365 Days At War

by Nancy Isaak

  They flowed freely down my cheeks and around my chin, following the line of my throat to eventually trickle onto my chest, where they ended their journey—lodged against the ever-increasing beat of my terrified heart. At that moment…never was I more thankful for having to wear my degrading ‘sheet’.

  Because it hid my shame…and my fear.

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat…TAT!

  The drumming ended suddenly as a group of ten Crazies on horses entered through the far gate. To the cheers of the crowd, two of the riders separated from the others, and—like the White Shirts and the drummers before them—began to circle the field along the running track.

  The rest of the riders rode straight into the center of the field, pulling up next to the cage, facing us. I was shocked to see that Alice appeared to be in charge. She sat calmly on the lead horse, arms crossed over her saddle’s pommel—frowning in the direction of our bleachers.

  Or was it at Erroll, Nate, and me?

  A chill ran down my back at the very idea.

  The last thing I wanted to think about at this moment was the possibility of Alice betraying us—alerting the White Shirts to our location in the bleachers.

  Meanwhile—just to the left of Alice—was a tall, redheaded Crazy, sitting on a white horse with a black mane and tail. He was holding a thick-linked chain, the end of which disappeared amongst the riders behind him.

  With a vicious tug, the redhead suddenly yanked on the chain.

  Two riders on large black horses moved to either side behind him and a skinny kid—his head lowered—limped into view. The end of the chain was attached to the kid’s neck, and the kid held onto the chain tightly, trying desperately to keep the links from chaffing.

  Snickering at the kid’s efforts, the redhead gave another mean-spirited yank. Then, he drew up the chain into loose loops, until the kid was standing right beside him. Finally, with his booted foot, the redhead stepped on the kid’s shoulder—pushing him down onto his knees.

  At that point, the skinny kid lifted up his head. Moving only his eyes, he began to scan the bleachers directly in front of him.

  …searching, searching…

  …up one row, down another…

  His eyes reached Nate, then moved past to my sheeted-figure and over to land on Erroll.

  They paused there briefly.

  Then—they returned to me.

  And the skinny kid smiled.

  My hand immediately flew to my heart, tapping it lightly; I hoped that he would be able to understand the gesture—what I was trying to say.

  We’re here for you, Connor.

  We love you.

  * * * *

  As the two riders who had separated from the others arced around the end of the track and started back toward us, the drummers resumed their beat, matching the rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Meanwhile, the same Crazies behind me began to thump their feet up and down on the risers, while more all around us began to huff and hoot.

  In his exuberance, a large kid to my right took off his t-shirt and began swinging it around his head. When it hit the guy behind him, a fistfight erupted and White Shirts swarmed into the stands, pulling both kids out of their seats and behind the bleachers.

  For the most part, the crowd ignored the disruption; their attention—like my own—was concentrated on the two riders coming around the track.

  Tray and Orla.

  * * * *

  As before, Orla had decided to favor the crowd with her stylish version of ‘pink’; from her cowboy boots to her skinny jeans to the fringed jacket she was wearing over a long-sleeved silk blouse—all were the color of bubblegum.

  It should have looked ridiculous, yet—somehow—her ensemble managed to look elegant. Of course, it probably helped that, while the rest of us were wearing clothes that had become ripped and soiled over time, Orla’s were clean and relatively new. Even her pink cowboy boots appeared to be immaculate; not a scuff or a dust mark to be found on either one of them.

  I wondered briefly if Orla had been keeping these clothes tucked away in a closet somewhere, for just such an occasion as this. Or, perhaps, she used slaves to wash and iron her outfits, keeping them fresh and pristine, by placing them neatly into plastic garment bags and arranging them in obsessive order—from a light champagne all the way up to a hot fuchsia.

  * * * *

  Tray—on the other hand—was dressed in a pair of black leather pants that appeared to be well-worn; there were no ornaments on them—no fringes or grommets or even any fancy top-stitching. The pants hugged Tray tightly, accentuating every curve, and were tucked into a pair of equally non-descript black combat boots.

  Even Tray’s black belt was, frankly, uninteresting; there was not even a buckle attached to it. Instead, the belt was held together by a simple flap of Velcro that folded back over itself.

  But from the waist up...

  The breast plate that Tray wore extended from her neck to just below her rib cage; it was an elaborate design, made entirely from bone—no doubt, human. There was an unearthly beauty to it; someone would have had to have spent hours creating it, carefully placing each bone separately—like a master jeweler—conscious of size, shape, and hue of each small segment of wasted humanity.

  To the Crazies’ delight, Tray wore nothing beneath the breastplate.

  The bones were linked together just tight enough that the majority of her breasts were covered. Her arms and back were bare, however, glistening and oiled, her slim muscles rippling in the sunlight.

  Oddly—for the first time since I’d known her—Tray was actually wearing her hair ‘natural’. She had forgone the relaxing treatments and the flat-ironing of the old world; instead, her now tight curls had been gathered up into a line of small, ebony puff-balls. From her forehead to the nape of her neck, Tray was sporting her own faux-mohawk.

  It should have looked stupid; it probably would have on somebody else.

  On Tray—however—it looked sexy.

  And—from the cheering and hoots of the Crazies around us—they obviously agreed.

  * * * *

  “Brandon’s not with the Foxes,” Erroll said, quietly. “I don’t see him in the stands opposite us, either.”

  “He likes to make an even bigger entrance than Tray and Orla,” explained Nate. “You’ll see. He’ll come out later.”

  Out on the track, meanwhile, Tray and Orla were continuing their ride toward us.

  A couple of Crazies suddenly left their seats, jumping over the front railing of the bleachers and kneeling down at the edge of the track—where they raised and lowered their arms as if to say to the approaching Foxes…we’re not worthy.

  They were pulled back almost immediately, set upon by four of the White Shirts who were standing at attention in front of us. Within a matter of seconds, the two guys were dragged away—like the two previous Crazies before them—to disappear behind the stands.

  “Guess they didn’t learn from the first two,” I murmured.

  “Sucks to be them,” muttered Nate. “Just more meat for the pot.”

  “Seriously, dude?” asked Erroll, horrified by the idea.

  Nate shrugged, nodding toward the cook station at the end of the field. “They’ve gotta’ be feeding this horde somehow.”

  Erroll put his hand over his mouth. “Shaddup, bro…or I’m gonna’ be sick!”

  * * * *

  The cheering became so loud, it resounded painfully in my eardrums. Even so, as Tray and Orla slowed their horses down in front of our bleachers, I resisted the urge to place my hands over my ears.

  Instead—I clapped politely.

  Thankfully, my tears had finally dried up—along with a great deal of my fear. From somewhere deep within myself, a small nugget of courage was beginning to make its presence known. It wasn’t so much that I was actually feeling brave; it was that I wasn’t so completely consumed by terror.

  Because—I was becoming angry again.

  Down front, meanwhile, two White
Shirts moved into place, grabbing onto Tray and Orla’s horses as they pulled up to a stop—holding the big animals steady by their halters. Another two White Shirts came forward quickly, holding out their hands to help Tray and Orla down.

  Tray, of course, ignored her White Shirt.

  With a deftly placed boot to the chest, she pushed the kid away to the delighted laughter of the crowd, and slid easily to the ground. Orla, on the other hand, placed her left hand regally into that of her White Shirt’s, allowing him to guide her to earth in true gentlemanly-fashion.

  “Good morning, my children.” Orla waved up at us—that slight, left-right twist of the hand so favored by royalty and faux-celebrities.

  “Good morning, Ms. Orla!” replied the Crazies in the bleachers.

  She came forward to stand in the center of the track, facing us. A young Crazy—no more than 10-years old—quickly ran up, carrying a wooden box. He placed it down at Orla’s feet, then helped her to step onto it. For his assistance, the young boy was rewarded by a motherly pat to the top of his head—then shooed away.

  As he retreated, the kid made certain to veer around Tray. He was obviously terrified of her, which seemed to amuse the older girl. Tray watched him carefully, a grin on her face, her eyes narrowing—perhaps marking the kid for some future debasement.

  “What an absolutely beautiful day for an Arena!” Orla looked up into the blue sky, shading her eyes from the sun. “I wonder…does Fate shine down on a new lord today, or does she favor our own young god?”

  Voices rang out, coming from all corners of both sets of bleachers—calling out Brandon’s name.

  “And I agree with you, my handsome young men,” Orla cooed. “No doubt it will be our own Lord Brandon who will ultimately retain his crown…but still—” She gave a little wiggle on her wooden box, allowing her pink fringes to flutter prettily. “Won’t it be fun to watch the challengers try?”

  A few Crazies began to boo; others began to huff.

  After a moment, Orla held up a hand, waiting until everyone was silent before she continued. “I do wonder, however—is it a moot point, gentlemen? I mean, are there truly any among you brave enough, courageous enough—any heroes, any true challengers? Am I—even now—looking into the face of my next lord…my new god?”

  Off to the side, Tray unhooked a long black whip from the side of her belt, allowing its loops to tumble to the ground. She flicked it smartly then, the tip lashing out, perilously close to Orla’s boots.

  “Get on with it,” Tray hissed.

  Orla sniffed, giving her an irritated look. “It’s about entertainment, Tray.”

  “Then, stop being so freaking boring!”

  With a snap, Tray’s whip shot out again, this time landing on the edge of the wooden box. For a moment, a startled Orla rocked back and forth, struggling to keep her balance on the small platform.

  “Not funny, Tray!” Orla screeched. “You almost hit me!”

  There were chuckles from the Crazies seated around us; a few openly hooted.

  Tray, meanwhile, calmly wound up her whip, hooking it back onto her belt. “Sorry, my aim was off. I was actually aiming for your fat, pink ass.”

  Beside me, Erroll leaned over and whispered, “Those two are crazy…like, certifiably.”

  “Welcome to my nightmare,” I whispered back.

  * * * *

  “All right, my children,” said Orla, speaking loudly. “Here then are the rules of the Arena. For the non-challenger portion of the day, combat will be hand-to-hand. There will be two rounds. The first will be two minutes in length, the second will be as long as it takes for one fighter to…what?” She put her hand to her ear, waiting for the crowd to answer her.

  “KILL HIM…DESTROY HIM…MURDER HIM!” Crazies from all over the stands competed with each other to yell the loudest.

  Orla nodded her agreement. “Exactly…the winner, of course, will take all—land, possessions, including any slaves. Again—this is for the non-challenger rounds.”

  She began to look around her—obviously searching for something. Within moments, the young Crazy came trotting back onto the track. He hurried over and handed Orla a clipboard—never once taking his wary eyes off of Tray the whole time.

  As if to confirm the kid’s fears, Tray unhooked her whip and snapped it lazily in his general direction. To the crowd’s laughter, the young boy screamed, put on a burst of speed, and raced back behind the bleachers.

  “Get that kid’s name,” Tray ordered a nearby White Shirt. “When this is over, I want him brought to my rooms.” The White Shirt immediately trotted off in the direction the little kid had taken.

  Meanwhile, Orla leafed through the sheets of paper on the clipboard. “I see that there will be five non-competition rounds taking place,” she said, reading. “Two neighbor disputes over territory, one over a slave, and two over…well, it looks like just general bad manners.”

  Once again, the guys in the crowd laughed and hooted.

  Looking pleased by the response, Orla checked the time on a watch she wore around her wrist; even from my seat I could see that the strap was covered in tiny pink diamonds. I wondered if the watch was actually capable of telling the time—or did Orla just wear it to compliment her outfit?

  “Because of the time constraints, I think we’ll start with the punishments first.” Orla nodded to Tray, who immediately turned and began walking toward the cage in the center of the field. “After the punishments, we’ll have the five non-challengers. Then, we’ll have our main event—which, if we’re lucky, will end just before lunch.” Orla motioned toward the cooking area. “Anybody hungry?!”

  A cheer went up, coming from both sides of the field.

  I quickly scanned the bleachers around me.

  Like I suspected—and hoped—many of the Crazies had remained silent; in fact, many of the guys looked absolutely disgusted.

  But—there were others.

  One Crazy toward the back was jumping up and down, rubbing his bulging belly in anticipation. Another kid—wearing a necklace of what I feared were pieces of scalp—leaned over and nibbled on the ear of the younger boy next to him. And—closer to the front—two guys in their mid-teens had their noses raised up; like a pair of rats, they were sniffing in the direction of the cooking area, testing the air for tasty scents.

  Out on the field, meanwhile, Tray had reached the cage and was waiting, while two White Shirts entered to extract one of the prisoners. Their target was a kid who looked to be around twelve or thirteen.

  He was resisting—holding tight onto the cage’s bars.

  Using their fists, the White Shirts began to pound on the kid’s fingers, eventually forcing him to release his grip. They then took him by his arms, dragging him out of the cage and toward our bleachers.

  Tray walked beside the White Shirts and their prisoner. As she did, a third White Shirt approached, handing Tray a long sword. She immediately began twirling the wicked-looking weapon, a series of figure-eights that whistled through the air.

  The sight of the sword terrified the prisoner; even as he was dragged along the ground, he began to sob, trying desperately to pull away from his guards. “Oh God, please don’t…please, please, please don’t!”

  Tray waved the sword in his direction. “Didn’t you hear…no god here, bro.”

  “But I shouldn’t even be here!” insisted the kid. “It was a mistake! They made me do it. I didn’t want to come, I swear. I’m not a Local—I’m not!”

  There was a sudden gasp; with a start, I realized that it had come from me.

  Nate and Erroll leaned forward—peering closely at the skinny, dirty kid being dragged in our direction.

  “Tell me he isn’t ours!” I whispered—begging them. “Tell me he’s not one of our own!”

  Erroll was the first to sit back; he lowered his head and ran a frustrated hand over his eyes. “He’s ours…I’m sorry, Kaylee…he’s one of the first group of spies who went up.”

  “Ohmigod!�
� My hand flew toward my mouth in horror; part of the way there, it encountered the sheet, knocking the cloth into my face. Erroll quickly grabbed at me, forcing my hand down, holding it stiffly against my leg.

  “Don’t say anything else!” he warned.

  On my other side, Nate also leaned back in his seat. He looked more worried than horrified, however, and began to chew on one of his fingernails.

  “Nate?” asked Erroll. “What is it?”

  “This is bad,” murmured Nate, his worried eyes not straying from the field. “Like this is really, really bad. I know this kid and he’s right. Pauly shouldn’t of sent him up. He wasn’t ready. We should go…we should go now!”

  But, of course—we couldn’t.

  * * * *

  “So…shall we begin?” Orla asked the crowd.

  The stands behind us reverberated with a…“KILL HIM!”

  Pleased with the crowd’s response, Orla turned and grinned at Tray, who was standing a few feet away—the terrified prisoner on his knees beside her.

  “Such impatient boys,” giggled Orla. Then, she turned back to the Crazies in our bleachers and wiggled an amused finger at them. “Now let us be civilized and allow me to first explain this poor soul’s sin. Sadly…he is a spy, sent from the Fallen Angel herself. Now, obviously, he is not a very good spy, because he did get caught.”

  The kid began to sob even louder.

  Grinning at his distress, Tray reached down and wound her fingers through the boy’s hair, pulling tight to force his head backwards, until the kid was looking up at her. With the hilt of her sword, she then sadistically tapped him once on his forehead, hard enough to cause the kid to cry out in pain and terror.

  I began to rise in my seat.

  Before I had moved even an inch, however, Erroll had pulled me back down.

  “Don’t!” he hissed at me. “You can’t help him…you’ll just get all of us killed! I’m sorry, Kaylee…but that kid was dead the moment he entered the Arena.”

  Not convinced, I struggled against Erroll until he was forced to place an arm across my chest to keep me in my seat. Even Nate did his part to keep me immobile—grabbing my hand and bending it up behind my back.