365 Days At War

by Nancy Isaak

  As if in direct response to Erroll’s words, Brandon cupped Tray’s behind, lifting her up just enough, so that her toes hung an inch from the ground; his other hand he used to hold Tray’s head steady while he dragged his tongue across her face.

  “Seriously, Brandon…that’s disgusting!” Tray pushed at him, trying to get him to stop.

  “Got a couple of blood drops on your face, hon.”

  “Stop it!”

  “I’ll stop it when I wanna’ stop it, woman,” Brandon told her between licks—his tone becoming less amused, almost malicious. “Or didn’t you learn, yet—I am your lord, your god!”

  Pulling both his hands apart at the same instance, Brandon let Tray fall to the ground. Like a cat, she landed lightly, springing away from him before he could grab her again.

  “No one’s my god!” Tray snarled, wiping angrily at the wet spots on her face.

  “Careful, cray-Tray,” warned Brandon, “or pussy’s gonna’ get her nails clipped.” Then, he turned toward our bleachers and pumped his fists together like a fighter, yelling, “Hooyah!”

  Many of the Crazies yelled back; others pounded on the bleachers with their hands and feet. In the center of the field, meanwhile, the drummers began to play once more.

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat!

  * * * *

  It was utterly terrifying seeing Brandon up close.

  So near, it was impossible to deny how big he was, how muscular—how dangerous. Less than ten feet away, he paced alongside the guard rail as Orla explained the rules for the ‘main event’.

  “No weapons, no time limits.”

  Orla stood on her wooden box, facing our bleachers, carefully watching Brandon out of the side of her eyes as she addressed us. “Because—to fight a god in our tribe—you must fight with your hands…with your feet…with your teeth.”

  Brandon growled at this—a loud snarl that bared his sharpened teeth toward us.

  “Holy crap!” muttered one of the kids behind me.

  I felt myself shiver and Nate reached out and placed a hand gently over mine. “It’s just show biz,” he whispered. “Brandon’s trying to psych everybody out.”

  “He’s succeeding!” I whispered back.

  * * * *

  “Welcome to the Devil’s Playground!” Brandon’s booming voice echoed through the stadium. “So—who’s up for some Arena?!”

  From all sides, the Crazies cheered and hooted loudly.

  “Who wants to fight a god?”

  The cheering lessened; the hoots disappearing entirely.

  “Who wants to become a god?”

  One-by-one, the voices went silent; there was nervous tittering here and there, quickly stifled—afraid to attract Brandon’s attention.

  Afraid to be called into the Arena…afraid to be called to fight.

  Brandon snickered, shook his head in mock-disgust. Then, he lifted his face toward the sky and let out a horrible howl. Like a wolf gone mad—a feral call of the beasts…to the beasts.

  A second later, the drummers began slamming their drumsticks against each other.

  Clack-clack-clack-clack!

  The Crazies in the center field began to huff.

  Huff-huff-huff-huff!

  The guys in the bleachers across from us pounded their feet up and down.

  Stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp!

  Most horrifying of all, however, was the kid in the chef’s hat at the far end of the field. With what could only be a human leg bone, he began to hit against a giant stew pot.

  Clang-clang-clang-clang!

  Together, the noises were pure chaos—a rising cacophony of madness. And when Brandon added another one of his mad-wolf howls, the din became almost unbearable to me. It thundered in my ears, traveling up and down my spine; it lodged itself deep in my throat, reverberating against my fear and growing panic.

  I found myself struggling just to remain in my seat.

  More than anything, I just wanted to rise up and run—to flee.

  As Brandon turned in a circle, howling at the sky, I thought of what I would soon be facing—over 200 pounds of utter viciousness.

  Filled with violence and depravity.

  A monstrosity of a kid with a brown belt in karate, trained to kill—who had killed…many times. This mohawked, tattooed ‘beast’ howling and pumping his fists in the air in front of me would be my opponent.

  Brandon Keretsky—a Crazy, no doubt—a certifiable psychopath.

  And I was determined to take him down.

  At least, that was my ridiculous plan.

  * * * *

  It was finally quiet again; the Crazies in the bleachers had fallen silent.

  “Oh god,” whispered Nate. “It’s time!”

  My hands and feet went cold as the blood left my extremities. I forced myself to breathe—in, out, in, out…just get through this moment, just get through the next.

  Up on her wooden box, meanwhile, Orla raised up her hands. “Who among you is brave enough?” she called out. “Who among you will rise to this challenge? Who among you wishes to be our god?”

  There was a rustling among the kids in our bleachers; hushed, excited whispers broke out here and there. Down on the running track, Tray paced back and forth, her eyes scanning along the rows, searching—searching.

  “Why so quiet now, young gentlemen?” taunted Orla. “Surely there must be at least one of the registered Challengers among you. Where are you—the brave ones? Stand up and declare yourself!”

  We all remained seated.

  “No one?” needled Orla, using her little girl voice—insincere and overly sweet. “Are you telling me that there’s not a single Challenger in the crowd…not a single leader among you…not a single god?”

  I sensed movement beside me; Erroll’s head slowly turned until he was looking directly at me. On my other side, Nate squeezed my hand encouragingly.

  Here was the moment—they both seemed to be saying.

  It was time for action.

  This was what we’d been waiting for.

  Our whole plan—my whole plan—depended on me rising up and accepting Brandon’s challenge. Now that the time had come, however, I suddenly didn’t know if I could do it.

  Plain and simple—I was scared.

  What the hell had I been thinking? I wasn’t any Challenger.

  And I certainly wasn’t a god.

  No, I was merely a fair-to-middling soccer player who had learned a few dirty fighting tricks from a crazy Latina. Did I really think that would be enough to beat someone like Brandon?

  To kill him?

  “I accept the Challenge.”

  * * * *

  There were eight of them who stood up—one-after-another declaring their intention to fight Brandon to the death. It was the Crazies at the end of the first row, the ones with the crosses tattooed on their necks.

  The Christians.

  All around the Arena, Crazies began to cheer, excited that the main event was actually going to take place.

  “Well, well, well,” murmured Brandon. “Looks like I have a choice to make after all.”

  With an irritated huff, Tray stalked over to stand in front of the bleachers. She sneered at the Christians, spitting in their general direction. “I say put them all in the Arena. You take down one and I’ll do the rest of these Holy Rollers.”

  “Works for me,” grinned Brandon. “Give ‘em a real show.”

  Over on her little box, Orla cleared her throat dramatically, trying to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, so we have eight possible Challengers…anyone else?”

  “I got nothing better to do,” came a voice from behind me. “I’ll challenge the haole.”

  It was the big Hawaiian—Kimo—who had spoken. When I turned to look at him, he wiggled his eyebrows at me and slapped his large belly. “Already look like Buddha. Maybe I really be a god after this.”

  “You can always dream, big guy,” chuckled Brandon. “Just don’t sit on me or you might actually have a
chance.” Then, he leaned over the railing of the balcony, his head coming alarmingly close to me. His steely eyes were all for Kimo, however. “All joking aside, bro…you’re going to make for some real good eating.”

  Tray came up to stand beside Brandon. “You’re seriously going for the fat guy? I don’t even think he’s a registered Challenger.”

  “Maybe.” Brandon shrugged, his eyes returning to the Christians.

  They traveled from one guy to the next—evaluating, judging.

  “Gentlemen and less thans,” Orla continued, “we have eight Challengers. This is your third and final call. Is there anyone else who wishes to be considered for the main event...anyone else—who has been registered—who wishes for their one chance at becoming the leader of this tribe?”

  Erroll was still looking at me, expectant. With a slight sigh, he gave up and squeezed my hand, whispering out of the side of his mouth. “It’s okay…it was a long shot anyway.”

  Orla held up a hand. “Last chance, gentlemen.”

  I suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

  My chest rose and fell; I was gasping for air, yet nothing seemed to be reaching my lungs. There were flashes of light at the sides of my eyes and I felt nauseous and light-headed.

  “Going once,” warned Orla.

  My head turned to the right, looking toward a townhouse that wasn’t there anymore, a townhouse that Brandon and the Foxes had burned down.

  They had taken so much from me—from everybody.

  “Going twice.”

  I wanted my mom all of a sudden—just to hear her voice, to feel her arms around me, to protect me—because that’s what they do.

  Because that’s what Mothers do.

  They protect their children.

  And I thought about the tiny life growing inside of me, and I became…angry.

  And it was a righteous anger.

  * * * *

  Beside me, I felt a shift in Erroll’s demeanor. Chin high, his knees began to straighten, and his butt lifted an inch from his seat. Immediately, I placed a hand on his leg and pushed him back down.

  “This is my battle,” I told him, softly. “You’re not even registered. I’m the only one who can get close enough.”

  There was a noise to my left—a stifled sob from Nate.

  “Keep your head down,” I told him, urgently. “If they recognize you, we’ve lost.”

  Nate quickly lowered his head, staring at his feet. A single tear fell between his shoes and I reached out and squeezed his knee.

  “Time to be brave,” I said.

  And then—I stood up.

  * * * *

  At first there was shock when the Crazies realized that a slave had stood up, that a slave was actually daring to challenge Brandon for leadership of the tribe—that an insignificant girl could possibly think that she could defeat such a big and dangerous god.

  Then—came the laughter.

  A few of the Crazies threw things at me—candy wrappers, bones, even a shoe—yelling at me to sit down.

  Up on her wooden box, Orla shook her head in distain. “Seriously,” she groaned. “Like someone pull on that less than’s chain, please.”

  Brandon, however, barely glanced at me. He simply gave my sheeted-figure a dismissive wave of his hand and moved back to the Christians. “Eeny meeny miny moe,” he began—pointing from one to another.

  It was only Tray who seemed to realize that there was something ‘more’ happening. Her head cocked quizzically to one side, and she took slow and measured steps toward me. “Hold on a minute.”

  Brandon’s finger froze in mid-point.

  A foot away from the railing, Tray stopped and looked up at me. She squinted, searching for some sign of recognition—but the only thing visible on me, of course, were my eyes.

  Which, for Tray—was enough.

  “Hello, Kaylee,” she purred.

  * * * *

  There was no turning back.

  Ignoring the sudden flop sweat on my palms and the unfortunate tremors in my legs, I pulled off my sheet and let it fall to the ground.

  Orla actually stumbled off of her wooden platform, she was so shocked. “Ohmigod!” she cried. “Ohmigod!”

  “Not yet,” I murmured. Then, lifting my hands up, I turned slowly so that every Crazy in the Arena could see what was tattooed on my back.

  Voices rose and fell all around me—some angry, others filled with hope and awe. “The Fallen Angel...Mother…she’s the one…it’s her!”

  * * * *

  With Cherry and Reena’s help this morning, I had spent hours on my appearance. We three had finally settled on a pair of black jeans and a backless halter—clothes that I could fight in, but that would also reveal the angel wings that Wyatt had spent so many hours tattooing.

  It had been my desperate hope that the Crazies would be taken in by those wings.

  If they truly believed what Brandon and the Foxes had claimed, that I was a Fallen Angel, then my tattoo would only cement that belief.

  Here were their fears made real.

  Here was the Fallen Angel come to battle their god.

  In front of me, Tray took a step back, her amber eyes moving up and down my body. “Looking good, Kaylee,” she said, admiringly. “Still not the smartest chick in the henhouse but—I’ll give you this—you’re looking pretty tasty.”

  I ignored her, turning my attention instead to Brandon. He was still standing in front of the Christians, his mouth open, gaping like a shocked fish.

  “What’s wrong, Keretsky?” I taunted. “Afraid of a little girl wearing a couple of wings on her back?”

  “Ooo!” The crowd of Crazies behind me began to hoot, obviously delighted that I was challenging Brandon.

  “Are you kidding me?!” Still stunned, Brandon finally remembered to close his mouth. He stalked over to stand beside Tray, staring up wide-eyed at me. “Kaylee…Kaylee Michelson?”

  “Haven’t you heard, Brandon? They’re calling me Mother now.”

  His eyebrows rose and a look of irritation replaced his shock. “Haven’t you heard, Kay-lee?” he sneered. “They’re calling me God now.”

  I sniffed in disdain, pretending to pick at something under one of my fingernails. “No, bud…you just think you’re a god.”

  There were a few titters from the Crazies behind me.

  Brandon frowned, unhappy. “And yet here I am with my very own angel in front of me.”

  I put both hands on the railing and leaned toward him. “An angel who’s gonna’ kick your ass in the Arena.”

  He actually took a surprised step backward. “You want to challenge me?! This is like...ridiculous!”

  Tray motioned toward a nearby White Shirt. “Arrest her.”

  Before the kid could move, however, a voice from the bleachers yelled out. “Fight the Fallen Angel! Make her the Challenger!”

  Another voice picked up the call. “Fight her!”

  And still another. “Fight Mother!”

  I knew full well that it was the Stars’ voices that I was hearing. This was all part of our plan—to place Brandon and the Foxes in a position where they had to call me out onto the field, where they would have no choice or Brandon would look like a coward.

  Connor suddenly added to the pressure by rising up from his knees and shaking his fist, yelling, “You don’t have the balls to fight Kaylee, Brandon, because you know she’d win!”

  Brandon spun around, furious.

  Quickly, the redheaded White Shirt who controlled Connor yanked him back down into his kneeling position. I cringed as the White Shirt hit Connor, an open hand across the face, a slap so hard I could hear it from where I stood.

  “Leave him alone!” I yelled. “This is between Brandon and me.”

  “You don’t give orders here!” Orla waved a finger at me from the safety of her box. “This is our tribe and we do what we want.”

  I waved my finger right back at her. “Like enslave half your tribe and beat them and abuse th
em and stick them in a stewing pot when they’re no more use to you?”

  There were grumbles from all around me; some of the Crazies actually nodded in agreement.

  “She’s right!” called out a Crazy behind me. “This is wrong what you’re doing!”

  “You took my sister!” cried another.

  “And my brother is gone, too…and nobody will tell me where!” still another yelled.

  Tray whispered in the nearest White Shirt’s ear, pointing out the malcontents in the bleachers. As he pulled out a piece of paper and, apparently, began to write down names, the dissension in the crowd seemed to evaporate as quickly as it had begun.

  Seizing the opportunity, Orla got off of her box and walked quickly over to Brandon. “You need to choose!” she urged—her voice low, strained. “We need to get this challenge going right now.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Tray disagreed, shaking her head. “I think we should talk it over first, figure out the best thing to do. The decision should be all of ours.”

  Which is exactly what I didn’t want.

  “Is that how it works, Brandon?” I taunted. “The girls talk it over and tell you what to do. They give their boy orders and little Brandon carries them out.”

  Brandon’s eyes narrowed; he stepped forward, until he was less than a foot away from me.

  Tray reached for his arm. “She’s just trying to bait you, Bran.”

  He shrugged her off, growling, “This is my choice, bitch.”

  Then, he pointed right in my face and grinned.

  “And I choose…her!”

  * * * *

  All part of the plan…all part of the plan…all part of the plan…

  I kept reminding myself that as I made my way toward the end of the bleachers.

  It was cold comfort, though, when I looked up and saw the rabid expressions on some of the Crazies’ faces. From the feral excitement I saw there, I knew that they were hoping for the worst kind of violence.

  They wanted Brandon to slaughter me, to humiliate me…to do the very things that they wanted to do, but would never get the chance.