Ava was almost glad for the thick tape over her mouth – the consequences of what would happen if she hurled right now were about the only thing keeping her turning stomach in check.
She was half-buried beneath a pile of raw meat. It was hard to breathe, but maybe that was a blessing since the stench was so disgusting. The feel of the cold, dead flesh on her skin was almost unbearable. Her clothes were saturated with rancid blood, and the weight of it all was crushing her against the chicken wire hammock, the cold metal biting into her back.
And now the gladiators were entering this cut-price coliseum, herded in by a handful of Stroke's goons armed with automatic weapons. The prisoners shambled in, two hundred or more, ranging from kids no older than Rolland to bag lady types in their fifties.
