The New Capital

by Kolin Wood

  “Where am I going?” he asked, aware that he still might be in some danger; it all seemed a little too good to be true.

  “Well,” Teddy said, lowering his voice, “If you want to take a seat, then we have to make room at the table.”

  16

  The room was positioned at the end of a long, dark corridor, three floors up. The building within which the room was situated was large and imposing; a red bricked affair and one of the very few along this main stretch of road which had not had its front door bricked up. The only buildings without their doors blockaded were those chosen for people deemed as eligible by Farringdon himself. The real estate commanded high prices, and most of the people squashed into the squalor of the New Capital barely made enough to feed themselves, let alone afford to rent floor space. Only very occasionally would a building see its blockade demolished; normally in the event that the space was needed under the guise of some official business, such as an office or storage place, rather than for personal exuberance and gain. The building which the General found himself in now was one such place; the offices of Sal and his security detail.

  The same four guards—Teddy’s own newly appointed personal detail—had accompanied him over. They entered the building quickly and professionally, trapping those still loyal to the old man before they had a chance to take to the stairs and warn him of the intrusion.

  With the downstairs secure, the General turned to address the men.

  “We move quickly. My orders are to detain him, not to eliminate. If any of the others move to retaliate, then we are to put them down. Is that clear?”

  The men in faceless apparel nodded in unison. Not so much as a word had come from any of them since the minute he’d seen them step from the shadows of the Arena, and their apparent emotional detachment unnerved him.

  With a nod towards the stairs, the General stepped aside as the team took off at a pace, clearing the steps two at a time with practiced, light-footed, and silent precision. Then, with a final glance behind to check that they had not been compromised, he took after them; although at a far slower pace.

  As he climbed, he pulled the heavy, silver pistol from his jacket pocket. Now armed, he felt confident once more. His pistol had been returned to him by a guy wearing a fedora hat who was overseeing the carnage at the entrance gate. News that the unknown General was not only entitled to carry a gun, but also about to become the man’s superior, did not wash well, but he’d followed through on the order nevertheless. Tanner however, had not been present, which he had been pleased about; best to let him hear the news of the General’s appointment from Teddy himself.

  By the time he reached the third floor, he was sweating profusely. The thick, wool-lined, leather coat now not seeming like such a good idea, as the effects of the past three days of alcoholic stupor finally wore off. The tumour throbbed, aggravated by the salty sweat, intently demanding his attention. He’d not looked at it in a few days now, but the stench from his face was getting worse. The bandage was sodden and discoloured, and he’d wrapped his face the best he could without the use of a mirror. It was doubtful whether he’d managed to cover it all; people’s reactions on meeting him certainly seemed to confirm his suspicions.

  At one end of the dark corridor, the team stood with their guns trained on a door. Dust swirled thick in the air, bringing with it the desire to cough which he held down. The other doors that he passed were all shut. A good thing; he’d been informed that the whole floor, aside from the room of interest, was empty.

  Once he reached the men, he stopped and put his ear to the door.

  Voices.

  Sal’s weathered and booze-soaked cackle rang out.

  This was the place, and it looked as though they had arrived unnoticed. Perfect.

  The General gave a nod to each of the men and then stepped back from the door. The man closest kicked out with the heal of his thick, black, military boot, splintering the wood just below the handle. The door flew inward and the group followed, guns pulled tightly into shoulders, covering all the angles in the room.

  Three short, sharp bursts of gunfire rang out, followed by a scream which suddenly fell silent.

  By the time he entered the room, three of the occupants were dead. Sal was crouched on the floor next to a spilled chair, his crow-like hands pulled up to cover his greasy head.

  The General stepped forward, his pistol pointed down at Sal’s face.

  “Get up,” he said with a flick of the barrel.

  Sal looked up between yellow-stained fingers and his face pulled into a hateful sneer.

  “You!” he hissed, standing slowly. “Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?”

  One of the masked men raised the butt of his gun but the General waved him away.

  Sal stood slowly, looking on with confusion at each of the masked men in turn.

  The room where they were all now stood was a mess. Barring the table and four chairs, there was no other furniture. Most of the wallpaper was rotten and hung down from the walls in huge, damp, sagging coils. Some sections had completely fallen away, and now lay piled on the floor alongside the other rubbish; discarded cans and food cartons.

  On the table itself sat six, neatly stacked, piles of bills, and a sheet of paper covered in unintelligible scribble.

  Following the General’s gaze to the table, Sal suddenly laughed.

  “Hey, this is legit, man. TB knows I run the book… I’ll see to it that he gets his cut!” His hands shook as he reached for the crumpled cigarette lodged behind his ear. “I just didn’t wanna bother him with it, ya know? He’s got so much going on, what with the success of the Pit and his new standing with Farringdon and all that…” He reached for a tatty-looking box of matches on the table and all four of the armed guards raised their rifles at his head. “Whoa, easy there, fellas… I’m just lighting my smoke, okay?” he said as he opened the box slowly.

  Sal’s fingers were trembling so bad that he dropped the first match and looked around with a nervous smile before successfully lighting one on his next attempt. He drew in a deep lungful and almost immediately the shaking in his hands stopped. Then, with a sigh that sounded almost ecstatic, he blew the smoke over their heads.

  From behind the door on their right, there came a low and deep growl. The General looked at Sal and raised his eyebrows.

  “Shaddup, ya stupid bitch!” Sal shouted, flashing that same slimy and gappy smile as though impressed with himself. The growling stopped.

  “That’s just Maxine. She ain’t gonna do nothing.” Sal took another drag, his composure returning. “Listen, man,” he said, leaning in close enough that the General could smell the taint of booze on his breath. “I get it, okay? New kid on the block and all that. Course you gonna take what you can get… who in their right mind wouldn’t? Am I right? I know I would! I’d be doing the same as you are now. But you’re gonna need me, man. I know this place; these people. They’re snakes, man, the real villains… them out there. I’m just trying to keep my head above water, just like anybody else would. You understand that, don’t you? Yeah, course you do.” The words, as they tumbled from his mouth, were rushed and garbled. He took another long pull on the cigarette, burning it almost down to the stub and blew out again before covering his mouth. “Listen, listen… Cole, was it? Whad’ya say we keep this between us, huh? I mean look at it. You know how much that is? Know what that’ll buy you? You’d be living in the pink for a year… we all would! There’s more than enough to go around, ya know?”

  The General glanced down at the neatly packed stacks of bills again. It was certainly a small fortune. For a second, you could almost see the relief wash over Sal’s face as he thought that maybe his offer was being considered.

  Without looking up, the General said, “Cuff him and bring him over to one of the Pit holding cells. See to it that he’s first searched and stripped.”

  The closest of the masked men nodded and stepped forward, holding onto a thick, white pair of cable ties. Sa
l cowered away, taking steps towards the closed door behind him.

  “Now, just you wait a goddam minute,” he stuttered as panic began to take hold, and held out a placating hand. His eyes were wide and they searched the room for something, anything, that might assist him. “You piece of shit!” he spat, as he continued to back away. “I brought you in!”

  He was now only two or three steps from the door. He reached out for the handle.

  One of the masked men took a step forward, a gloved finger settled on the trigger of his rifle.

  “Don’t take one more step!” The voice behind the mask was clear and serious. Oddly, it was a relief to hear that they were indeed human.

  “I’d do as he says if I were you,” the General said. “My orders are to bring you in alive if I can.”

  Sal froze.

  The guard stepped forward, and Sal’s shoulders slumped. With a defeated and dejected look, he brought up his skin and bone wrists and held them together in front of his body. There was a loud snapping sound as the cable ties were slipped over and pulled tight.

  With a rough yank, Sal was pulled towards the front door of the apartment. As he passed, he looked up at the General with a hateful look in his eyes.

  “You’re dead,” he said.

  The ache behind the General’s eye throbbed painfully. All of the exertion climbing the stairs had forced the blood to rush to his face and now the agony was constant. Time to see if Teddy Braydon would be good to his word. He turned, following Sal and the masked man that was leading him from the room.

  “Don’t forget the dog,” he called back.

  17

  The mud sucked at his boots as Tanner trudged towards the offices of Braydon Enterprises. The morning was clear and bright, and a feeling of productivity filled the air. A boy and a girl, no older than about seven or eight, laughed and chased each other through the thick, glutinous mire, uncaring of the dirt and decay surrounding them. Smoke and smells filled the narrow walkways as people cooked whatever they could find for breakfast and readied themselves for the coming day.

  A raucous sounding crowd up ahead forced him off the road and he ducked into a tent. Inside, people of differing ages and states of wellbeing sat on upturned crates on a floor laid with boards and wet cardboard, drinking tea from dirty, glass jars.

  Somebody shouted an offering but he ignored it, passing through as quickly as he could before he was noticed and stopped in his quest. Since his second fight in the Pit, his celebrity and renown had grown considerably and, as a result, he had taken to wearing his hood up and a scarf over his face, much to his annoyance and discomfort on warm summer days such as these.

  A short while and a few muddy roads later, Tanner left the tight confines of the main camp and moved into a more open space. Ahead of him, Teddy’s office stood out, rising high and alone, just inside the chain link fence of the Arena. A narrow walkway—kept permanently clear for the patrolling guards on fight night—circled the outside of the fence. It was heavily pressed in on for its entire circumference by tents and shelters; the space considered prime real estate for those wanting to exploit the opportunity that was Fight Night in the Capital. The law about infringing into this space was strict, but Tanner noticed a group of people pushing along the fence in the direction of the gate, and he stopped, his interest stirred.

  Four people that he had never seen before—dressed in identical black and imposing looking clothing—trod in formation on either side of a stooped man with his hands bound behind his back. At the back of the troop, standing head and shoulders above the rest, walked Cole, the man Clara referred to as ‘the General’.

  A hand clutched his elbow and Tanner spun aggressively. Directly before him stood a thin and wiry vagrant. In his hand, he held a buckled, plastic bottle. A big smile on his face showed a distinct lack of teeth.

  “Tanner!” the man shouted loudly. “It is you! Tanner! Here! Drink with me!”

  Immediately, the tempo in the tent changed from busy to frantic as everybody within earshot turned to snatch a glance of their champion. Tanner, annoyed that his cover had been blown so easily, violently pulled his arm away from the dirty hand and turned on the spot, exiting the tent quickly while tugging the dirty scarf higher up his face to cover his nose.

  Affronted, the drunken man stumbled after him, still shouting his name. More people stopped to stare.

  Furious now, Tanner shoved the man violently down into the mud, where he squirmed like a newt, unable to pull himself upright in his inebriated state.

  “Quite the superstar, aren’t we?” a deep voice from behind said, startling him.

  Tanner spun back quickly.

  The voice belonged to Cole. Up close, he looked much bigger, dwarfing himself somewhat. On one side of his face, a sickly, yellow bandage hung down to reveal a huge, rotting lesion. Even though Cole was stood a few feet away, Tanner could smell it. Aside from this obvious ailment, however, he appeared to be in good physical condition. Muscular, tattooed forearms poked out from a black shirt. He had a large, thick-set frame; the type that had always been big, and didn’t change shape if neglected.

  Beyond him, the four men in the padded fatigues were busy leading their prisoner through the gate into the arena. Now that they were closer, Tanner was able to see that the bound man was Sal.

  “There’s been some changes,” Cole said, preceding the question. “Sal was running side bets and trying to keep them off the books. Teddy had had enough.” He held himself squarely and confidently, shoulders back, gait wide. It was clear that he was trying to intimidate Tanner with his size.

  “Oh?” Tanner said, as a cowering Sal was led up the metal fire escape of Teddy’s office. “And what’s that got to do with you exactly?”

  Cole smiled and held out a large hand. “I’m Cole. I work for Mr. Braydon now. And you are Tanner. I saw you fight the other night; very impressive.”

  “Ah, let me guess,” Tanner said with a nod as if he understood. “You’re the new lap dog? I heard Braydon was in the market for one.”

  The smile fell from Cole’s face and he dropped the extended hand. Tanner noticed a slight tensing of the jaw.

  “You know,” he said, pushing further, “I hear you even get a little bowl with your name on it.”

  Cole snarled and took a step forward.

  Tanner smirked but did not retreat. Now the two men were within striking distance of one another. This close, the smell of Cole’s face was almost unbearable.

  “Have I done something to upset you, Tanner?” Cole asked, his dark, almost black eye, staring down at him.

  “Not yet,” Tanner replied. “But you step to me like that again and I’m gonna smash you so hard I’ll make that thing on the side of your face feel like it’s the nice side.”

  Cole did not move.

  “What’s the matter General?” Tanner continued, pushing, “Not used to being spoken back too by a man?”

  Confusion darkened Cole’s features. He straightened his back and pulled his jaw to the side to stretch his neck. Tanner could almost hear the wheels of thought turning in the man’s rotten head. It was clear that the statement had just caught him completely off guard, and was now trying to backtrack but failing to maintain his confidence.

  Tanner smiled. He’d dropped the hint but was not about to spoil the fun by letting on the true extent of his knowledge; not just yet anyway. He closed the gap between them so that his nose was now in line with the General’s chin and looked up directly into his face, unfazed by the disadvantage.

  Cole remained firm. “Careful, Tanner,” he said. “You don’t know what I am capable of.”

  “Oh, I think I do, you sick fuck,” Tanner replied.

  For a few tense moments, the two men simply stood and stared at each other. By now, a small crowd had gathered and were watching intently, nobody daring to make a sound.

  Dropping his voice so that only Cole could hear, Tanner said, “Hadn’t you better run along? There’s a good boy. I think I ca
n hear your master calling.” He nodded in the direction of Teddy’s office and finished with a wink.

  From underneath the foul bandage, Cole’s good eye turned completely black with hate. If Tanner had been anybody else, he was sure that the scene would have escalated to violence by now. Part of him wished that he could goad the big man to snap, push him until he lost it enough to take a swing, allow him the opportunity to deal out some swift and rough justice.

  But Cole did not attack, and Tanner was not surprised. The writing in the book was not the rough scrawl of an illiterate but rather the carefully penned words of somebody with a modicum of intellect. As much as it itched him to admit it, the sicko would have to wait.

  Cole, clearly still angry but finding some composure, looked around at the people gathered and forced a smile.

  “Good luck on Friday, Tanner,” he said loudly, pulling on the lapels of his shirt and stepping away. “I’ll sure be rooting for you, just like all these good people here.”

  Without another word, he turned and headed back towards the entrance of the arena and the stairs to Braydon’s offices.

  Tanner watched him go.

  On the floor behind, the drunkard began to squirm once again.

  “Tanner!” the man slurred. “Come have a drink with me!”

  “Fuck off,” Tanner said, uncaring of who saw him now as he turned in the direction of the main gate.

  He had more important things to consider.

  ***

  Seeing Tanner approach, Jan the Fez jumped down from his perch on top of the abandoned car and swaggered over. Already, the tables were out and the business of vetting those worthy of entry had begun. The line of those waiting for their turn stretched out over the bridge and disappeared between the buildings. The funk of the people, mixed with the river of refuse that ran below them, lingered like an invisible toxic cloud in the air.

  “Where’s the murderous bitch?” Jan said, in his thick South African accent, skipping civilities and jumping straight to the point.