I hurried after him and climbed the six stairs quickly to where he was waiting for us on a small platform. I watched as he typed 1919 on the lock. Then we stalked with him inside the glass room, the floor made of only small metal grates.
He turned to face us. “I will only say this once. Don’t touch anything in here before you begin. You will have one minute to choose your weapon.” He pointed to a table outside the glass room where multiple weapons lay, and a bored soldier sat next to the table combing his hair. “Then you need to be back in here. You will fight each other to disable—your opponent must be unconscious. Try not to kill each other. Then you are required to use that knife on the floor to hit the bullseye dead center. Last, you will leave through the far door. Whoever is unconscious at the end is sent home.”
He turned on his heel and walked to the door we had come in through. “Your time starts now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Victor raced from the glass room to the table of weapons.
I nibbled on my bottom lip as I studied the chamber I was in. The ventilation units on the glass roof were interesting as were the scratched up grates on the floor—since it was a raised room. I glanced at my opponent. His back was to me as he studied each weapon, and I hurried to the wall and sniffed at it. My eyes narrowed at the sour smell. The room had been used before, obviously, and I knew one more reason for the vents now.
I ran to the knife and peered at it, bending, and staring. There was a tiny piece of black metal beneath it. It was a trap for the unaware if you picked up the knife.
I hurried to the other side of the room and examined the bullseye, and, yet again, there were small black metal pieces beneath each leg of the easel.
My last stop was the door. I smirked. Easy.
Then I sprinted just outside the other door, squeezing past Victor as he walked in with a bat. That simple piece of wood was frightening in his hands. I stumbled down the steps in my haste and landed on my hands and my knees right in front of all the instructors sitting in their chairs.
“Dammit,” I grumbled, not looking at them. I had been distracted by the freaking bat. The floor was freezing underneath my palms, and I shoved myself up to my feet.
I shook my hands out while I ran to the table and bounced from one foot to the other in front of it to loosen my muscles. My opponent stretched his inside the glass room. I chanted, “Little one, little one, little one.”
There it was.
I grabbed the soldier’s comb sitting on the table.
He didn’t argue, so I knew I was right.
The instructor stared at his bracelet. “Five, Four…”
I sprinted across the floor.
“Three, Two…”
I clambered up the stairs.
“One…”
I jumped into the room just as the door automatically shut on its own behind me. I grinned in pure delight. “Whew. Made it!”
This was awesome fun.
Victor snorted. “Where’s your weapon?”
I lifted the comb from my pocket. “Right here.”
Then I stuffed it back down into my pocket.
He moved in a circle around me, his movements smooth and calm, and he chuckled. “That’s not a weapon.”
“You’re right. It’s a tool.” Then I struck forward and grabbed him by his balls, even as he raised the bat to defend himself, squeezing and twisting as hard as I could. “My hands are my weapon.”
He roared in pain and struck down with his bat.
I tilted my shoulders and stepped to the side.
The bat missed, and the tip banged on the metal grating as he doubled over in agony with his head hanging down.
I grabbed hold of his hair and yanked his face up, arched my back, and brought my elbow down in a cutting blow to the side of his head directly against his temple.
He fell like dead weight to the floor.
I tilted my head and picked up the bat, and nudged him with it. My opponent didn’t move. He was definitely unconscious, hopefully without brain damage from my attack.
I dropped the bat next to his prone body.
Then I simply strolled to the knife.
It was time to hold my breath.
I sucked in a large lungful of air, keeping it trapped inside my lungs.
I bent down and picked up the knife.
An instant hiss escaped from the floor.
I turned quickly and positioned myself square with the bullseye. The exit was closest to this side of the room, so staying over here was ideal with the next booby trap coming.
I took aim and hurled the knife hard.
It hit dead center, embedding deep into the material.
Another hiss ejected from the floor.
I only saw a moment of yellow gas slithering up through the grates before I shut my eyes. My arms instantly shot out wide while I walked backward until my back hit the glass. I rolled on the wall to my left, not breathing and not seeing. Then I used my hands to crawl along the glass wall to guide me until I hit the exit.
My lungs started to burn, so I quickly pulled out the comb from my pocket. I felt along the comb until I found the smallest tooth. It snapped as I broke it off with a quick and efficient jerk of my wrists.
I dropped the rest of the useless comb on the ground and quickly ran my fingers along the lock. The numbers you didn’t exactly type in, even though they were visually in the right place. You had to use the tip of a pen—or the teeth from a comb—for it to register your code. I kept my left hand on the device, using it as my eyes, and my right hand to punch in the numbers 1919.
Nothing happened.
I shook my head and tried again.
The vents above didn’t turn on to suck the gasses out.
The door didn’t open.
Exit… Exit… Exit…
An exit was the opposite of an entrance.
I started making the oddest noises, high and whining, as I fought not to breathe. It would happen, but I wouldn’t go down without fighting my lungs for control.
I punched in the numbers the opposite way.
9191
The latch clicked. The vents whirled in power.