by Kolin Wood
Tired of the waiting game and undoubtedly frustrated by his lack of support from the crowd, Billy stepped into range, his huge arms tucked into his sides at the elbows. Although only a few inches taller, the man’s bulk dwarfed Tanner’s own. Given this much larger size, there was no way that Tanner could allow him in any closer. Should he permit the giant to get a hold, it would be unlikely that he would ever get free again; the life would be crushed from him like it would if he were fighting a giant, walking boa constrictor. Game Over.
No, he had to think smart; time to see what tools the beast had in his armoury.
Feinting with his shoulder, Tanner ducked a few inches to his left side before slamming a stinging right handed cross into the lowered guard of his opponent. The dummy tactic worked, and the solid knuckles drove past the weakened defence, snapping onto a cheekbone and retracting back to a safe distance in one slick movement.
Billy recoiled, clearly rocked by the blow, a hot red welt immediately forming under one eye. Staggering a little now, he shook his head from side to side in an obvious attempt to clear the darkness that threatened to engulf him.
Not so trained after all, Tanner thought, watching warily and holding his position.
Now Billy held back, perhaps a little shaken. It was unlikely that he had ever been physically bested before, and as he looked into Tanner’s eyes for only the second time, the hesitation was evident there, unmistakable. Above them, the din intensified.
Frustration had pasted itself across the huge man’s features as he stepped in-line again, this time unleashing a volley of heavy punches in the direction of Tanner’s head. The first two were wild and thrown in anger and Tanner managed to duck and weave away from them—much as he had done with Krane. The third and fourth however, were more carefully placed and far quicker. They slammed into Tanner’s guard, forcing him to step back heavily, as more came bashing in, unrelenting in their fervour.
Keeping his guard up, Tanner now had no choice but to retreat. The pain stung up the length of his forearms as hardened knuckles slammed home against them. Every step he tried to take to either side was met with an equally matched blow which kept him in the line of fire. Crosses and straights came heavy and fast.
Behind him, the wall closed in.
Once there, Tanner knew that he would be trapped and it would be down to a competition of strength; a competition that he would be sure to lose. The man was simply too big to fight straight up, one on one. It was time to rethink his strategy, and quick.
Baker’s training and obvious fighting experience, meant that he was leaving very few openings. Should Tanner attempt a strike of his own and get caught short, one hit from either of those big fists would be curtain call. There was only one thing for it.
As another heavy blow landed on his forearm, Tanner dropped to one knee. With all of his strength focused into this one punch, he brought a crunching uppercut up between the man’s legs. Soft flesh crumpled under his hard knuckles. Tanner felt the air whoosh over his cheek as the man grunted and fell forwards, at the same time dropping his guard as he tried in vain to protect his most sensitive of parts. Tanner carried forward the momentum and stood up fast, springing from his burning thighs. He gritted his teeth as the hardest part of his skull smashed into the man’s unguarded mouth. A sharp sensation burned on the top of his head. He put up a hand and felt for the wound, and his fingers came away red; one of the man’s teeth embedded there.
Nothing too serious, he thought.
The heat from the crowd above hit as his tunnel vision relented a little. The collective roar beat down into the Pit and Tanner was almost certain that he could feel his hair moving as a result. Across the ring his opponent stalked him again, eyes now nothing but blackened pits that screamed murder as blood liberally flowed from split lips and bloody gums, pooling onto the pectoral cleavage of his huge chest.
The chime sounded again, bringing an end to the round.
Behind him, a ladder was lowered and Tanner glanced over to see that a similar one had come down behind his opponent. A wobbly wooden stool had been set down for him to recuperate and Tanner sat heavily, looking down at the bloody boards as one of the Pit boys threw a lukewarm bucket of slightly acidic water over his baking head. The fluid did little to revive, but it did help to wash away some of the sweat which had begun to sting his eyes. He shook his head, breathing deeply to fully inflate his lungs and try and calm his racing heart.
Across the ring, Billy Baker slapped away the bucket of water as it was offered to him, kicking the chair so that it careened across the ring and shattered on one of the jagged walls. The Pit boy who had been assigned to him scuttled up the ladder, clearly scared for his life, and Billy let him go, turning his attention to Tanner once again. Backwards and forwards he stomped; like a preying wild cat stalking a child through the glass at the zoo. A shattered row of front teeth poked out from his bloody mouth.
Tanner wiped his forearm across his face as a slither of blood trickled down from his hair line. Sure, he had landed a punch, and even head-butted the man on his way through, but he couldn’t risk getting that close again. The mammoth baring his bloody mouth at him was not Krane; he knew how to fight, and would unlikely allow the same mistake to happen twice.
For the first time since the beginning of the fight, Tanner properly surveyed the Pit. His only other experience had been fighting the effects of a double drugging and he had not really remembered much once the fight was over.
It’s shape was a ‘kind-of’ square but the corners on one side had crumbled in at some point leaving it more akin to a half-square half-oval love child. Dangerous looking fissures stuck out from the dark brown mud; lengths of steel, reinforcing rod poking through at various points in the rough, walled sides. As he focused on one, Tanner was sure that he could make out the tinged discolouration of blood on the end. The floor was an inter-weave of splintering boards. Some were faded from the sun and others were dark and new, creating a patchwork effect which under-shadowed the more prominent, sporadic, blood-stained montage that lay before him. Where the floorboards met the walls, a dark gap was evident, hinting at the space created from the misfit flooring above. Other than the obvious, nothing stood out.
A scream of feedback rang out from the speakers attached to the tripod above. Both Tanner and his opponent winced as the sharp noise rebounded around the hole.
“Ladies and Gentlemen…”
Teddy Braydon’s voice sounded out from the PA system and Tanner looked up, shielding his eyes as the bright lights shone down on him making it impossible to see anything.
“You are all about to witness a first in the history of the Pit.”
Above him at the side, two shapes walked into view, their faces obscured by shadow.
“Due to the nature of this… hugely anticipated and history-making clash of two titans, this round will be subject to new rules. Guards—weapons, please.”
Something clattered down onto the boards in the centre of the Pit.
A murmuring sound spread like infection throughout the crowd.
Tanner squinted as the light danced in front of his eyes. And then he saw them; lying about a foot apart—two hammers, each with a shiny black rubber handle and clean silver head.
The voice continued. “Now then, in order to make this bout a little more interesting and ensure that this isn’t simply a way for one of you to take a convenient and quick way out, we have decided that—from this point on—headshots are not allowed! In the event that you take control of a weapon, you can use it anywhere on the body as long as it’s not the head.”
The crowd, who had remained largely silent in order to hear the announcement, booed loudly. Fresh detritus reigned down from the stands.
“Failure to abide by this ruling will result in immediate disqualification and death.”
The two shadows above pulled rifles from behind their backs and aimed down into the pit, each of them picking a target.
Slowly, the boos turned to cheer
s as realisation of the implication of the new rules began to sink in. No headshots meant maximum damage and extended time. Blood would be spilled and bones would be broken here tonight.
Tanner felt his own blood boil, and he looked up, trying in vain to squint his eyes against the glaring lights. Braydon… the bastard had fucked him again.
“Fighters… Ready!” The PA system cut out abruptly, leaving nothing but the steadily rising noise of the spectators.
Tanner blinked the sweat from his eyes.
The pair of hammers lay about five metres away; both within easy reach of the other. Beyond, Billy Baker had stopped stalking and now stood, bent and ready, like a spring coiled tight and waiting for release. The task was now suddenly clear; whoever did not make it to a weapon would surely die.
Without warning, the chime rang again and both men sprinted forward. Even over the deafening noise, Tanner could hear the blood curdling cry from his opponent.
In only a matter of seconds, both had reached the middle of the Pit. Billy Baker dropped down into a stooping run, his hands outstretched and groping; clearly less worried about damage to his head, given the new ruling.
A twinge of dread tweaked at Tanner’s guts as he realised that the man before him was going for both hammers.
Without thinking, Tanner threw himself forward at full stretch. He clattered down on the boards and slid, wincing in pain as sharp splinters tore at the front of his loose fitting tee-shirt, lacerating his chest. Hope surged through him as he felt his bloody knuckles clasp down on one of the hammers.
Without looking over at whether or not Billy had a hold of the other, Tanner turned and rolled in the opposite direction.
Behind him came a loud BANG! and the board beneath vibrated hard. From above, Tanner heard an oooooh from the crowd. Baker clearly was now in possession of a weapon and, by the sounds of it, had taken a swing for him. Judging by the crowd’s reaction, it had been a close miss.
Tanner climbed swiftly to his feet and turned to face his foe. He watched as Baker, out of breath, righted himself to one knee and pulled on the handle of the hammer which lay embedded in a board in front of him. The weapon came free with a loud crack.
Billy Baker stood and turned on him once more, his eyes filled with murderous intent and as dark as black coals.
Tanner assessed his options. The hammer would shatter bone, of that much he was sure, but if it managed to land cleanly and in an area that was not protected by slabs of muscle… He briefly considered the throat, but decided quickly that the chance of a miss was too high, and that the consequences of a miss could prove fatal. No, he was going to have to work on the man’s extremities using a strategy of incapacitation if he wanted to stay safely out of the way.
Baker began to move cautiously towards him.
Tanner moved forward too and the crowd around them flew into a renewed frenzy at the prospect of what was about to unfold.
With a gap between the two men of no more than a few feet now, both stopped and began to circle each other, moving slowly clockwise.
Close enough to hear him, the bull spoke, spitting blood into the space between them. “That was a feckin’ lucky punch that, boyo… but I tells ya now as God is witness to this here foight… it won’t be happening again.”
Tanner studied his face. From this distance, it was clear that the man was actually older than he had given him credit for. Small crow’s feet extruded from the corners of his eyes and a slight whisk of grey hung at his temples. Whereas before he had assumed early thirties, Tanner now surmised that the man was perhaps early to mid-forties. This revelation made the man’s size an even more impressive physical feat than it had been before.
“Do yous have any fekin’ idea who I am?” he said, his dialect betraying his Irish descent. Perhaps this time Braydon’s summarisation of the man’s heritage had been correct.
At this close proximity, the funk of the man’s breath invaded Tanner’s nostrils but he remained poised, matching Billy’s circling speed. He said nothing in response.
“I’m Billy feckin Baker. And in a minute, I’m gonna break yer feckin back with this hammer and then I’m gonna rip yer feckin head off.”
As if to emphasise his point, Billy Baker lifted his hammer. Then, with a smile that betrayed bloody teeth and stumps, he readied himself to strike.
Tanner smiled back. The man’s cockiness had shown him to be nothing more than a show pony; real killers did not tell you what they were going to do.
Without any further hesitation he dropped into an evasive forward roll. As he dived, he swung the hammer backwards in an arc, aiming it at the inner leg of his over-confident foe. The blow caught Baker just inside of his lower thigh. As steel connected with bone, the knee cap gave way to the side with a loud popping sound.
POP!
Baker bellowed loudly. With wild eyes, he swung angrily in the direction of Tanner’s head, but the blow was badly timed and futile, missing his target by some distance.
Tanner followed through with the roll—ignoring the splinters as they tore at his back—and came upright on one knee, turning quickly in case he needed to defend against a counterattack.
Barely staying upright, Billy hopped heavily on his good leg; the other now hanging useless under his huge bulk. Bloodshot eyes popped from their sockets as anger turned to into unchecked rage.
Confidently, Tanner stood straight and turned to face him.
Without the use of both legs, the huge man was now pretty much incapacitated in the centre of the ring. If he attempted to make it over to the side, he would have to hop or crawl; either one leaving him vulnerable to attack.
To test the theory, Tanner circled to his right.
Baker tried to follow him, but his movements were pained and slow, and Tanner easily kept ahead, bringing enlivened screams from the crowd above who could sense an impending victory. Desperation hinted through the rage in his cracked voice as Billy swung his hammer left and right, clearly aware of his predicament.
“COME AND FOIGHT ME, TANNER!” Billy Baker screamed, “COME AND FOIGHT ME LIKE A MAN, YOU FECKIN SON OF A BITCH!”
Tanner closed the gap, taking a steady step towards him, remaining just out of range, careful so as not to endure a blow from the wildly swinging arm. He figured that, in this riled state, it was doubtful ‘the bull’ was still adhering to the new and updated rules about no headshots.
He took another step.
“I’LL BREAK YER FECKIN HEAD, YA BOLLACKS!” Baker screamed.
Tanner feinted a strike to the man’s left side, pulling back at the last moment in an attempt to test the speed of a response. Sensing the incoming blow, Billy brought his weapon savagely in the direction of Tanner’s head. Just as he had thought, there was absolutely no adherence for the new rules—the man had truly lost it.
This put him in a predicament. If Billy swung and hit him in the head, the cost of impact would almost certainly be death. If however, one of the guards fired down into the Pit to kill the rule-breaker before such a strike was made, the likelihood would be that he himself would be mowed down in the process anyway. Even though Tanner was confident that this would probably incite a full blow riot—something Braydon would want to avoid at all costs—it would be too late to do anything about it. This had to be ended swiftly or they would both die.
From the corner of one eye Tanner was sure that he saw one of the two shadows on the edge of the Pit above him raise their rifle to his shoulder and take aim.
Before him, the wild swings continued, driven on by pure rage and hate. With every one, Tanner could see that the effort needed to pull the hammer back was increasing. Baker was tiring.
Tanner continued, every time taking a step forwards and then pulling back again at the very last minute, encouraging a response. Each miss led to a lethargic follow through as the man hobbled on one leg, looking less and less steady with every passing second.
Eventually, Tanner spied his chance. This time, as the weapon came swooshing pa
st only an inch from his face, instead of backing away he stepped inside, striking down hard and fast.
By the time Baker had realised what had happened, the intended damage had already been done. He pulled his arm back to reset for another attack but instead watched in panic as the hammer came loose and fell from his non-existent grip, flying backwards and skittering across the uneven floor before landing out of reach. Fear flooded his dark eyes as his once-powerful arm flapped unresponsively at the elbow. It was at that precise moment that he knew it was the end.
Around them, the atmosphere turned nuclear.
With his opponent now completely incapacitated on one side of his body, Tanner stepped in, confidently sending him over onto the boards with a hard shove.
Without the use of one arm and leg, the bigger man fell heavily. Unable to support his falling frame, he crashed down on his shoulder. With a howl of pain, he turned onto his back, his only remaining good arm raised in the air in defence; the fingers stretched and passive.
From this angle, Billy Baker suddenly looked his age, and Tanner felt a small amount of pity as he approached, his hammer raised. In normal circumstances, the man would be considered a warrior. He probably had been a force to be reckoned with on the civilian bare knuckle circuit before the cull, dispatching untold numbers of would-be challengers in his rise to the top of the family tree. But this was not pre-cull; and none of the challengers had been Tanner.
Keeping the hammer poised above his head, Tanner looked upwards into the madness beyond, as the disorganised chanting cried out in a single chorus, “KILL HIM, KILL HIM, KILL HIM!”
The heat and the noise beat down to Tanner’s face and he squinted against the commotion, still unable to see past the bright lights accentuating him against his bloody surroundings. Sweat poured from his head, dribbling down onto his already soaked and torn tee-shirt and stinging the splinters in his chest. Beneath him, Billy closed his eyes, sucking in huge deep breaths; he looked almost pitiful.
