CHAPTER 11: THE ESCAPE

  Vanstine gave the order. Above us, gun barrels snapped into view—ready to turn our bodies into a hive of bullet holes.

  “U…U…!!!”

  The crowd suddenly erupted, a chaotic swell of shouts and jeers. Vanstine froze, clearly unprepared for such fierce opposition from the spectators who had once worshiped his games. His face flushed purple with rage, but he dared only a venomous glare before smoothing his expression into something diplomatic.

  “Everyone, calm down,” he called out. “We all want evenly matched fights, don’t we? So—”

  “Shut up, you rotten egg!” someone shouted from a distant corner of the stands—and promptly proved the insult literal.

  Vanstine ducked just in time as the egg shattered against the railing. But the crowd, now fully incited, surged forward, pressing in around him and his entourage.

  “Leave them alone, Vanstine! They’re exciting! We want to watch them—”

  The noise swelled into a frenzy. The gunmen rushed to block the agitators trying to storm the VIP section, but bottles and shards of glass began raining down. The guards hesitated to fire recklessly into their paying audience, forming a tight defensive ring instead.

  A man as calculating as Vanstine knew better than to risk his profits or his status. He raised both hands quickly.

  “Fine, fine…” His voice dropped. “They’ll live. Everything for my wonderful audience—my gods.”

  The arena erupted. Applause thundered through the stands. And above it all, a name rose again and again, shouted with respect: “Richard! Richard! Richard!”

  Sadness lingered, impossible to ignore. But it was drowned beneath the intoxicating heat of victory—like the thick, fermented bite of Iberian ale we now drank. The taste of roasted lamb—hot, salt-crusted, tearing under our teeth—momentarily erased the bitterness of loss.

  The feast was unlike him. Instead of a damp cell, Vanstine granted us a banquet. As Richard had said: “Enjoy today. Tomorrow is never promised.”

  Our celebration was not forgetful. We remembered the ones who had died yesterday, and those who had just fallen at our sides. We would honor them, but the unspoken truth remained: better them than us. There was no mercy here. Only survival—earned through struggle and luck.

  The banquet stretched nearly to one in the morning. Only after the arena lights dimmed and the last cheers faded did Vanstine reappear, accompanied by attendants carrying trays of dessert.

  The servants stood to greet him. We did not. “Let him stand. What is he to us?” Michael muttered.

  Vanstine appeared strangely calm. He brushed dust from an old wooden chair before sitting. A woman poured dark red wine into his glass from an ornate crystal decanter.

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  “You performed exceptionally tonight,” he began.

  “Not as exceptional as the guns pointed at our heads,” Sebastian replied dryly.

  “Oh… a misunderstanding,” Vanstine sighed. “I may have overreacted.”

  “Because we killed that monster?” Richard asked suddenly.

  A flicker of something real crossed Vanstine’s face. “Yes,” he admitted. “It was… my younger brother.”

  I nearly spat out my wine. “You used your own brother to make money?!”

  “He stopped being my brother the day he was bitten. And when he tried to eat me… his place became the arena.” Vanstine gave a humorless laugh. “I didn’t expect the first time he earned money for me would also be the last.”

  “You wanted revenge?” Richard pressed.

  “I did,” Vanstine said. “But the dead don’t return. The living still generate profit. The audience likes you—in fact, they saved your lives today. So continue entertaining them, unless you prefer becoming worthless to me.” He stood up. “Sleep well. Tomorrow, we travel to another arena near the city of Harvint.”

  Harvint. The name struck something inside me—an image of tall buildings swallowed in heavy morning fog.

  “The man who sold you to us claimed he found you in Harvint,” Vanstine added, looking amused.

  “Can I meet him?”

  “No.” His tone hardened. “Your life belongs to me now. Past, present, and future. Perform as you did tonight. That’s enough.”

  “Tomorrow we escape,” Richard whispered once the iron door shut. He laid out the plan: we would flee during transport. The outskirts of Harvint bordered a vast forest; Vanstine would assume we wouldn’t risk the undead beyond the city walls.

  “I have a house near the river,” Richard said. “The basement is fortified. We can survive the night there.”

  We slept.

  …

  “Nick. Wake up.”

  “Did you just call me Nick?” I asked groggily.

  “I don’t know your real name. Since you’ve lost your memory… it fits.”

  I smiled faintly. Maybe forgetting was a gift. I nodded. From now on, I was Nick.

  Half an hour later, the four of us were loaded into a transport truck with two armed escorts. The viewing window between the cabin and cargo snapped shut.

  Hours later, green light filtered through a crack in the door. Richard gave the signal. I pulled out a deck of cards.

  “Anyone care to play?”

  The guards hesitated, but temptation won. They slung their rifles and approached.

  “You know gambling is bad for you,” Richard smiled.

  They realized too late. Richard and Sebastian seized them, arms locking around their throats. I moved to assist, but for a heartbeat, my hands trembled as the cold reality of the act hit me. One guard managed to claw at his holster, his fingers brushing the grip of his pistol.

  I slammed my weight against him, pinning his arm just before he could draw. It was a frantic tangle of limbs and muffled grunts until both bodies finally went limp.

  We took their guns and pried open the door latch with a knife. It took nearly twenty minutes of agonizing tension, every jolt of the truck threatening to throw us off balance. The road was long and desolate, and the aging engine roared loud enough to swallow any sound of our struggle.. Finally, the doors swung wide. Fresh air rushed in. One by one, we jumped and rolled into cover.

  “We did it,” Michael breathed.

  We moved east, deeper into the trees. Among the crates of gemstones Vanstine was transporting, one thing drew my eye—the golden machete. I took it without hesitation. It felt… correct.

  …

  Hours passed. Hunger gnawed. Shadows shifted. Figures in the distance began to drift in our direction.

  “It’s close,” Richard insisted. “Canned food. Water.”

  CRACK. A twig snapped behind us. We spun. Nothing.

  “It’s following us,” Richard whispered.

  The forest dimmed. Groans echoed. Then, Sebastian heard it: water. The river.

  Relief surged. We began to run—then stones clattered from a ridge above. We froze. A distant zombie shriek drew our attention for one fatal second.

  From the ridge, a dark shape hurled itself straight at my chest. Behind it—two, maybe three more shadows dropped into the gloom.