“The broken sticks! The sticks!” Jack yelled to the Spartan, pointing to the two halves of the stick that the scorpion had snapped.
The Spartan didn’t seem to understand the words, but worked out the meaning of Jack’s gestures and immediately seized the weapons. The fracture had left each half with a pointed, jagged tip, which the Spartan now drove into the monster’s back, mercilessly piercing the exoskeleton again and again in the search for a vital organ. Jack remained locked to the scorpion’s tail, the venom splashing onto his hands and face and burning wherever it touched his skin. The beast flailed like a mad bull, but it could not buck him nor avoid the Spartan’s attacks. Eventually, it shuddered and slumped.
Jack pulled himself free and looked over to see Trotsky and the panther-woman. Between the two of them, they had managed to pull the venomous stinger off the end of the scorpion’s tail. Trotsky, now in full rage, held the giant arachnid by the tail and, although it was at least as large as he, he now slammed it bodily into the arena walls, over and over with the force of an avalanche.
Jack turned to the balcony and called out to Sergeant Schmidt. “We survived,” Jack said. “We beat your little game. Now, how about letting us go?”
Schmidt rose from his seat and applauded half-heartedly. “Very goot, Herr Jack. Very goot. But you are not done yet. Zere are still four of you. You vill now fight until zere iz only one. Or ve vill machinegun you all.”