Abyss Of Savagery

by Toby Neighbors

  Grant came in and lined his platoon up against the opposite end of the room. Parker came in last and walked casually over to stand beside Dean, who pulled his TCU off and handed it to Parker. She unfastened his battle armor and helped him tug it off. Furoke was doing the same with Captain Grant. Dean spoke under his breath to Parker.

  “Keep an eye on the staff sergeant,” Dean said. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Neither do I,” she said. “He’s a little too excited.”

  “Some people love violence,” Dean said.

  “And they rarely fight fair; don’t expect either of them to do that.”

  “I’m not, don’t worry. This is a long time coming, and I’m ready for it.”

  Parker nodded. Dean stood up straight, wearing only the skin-tight insulation suit that was meant to stop the laser attacks from the Kroll. He had no shoes and nothing on his hands or protecting his head. Grant was in the same garb, his chest thicker and shoulders more rounded than Dean’s. They were the same height, and both were muscular, but Grant had nearly a decade of experience and almost twenty-five pounds on Dean.

  “Don’t hold back,” Parker instructed.

  Dean nodded in reply. The time for talking was over, and he had only one thing on his mind: he had to hurt Grant, to make the other man submit—not only to his will, but to his authority. And the only way to make Grant submit was through pain. Despite his own injuries, Dean was determined to give the cocky captain all the pain he could handle, and then some.

  Chapter 32

  “You’re a bigger fool than I thought, Blaze,” Captain Grant taunted from his side of the room. “I am going to smash that pretty boy face of yours into a mangled lump.”

  Dean didn’t reply. He was thinking of all the slights and insults the arrogant captain had used trying to send Dean into a rage. They were the fuel he needed at that moment to feel the gravity of the situation, to realize he was in the middle of a life-or-death struggle and that if he didn’t give his all, he would fail.

  “Look at him,” Grant taunted. “He’s too frightened to say anything. What’s the matter Blaze, afraid your voice will crack?”

  Preparing for hand-to-hand combat was difficult. A sparring match brought a certain amount of expectations and an understanding that your opponent would only go so far. A gun battle was much more dangerous, but usually more sudden as well. In Dean’s mind, those frightening experiences were forced suddenly upon him, and he had always been with his platoon, planning strategy and trying to ensure that they did the most damage with the least amount of loss. A fist-fight was a completely different experience. Dean wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he wouldn’t be hit or that he would feel no pain. He needed a sense of urgency and anger to hurtle himself into a fray that didn’t have to be fought.

  “That’s the problem with candy-ass officers like you, Blaze,” Grant said, slowly moving toward the center of the room. “You’ve never been in a real fight. You’ve always had a platoon to hide behind, to do the dirty work for you. But there is no HA line to cower behind now, no veteran specialists to save you from the world of hurt I’m about to put you in. Just remember when you’re lying broken and bleeding that this was your own idea.”

  Dean didn’t respond. He walked forward, his focus on Grant and nothing else. He felt a furious rage building inside his chest. His vision was turning red, and all he could think about was inflicting damage on Grant—but he had to pull back from the abyss of savagery and remember to anticipate his opponent, not simply plunge ahead with his own attack.

  It was difficult to stay loose, but Dean managed it, walking confidently toward his opponent. There was no bouncing on the balls of their feet, no slow circling in hopes of spotting a weakness to exploit. The fight began suddenly and fiercely, with both men striking in a series of open-handed attacks and practiced blocks. Dean had to hold himself back, remembering to move with fluidity and ease, not with tensed muscles and all his strength. It only took a handful of seconds, but Dean found an opening. His hand shot forward in a palm strike that was aimed at Grant’s left eye, but a slight movement of the arrogant captain’s head caused Dean’s strike to merely glance off Grant’s cheekbone.

  For a split second, Dean was off-balance and exposed. He drew back his hands, batting away a right hook from Grant, then swayed further back to avoid a follow-up chop toward his temple. As Dean recovered, he realized that the flurry of blows by Grant had been a setup. The captain drove his fist forward in a hard punch straight toward Dean’s face. There was no time to dodge the punch, and no angle to deflect it. Instead, Dean caught Grant’s fist in an open-handed strike of his own, halting the blow between them.

  For a moment neither man moved. The moment seemed to stretch out as the Raptors and Dean’s hand-selected specialists watched in silent awe. Then, with the suddenness of a rattlesnake strike, Grant spun around, his hand locking onto Dean’s wrist and twisting. The move forced Dean to turn and spin around, his arm twisting painfully as Dean lashed out with a snap kick that caught Grant just behind the knee. The captain staggered forward, almost falling and losing his grip on Dean’s arm. There was no time to recover, no opportunity to dance away and shake off the effects of the strained tendons in his elbow and shoulder. Instead, Dean dove forward, driving his shoulder into Grant’s hip, his arms scooping up the captain’s legs, and then he fell with all his weight into Grant’s abdomen.

  There was a whoosh of breath as Dean scrambled forward, pinning Grant’s chest under his own as he began to slam elbow strikes at his opponent’s face. Even as he gasped desperately for air to refill his lungs, Grant managed to block Dean’s attack and squirm in an attempt to slip out of the bottom position he found himself in. Dean had to pause his attack and focus on retaining his position. He managed to grab Grant’s left wrist and pin it to the deck, but before he could resume his attack Grant grabbed onto Dean’s neck with his right hand. The captain had a strong grip; his fingers held fast to the back of Dean’s neck while his thumb gouged into the flesh just below the corner of Dean’s jaw.

  The pain was intense, and Dean had to fight his natural instinct to pull away. Instead he lashed out at Grant’s arm with his own free hand. The captain’s arm was tensed and hard, completely unyielding. After three hard blows that seemed to have no effect, the pressure behind Dean’s ear increased and Dean was forced to make a dangerous decision. If he pulled back, he would lose leverage and either be thrown off his opponent, or worse, get pinned himself. The only other option was to throw a desperate elbow into Grant’s face, but that move required Dean to move toward his opponent, to give him even greater leverage to drive his thumb under Dean’s jaw.

  The decision was made in a split second. Dean was determined not to back down and so he advanced, enduring the agonizing pain that was shooting up from his jaw into his eye and across his head. He drove his own elbow down blindly, hoping he would hit something. There was a solid collision that sent a jolt up Dean’s arm, but instantly the pressure behind his ear lessened. Dean lashed out at the arm again, this time knocking it free. When Dean turned his head, he saw a wicked-looking gash on Grant’s eyebrow. Hot blood was flowing into the captain’s eye and across the pale skin of his forehead.

  Grant threw a punch that landed, but he had no leverage and there wasn’t much strength behind the blow. Dean scrambled again, quickly throwing one leg over Grant’s torso while the older man swiped at the blood in his eye. Then, like a wild animal, Grant bucked and very nearly tossed Dean off of him. For a moment all Dean could do was press down with as much of his weight as possible and hold on. It wasn’t enough, and Grant managed to slip down between Dean’s legs—but not before Dean managed to cock one leg up and send it driving down into the side of Grant’s neck.

  Dean sprang back to his feet. His jaw and ear were aching, but the pain was like a roar in the background and in no way debilitating. Grant was back on his feet when Dean turned toward his opponent. Both of his arms were up to protect his face and allo
w him to swipe at the cut that was still oozing blood into his eye. Dean threw a massive punch with his left hand into Grant’s unprotected stomach, but the blow tweaked the bones in his forearm that were still healing. Dean felt a flash of pain that made him want to fall back and protect himself, but he knew that showing a weakness to Grant would be a dangerous mistake—so Dean stood his ground. He followed with another punch, putting all of his weight and strength into the blow, twisting his hips and following through exactly as Captain Parker had taught him.

  Grant staggered backward, obviously hurting, and Dean lashed forward, bending low, sweeping his extended foot toward Grant’s legs. The sweep only managed to catch one foot and Grant stayed on his feet, driving himself forward as Dean rose back up. A palm strike smashed into Dean’s eye and pushed him back; the pain was exquisite, but Dean’s adrenaline was pumping hard and he barely felt the blow. Grant followed his palm strike with a driving blow toward Dean’s throat. His hand was flat, the fingers bent at the second knuckle forming a ridge that would have crushed Dean’s windpipe—but the younger man was already swaying to his right, avoiding the blow and driving his fist once more into the captain’s ribs. The punch landed, and Dean spun around to face Grant’s back. The older man was stepping away, but Dean kicked out again, his heel slamming into the back of Grant’s knee.

  The captain dropped to the deck, and Dean was on his back almost instantly, his hand slipping under the older man’s chin. But before Dean could get into position, Grant lifted both of their bodies off the floor with his hands spread wide on the deck as if he were doing a pushup. His head dropped low, which Dean thought was an attempt to keep him from gaining a chokehold, but as Dean moved forward, Grant’s head snapped backward and smashed into Dean’s nose. Blood gushed like a fountain, and Dean’s eyes watered hard. He slipped off his opponent’s back, and Grant scrambled to his feet.

  Both men were bloody, but neither was willing to concede victory. Grant hobbled forward just as Dean staggered to his feet. Grant threw a punch that connected with Dean’s ear, but Dean answered with a hard palm strike that landed just under Grant’s chin. The older man’s head snapped up and he stumbled backward. Just as Grant regained his balance and swayed forward, Dean drove a hard front kick into the older man’s chest. The force of the blow knocked Grant off his feet, and Dean dove back on top of his opponent.

  Grant was struggling to breathe, his hands up to protect his face when Dean landed on top of him. Dean quickly straddled Grant, his weight pinning the older man to the ground. On instinct, Grant tried to buck Dean off again, but his strength was fading and the move failed to dislodge Dean, who rose up to gain the leverage to pound his opponent into submission.

  “Look out!” Adkins shouted.

  Without thinking Dean ducked, hunching his shoulders, his hands coming up to protect the sides of his face. Dean felt a hard thump on the back of his head and a searing pain that ran up his scalp. As Dean turned, he saw Furoke running toward him; the big bowie knife he carried was out of its sheath and looked like a sword to Dean, whose body tensed in anticipation of the killing stroke he expected at any second.

  As Dean fell onto his elbows, a flash of battle armor tore across his vision. Captain Parker attacked Furoke so quickly that Dean could hardly believe his eyes. Furoke was a Close Combat Specialist, trained to kill with blades and bare hands. He had on full battle armor, including a variety of knives. Captain Parker’s battle armor was similar, but slightly less flexible. As a captain, she had an upgraded communication unit built into the back of her armor across her shoulder blades that weighed over twenty pounds, but if it was slowing her down, Dean couldn’t tell. Parker’s first strike—a vicious kick to Furoke’s hand—sent the bowie knife flipping across the room.

  Furoke jumped back in surprise as the staff sergeant recognized his new opponent, and then he lunged for Captain Parker—which turned out to be a massive mistake. The staff sergeant was a full head taller than Parker, and easily a hundred pounds heavier, but she was still more than a match for the big Egyptian. As Furoke lunged forward, Dean caught sight of the small, curved blade he had pulled from his armor. If Parker saw it, she made no alteration to her fighting stance. As Furoke dove forward, thrusting the small knife at her belly and obviously trying to slip the blade in between the armor plates that covered her abdomen, Parker brought her hands out as if she were catching a ball. She took one step to the side as she caught Furoke’s hands and twisted, forcing the big man to bend at the waist until he flipped over onto his back.

  Parker wrenched the blade free from Furoke’s hand and tossed it aside in a casual manner, walking several deliberate steps away from the Egyptian and giving him time to get back on his feet. He drew a throwing knife and raised it above his head as Parker, seeing the weapon, cartwheeled to her right.

  A gunshot rang out, and blood fell like rain from Furoke’s hand. Dean glanced over at Ghost, who was leaning casually against the far wall and re-holstering his sidearm. Furoke looked at his bloody hand as his throwing knife clattered to the floor at his feet. Parker didn’t hold back. She finished her cartwheel and spun around, pivoting on one foot and delivering a side kick that knocked Furoke off his feet.

  “Permission to kill the smarmy bastard,” Parker said.

  “Denied,” Dean said, the pain in the back of his head throbbing. “Detain him instead.”

  Dean turned back to Captain Grant, who was struggling to get back on his feet. Dean did the same just as Grant renewed his attack, throwing a wild haymaker that Dean easily dodged. He followed Parker’s example and stepped away from Grant, but the humiliated captain was in a rage. He followed Dean, throwing another punch. Dean caught the older man’s arm and used his own momentum to flip Grant over at his hip. Grant landed hard, but Dean guessed the battle armor softened the fall. Dean backed away as warm blood ran down the back of his neck. He reached up and felt the gash in the back of his skull. He guessed that Furoke had thrown a knife at him, but Adkins’ warning had saved Dean’s life.

  Grant was back on his feet and moving to attack again, but his steps were clumsy. Dean bent low, catching the enraged captain around the waist and driving him straight up, hoisting Grant back in a simple flip that sent him crashing hard onto the deck again. Dean turned and waited, wiping away some of the blood that was still oozing from his nose. His left eye was swelling, and he could feel the skin being pulled tight across his face. There was a deep ache in his nose, but the fight was coming to an end. It took Grant longer to get back up, but he refused to stay down.

  With a scream of frustration and rage, he charged toward Dean again. Waiting for the punch was difficult for Dean; his instinct was to end the fight in a deadly fashion, but he knew he couldn’t kill another officer. He needed to make Grant submit, not terminate him. When the punch came, Dean stepped toward it, turning so that he stopped the arm before the blow landed while rolling his shoulder into Grant’s armpit. Another heave flipped Grant over Dean’s back and left him on the ground at Dean’s feet, his arm still holding fast as Dean twisted it slowly.

  “Ahhhh,” Grant wailed, trying to push himself away from Dean.

  The twist grew more intense as Dean dropped onto his knees, driving them into Grant’s exposed flank.

  “You bastard!” Grant shouted.

  “Do you submit?” Dean asked.

  “Never to you.”

  “Do it, or I’ll pop your arm out of its socket,” Dean warned. “You’ll be out of commission and removed from command.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Grant said, his voice shaking with rage and pain.

  “Try me,” Dean said, twisting the arm even further.

  For a long moment Grant tried to resist, but the pain was overwhelming and he finally screamed, “I yield!”

  Dean stood up, letting go of Grant’s arm and peering down at the beaten man. There was blood over nearly half of his face, and tears sprang from his eyes as he rolled slowly onto his back.

  “Did you order Furo
ke to kill me?” Dean asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grant said as he struggled up into a sitting position.

  Dean rubbed the back of his head and held the bloody hand out to Grant.

  “Last time,” Dean warned. “Don’t lie to me, Captain. Did you order him to intervene in the fight?”

  “Hell no,” Grant said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  Dean didn’t believe the surly man, but he had no grounds for punishing Grant further. He had proven himself in combat and made Grant submit. Dean hoped it would be enough to change the arrogant captain’s attitude, but he feared it wasn’t. Turning toward the Raptor platoon, Dean took a few steps toward them and held up his hands.

  “Sometimes two men need to find the measure of each other,” Dean said. “That’s all this was. Unfortunately, Staff Sergeant Furoke broke all military protocol and dishonored himself by intervening. He will be put under arrest until we return home, where he will face charges for attacking a superior officer with the intent to kill. As of this moment, I consider the incident over and done. I hold no ill will against any of you, nor your CO Captain Grant. Do any of you have something you’d like to say?”

  The platoon stood at attention, their battle helmets held under their left arms, none of them speaking or even meeting Dean’s eyes. He could see the anger on some of their faces, shock and surprise on the rest, but he didn’t see resistance or trouble.

  “Alright, let’s get this mess cleaned up,” Dean said. “Dismissed.”

  “I’ll take this backstabbing son of a bitch to the brig,” Parker said.