by Jake Stone
“We’ll take our leave when we’re ready,” Petronelous says, stepping toward him to meet his gaze.
Lexar hesitates for a moment, his brothers watching him with frozen faces as they wait to see what he’s going to do. He’s been challenged. Their honor is at stake. And he must reply in kind. But instead of defending it, he’s only able to let out a low growl in retaliation, reluctant to test himself against his counterpart.
“Alright, boys,” he mutters nervously as he looks away. “Take the cards and clear the table. Recruitment is over for the day.”
“But captain…” one of his guards begins.
“Now, damnit!” he yells back.
The guards begin to pack their things, while the line of recruits—people who’ve been waiting all morning long—let out exhausted sighs, watching in pained silence as their only chance at escaping their shitty lives rush to leave.
A large number of them stagger toward the gate, sulking. But more than half remain, deciding to throw in their lot with Petronelous instead of returning home.
“So,” Petronelous says, circling around me in appraisal. “You want to be a Purifier, do you?”
“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” I reply.
She’s maybe a couple years older than me. Not by much. But she has a commanding presence, one that screams of discipline and fortitude.
“Let me guess,” she continues, “your family was butchered by mutants. No, that would be too obvious. I know! A younger sibling was taken away from you. And now you’ve sworn to get her back. Yes, that seems more likely.”
“Neither,” I say.
“Then why?” she asks, stopping. Her face is so close to mine that I can smell the sweetness of the fruit on her lips. Her eyes bore into mine, those gorgeous jade stones that are seemingly filled with fire. What do I say? How do I answer? Should I tell her the truth? Would it make me look like a pussy? What choice do I have?
“A woman,” I say.
“Ah,” she croons. “The hollow promise of love. Let’s see how far that’ll get you. Do yourself a favor, citizen. Come back next week and beg Lexar for his forgiveness. At least with him, you can play cards all day and fuck the whores in the districts.”
She turns to leave, but I call out to her, halting her in her tracks. “She was taken from me,” I say, “…by slavers.”
The redhead idles, glancing over her shoulder at me. “You do know what it means to be a Purifier, don’t you?”
“Not really, no.”
“It means that you’ll be faced with danger on a daly basis, forced to battle against the diseased remains of mutant monsters who want nothing more than to eat your flesh and fuck your corpse. It means becoming something you’re not.”
“And what’s that?” I ask.
“Strong.”
The word hits me like a punch, but I remain standing. I’m sure what she says is true. But I can’t do nothing. Leaving Rachel in the hands of strangers would be just as bad as looking the other way. I have to enlist. I have to get out there. I have to find her. So, refusing to leave, I raise my chin in defiance and say, “I can do that.”
She snorts. “That’s what they all say.”
The training ground is a mini-camp encircled by high gated walls with only one entrance. Everywhere I look, I see Purifiers. They watch me as I and the other recruits enter the camp, huddling as they speak quietly, pointing us out, discussing what they see.
I spot a pair of Purifiers twenty feet to my right—a man and a woman leaning against the raised dais before us. The man looks at me, taking in my thin form, then hands the woman a coin, as if betting on whether or not I’ll make it.
I stumble into the second row, where I’m made to stand next to a young girl with short, black hair. She’s thin with a scar across her left cheek, a deep gash that was made with something dull and jagged. I smile, but she replies with a sneer.
“Hey,” the guy in front of me whispers. He’s about my height with long hair and shifty eyes. “You mind taking my place? Don’t really like standing up front, if you know what I mean?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I say, trading places with him. On my right is a giant of a man with long dark hair and angry eyes. He notices me like I’m a bug and glares.
“Sup?” I say.
He growls.
I turn away.
I’m standing amidst rows of various sorts. Men and women, young and old, most thin with starved bodies. They’re all dressed the same. Rags with dirty boots. They’re the poorest of the poor, the homeless, the misdirected trying to find a path in a life with no opportunity. Better to die out in the desert with a weapon than starve to death in some back alley, I guess. And now, I’m one of them.
We face the dais like sticks in the mud, stiff and slouched to the side. A group of Purifiers lines up before us. They take the stage in an orderly manner, the majority of them arraying themselves along the back, like teachers standing behind their principle, who just happens to be Atia.
Donned in her silver armor, her blue cape flailing in the wind, she looks like an angel of war. There’s something special about her, something distinct, as if her soul has been crafted from steel, and her body carved from perfect stone. Her presence is undeniable, as is her beauty.
“My name is Atia Valora,” she says, her voice stern, regal. “The first of the Purifiers and protector of this great city. I have come here to thank you. Being a Purifier is a great honor, but to become one you must pay a great price.
“Now, I’m well aware that most of you think you have what it takes to don the silver and blue. But being a Purifier is much more than being strong. You must be brave, you must be honorable, and you must be true.
“I oversee this world with the end of my blade. There will be no easy days, no easy battles. Our jobs are dangerous, our duty is unbreakable and our loyalty eternal. Remember this—always. Sadly, only half of you will learn this.”
I glance at the other recruits, my confusion reflected on their faces. What is she talking about? Only half?
“Turn to the person to your right,” she continues. “Get a good look at them. Because now, it’s either you or them.”
I stand back as I watch a man and a woman trying to kill each other. They circle like angry dogs, their faces marked by blood and scratches. Behind them, a wall of rowdy recruits, screaming and yelling, urges their favorite to go back in for more.
I move with the flow of the crowd, shoving back as someone pushes me forward. It’s absolute chaos, but one I must become a part of to survive.
The first combatant, a scrappy young woman with weed-like hair, sniffs the blood from her nose, her mouth a mess of missing teeth. She reminds me of a starving mutt growling in a dark alley.
Her opponent is worse. He wobbles to the side, an old man with thinning grey hair, blinking through the blood dripping in his eyes. He’s like a skeleton with skin, but his limbs are long and lean. And he’s light on his feet.
The woman shoots for his legs, and they fall to the ground. From there, her youth and strength take over. Within seconds, she’s pummeling him into the dirt. After a while, I’m expecting someone to call it quits, to jump in, to drag them apart and end this bloodbath. But they don’t. They let it go on and on and on until finally silence settles over the crowd, and the woman stands up, her fists dripping with the blood of the man lying at her feet.
This is barely the first match.
Over the next hour, I watch as opponents of all sizes face off against each other. It’s a list of mismatched fights, disgusting brawls that leave people bloodied, bruised, and most…well, dead.
I’ve never been in a fight before. Not like this. The closest I’ve ever gotten to one was with Grim and Gromm. But that was out of pure instinct—an automatic reaction. This, on the other hand, this is savagery.
I watch each fight, studying the different styles, the different tactics, learning how a smaller adversary can overcome a larger opponent. Apparently, size isn’t as importa
nt as cunning. If you can focus your speed into a single direction, you can do a lot of damage.
Through this last fight—a messy battle between two women who are absolutely beating the fuck out of each other—I find my opponent on the other side of the circle. He catches my gaze like a cat spotting a mouse, and holds it, turning my stomach to dread.
When the fight ends, I’m filled with panic. They take the loser away, dragging her comatose body by the foot along the dirt floor well past the circle, where they leave her alone to die.
Now, it’s my turn.
I step into the circle, the crowd quieting down as the other recruits begin to measure my opponent and me. It doesn’t take a genius to make a prediction in this fight. He’s bigger; I’m smaller. I’m gonna get killed.
Heart pounding, adrenaline rushing through my veins, I glance up at the dais where the Purifiers are watching. Atia’s head angles to the side with interest, while Zorel assures me with a hard nod. Get in there and do this, it tells me.
“I’m gonna enjoy this,” my opponent says, spitting at me from feet away. His voice is deep and gruff, like two rocks being scraped together, and I can tell that this guy has never accepted an apology before.
I angle my body toward him, making me a slimmer target, then raise my hands in defense. The stance feels good, natural. But I don’t know if it’ll help me against a beast like this. Even so, I strafe toward my right, doing my best to create as much distance between me and his dominant punch.
Here he comes.
He barrels across the dirt like a rhino, a roar leaving his mouth as he swings for my head. Luckily, I duck in time. But he comes at me again. This time, I’m not as lucky. He punches me in the ear and I’m sent through the air, crashing to the dirt. The pain is excruciating. Jumping to my feet, I scamper away like a frightened monkey. But he races after. Fortunately, I’m faster. And Soon, I tire him out.
He stops to catch his breath, allowing me a few seconds to think. I’m breathing hard as well, my hair dangling in front of my eyes, my clothes covered in dirt.
It’s now that the crowd begins to chant. They yell out the word, “Balis,” in a low determined refrain, over and over again, and I’m suddenly stuck by the realization: this is my opponent’s name.
Balis, feeding off their energy, takes the bait. He rushes toward me, catching me off guard, and punches me in the face. The force is sudden, powerful. I spin around like a top, and I feel my legs go weak. Crashing to the ground, the world begins to fade, only interrupted by the abrupt sound of applause.
Crawling, I shake my head, doing everything I can to recover. But my mind is spinning, and my hands are going numb. It’s then that something hard and heavy, like a hammer, hits me in the stomach, and I’m thrown to the side, tumbling along the dirt. I roll onto my back, the faces of the crowd now a wall of silhouettes against the clear blue sky.
To my left, I feel the ground begin to shake. It’s Balis. His stomps are slow and lazy, like a person about to finish a job that’s already been done. Inside, I’m too dazed to be scared. Rather, I manage to raise myself onto my elbows and stare at the son of a bitch.
“You want some more?” I ask mockingly.
He hefts me up into the air by my armpits, holding me over his head like a trophy. Blood seeps into my eyes, and through the fog of my haze, I see white figures watching me from the dais.
The crowd loves him. They’re screaming his name, chanting it over and over again, worshiping his giant stature and power like he’s some kind of god. Drunk on their worship, he begins to turn in a circle, bleeding the moment for all its worth.When he’s finally done, he throws me through the air toward the other side.
My body bounces off the hard dirt, rolling toward the edge of the circle, where someone spits in my face. It’s all over. I don’t have anything left. All I can do is lie on the ground, drowning in the excessive chants of the crowd. They love him. He’s their champion. And I’m the goat for the slaughter.
How’d this happen? How’d I get my ass kicked so fast? I don’t even know where to start.
My executioner finally arrives, his body blocking the sun as he towers over me. Clutching me by the hair, he lifts me up. I’m a lifeless doll in his grasp, swaying to the side, my weight shifting as I breathe in tired gasps.
He takes the moment to indulge one last time, drinking in the praise of those around him, solidifying his place amongst the pack. Now they have a leader, now they have a champion.
I swallow through my pain, my throat dry, my eyes blinking. I will not end this way. I will not just give up and let him kill me. I’m smarter than him, I’m better than he is. Profiting from his narcism, I take the opportunity to study him.
He’s big and tall, like a skyscraper. But every building has a weak point. Knock out the bottom, and the entire building collapses. Digging deep into myself, I muster as much strength as I can, and I kick his knee with all my force. It works.
His leg snaps like a match, and his entire body topples with it. It’s a ridiculous sight that brings the whole crowd to a hush. Only his cries and screams are left to be heard.
Forcing myself up, I reach for one of the rocks along the dirt, desperate to get payback. I want to smash this fucker’s face in, to bust his nose into a pit, to crack his caveman jaw in two and shut the crowd up forever. The drive is overwhelming, and I feel as if acid is pumping through my veins.
But in the distance, I notice movement amongst the Purifiers. They move toward the edge of the dais, arrested by my action, watching anxiously as I hold the rock above Balis’s head.
This is an execution, motherfuckers, I think to myself. And you’re gonna witness it.
I grab Balis by the back of his shaggy red hair and raise the rock above him, my face twisting into something ugly. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna kill this bastard. But then, his eyes flutter open, and I see his lips begin to tremble. He’s telling me something. What is it?
“Huh?” I say, straining to hear his voice.
“I…I…have a…niece,” he manages.
The words are like a knife to my heart, and all the hate and anger burning inside me suddenly extinguishes. I’m not a murderer. And he’s not a mutant or a slaver. He’s just like me, a desperate asshole struggling to get what he needs to survive.
The realization snaps me back to who I am, and my thoughts are suddenly clear of hate. Letting him go, I toss the rock to the side and he breathes a sigh of relief.
The match is over.
Stepping away, face bloodied, one eye shut, barely able to stay conscious, I stare out at the stunned crowd, victorious. But they don’t cheer me. They don’t call out my name and praise me. Instead, they just stare at the both of us, disgusted.
I’ve beaten their hero, and in the process, forced him to plead for mercy. We’re outcasts now.
I stagger toward the crowd, bleeding, and the recruits spread apart, clearing a path for me.
Finding my place before the dais, I halt, waiting for a verdict.
Atia remains motionless, her stillness broken by Zorel, who whispers something in her ear. Considering what she says, Atia gives a faint nod and walks forward. The trials are over.
Chapter Eleven
To be a Purifier wasn’t something I’d dreamt of as a boy.
So as I do my fiftieth pushup amongst twenty other recruits, who don’t like me, I find myself wishing that I was somewhere else. But then I think of Rachel. And it all becomes clear.
I’ll find you. I promise.
Petronelous Vaughn, sergeant of our class, paces before us as we continue in our suffering, appraising our progress under the scrutiny of a furrowed brow. Like an Amazon warrior of myth, she has square-framed shoulders and long toned legs, the type that could wrap around a man’s waist and strangle him to death. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t imagining how that might feel.
But she’s definitely seductive as well, an aspect that comes out in her sensual lips and blazing green eyes—not to mention her great
ass.
The afternoon heat is unbearable. Even Petronelous, as stoic as she lets on, has done away with her armor, choosing to idle in her white bodysuit and knee-high boots. I don’t complain. And neither do the other guys staring at her. The hard-on in my pants keeps my mind off the pain surging through my muscles.
I steal glances of her between pushups, my pulse jolted by the rush of blood surging to my cock. I can’t help it. She looks good. Still, I have to be careful. Doing exercise with a hard-on isn’t the ideal situation when you’re training as hard as we are.
“Alright, you lazy bastards!” Petronelous yells out. “Take a break.”
A collective sigh wheezes out of us, thankful for the moment of relief. I fall back on my heals, panting as I take in the world around me.
“You think this is work?” Petronelous asks, disgusted by our exhaustion. “This is nothing. Just wait till you’re face-to-face with a radioactive mutant that has four arms and two sets of mouths trying to gnaw off your balls. Then you’ll wish I’d worked you harder. Then you’ll wish that I’d pushed you further. But don’t worry. I will. Now get your lazy asses up! We’ve got real work to do.”
We do as she orders, falling back into position with sweat dripping off our faces. I’ve never worked this hard before. I’ve never wanted to. I’m more of a play-video-games-all-day kind of guy. You know, relaxing in a lazy boy with a bottle of soda. But this is my job now. And I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do.
When it’s time for lunch, I, along with the rest of my class, stagger toward a large tent where a heavy-set woman in a stained tank top with a light mustache is doling out stew into rusty metal bowls. I quickly join the line, feeling my stomach ache from hunger.
“Fuck out of my way!” one of the larger recruits says as he shoves me from the line. I fall to my ass, too tired to keep my balance. Glaring up at him from the ground, I see that he’s a tall guy with a bald head, tattoos lining his wiry arms and a long neck.
