The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise

by Hegarty, W. J.

  “Well, this doesn’t look so bad,” said Radzinski, not so much as an assessment of his surroundings but more to get under Todd’s skin. If Haven’s head of security was looking to intimidate the Marine with this power play, it wasn’t working.

  “I hope you like it, because this is your new home.” Todd shoved Radzinski forward. “If I see you upstairs again, we’ll carry you down next time.”

  “And what happens after that?”

  “Try it and find out, trash.” One of Todd’s security said with a final shove.

  Todd and his men turned and left the way they came, pushing aside any of the less fortunate residents that wandered too close.

  Radzinski took stock of his surroundings. A satisfied, almost pleased demeanor flowed over him as he took a seat at the bar and tossed his garbage bag on the floor.

  No sooner had Radzinski gotten comfortable on his wobbly barstool than an old gray-haired man in tattered robes approached.

  “I beg you, brother, do not enter this den of sin. Return to the light. Underworld’s sights and temptations are the very things with which the lord weighed us against before he smote us so.” The old man was animated but stayed just out of arm’s reach. “Can’t you see it, brother? This vessel he bestowed upon us is the very ark to our true salvation. The beast has laid a trap in the bowels of this fine ship. Look around you and you will witness one final temptation that must be overcome before any of us can be accepted unto him.”

  The bartender hurried over before Radzinski could respond. “How many times do I have to tell you to get the fuck out of here?” He pointed to the hidden stairwell. “Go back to the Temple where you people belong. Leave us the fuck alone.”

  The old man obliged but not before touching Radzinski on the arm. “Remember what I said, brother.” The old man spoke calmly. “The beast tempts us away from the light. Only you can cast him out.” With that, the old man retreated down the darkened corridor.

  Radzinski shrugged and turned to the bartender. “What was all that about?”

  “Ah, he’s from the Temple.” The bartender clearly held the old man in contempt. “A bunch of religious nut jobs if you ask me. They’re always pushing their agenda. It’s bad for business.” The bartender sported a scraggly three-day-old beard and greasy spiked hair. He wore a one-piece, gray work suit, like those worn in de-cons and in stowage, only dirtier. He dried glasses with a grimy rag as he spoke.

  “Why does he get to leave?” Radzinski asked with a nod toward the stairwell.

  “If you live up top, you can come and go as you please. For the rest of us, well, this is home.”

  “Seems kind of fucked up.”

  “It is what it is.” The bartender shrugged. He had accepted his station a long time ago. “There’s only two ways out of here if you live in Underworld: a trip to the infirmary or you die and get flushed.”

  “Sounds pleasant.”

  “Speaking of…” The bartender gestured for Radzinski to look across the room, where two men escorted a badly beaten third man through the crowd toward the stairwell. “They’re taking him to the infirmary. He’ll be escorted back, so don’t go thinking that’s your way out. You’re with us now.”

  “Noted. Well, in that case, I’ll have what they’re having, barkeep.” Radzinski pointed his thumb at a man and a woman desperately trying to hold each other up just across the bar.

  “No one drinks free down here.” The bartender curled his lip and shut his eyes as he slowly nodded his head in the negative. “It doesn’t matter who you are or who you used to be. You work or you fight. That’s the only way to earn in Underworld.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “The crews are always looking for muscle. You look like you can handle yourself. I’d start with the Hooligans. They’re desperate these days. They’re run by a Brit. Calls himself Rottweiler. Ugliest motherfucker you’ve ever seen. Tatted face, grills. You can’t miss him. Stay away from the Haitians and the Vatos. They don’t accept outsiders. Or you can go straight to the top. Sona or Lady Setsuko. I wouldn’t recommend either, though, unless you’re keen for a turf war.”

  “I’m not much of the joining type. What else you got?”

  “Me?” He pointed at himself, bemused. “Nothing you’d be interested in unless dishes and mopping are your thing.”

  “Not especially.”

  “Well, then that leaves the Pit.”

  “A fighting pit, I take it?”

  “You got it. Simple rules: no biting, no hitting in the balls, no shirt, no shoes. Basically, MMA rules, unless the terms are waved, that is.”

  “That happen often?”

  “It depends. Two guys hate each other enough or rival gangs have a score to settle, then yeah, the rules go out the window.”

  “Well, where do I sign up?”

  “Follow the hallway at the far end of the room, opposite where security dumped you. Keep going until you hear the commotion. You can’t miss it.”

  “Keep my seat warm.” Radzinski threw his bag over the bar top. “Oh, and keep an eye on this for me, will you?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “A valued customer.”

  “Fair enough. Good luck.” The bartender smirked. “You’re going to need it.”

  Radzinski smiled. “Not likely.”

  ~~~

  The Pit was another large gathering room converted from a former amphitheater. At its center, a makeshift ring was constructed from welded aluminum scaffolding and repurposed seat cushions. As Radzinski approached, a brutal fight was underway. The two combatants were battered and broken, but neither was ready to give in. Dozens of people surrounded the ring; they passed little slips of paper back and forth as the fight went one way or the other.

  The smaller of the two fighters dodged the much larger man’s massive fists. He rolled to his opponent’s side, jumped to his feet, and landed a barrage of blows to the guy’s ribs before diving back onto the floor to escape an elbow. Every time the smaller man dodged a potentially devastating blow, the crowd erupted.

  Radzinski felt something hard poke his lower back. He tensed up, ready for a fight. He wouldn’t be manhandled again today.

  “Give it up,” a voice demanded.

  Radzinski turned, amused. “Damon.” He smiled.

  “What’s up, bro?” Damon replied. “They got you down here, too?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “When they pick you up?”

  “Just now. I was sleeping like a baby, man.”

  “They got me last night. Fucking punks.”

  “You thinking about getting in?” Radzinski motioned to the ring.

  “Me? Fuck no.” Damon waved off the idea. “I’m already working on a few things. Why? You gonna fight?”

  “I need a drink, so yeah.”

  Back in the ring, the faster, smaller man continued his show until he jumped face-first into a haymaker from the larger man. He stumbled back, dazed. The larger man swung his giant meat hook of a hand into the side of the smaller man’s head, sending him twisting into the unforgiving metal cage. The smaller man crumpled to the floor in a heap. The fight was over. The crowd went quiet, save for a few boos; they were mostly displeased. The champ answered with a round of curses for the crowd and a challenge for anyone who wanted to put their money where their mouth was.

  “I’ll take that bet,” Radzinski announced as he removed his shirt and climbed onto the outermost layer of the cage, much to the delight of a growing crowd of onlookers. He pointed to a short, fat, and sleazy guy counting slips of paper in the larger man’s corner.

  “I’ll bet everything you have that I can knock this slab of shit out in under thirty seconds.”

  The sleazy man contemplated the bet for a moment. “If you win, you take it all?” he said. Spittle pooled at the sides of his mouth. “At that price, when my man wins, we take your life. But not before we have our way with you.” The sleazy man rubbed the front of his stained pants. His champion nodded
an affirmative as he licked his bloody lips and pounded his hands together. “Who knows? If you treat us right, we might even let you live.”

  “Done.” Radzinski climbed into the ring. A wave of boos followed him.

  As the combatants readied themselves, the announcer prepared the spectators for the impromptu fight. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have an unscheduled bout for your viewing pleasure this fine afternoon. In the red corner—red for blood—I give you in his second fight of the day the undisputed master of the Pit and your returning champion, the one the only, Luscious Leonard.”

  The crowd erupted in cheer, showing admiration for a man only moments ago they nearly unanimously despised.

  “And in the blue corner—baby blue, that is—I give you a man who is clearly in over his head, in his debut match and likely to be his last. He is… the Menacing Marine.”

  The spectators’ boos for Radzinski quickly morphed into cheers for the current champion. Crowds were a fickle thing. It didn’t take much more than a nudge to rile them up in the desired direction. They chanted the large man’s name as he approached the much smaller Marine like a freight train. Radzinski was no slouch in the height and bulk department, and even still, his opponent towered over him.

  Radzinski stood his ground—he waited until the man wound up for a massive blow, then gave him a straight chop to the neck and boxed his ears so hard blood flowed. The large man stumbled back in agony, unable to breathe. Radzinski followed with a massive uppercut that violently jerked the man’s head back into his shoulders. The larger man fell flat onto the not-at-all-forgiving floor of the ring, unconscious. The instant the larger man hit the mat, the crowd erupted with cheers for Radzinski and laughter at the sleazy man and his defeated champion.

  Radzinski turned to Damon at ringside, who was more than a little impressed. He had to shout over the crowd, but he asked, “You ready for a drink?”

  ~~~

  Radzinski and Damon returned to the River Styx. This time the bartender was eager to pour drinks.

  The newly christened champ opened his sack of loot and tossed a handful of the little slips of paper onto the bar top. “I don’t even know what any of this means, but this should cover us for a while.”

  “Put that shit away, man. You’re going to get yourself killed.” The bartender gathered up Radzinski’s winnings into a neat pile and handed it back to the man. “They’re called chits. One chit, one drink. A few chits more, you can get yourself a meal. Other things cost extra. If you’ve seen how it works upstairs. All those people aren’t eating and drinking on the ship’s dime. Nah, man, it comes out of their pay. That’s why if you don’t work you get sent down here. That what happen to you?”

  “Something like that,” Radzinski answered. “So why don’t we just use cash?”

  “Dollars or pesos? They’re equally worthless now, so we made our own currency. Besides, there isn’t a whole lot of cash to go around on a cruise ship. Credit ran the day.”

  “Fair enough.” Radzinski shrugged. “Set me and my man here up with a couple of beers and a couple of shots, and keep them coming.”

  “My pleasure. And let me be the first to officially welcome you to Underworld. I never properly introduced myself before.” The bartender extended his hand for a proper greeting. “I’m Mike, by the way.”

  “Now, he says.” Radzinski reciprocated. The fact that he now had a bag of chits and suddenly the bartender was much more pleasant wasn’t lost on the Marine. He’d humor the guy for now.

  Reverb from a speaker cut through the crowded main drag of Underworld. Across from the bar, a slapdash stage had been erected so near a cluster of living quarters it must have been hell on any poor souls living in them. The band didn’t waste any time getting the evenings gig underway. The troupe consisted of three women and two men, all in various forms of undress. Their skin was adorned with paint and various hues of tape. Their music was fast and loud. It perfectly accentuated their dirty, almost mid-nineties industrial rock band appearance. Fire-breathers spat flame above the crowd’s heads to roaring applause. The lead singer chugged from a bottle of booze, only to spit it onto those closest to the stage. Her adoring fans fought for a spot in the spray. The band’s third set included a simulated sex act among most of the band members and a lucky person plucked from the crowd. Or was it an act? Radzinski couldn’t be sure. He was in awe of the spectacle. He caught himself wondering why anyone would choose to live on the upper decks when all of this was going on just below their feet. If he wasn’t mistaken—and he wasn’t—a physique like that was impossible to miss. The singer was the same buff chick he saw working out by the pool just this morning. What was she doing down here? But more pressing was, if she could leave, then why couldn’t he?

  “Let me ask you something, barkeep. What’s the living situation like down here? Do I get a room or am I going to have to bum it like those sorry saps I passed on the way in here?”

  “You can sleep in the wards for free, but I wouldn’t take your boots off.” The wards were massive open rooms located not too far from the Pit, and they housed those unlucky enough to not have permanent lodging. Those rooms were filled with lines of sleeping bags and cots that were on a first come, first served basis. Fights broke out nightly over the best spots.

  “Noted.”

  “Also, you can rent a room from the owner of this bar. The rent’s a chit a night, and it adds up fast. I wouldn’t worry about that, though. Sleeping here is pretty much off the table now.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, the owner is the manager of the guy you just beat. Word’s already going around that you embarrassed him pretty bad. He’s not going to be happy with you.”

  “Running out of choices here.”

  “Your only other option is getting in good with one of the five gangs.”

  “You only mentioned three earlier.”

  “I suppose I only inferred the other two. Lady Setsuko most definitely runs a gang out of deck four, two below us. She’s Yakuza and not to be crossed. If you want a bit of free advice, don’t go down there uninvited.”

  “What about this Sona you mentioned?”

  “Sona claims to be an equal opportunity provider of services, but she’s in control of all of deck five, so if that’s not gang-like, you tell me what it is.”

  “Shit choices all around.”

  “Regardless of where you sleep tonight, you’re going to want protection down here, especially now that you’re the new reigning champ on day one. I have a friend who deals in protection. He can come in handy if you plan to stay unaffiliated. Here he comes now. I sent word for him when I heard you had won.”

  “That’s mighty thoughtful of you, Mike. How did you know I’d be back?”

  “Where else were you going to go? Besides, I had your bag. Never let it be said that Underworld is full of a bunch of uncaring savages. Here he is. Trevor, good to see you. I’d like you to meet a new friend of mine. His name’s Radzinski. He’s the new champ of the Pit you’ve probably heard about.”

  Trevor was the nervous type, always scanning his surroundings and ready to disappear at the slightest sign of altercation. He wore a leather jacket over a dark purple hoodie that he used to conceal his face, mostly. He sat a worn duffel bag on the stool beside Radzinski.

  “Trevor,” Radzinski said.

  “Keep this brief,” was Trevor’s response as he opened his bag of goods and rifled through it to show off his wares. His duffel contained a selection of weapons—brass knuckles, a variety of knives, a karambit with a red blade, police batons, a blue-handled machete, and a selection of heavy pipes.

  “A lot of junk in there, partner.”

  “You won’t think it’s junk when you’re cornered by a group of armed degenerates in a dark hallway,” Trevor hissed back.

  “I’m not looking to stick anybody,” said Radzinski. “I’ll take one of those batons.”

  “Excellent choice. And for your friend?”

  “Go for it, man,” R
adzinski offered.

  “Gimme a knife,” said Damon. “Something I can hide in my sleeve.”

  “This should suit you fine.” Trevor presented a thin six-inch-long blade. “The sheath is included in the price. You should be able to strap this to your forearm to keep it well-concealed. Now, if that will be all, gentlemen…” Trevor sealed his bag and stood expectantly.

  The reigning champion paid the man and Trevor disappeared back into the shadows like he was never there.

  Radzinski and Damon continued to chat with bartender Mike. He shared with them the hows and whys of Underworld. Where and who to stay away from were of vital importance—at least from Mike’s perspective. Radzinski was more interested in the power structure and what group he would inevitably need to side with if he ever wanted a peaceful night’s sleep again.

  At the far side of the room, nearest to the stairwell, people scurried in all directions. They were quick to get out of the way of a trio of well-dressed Japanese men. The head of the trio was a good-looking young man in his late twenties who wore a white suit and tie over a black silk shirt. The two men that flanked him wore black suits over white.

  “That’s Ken coming this way,” said Mike. “Better not make eye contact. He’s Lady Setsuko’s only son. If she sent him up here, I feel sorry for whoever he’s looking for.” The bartender made himself look busy by re-cleaning glasses he had already put away.

  The trio walked with purpose toward the bar and stopped just a few feet short of Radzinski and Damon. The two men in black brandished katanas and carefully watched their surroundings. Their leader was armed only with confidence.

  “You two, up,” Ken ordered.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A Dangerous Place

  Radzinski and Damon were led down the hidden stairwell to deck four. This deck was laid out much the same as above, only it was far cleaner, and much quieter. There was a drinking establishment acting as a centerpiece to the floor. Stages for entertainment and tables were strewn about the place where people played cards, dice, and other games of chance. Chits passed back and forth, much like on deck six, only here things seemed much more organized. Men in black suits oversaw all of it; order and oversight ran the day here.