor, forcing them to walk no more than five or six abreast. The bottleneck slowed the army, and those on either side of Max pressed against him in preparation for the tight passage.
Hawk and Artan walked into the corridor before Max. Small patches of paint clung to the walls and ceiling. The hallway had once been blue. It wouldn’t be long before that memory peeled away, several more flakes falling like autumn leaves at the army’s passing.
Max heaved when he stepped out of the other side of the corridor. Despite the high ceiling, the vinegar reek of rot filled the place. It hung heavy like humidity and curdled the air. It gagged him with its pungent and tangible funk. The diseased screams and roars quickened his pulse. He gulped, but it offered little relief.
Mad Max.
He shook his head.
Mad Max.
“No!”
A soldier on Max’s right smirked and barged into him. “You’re fucked!”
If only he knew. Maybe this would finally bring an end to the torment.
Mad Max.
The soldiers spread out when they exited the corridor. Their parting revealed the room’s centrepiece. The sporting arena, rectangular with rounded corners. About two hundred feet long and a hundred feet wide, it had a wall running around its perimeter. The first four feet of the wall had been made from brick, the next six feet from glass or some other transparent material. It revealed the dense press of diseased contained within. Surely glass would have shattered by now.
A wooden platform with stairs leading to it sat level with the top of the wall. A plank protruded out over the sea of snapping and snarling fury.
Mad Max.
“Shut up!” Max knocked his head with his fist. The soldier on his left raised an eyebrow at him before he shot a derisive snort through his nose.
Artan already on the platform, Hawk climbed the stairs next.
The army occupied the spectators’ area on the other side of the platform. The best seats in the house. Like in the stadium they’d run through with Gracie, the seats were made from plastic. Bleached blue plastic. They started ringside and ran all the way to the back wall, each row getting higher the farther back they went. The rows of seats encircled the ring and ran beneath the platform they currently stood on.
The presence of so many people riled the diseased. Their cries grew louder. They slammed open palms against the clear wall. Some of them pressed their faces against it, pus and blood coating the transparent barrier as they tried to bite through.
Mad Max.
A shove in the back encouraged Max up the stairs to join Artan and Hawk. The diseased grew more frantic. How many of the creatures had once been Fear’s victims? How many diseased had they started with when they built this place?
The diseased and every soldier in the place watched Max and his friends. His heart slammed through him. Artan stood serene, as if he had a plan. Hawk twitched, his hands balled. He looked from side to side. Would he try to be a hero again?
Mad Max.
Even now, separated from a lot of Fear’s army, there were still too many soldiers on the platform for Max to tell Artan and Hawk he’d seen Olga. But unless she came in now with something to rival this army, they were on their own anyway.
The soldiers mirrored the diseased. They banged against the clear wall like they wanted in.
Hawk’s upper body twitched. What did he think he could do in this situation?
Mad Max.
Many of the rancid creatures wore the marks of how they’d been turned. Teeth marks on their faces and necks. Some of them were deep red and glistening with blood. Some wounds had turned black with age.
Mad Max.
Max twitched.
Mad Max.
About two hundred diseased in the ring. Max trembled and backed into the line of soldiers behind him. They shoved him forwards. Cyrus stared at him from the centre of the crowd. Cyrus. His brothers. His mum and dad. Hugh. Their maws snapped; they reached out to him with atrophied arms and twisted faces.
Mad Max.
Caved-in heads, bleeding eyes, yells of agony. Broken, they wanted this to end. But they wanted him more.
Mad Max.
Max balled his fists. If he ended up in there, could he beat every one of them to death? Could he protect his friends?
Mad Max.
A door in the wall opposite. Their way out? It must have been how the people who played the sport got into the arena. Surely it had been sealed shut a long time ago. The door handle had been removed. Maybe that was all they’d needed to do to keep it shut. The diseased didn’t exactly have the best dexterity.
The gurning and grinning faces of the blue army surrounded the arena. Frenzied, the line between them and their foetid counterparts blurred. The chant started low and grew in volume. “Walk the plank! Walk the plank! Walk the plank!”
Max’s saliva turned into a thick paste, his throat arid. His heart beat in his neck. He gulped and leaned close to Hawk. At least if he told him about Olga … but a soldier threw him a hard glare. He recoiled from the man’s fury. If Olga had any intention of getting them out of there, she’d best arrive soon.
Five soldiers stood on
