Exodus

by Brian P. White

  Loud cheering drew their attention toward the nearby arena. It wasn’t even ten in the morning!

  “Anuda one guilty,” the dealer said grimly. “Crowds like death too much. You wan’ be ca-ful, lady,” he added toward Didi.

  “Got it,” Didi said, then shook hands with the dealer. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  The old man pointed at his ammo boxes. “You sure you no wan’ mo’ ammo, Miss? Pretty ting like you wanna stock up if you no wanna get taken by da Mountain Men.”

  Didi recoiled. “The Mountain Men? Who are they?”

  The old dealer looked around like he feared who would hear him, then leaned closer. “Dey like ghosts. Swoop in, take da young, boy and girl. Dey really like helty young women.”

  Isaac started to worry about Rachelle.

  The way Didi regarded the old man made him think she did the same, but she pasted on a big smile and said, “Thanks for the warning,” before she left.

  Isaac caught up to her and spoke quietly. “Now I know I don’t like this place. They supply weapons and got working power plants, but they can’t farm or get their own clean water unless they work for this damn Gamesman.”

  “Maybe we should lend them one or two of our farmers.”

  He scoffed. “I hope you’re not serious. Man, where is the truck? I’m about to freeze my ass off out here.”

  More shouting from the stadium. Another trial, perhaps … and Didi was walking right up to it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Maybe just a peek,” she replied with a wicked grin.

  He scoffed. “The Bible beater wants to tempt fate. Why not?”

  She giggled back at him without breaking her stride. “Eve ate fruit. Pandora opened a box. Now, let the annals spin how the Death Doll went to a game.”

  He shook his head and followed the crazy corpse.

  On the outside the stadium looked like any other back in the day, but inside was a much different situation. The old gridiron had been sectioned off by seven chain-link cages, one in which two guys wrestled while some guy fought a face-muncher with clubs in the next one. Sand and dust—where Astroturf used to be—got kicked up as combatants ran around each other or got knocked on their asses. The sorry-looking masses surrounding the cages cheered and jeered each battle like they had money riding on the outcomes.

  “Thunderdome, indeed,” Didi joked under her little spyglass as she took in the scene.

  Isaac noticed the cleanest element in the filthy masses: a tall brother dressed in white that gleamed in the sunlight. The man sat on some kind of throne at the edge of the open owner’s box like a boss, watching more patiently—more keenly—than the dregs whooping and hollering all around him. The only other composed men in the whole place were the two jexes on each side of him and the others patrolling the masses in the arena. If they had worn berets, they would’ve resembled the old Black Panthers, all led by a pimp-looking king who lacked fur or a hat to complete the ensemble.

  Isaac pointed out the head brother in charge. “I’m-a guess that’s the Gamesman.”

  Didi aimed her spyglass at the man. Her brows briefly flew up. “He’s cute.”

  Isaac rolled his eyes as more cheers erupted through the stadium.

  The hugely muscled brother in a leather loin cloth raised his massive arms in victory in one cage, his thick boot perched on the sorry sucker bleeding into the sand. Several in the audience looked like they were high-fiving each other until he noticed objects exchanged between them. Called it!

  The crowd booed some skinny guy in the other cage getting his neck chomped off by his dead opponent—and that was the guy with clubs.

  Another round of wagers passed between hands all throughout the crowd.

  The H.B.I.C. slowly stood from his throne, scanned the crowd for a bit, and raised his hands.

  A sudden hush fell over the stadium while he grinned like an egomaniac.

  “There you have it, people,” he said definitively, his gruff yet pronounced voice full of sick delight that echoed with the help of a sound system. “Chance taken, justice served.”

  The crowds cheered, some more than others.

  Their host’s grin faded all at once. “Well, it’s time for more, because I just found out my talent scout was murdered in cold blood out there in the market.”

  The crowds jeered.

  “The murderer claims self-defense,” the Gamesman added with an iffy shrug. “Well, we have the perfect opportunity to find out. Don’t we?”

  The crowds loudly agreed.

  “So, in the center ring, I bring you the murderer’s trial by combat,” he added with the fanfare of a circus ringmaster. “If the verdict is guilty, the sentence will be threefold.”

  The ravenous crowd roared as some leather-bound freaks stepped out of a bullpen under the Gamesman’s platform and dragged three face-munchers into the center cage with ropes. The meat inside muscled the dead meat to the ground and held them underfoot as they passed the binding lines through different sections of the chain links. Some scrawny dudes outside grabbed the ropes, tied them off, and waited in place. The musclemen walked out and closed the door behind them amid all the bloodthirsty screaming.

  “I don’t envy the sorry sucker steppin’ into that cage,” Isaac uttered.

  “If it’s a murderer, what is there to do?” Didi said with a shrug.

  The Gamesman threw his hands into the air, which once again quieted the crowd immediately. This brother possessed such enviable power that could shut this many loud-assed people up with his hands, which now met over his heart. “As a man wounded by this loss, I’m compelled to wager a month’s worth of food on guilty,” he said, which was followed by murmurs that ceased the moment he continued, “but something tells me this killer is skilled against the dead. So, I think it’ll be a win. Who’ll bet I’m wrong?”

  Everyone yelled at the nearest jex, all of whom wrote down the wagers.

  “Talk about hedging your bets,” Didi muttered.

  After a minute, the Gamesman raised his hands again and said, “Let the games begin.”

  The crowds roared as another muscleman exited the bullpen with someone he tossed into the cage and locked inside with the three—

  “That’s Rachelle,” Isaac blurted as soon as he realized it, right before the skinny guys cut the twine and let the zombies loose. Murderer? he thought uncomfortably. No way!

  Still, that’s what all the freaks around the cages yelled at Rachelle as she sidestepped the three face-munchers coming right at her. She grabbed one from the back and tried to twist its neck, but she wasn’t strong enough and had to shove it at the other two to buy herself some time.

  Isaac looked to Didi, but she was already halfway down the stairs. He caught up to her as she reached the nearest cage door, where a couple of jexes tried to stop her. She drew her sword and knocked them down with the blunt side before she kicked up a latch, yanked the door open, and ran right inside. Isaac punched a jex who tried to get back up, then followed her in.

  The crowds griped when Didi ran up to the face-munchers and cut them down like nothing.

  Isaac helped Rachelle to her feet and checked her over, seeing no bites or scratches—though a couple of bruises on her face stood out.

  Several more musclemen ran in and headed straight for them with clubs and axes, but they stopped as the crowds got quiet.

  Isaac, Didi, and Rachelle looked up at the Gamesman, who lowered his hands and grinned down at Didi like he was amused.

  “If you want to join my games, you only have to ask,” the pimp daddy said, but the levity quickly drained from his face. “You don’t get to bust in on a trial by combat.”

  Didi raised her sword at the Gamesman, though her aim was a little off. “The girl is mine. If you got a problem with her, you deal with me.”

  “But the game already started,” the tall brother said as if it shouldn’t have to be said. “Wagers were promised. Not very sporting.”

&nb
sp; Didi grinned sideways and lowered her sword. “Then let’s up the stakes. Me in her place.”

  The crowds murmured and laughed while the Gamesman regarded her curiously. “You already took out the executioners. And who are you to bring a bigger draw than a teenaged murderer in this town?”

  Her smile grew sinister. “I’m the Death Doll. How much would that be worth to you?”

  The crowd started chattering, half of them looking like they were getting clued in. Isaac thought it took guts for her to say before remembering she literally had none in that stuffed shell. Figuratively, she had them in spades.

  The Gamesman grinned from ear to ear and raised his hands, but the crowd took a while to quiet down. He looked a little annoyed at that, so he snapped his fingers.

  All the jexes cocked their guns, and the crowd shut the hell up.

  The H.B.I.C. smirked at Didi again. “The Death Doll is a myth.”

  “Now I’m the game,” she replied without pause, “so let’s play. I win, she goes free.”

  “If you lose?”

  She just shrugged at him and said, “I won’t be around to say, will I?”

  The Gamesman belted out a laugh that sparked throughout the crowd, while Isaac stewed in his leader’s wager. When the big dog quieted—as did the rest of the crowd, which was fucking creepy—he stared her down for a good minute before saying, “Deal.”

  Everyone in the audience shouted at their nearest leather-clad bookies, some even fumbling over others to get in their bids. The Gamesman seemed delighted about it all, even as he whispered something to his nearest bodyguard and hiked his thumb over his shoulder.

  Six jexes rushed in and forced Isaac and Rachelle out of the cage at gunpoint.

  Some of those skinny freaks came in and made Didi hand over her guns, which she did without complaint until they tried to take her sword. One of those suckers ended up with her blade against his throat. The rest aimed at her head until the Gamesman waved them off.

  “The Death Doll,” the head brother said with obvious skepticism, “assumes her friend’s charges. Now, she’ll face the accuser. This multiple murderer, thief, rapist, and all out savage survived every punishment we threw at him, and now he serves this city with pride and distinction. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you,” he said with a straight face, “Jex Rockwell!”

  The roar of the crowd was deafening. When the bullpen door opened, Isaac understood why.

  Standing six-foot-four with biceps like basketballs, the infamous serial killer Steven Rockwell strode into the cage with a spiked club in each of his massive hands. Red snakes lined the dude’s biker jacket, his leather calf boots and thick forearms lined by chainmail. His heavy scowl had to have been enough to scare his renowned fifty-two pre-plague victims to death, but the official reports listed methods even Isaac didn’t dare say aloud. Hell, it took fifteen cops just to arrest the infamous slaughterer. Why would anyone let this motherfucker out of death row?

  The arena door clanged shut behind Rockwell, who smiled at Didi like he was ready to take a bite of her. Isaac was glad he wasn’t the one going up against … well … either monster.

  The renowned jex swung those massive clubs at Didi with surprising quickness. She sidestepped all his attacks and played rope-a-dope with the serial killer—given her advantage of not getting tired—but the guy’s intensity held throughout. She cut the guy a few times, but he kept coming like none of it happened.

  When one of his clubs finally connected, it smacked her halfway across the cage. He followed up by trying to smash her head in, but she rolled away and came up with a slice that cut one of his thighs. From there, she met every strike with a good block and counter, agitating the savage at every turn.

  The crowd cheered, but Isaac had a hard time figuring out who for. The intrigued Gamesman never took his eyes off of Didi.

  Rockwell swung at her head again, but her attempt to block only knocked her sword from her hands. He kicked her to the ground and pinned her down with his giant boot.

  She stared up helplessly as he raised his club to smash her brains in.

  Everyone in the stands and around the cages howled madly. Isaac’s breath caught in his throat.

  Then the dead monster gave the living one a hard kick in the nuts. He stumbled backward, freeing her to roll to her sword and pop back up to her feet. He bellowed like a bear and ran at her. She turned each of his attacks into a punishment as she chopped off his limbs just above the chainmail, then sliced off his screaming head to end his suffering along with the so-called trial.

  The crowd got quieter than a court room awaiting the bang of a gavel. Their eyes bulged out of their heads at their Ginsu-ed champion.

  Didi stared up in the direction of the Gamesman, who for several seconds was a statue; not even his eyes or mouth moved. It was priceless. “My girl had guns and a sword,” she said.

  After a long silence, the Gamesman nodded off the jexes holding Isaac and Rachelle. They obeyed, and one of the scrawny rodeo clown dudes gave Rachelle back her weapons. The kid snatched them back before anybody could change their minds.

  Didi re-sheathed her sword, nodded at the Gamesman, and turned on her heels, but when she got to the door, one of the guards slammed it on her and locked her in.

  Isaac rushed the doors and ended up with the jexes’ shotguns in his face.

  Didi glowered at the Gamesman. “What the hell?”

  “You won your girl’s freedom,” he said with a cliché sinister voice, “but my new champion needs to be here to defend her title.”

  Mother—

  CHAPTER 10

  GAME CHANGER

  Hashim never cared about anyone’s skin color, no matter what ignorant fools kept bringing it up. Lord knows he got his share of it in the Navy. So he had no idea what to think about an entire city run by his own. Despite all the sad and downtrodden faces at every turn, that guy Buddy made it pretty clear that the African American was the ruling class here, especially after the highly invasive search when he “suggested” the “honkies on the bus” stay in it until they had passed through town. Clearly, a simple flip of the racial script didn’t make anything better, further proving all of Didi’s platitudes of people being people regardless of how they were born.

  “Makes you miss home, huh, bro?” he heard the new guy Alan ask his twin.

  Aaron responded in a crude way that earned censure from Clarissa and made Hashim regret insisting on bringing the Isolated onto the bus. His only other option was the tanker, which he was surprised hadn’t been jumped for its fuel yet. These “jexes” he had heard about must’ve been a brutal bunch to instill such fear of crime.

  Bob stopped at the crowded corner of Seventeenth and Arapahoe and kept the engine running. “This is it.”

  Hashim wondered why those two kids would go this far away from Didi and Isaac, but all he saw were more of the same miserable souls trudging through what they called their lives around a two-story mall that looked like it had seen an earthquake or two. He wished he could fit all these people onto the bus and ferry them to better chances, but he was only here for the two that he couldn’t see anywhere. “You sure?”

  Bob nodded at his digital tablet map. “Sixteenth Street Mall. That’s what she said.”

  Hashim further scanned the crowd to no avail. He barely found anything left of the neighborhood, its ruins crammed with residents peddling various wares that might’ve included brothel services. He shook his head and grabbed the radio handset. “Didi, the kids aren’t here. Do you have them?”

  He waited in silence, but that was all he got in return. He tried again. Still, nothing.

  Now, he was really worried. “Ron, I think something happened to our teams. Where are you?”

  “About half a mile away, but I still can’t get through. Jexes are blocking all road traffic to the stadium. What do you want us to do?”

  Only one terrifying option came to mind. “We may have to send someone else to look.”

  “Don’t l
ook at us,” Aaron said, throwing his hand between himself and his brother. “We already went fishing for you once.” His brother rolled his eyes but didn’t rebut.

  Hashim shook his head at the twins’ lack of gratitude, and he wasn’t expecting anything from the skinny hacker who hadn’t looked up from his laptop since he boarded. Cynthia was a hard pass, whether she wanted off this bus or not, and no one else looked his way either. Only his fellow Panel members knew they were immune, but that may not be the case if no one else—

  Jerri shouted for Hashim from the back. “People back there are showing a lot of interest in the tanker. It looks like they’re trying to buy it or something; they’re all shaking their stuff at it.”

  Hashim sighed hard. “We’ll send it on. Blake, be ready to cover—”

  Someone banged on the door; a curly-haired Latino with a scraggly face and beady eyes as desperate as his knocking, pleading in Spanish to come in with … one of his people?

  Hashim aimed a pistol at the door. “Who do you have with you?” he asked in Spanish.

  The middle-aged man shoved a bruised, weary-looking Pepe at the door.

  Hashim smelled a trap, especially without seeing Rachelle. He asked the man about her, but he claimed that jexes took her. He cursed. “Anybody armed with him?”

  “I can’t see anything from here,” Max griped from his gun turret.

  Clarissa slipped through the center row of seats and leaned against one of the gun slits, sticking a compact mirror just outside of it. “Nobody like that.”

  “Good enough for me,” he said, impressed by Clarissa’s ingenuity. He grabbed the radio, told the tanker to meet Ron in the southern outskirts of the city, and watched the tanker slowly pass by with only the most stalwart—or desperate—of souls chasing it down with their wares.

  Satisfied for the moment, he opened the door. The two outside immediately spilled in.

  Hashim rushed down the stairs to get Pepe, but the guy who brought him just looked pleadingly at him. “Ayúdame,” he told the stranger, who perked up and helped him with Pepe.