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.
Why weren’t they clapping?
“Our very own Wolf has made it to the championship round!” called the MC. “Now one final battle will determine tonight’s winner!”
One final battle?
Kane glanced around. There was no one to fight.
Two Redshirts appeared at the base of the stairs, holding a man between them who was so weak he couldn’t support his own head. One side of his bodysuit was scorched, the other side crusted in blood. When the Redshirts reached the platform, they carried the man to center stage and dropped him there. Then he rolled onto his back, and Kane saw his face.
It was Cutter. Or what was left of him.
“Now for the final task,” the master of ceremonies said in a dark tone Kane knew was intended for him. “Finish your opponent.”
Kane couldn’t move. He stared at Cutter and noticed two fingers were missing from his right hand. Fresh blood pooled beneath his thighs, but in a slow trickle that indicated how much he’d already lost. This man was broken. Even for the perverts in the stands, what enjoyment could they gain from a fight as unfair as this?
“Let’s give our champion some encouragement,” the MC said. A chant rose from the crowd, low at first, but quickly gaining momentum until their shouts of “Wolf! Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!” rang in Kane’s ears.