Never have I been so grateful for all my parent's tedious training sessions. As quick as I can, I take the grip of the gun, feel for the hammer along the top, and push it flat as I slide the square peg into the square hole as the muzzle softly clicks into place. I then slide the bolt back in and while I hold the bolt in place, I slide the pin back up until it clicks into the bolt. Now comes the tricky part, and boy am I glad I had my dad teach me this. Before I completely lock the pin back into the grip, I face the gun upwards, load the magazine in, hold the trigger down and then push the rest of the lever of the pin up into the grip. I then release the trigger, drop the magazine, and click the lever fully into place. I release the bolt and it snaps right back into place. Now with the gun assembled, I load the bullets into the magazine and load it into the gun. The second it’s in and ready to go the blindfold is pulled off of my head using the fishing wire. I take the gun and point a
I’ve just finished putting on a fresh, clean lycra suit when I start to hear a strange, low hissing sound. I look around and notice some kind of gas being pumped into my room. I let out a deep sigh and scrub my hands down my covered face. Really? I mean, really? Well, I’m not about to pass out and give myself a concussion when I hit the floor, so I climb on the bed and lay down. If they want me unconscious then I’m doing so on a comfortable surface. I cough as I begin to breathe in the gas that leaves a terrible taste in my mouth like I just ate something that’s gone rancid. As I continue to cough, my head starts to spin, and my limbs begin to feel foreign to me. I close my eyes and just let this drug do what it has to do and soon enough, I feel myself drifting off. *** As my senses become alert but before I can open my eyes, I can feel a horrendous pounding in my skull and every muscle in my body aching like I just got hit by a truck. You know, I can live with the symptoms of a han
Time is ticking down fast, and so far the only thing that’s been accomplished is the thinning of the herd. With everyone too afraid to move, I can’t wait around to use them as pawns, so I have to start moving around myself. I walk over to the staircase and slowly make my way up the stairs being cautious of each step as I go up. “Where do you think you’re going?” Whiro hisses. “Narnia,” I say curtly. I hate stupid questions. Once I make it to the top of the stairs with my only injury being the still throbbing gashes in my hands, I make my way carefully down the hallway. The ominous sound of thunder and flashes of lightning while certainly set the mood, do nothing for my nerves. As I approach each door, I press myself against the wall and reach to the side to open the door just in case some axe or something wants to come and split me in two. The first two rooms seem pretty benign, which I’m sure means death lurks in every cranny, but I’m still not seeing a way out yet. I come to the
I watch the nurse as she carefully injects the local anaesthetic into my hand. Her touch is so gentle and nurturing that it makes me wonder how someone with such a caring touch ended up patching up killers. She doesn’t speak or look at me as she begins sewing the gash in my right hand. She works meticulously, focusing intently on the task. She looks like she’s in her own little bubble, probably doing her best to try and forget where she is and who she is helping. I have nothing against hospitals. Been in and out of them enough times that they start to feel like taking a trip to the grocery store, but the clinic set up by The Tournament is one I loathe. It’s not the sterile environment or the bright lights that bother me, and unlike most clinics, it’s actually incredibly well-furnished with soothing whites, greens, and yellows. It looks rather cheerful, which is something I hate. They put us through absolute hell then bring us here to get patched up so they can continue to put us thr
If it weren’t for the painkillers I wouldn’t have slept a wink last night. As good as I am at blocking out pain, it’s a little difficult to do when you continue to move and use the parts of you that are injured. Even eating dinner last night hurt like a bitch. I’ve gotten lucky that these are the worst injuries I have sustained so far, but I have a strong feeling my luck is about to run out. I’m dressed in yet another bodysuit, covered head to toe and waiting to be escorted to the arena. I kill time by fantasizing all the ways I could try and escape but even in my fantasies, each attempt ends in my death. It is an effective way out of The Tournament, but not one I’m particularly keen on. When I hear the familiar knock at the door, I get up, shake off the thoughts and get myself in the zone. I focus on my breathing and heart rate as I’m escorted to the competitor's lounge instead of solitary. I take a seat and wait as one by one the other eight competitors arrive. I’m grateful for th
With slow movements I approach the ice hole in front of me, taking in slow deep breaths as I begin to regulate my heart rate. When your body goes into cold shock, panic hits almost immediately. That panic could kill me faster than the cold, so I need to stay calm. I crouch down, carefully sit on the edge of the ice, and submerge my feet. I continue to focus on my breathing as my body instinctively tries to gasp in air and yank my feet out of the water, and that’s just its response to my feet touching this frozen death trap. I take a moment to close my eyes and breathe and tune out the sounds of the overenthusiastic crowd. As I feel my legs adjusting to the cold, I hold onto the edge of the ice hole and slowly begin submerging my body into the water. As the icy cold water hits my skin my heart begins to race and my breathing comes in short quick bursts, and I can feel the cold reaching down to my bones. My body feels heavier, and I can feel its natural response of wanting to shut down
I feel myself start to wake up, but I can’t seem to open my eyes. The more alert my senses become the more aware I am of the pain and heaviness radiating through my body. I feel like I was thrown off a cliff and smashed against jagged rocks over and over and over again, but that’s just my body. My feet are another story. Tears prick my shut eyes as the excruciating sensation of raw nerve endings being exposed hits me and I want to scream. The only thing stopping me is how weak I feel. I force my eyes open and thankfully am met by a dim light at the far end of the room. I can hear the sound of a heart monitor beeping its infuriating rhythm, but one that reminds me I’m alive. I see several IV bags hung up, and as I attempt to glance down I notice the oxygen mask on my face. My body is wrapped up tight in shiny silver heat sheets and blankets like a little human burrito. Everything except my feet. My feet are suspended in harnesses, covered in some kind of cream. Even from here, I can s
An answer to my question is given when another man enters my room, this time pushing the most compact, futuristic electric chair I’ve ever seen. It’s really just a small seat on top of big tyres, there’s not much to it, and nowhere near as bulky or cumbersome as the kind you see the elderly use. It has a joystick control, black leather lining and white exterior. I glare at the contraption with clear disdain. I’m reduced to an electric wheelchair because they won’t just let me go. Can’t walk or do shit, but still expected to make an appearance. I’ll be a sitting duck. Before the doctor administers the nerve block, he changes the bandages on my hands for a thinner, skin-coloured bandage, then the women help me into a one-shoulder floor-length lilac glittering sequined gown with a sweetheart bust and a slit up to my hip on my left side. It’s stunning and hugs my body perfectly. My hair is styled in a large intricate updo that appears full and voluminous while also being sleek. My nails m