Monsters

by Matt Rogers

  With sixty pounds extra on your side you can do as you please with a slim and delicate woman.

  Grey sky and shadow from overhanging branches made it hard to get a clear visual. The big Russian squinted, took another step forward. He didn’t see an issue. It was dark and he wanted to intimidate her anyway. What was a female software engineer going to do?

  Alexis’ fear swelled to a crescendo and she harnessed it.

  If this went bad, the result would be no different than if she was Mary.

  He said, ‘You didn’t get the message,’ and it seemed like more would follow, but he trailed off as he stared her in the face. His buddy, an equally cubic and pale man, rounded from behind him, closing in to help the intimidation process.

  The first guy noticed differences.

  ‘Wait—,’ he started.

  Her fist came out of the raincoat pocket wrapped in brass knuckle dusters.

  24

  They stepped into a balmy reception area made up of three wooden trestle tables forming a “U.”

  Promotional banners for upcoming local fight nights hung off the edges, forming one long chain. There were jiu-jitsu gis and Muay Thai shorts and boxing gloves for sale. A bored-looking meathead sat in a folding chair behind the central table, twirling a pencil between scratched and calloused knuckles. Probably a budding fighter making a bit extra to fulfil front-of-house requirements. Beyond the U-shaped trio of tables the open warehouse interior loomed, most of the concrete floor covered in wrestling mats. Under a mezzanine level there were maybe ten bags for boxing and kickboxing, all suspended from the low ceiling. A small gym setup with treadmills, weights, and assault bikes rested in the corner.

  Not the worst setup.

  Frankie Booth himself paced back and forth behind the guy in the chair, barking animatedly into a phone.

  He radiated insecurity, which was amplified by the fact that you often don’t see unnecessary aggression in mixed martial arts gyms. They were typically a place for controlled and disciplined practice, and the ego tends to dissipate when you’re channelling your anger into something healthy and productive. Booth seemed to have learned none of this. He was short and squat, proportionally unfortunate for an MMA fighter, which often favours reach, but his pot belly indicated he hadn’t actually competed in a long time, if ever. He’d fashioned what little hair was left atop his skull in an upward direction with the help of what seemed like half a tub of gel. His huge round eyes made his whole face seem paranoid.

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’ he almost shouted into the receiver.

  The meathead manning the desk leant closer to the new arrivals. ‘S’up, boys?’

  They nodded back to him. There was mutual respect right off the bat. Slater figured if he and King had been skinny and soft, they mightn’t have received the same welcome. Sporting over two hundred pounds each on athletes’ frames sure helped with first impressions.

  The meathead said, ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Here to train,’ King said.

  ‘Yeah, okay, right,’ the guy mumbled, glancing at the laminated instruction sheet on the table. ‘So, it don’t really work like that. You want to take part in the classes, you gotta sign up. You looking for memberships?’

  Slater shook his head. ‘We’re not in town for long, but we thought this place looked good.’

  The meathead raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you?’

  King changed course. ‘We don’t want to take your classes. Just want to hit the bag, maybe do a bit of treadmill work. Is there some sort of casual fee? Just for entry.’

  ‘Oh,’ the guy said. Stared at the laminated sheet and furrowed his brow. ‘Not normally, but I’ll make it, like, ten bucks each.’

  ‘Appreciate it, brother.’

  Slater paid by card and they slipped around the tables, beelining for the metal shelves of gear near the suspended bags. There were four-ounce MMA gloves and sixteen-ounce boxing gloves and shin guards and all manner of striking pads. They weren’t as snazzy as the gear available for sale, and they doubtless reeked of stale sweat, but they’d do the job. King and Slater were here for a good time, not a long time. They didn’t need fancy equipment.

  On the way past Booth he took the phone away from his ear and whipped around to face the guy manning the front desk. ‘They members?’ he snapped.

  ‘Nah. They just wanna hit the bag. I charged them a casual fee.’

  ‘We don’t do casual fees. We do memberships.’

  ‘Look, Frankie…’

  Booth wheeled to King and Slater. His mouth was open, maybe a second from launching into a tirade, but when he got a good look at them he reconsidered, held his tongue. He sized them up. Noticed the raw power bristling in their frames. Shifted from foot to foot, then sighed and swept his hand toward the punching bags. ‘Go ahead, boys.’

  Slater nodded to him but left it at that.

  As they walked away they heard Booth say to the guy on the desk, ‘Jace tells me he got his tyres slashed. Both front ones.’

  The desk guy laughed. ‘Bullshit. Any money he’s coming off a bender. He’ll be lying in bed with his head on fire.’

  ‘Fuck him. He knew he had a ten-thirty. He’s done.’

  King muttered, ‘There it is.’

  They had to cross the edge of the wrestling mats to get to the striking area, and they had a crowd of nearly twenty people watching them. They were an athletic bunch, maybe eighty percent male and twenty percent female, all kitted out in wrestling rash-guards and a mixture of compression leggings and shorts. This wasn’t a “boxercise” class for salary workers looking to stay somewhat in shape. These were fighters, dreamers, men and women who truly wanted to make it, and would put themselves through almost any amount of pain to do so. They were the fight team, and it was 10:28 and their coach wasn’t here, so they were free to judge the newcomers as they pleased. Slater sensed eyes on him all the way across the gym.

  ‘We’ve got two minutes before one of them steps up to coach,’ he said under his breath.

  King said, ‘All the time in the world.’

  Slater didn’t even bother wrapping his hands. There wasn’t time. He slipped on fingerless four-ounce gloves that, sure enough, carried the putrid stench of weeks of dried sweat. He shook out his hips and turned to the nearest bag, a heavy Fairtex HB7. At seven foot tall and a filled weight of nearly three hundred pounds, it dwarfed all the other bags in every gym that carried one. It was designed purely for absorbing maximum-effort power shots.

  Slater knew everyone in the gym would be watching as they waited for Jace, the wrestling coach, to get his shit together.

  He threw a few warm-up combinations, then fired a real combination into the bag, pushing air out of his lungs with each strike. Tssh-tssh-tssh-tssh. Jab-cross-jab-roundhouse kick. The three punches fired like pistons, smashing off the leather loud enough to echo off the roof, and loosened the bag on its nylon straps, got it swinging slightly away from Slater before he unleashed the kick. When his hardened shin slammed home, it made a noise no different to an unsuppressed gunshot. All three hundred pounds of fill shook relentlessly and the bag swung away with a heaving groan, reaching a near forty-five degree angle from the force of the blow.

  To budding fighters who knew exactly what it felt like to hit a HB7, it would’ve looked unbelievable.

  King then stepped up to a smaller bag and started hitting it like it owed him money. He threw crosses and hooks and uppercuts with everything he had, reaching a level of intensity Slater hadn’t seen in training in a long time, and then finished with a series of roundhouse kicks that nearly made the smaller bag hit the roof. He caught it on its way down and stabilised it, killing its momentum. Sweat was already flushing from his pores.

  He and Slater busied themselves with some lighter combinations, but they’d already made their point.

  Maybe a minute passed before they sensed someone behind them. They both turned.

  Frankie Booth said, ‘Who are you two?’

>   25

  You don’t need a licence to order brass knuckles, but if you know how to use them they can incapacitate as quickly as a gun, especially way up close.

  And they more than make up for a weight disadvantage.

  Alexis threw the scything hook before he even saw the knuckles. She clenched the palm brace as hard as she could to protect the delicate bones in her hand. The impact against his cheek rattled her whole arm, shook her shoulder in its socket, but despite the resistance she followed through. Dragged a bloody line across his face and mouth and then whipped her arm back, out of reach.

  Crimson sprayed in the gloom.

  He froze up for a split second because you can anticipate getting punched but you can’t prepare for getting your face split open. It resets your brain, puts you in survival mode while you assess damage, figure out whether you’ll need to sip food through a straw for the rest of your life. He was okay, and he registered that, but by then she’d pivoted into an uppercut, twisting her hips into it and bringing the force up from her toes. His head was practically framed there, hovering in place. Accuracy not required.

  But she was accurate all the same.

  Each metal knuckle took a divot of skin out from underneath his chin and when both rows of teeth smashed together his jaw broke. He collapsed, not an ounce of fight left in him, but Alexis had already darted back in case she hadn’t delivered the damage she hoped.

  Now for the hardest part.

  It’s easy to catch someone by surprise, but in a fair exchange, weight and bone density matter. The male frame, powered by ample testosterone, is a serious threat. The second guy leapt over his prone buddy and charged, hoping to bundle her against the tree trunk. It was the right move. If he squashed her and nullified her offence there was nothing she could do, no amount of combat training that could save her from getting pummelled into paste.

  She jerked sideways with every ounce of athleticism she had. She needed to. Her life depended on it.

  He grazed past her, knocking her to the side, but it wasn’t a clean tackle. He tried to get an arm around her mid-section on the way past but she swatted his big paw away. Even in that small amount of contact she felt his power, and it charged her with life-or-death energy. He ricocheted off the tree trunk and spun around, hands outstretched, and she lined up a picture-perfect straight punch and threw it down the centre line. Twisted her shoulder into it, then her hips, then pivoted on the toes of her back foot to generate maximal power.

  She broke his face.

  The knuckles drilled into his nose so hard it almost slammed the whole appendage inside his skull. A grisly crack echoed through the empty park and he fell back against the trunk. He wasn’t done. Now it was life or death for him too, and it’s incredible what the body can do to override pain and keep you alive. He leapt forward with a grossly misshapen nose, blood already streaming from both nostrils.

  But he was slower.

  Thrown off by the agony, involuntary tears welling in his eyes.

  She ducked low and stepped in, which surprised him, given how desperate she’d been to escape his grip a couple of seconds ago. He tried to snatch out at her but she was able to fire a swinging hook into his ribcage, felt metal crash against bone.

  Felt the bone give.

  Another crack.

  This time he did get his hands on her, but with broken ribs and a broken nose he was swimming upstream in a river of agony. He only managed a half-hearted throw, trying to trip her and take her down, but she resisted it easily and followed the motion, stepping over his foot and making space. He seemed to know what was coming but there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  She threw another straight right into his mouth. He wasn’t able to breathe through his nose, so all the tension was gone from his jaw.

  The knuckles knocked his front teeth out.

  And rattled his brain in his skull, knocking him unconscious.

  Devastating.

  He dropped like a crash test dummy.

  Without hesitating she turned back to the first guy, who was writhing on the grass, moaning in agony. She took a knee, lined up her aim, and bounced another knuckles-assisted punch off the side of his skull. Like hitting a coconut with a bat.

  He went out, too.

  Concussions, missing teeth, broken ribs and noses and jaws.

  The whole exchange had lasted five seconds, beginning to end.

  She tucked the knuckles back in her coat pocket and wiped her bloody hand on the man’s leather jacket. She then opened the jacket and stole the Russian MP-443 Grach pistol from his holster. The gun went in her waistband and the two spare magazines he carried went in her pockets.

  She walked away, back down to Benton Street then further west for a few hundred feet. When she was clear of the scene she hailed a cab and ducked straight into the back seat.

  ‘Good morning!’ the cheerful driver said. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Vitality+,’ Alexis said. ‘Their offices should show up when you type it into Maps.’

  The Indian man tapped a couple of buttons on his phone, entered some text. ‘Ah. Nice location. Fancy. You work there?’

  ‘I do,’ she said, gripping the hilt of the MP-443 for reassurance as he peeled away from the kerb.

  26

  King gulped oxygen and shook out the lactic acid in his shoulders.

  He’d gassed himself early for a reason. He’d needed to make a statement, set himself apart from any other experienced vet who might stroll in here on occasion. He looked Booth in the eyes and said, ‘That’s a broad question.’

  Booth rolled his eyes, reached up and ran a hand through his oily hair. ‘Where’ve you fought?’

  ‘Nowhere. We’re not professionals.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Slater said, ‘We’re not interested in making a career out of this. Not worth it. But we’ve trained since we were kids.’

  Booth still seemed sceptical.

  King said, ‘We train like we do do this professionally. Like our lives are on the line. We’ve never half-assed anything.’

  ‘Can you wrestle?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Take these guys through a session.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. All twenty students were fixated on the conversation, some wide-eyed. They’d probably never seen anyone hit that hard in real life. Maybe a couple were questioning whether they really wanted to do this, whether they were willing to face off across the cage from someone who might be able to strike like that. They thought they’d been prepared for anything, mentally bulletproof, but there’s always something that scares the shit out of you. You can’t anticipate every possibility.

  King said, ‘What’s in it for us?’

  ‘Fifty bucks each.’

  Slater made his eyes light up, and hoped King was doing the same. ‘Sure. Yeah. We can do that.’

  Booth’s gaze narrowed in as he recognised the subdued desperation. ‘There might be more in it for you if you impress me. Do you know how to run a class? Have you trained anyone before?’

  Slater said, ‘You’ll find out.’

  Just to make sure they weren’t too amicable. Booth had to earn their allegiance, after all. It was the only way this power dynamic would work. If they did it right, they’d be in deep with him before the day was through.

  Booth stared at Slater, chewed his lip, then fished his phone back out and made a call. ‘Jace. Yeah, me again. Listen, don’t come back.’ After a pause in which the tinny little phone speaker shrilled with Jace’s protests, Frankie continued. ‘I don’t give a shit. Fuck outta here with your excuses.’

  He hung up, face scrunched up. ‘Well, it won’t take much to be better than the last guy.’

  King said, ‘Sounds that way.’

  Booth turned to the group on the wrestling mats, several dozen feet away. He raised his voice to cover the distance. ‘Alright. Jace doesn’t seem to care about self-respect or reputation so we’re
gonna have to switch things up for a little while. These two here will be running you through some drills. I don’t want—’

  ‘Who the fuck are they?’ one guy called out. ‘Ain’t never seen them before.’

  He was taller than the rest, six-three or six-four, and his frame suggested the highest potential for fighting. Long, lanky, and athletic. His arms hung down past his hips. His reach had to be at least seventy-eight inches, maybe pushing eighty.

  Slater wasn’t interested in having to put a hot-headed student with a chip on his shoulder in his place.

  But that proved unnecessary. Booth put him in his place for them.

  ‘Who are you?!’ Booth barked, voice ringing off the warehouse walls. ‘Is this your gym?’

  ‘C’mon, Frankie…’

  ‘I asked you a fucking question!’ Booth shouted. ‘What’s that sign out the front say? Does it say “CARTER COOMBS MIXED MARTIAL ARTS”?’

  The tall guy whose name was obviously Carter Coombs said, ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  ‘Do you want to go train somewhere else?’

  ‘No, Frankie.’

  ‘Then keep your mouth shut.’ Before he stormed away he turned and slapped King on the shoulder. ‘Good luck. Call out for me if the moron starts running his mouth. I’ll leave the session up to you.’

  He hustled for the front desk, phone already back out.

  For Slater, the first priority was assessing ability, getting a sense of where they were at. He walked onto the mats and scanned the participants. Some seemed excited, some hesitant, and a couple visibly annoyed. Didn’t matter. They weren’t here to make friends.

  Slater said, ‘You’ve warmed up?’

  A sea of nods.

  He said, ‘Partner up. I want each of you to give me three of your best sprawls. Go back and forth with it — takedown attempt, sprawl, repeat. Understood?’