ABLAZE IN MIRTH
MATTHEW THOMPSON
ABLAZE IN MIRTH
by Matthew Thompson
PUBLISHED BY:
Marooned
ABLAZE IN MIRTH
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2017 by Matthew Thompson
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
20.6.2019
I wondered what the doctor thought about as she extracted blood from the likes of me. For centuries my kind have been taking their blood, except not with a hypodermic needle.
My father once said, “We are slaves to their needs, paraffin for their amusement, but we should never be ashamed of who and what we are.” He died at the hands of his master for insolence. At least that’s what I heard. A better motive than my mother’s demise, her body classified as no longer desirable. I had assumed there was more to their deaths, but then I remembered their masters were like the majority of their kind: vindictive, greedy and sadistic beyond redemption.
There had been one exception, the one human who defied all that I despised, who I grew to adore – love.
The doctor reminded me of her when we first met, somewhat afraid. Though the doc wasn’t in any danger, since my wrists and ankles were chained to the chair, a muzzle tightly hugging my face. I felt the hunger every time I caught her scent, especially when she leaned in and punctured my vein. And she knew it.
The blood test was to ensure I was fit enough to enter the annual tournament of Ablaze, the 189th Games. I might have lost a spring in my leap, but I was still in good shape for a century and a half, what humans might consider early thirties.
I had to make the top four of the leaderboard after six entries, then one more bout to unlock my shackles for good. All in all, seven battles between now and a life of freedom – at least a life worth living.
To make the final I had to survive, and Ablaze is the greatest feat of survival in the world. Broadcast for two weeks, the humans cheered and booed and bet on us blood suckers. And they enjoyed it too, watching us burn every year in the Nile Valley during the summer solstice, the sun beating down on us, incinerating us like bugs beneath a magnifying glass. They dubbed the place Mirth, where hundreds of thousands came to watch the Roman gladiators of the twenty-first century. Men, women and children, they all rejoiced as we soiled the dust with our ashes. And all for what?
Enter-fucking-tainment.
23.6.2019
To reach the tournament, I travelled underground on the Monster Train – the humans’ reference to its cargo, not the train itself. Most of my life was spent underground, segregated from humans within towns and cities, built by my kind to live and work. The majority are slaves now. I hadn’t seen the surface for decades, though I had heard that their buildings reached the sky.
During the train ride my mind turned to Sara, my wife, who was never far from my thoughts. As was Jade, our one-year-old daughter. Like millions of my kind, Jade was sentenced to a life of enslavement. Almost a year had passed since I had last seen her and my wife. A whole year. It felt more like a century – almost longer than I had known Sara. I missed our conversations before our separation, especially about our future. And I missed her sly smile – her laugh. The only item I have to remind me of them is a lock of Jade’s hair. Where I go, it goes.
I heard guards talking about competitive kills in the Ablaze complex before this year’s games had even begun. I told myself to be vigilant at all times, since staying alive underground was a challenge all unto itself, never mind the surface. But that’s how they played here. It made for entertaining commentary.
When the Monster Train arrived, I followed the signs to the check-in desk, where a man sat behind a thick pane of glass.
“Name?” he asked.
“Matias Carlos Bassi.”
He marked a sheet of paper, pointing to my Ablaze alias: Phantom. “This is you,” he said. A key card was placed into a safety compartment, followed by a wrist device. I took both. “You got a budget of 10G, so spend it wisely. Your Ablaze name is for you and you only. And you must never discuss which arena you’re entering. It reduces target killing. Understand?”
“I do,” I said, thinking the term ‘reduces’ spoke volumes.
He stamped a certificate and added, “Keep the key card and scheduler with you at all times.”
“Does that count in the arenas?”
He stared blankly at me and said, “At all times.”
I entered a series of dimly flame-lit sandstone passageways. It felt like I was heading to my public execution, the mass of voices becoming louder with each step.
The statue of Emperor Pretorius, standing twice my height, was seen on the way. Betrayed by our own kind, he lost his human lover during a family feud. She was hung, drawn and quartered, and he was made to watch, or so the legendary tale goes. He sought revenge by feeding from the Sun Chalice, the blood of a mutant girl, immune to the sun. Her DNA allowed Pretorius into the light, or, as they touted it, become a god.
He started the human revolution against his blood brothers and sisters by luring hundreds of thousands into a cavern, promising a feast. They got nothing but deathlight reflected down there, becoming the first Ablaze arena – a fucking tourist attraction now.
Our annihilation continued for decades, reducing our numbers to manageable, all conducted by Pretorius and his followers. Many continue the killing, often referred to as human crusaders. And if I were to make the final arena, to have a chance to claim my freedom, I would meet the man himself. If I could end any life in this world, it would be his.
At the entrance, I read the inscription above a Roman arch:
THOSE WHO ENTER MAY BURN IN GLORY
I had my doubts about the glory.
The first view of the complex was a bold statement of indulgence, bustling with my fellow kind – the competition. Stone pillars featured throughout, alongside statues of past victors. A series of steps led me down to the busy central hall, where a giant screen displayed the leaderboard for Ablaze.
Blood bars, chapels, casinos and brothels, the complex contained many attractions, all overlooked by armed guards on suspended footbridges. The smell of blood mixed with the sweat of four hundred-plus patrons, combated by the beat of air-conditioning fans above.
As I navigated between them, making no eye contact, I noted the double-doors of the entrance labelled: ARENAS I-VII – the doors which would lead to my death or glory. I admit instantly dreading going through them, but I couldn’t deny their magnetism, either.
On the second floor, within a narrow passage lined with numbered doors, I located my cell: 144. Here I met my cellmate, Vincent, a long-haired Hungarian of medium height, athletically built. The guy was younger than me, at least sixty years my junior. He looked nervous as hell, rolling a coin between his fingers. I could practically taste his fear.
We didn’t talk much. Figured it was for the best, considering we could be hunting each other down soon. I later heard him muttering in his native voice, and I thought to myself, he ain’t gonna last long. And if death was his fate, then that was one less contender to deal with.
24.6.2019
The time to set foot on Earth’s surface was less than a day away. I resorted to re-reading t
he rules: enter the arena, collect as many credits as possible, and leave before the timer ran out. Each arena featured safe, shaded zones, and open, exposed-to-the-sun zones. Then there was the third offering, an Activation Zone, where shade becomes deathlight, made possible by opening shutters, trapdoors and rotating mirrors. The result: cremation for the exposed and credits for the instigator. Simple.
Only one credit was needed to re-activate the elevator and get out alive – not a tactic to herald a champion. Credit Activations were scattered throughout each arena, some acting as bait, set within Activation Zones. Others required access, such as solving a puzzle, or for two competitors to simultaneously operate the opening of its entrance. But I knew I could never trust another, or turn my back on anyone. Not when a kill awarded two credits.
I was informed on my scheduler to enter Arena II, tomorrow at noon. But first I had training to attend. Here I got to test out the UV firearm, capable of emitting a high bolt of ultraviolet light. Though in the training arena, like the fake sun, the UV was replaced with a 100watt lightbulb. I hooked the strap around my neck, feeling its weight: three, maybe four kilos. A torso vest featured shallow domes on the front and back, which stored UV when hit. Once fully charged, there was no escaping its release. The helmet was placed on last, covering most of my face, to help keep my identity unknown.
I managed to stay out of trouble – for a few minutes. But the moment the shutter opened above me, and that bright light beamed down, I froze, my heart racing, and I feared the games may not end well. Determined not to die again, I returned for another bout, keeping out of the light, taking two Credit Activations. I managed to score a kill, too – the fake kind. And I got out with half a minute to spare before the timer reached zero, triggering the rotation of the mirrors, ensuring theoretical death for those who remained.
After less than twenty minutes in the training arena, was I ready for the real thing? I was ready as I could be.
25.6.2019
My time to rise to the surface had arrived. No more fakery, Ablaze was about to get real. As I walked through those double doors, wondering if I’d ever return, I tried to distract my mind by reading inspirational quotes carved along the dimly-lit passageway:
Use fear to be wise, not afraid.
Instinct is your only ally.
In the pre-ascension foyer, a guard, with a stare of disgust, told me to get equipped and fitted out.
Within minutes I was in the elevator, and rising. I heard the names of my three opponents as temperature rose, the balmy air trapped in my throat, getting thicker and warmer by the second. The crowd was distant and chanting. Louder. Louder.
I kissed Jade’s lock of hair, sending her and Sara an apology should I never make it out. I then told myself to be savage, survive at all costs, and to be hungry for every credit. Kill or be killed. No room for mercy.
I counted down, the doors opened, and I took a deep breath before stepping out into the arena, surrounded by depictions of gods, goddesses and pharaohs. I took each sandstone corridor like it was my last, fuelled with adrenaline.
And it didn’t take long until I spotted my first target ahead of me, beyond a doorway. The crowd cheered at both sides of a shaded path, fifty-feet wide, the entrance of a tunnel twenty yards away. I waited in cover, watching him edge closer towards the threshold, the one containing a Credit Activation, the one sheltered by roof shutters, the one available for opening via the lever I held in my hand.
He went for it. And so did I.
I’ll never forget his bellowing cry and the breeze that carried the smell of charred flesh, along with the crowd’s chorus of: ‘Burn, burn, burn’. They yelled and cheered from their lofty terraces and grandstands, some fist-pumping the air, others waving their Ablaze flag or nationality. I saw myself live on the big screen, shortly followed by a boy in the crowd, no more than twelve, smiling, along with his male guardian. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. I suppose I was glad for one less opponent to pull a lever on myself.
But what was for sure: I didn’t wait around. I continued through flame-lit tunnels, passing obelisk columns and hieroglyphics, shortly obtaining a Credit Activation within a room of overhead shutters. And before long, I was locked inside by a competitor. A shutter cracked open a second too late, almost bathing me in deathlight. Another opened, feet away. The third wasn’t close, and I got out when the door was raised.
Soon after I made another kill, this time with my UV firearm, charging his rear dome for a full blast. His cry echoed loud, proceeded by an eruption of cheers.
I checked the time: ninety-four seconds remaining, and I figured that was enough for my first entry in Ablaze. I made for the elevator while I still could, and entered it, relieved.
One competitor wasn’t so lucky, the guard informed me. He said that the leech had dropped to his knees, arms spread eagle, inviting his end, and screamed like the parasite that he is – was. I knew what the guard was doing. It didn’t work on me.
Later that evening, while Vincent lay on his bed whispering in his native tongue, I considered my time in the arena – the sense of death around every corner, second guessing every decision. Then there was the greed, knowing when enough was enough. The crowd certainly adored a risk taker. They cheered and chanted for the brave and merciless. And for the first time in a long time, I was euphoric. I had never felt so alive, to have a chance to go again and potentially win freedom for myself and my family.
Past victors said that they learned to respect the arenas and all those who entered. I was beginning to see why.
27.6.2019
I received a letter from Sara, surprised it ever arrived. She was casual in her writing, witty as ever, despite our circumstances. She wrote that Jade had uttered ‘bloo’ – also known as ‘blood’. But I read between the lines, that she was afraid I may never get a chance to hear her speak for myself. Her masters were saints, she wrote on, for the one extra hour break from her cleaning duties per week. Sara-casm, it had been too long since I last heard it. She and Jade were also able to bathe alone now, chained and muzzled, of course.
I always feared for her life, and she had every right to fear for mine, demonstrated to great effect during my second entry, this time Arena IV, its design inspired by ancient Athens. After an opponent rotated a mirror, my trailing hand got caught in those unforgiving rays, taking off half my index finger.
It burned like a fucker.
Not long after, I had a close encounter with a competitor while hunting the same Credit Activation. We fought hand and fist over it, directly beneath the shutters in an Activation Zone. Once we had slammed each other into the wall and rolled around in the dirt, the guy cried out in agony – a scattering of ash and glowing embers in the shape of his legs. I dragged his upper half to the edge as he pleaded for death, his smouldering flesh choking me. I almost threw-up. But I managed to compose myself and answered his prayer, taking the credits.
The crowd’s voice was loud and clear during the whole encounter. It seemed wrong, when someone was dying in pain. But I had to remind myself that sympathy was a dangerous distraction here – kill or be killed. Nothing else mattered.
Minutes later, I heard my name being shouted out, then: ‘Burn the bastards!’ and ‘Send them to Hell!’. Some seemed so enraged that I assumed they had personal vendettas, perhaps on behalf of ancestors who had succumbed to our way of living, or who were dead.
I managed to avoid the others, taking another Credit Activation after using rotatable wooden blocks to complete a quotation of Emperor Pretorius. After that I escaped – gladly.
When I left the elevator, the guard counted his fingers while smirking at me. I refrained from retaliation, refusing to give him the pleasure. My injury was odd, though. After all these years I had managed to not lose any body part to those rays, and now here I was, second time in, missing half a digit. Plus the burn was consuming my thoughts. All I could think about was where I could obtain painkillers. I had heard they were smuggled in.
&nb
sp; Feeling exhausted, I returned to my cell. Vincent, who was surprisingly still alive, rolled that coin in his trembling hand.
“That mean anything to you?” I asked.
He continued to stare at it. “Yes. It belonged to my father. He gave it to me on my fifth birthday, before they took him away. See, I was manipulated by a gang of human crusaders. Let them into our hideaway before dawn, thinking they were one of us, needing shelter. Since then I’ve never trusted anybody. And I don’t intend to start. No offence.”
“Don’t blame you. Especially here.”
“Were you born one of us, or turned?” he asked.
“Born. You?”
“Born. Abandoned. I’ve never known my biological parents.”
“Sorry to hear that.” And I was, genuinely.
“Would you like some painkillers for your finger?”
I wasn’t expecting such generosity. “Sure.”
He gave them to me, and I thanked him. He then turned over to face the wall and fell asleep.
I read Sara’s letter multiple times that night. And like a reward I dreamed she and I were together in a slither of shadow, preventing each other from falling into the light. Our voices were whispers, her breath tickled my neck. Her perfume was sweet.
But I woke in the dead of night, finding reality hard to accept, so I willed myself to sleep, in hope of returning to her embrace.
28.6.2019
The central hall was the only place I knew where a chapel neighboured a brothel. I assumed those who entered the Lord’s house were there to confess. After all, nobody down here hadn’t sinned. Personally, I preferred to keep my past on mute.
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