SICK HEART

by Huss, JA

  One of my ears is ringing, blood is seeping down my throat, and I’m pretty sure at least one rib is cracked because every time I inhale, a sharp pain makes me wince in the back of my mind.

  Pavo attacks. He’s rammed me twice now, and I know he won’t do it again, even though he comes at me with all the intentions of a bull. He pulls out of it in the very last second, but I’m ready for him. I swing up, grab him in a flying arm bar, and slap him down onto the concrete so hard his breath leaves his body in a loud grunt.

  He lies there, still. This is my chance. This is the moment that I finish him.

  And I’m just about to do that—just about to chop him in the throat, break his trachea, and spend the next three minutes watching him slowly suffocate—when I see a streak of white out of the corner of my eye.

  Anya comes towards me with a knife.

  I stand up and back away a little, unsure if her loyalty to Pavo has turned her insane or if this was part of the plan.

  I realize my mistake when Pavo grabs my ankle and pulls. He was down, but not out.

  There is no way out of this move. But I break the fall with the flat palm of my hand and land on my side, forgetting to favor the cracked rib.

  Pain leaks out of me as nothing more than a low grunt of acknowledgment. But on the inside, the sharpness of the injury takes me by surprise. And my head is filled with nothing but screaming.

  Screaming.

  Little voices in the dark. The smell of blood in the night. The cackling laughter of the man who took us.

  And then… the instincts. My instincts. Once I realized there was nothing more to lose.

  And then Pavo is looming over me, sitting on me, crushing my already bruised and broken ribs. His bloody mouth grinning, his dark eyes flashing, his overdeveloped sense of self-importance rearing up like a wild stallion who just won a whole herd of mares.

  My legs kick up, knees connecting with his back the same time his fist connects with my face.

  Stars shimmer in the night even though there are no stars tonight.

  I push up with my flat palms, connect with his chest, and roll him over my head.

  There is a sick thunk as his skull hits the ground, and I think, That’s gotta hurt, but in a life-or-death fight it’s not over ‘till it’s over.

  I get up on my hands and feet, pausing for a moment to assess Pavo. He’s lying face down and blood is streaming along the side of his head. But he’s not out.

  He rolls over, one, two, three full revolutions. And then he’s on his feet.

  They never go down easy. Not at this level.

  Another flash of white. Fucking Anya and her knife.

  Pavo grabs her out of instinct, wraps one arm tightly around her neck, catching the vulnerable part of her trachea in the crook of his elbow. She drops the knife, both hands reaching for his arm to pry it away as he begins to strangle the life out of her.

  And then the sound of metal on concrete changes everything.

  A weapon. On the battlefield.

  The crowd had faded into the background, but now it all comes roaring back.

  Pavo’s eyes dart to the knife, but I’m looking at him. He throws Anya and she goes stumbling to the side, still grabbing at her throat and wheezing as she desperately tries to suck in air.

  I lurch back, but I’m too late. I am cut and bleeding before the pain even sets in.

  Pavo is very good with knives. His skill with them is impressive, even to me.

  He doesn’t cut me again. Doesn’t even try. He throws that fucker right at my neck.

  I dart to the side, and still that knife pierces my flesh as it passes by and hits the ground several meters behind me.

  My hand reaches up to find the damage and is instantly covered in hot, sticky blood.

  Again the sound of the crowd and the drums fades back in. They are going wild for him and my head is spinning a little. Did he cut me deep enough? Did he hit the artery? Nick it? Am I already dead?

  I don’t have time to think about it, because Pavo is attacking again. His kick is swift and there are twenty years of practiced force behind it when the length of his lower leg hits me across the hips.

  But I’ve got twenty-two years of practiced checks behind my defense as well. I grab his leg. He immediately checks me, hooking his knee, pulling me forward. And then he jumps up, left arm circling my head, holding it tightly in place while his right elbow finds the side of my face.

  Stars. I stumble backwards and let go of his leg.

  His defense wasn’t an original move. But it was effective. I have to retreat, taking steps, and steps, and steps backwards as Pavo advances.

  “Finish it.” They are chanting now. “Finish it. Finish it. Finish it.”

  Pavo is their winner. They are here to see him. Not because they love him, but because they hate me.

  They want to see me fall. After all these years, all these fights, all those prizes—they are done with me. They want me dead.

  I too am a sacrifice. Just like this girl on the platform with us.

  His legs are battering me and I am blocking. One blow after another. And each time I block his legs, his elbows are there because he’s high on the kind of adrenaline rush one only ever gets when they think they’ve already won.

  The drums stop.

  The final moment is nothing but the maddening crowd. They forget who they are in the outside world when they’re at the fights. All those rules they live by fade into the background. They stop caring about their role. They stop thinking about the gifts they accept. And maybe—if they’re very lucky and they win their bets—maybe they forget about the things they gave up to be here. Maybe they forget the price they’ve already paid.

  And if they get lucky enough, and drunk enough, and they find a lover tonight who knows what they’re doing—then maybe they even forget how much they still owe.

  “I told you,” Pavo growls, breathing hard, his eyes locked with mine as he spits blood on the concrete at my feet. “You will be mine in the end.”

  But he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to Anya. I can’t spare the moment it will take to locate her, but I can hear her wheezing somewhere behind me.

  Pavo still has bounce in his step. And now I see it. The blue ring around his irises goes fluorescent purple in the black light. The ring of Lectra addiction. He is fucking high. Which is not against the rules. There are no rules. You win any way you can.

  But it’s a risk. The Lectra can be a bonus. It can make you fearless. It can dull pain. And if this were chess, it could help you see a dozen moves ahead.

  But this isn’t chess. This is life and death and Lectra can also make you afraid. It can amplify the agony. It can pull you into a slow-motion dream world where nothing makes sense and every action comes with hallucinogenic tracers.

  It affects Pavo the first way. That’s why he drinks it before a fight.

  But it affects me the opposite. That’s why I don’t.

  “You had a good run,” Pavo says, attacking me again, his perfectly executed kick crashing against my hips. He doesn’t check me this time. Just backs off because he knows I’m not in a good place.

  I’m playing defense. I’m dizzy and blood is streaming down the right side of my body.

  His knife didn’t hit the artery because I’d be bleeding out on the ground by now if it had. But he hit something. My rib is screaming and I can feel those kicks all the way to my kidneys.

  The drumming starts again. A new beat. The death beat. The final beat.

  Someone, probably my father since he’s hosting this event, has decided that Pavo has won and has instructed the drummers to pound out the ending sequence.

  And that’s when Anya steps between us, knife in hand. Pointed at Pavo, not me. And she thrusts it into his side.

  I actually laugh at the gall of this stupid girl and the gasp of the crowd is loud enough to hear in between the slow beat of the death drums.

  Pavo grabs her, reaching for the knife in his side.
I expect her to let it go, but she doesn’t. She holds on to it. She’s actually fighting him for the knife, her body glowing a surreal white in the blackness all around us. A ghost fighting the snake.

  That fucking girl just saved my ass.

  I’m up. Hurting, but up.

  Pavo sees me, lets go of the knife, and pushes Anya so hard, she goes reeling backwards. Right in to me.

  I catch her. Hold her.

  “Nice.” Pavo laughs the word out loud enough to be heard. “Using a woman as a shield.”

  No. That’s not what I’m doing, dickface. My hand slides over her hip and finds the knife in her hand.

  She releases it. And I step out around her.

  Pavo doesn’t even look at the weapon, but I know he sees it. “You’re not gonna make it this time, Sick Heart. Not even that knife can help you now.”

  I toss the knife and it goes careening across the helipad as I smile at Pavo Vervonal.

  Then I attack.

  I will not win my last fight with a weapon.

  Four long strides cover the distance between us. He comes at me with elbows and knees, but I’m done with Muay Thai tonight.

  There is an advantage to living on this side of the world and that’s why I stay here. And that advantage is Brazil and the art of capoeira.

  I duck and feign. Hop out of reach. Block as Pavo attacks again with kicks and I wait for that look on his face. It’s a look every fighter gets when they think they’ve won, when they haven’t. This look is a tell of weakness. Because in the Ring of Fire, it’s not over ‘till it’s over.

  When he pauses, I swing at him and he blocks as I twist my upper body—left leg front, right leg back—and then I am turning. Right leg following the arc of the spin until my heel connects with the side of his head with a sickening thunk.

  He goes down.

  Then I’m on top of him because there are no referees on the platform to pull me away and let him recover, and this is just how it’s done in my world. You can set your fucking watch to the sick ending that comes with each and every Ring of Fire fight.

  I straddle Pavo, running through all my options in my head. And then my hands are on his throat.

  I can hear the crowd because the drumming has stopped. Actually stopped. And they are calling my name.

  But it’s not the way they should be calling it.

  And I catch Maart’s voice. “Behind you! Behind you!”

  I twist off Pavo—who is still unconscious—and drop into a low crouch as I find Anya standing just a meter away holding that fucking knife.

  We stare at each other. And I don’t know how it happens for her, but everything in my world suddenly goes silent. All I hear are the words that she’s not saying.

  Her face is a bloody mess. Her nose may be broken and her plump, fleshy bottom lip is split. Blood is dripping down her chin.

  She says nothing. And now that I know she’s silent, that makes sense.

  But when you live in a world of sick hearts and dead voices, you only need eyes to say what needs to be said.

  And hers tell me… she is furious.

  There is nothing but hate in her gaze. And for a moment, I’m caught off guard. Because when I saw her earlier up in the command center, I would’ve never guessed she was capable of that kind of hate.

  She walks towards me with the knife. The crowd is screaming. Pavo has lost. He’s barely conscious. Low, primal moans from him and nothing more. They all know I’ve won and that means this girl is mine. Or she will be, once I put Pavo out of his misery.

  Or will she? Seems Anya is beginning to have an opinion about how this night ends.

  She stops less than one pace between us. Our eyes lock.

  Does she want to kill me?

  No.

  She looks at Pavo and then she holds up the knife.

  I shrug and make a little gesture. A little wave of my hand that says, By all means. Be my guest.

  She pushes past me and then, without hesitation, she straddles Pavo’s body, crouches down, and then, again without hesitation, she buries that knife right in his gut.

  Oh, Anya. That’s gonna be messy.

  Pavo gulps air. Blood spills out of his mouth as his back bucks up, arching and twisting.

  Anya stares down at him, and then rises up, leaving the knife right where she put it. She turns to me, wipes the blood away from her mouth and lets out a long breath.

  I look down at Pavo, then back up at Anya. Tears are streaming down her face. They leave a track of blurry white body paint on her cheeks.

  Then I shake my head and sigh as I pull the knife from Pavo’s stomach and drag the blade across his neck, making sure to cut right through his trachea, because I’m ready for what comes next.

  The blood pours out of him and suddenly he is lying in a pool of crimson scarlet. The drones hover just off my shoulder, barely ten feet off the ground, filming the entire death scene so that all my watchers tonight can replay it back in 4K ultra.

  But this isn’t enough. This ending had a twist, that’s for sure. But it won’t haunt them. And I need to haunt them. This is my real heat-of-the-moment payment. It’s not the girls. It’s not the money. It’s certainly not the fucking accolades.

  It’s the ending.

  It’s the look in their eyes when I catch them by surprise.

  And so far tonight, Anya is the only one who has made the news.

  Yeah. I can’t leave it like that.

  When I look down, the knife is still in my hand. I hold the hilt in my fist and drag the blade down Pavo’s body from neck to belly, splitting him open. And then I thrust my hand inside him, dig under his ribs, grab hold of the thick, still-trembling muscle, and use every bit of energy I have left to pull his heart out of his chest.

  The entire universe stops to watch me.

  The crowd says nothing. They don’t even dare to gasp.

  Oh, shit, they’re thinking. What will he do with it?

  I consider the optics of eating it. That would really give them nightmares. But I can’t stomach the thought of biting off a piece of Pavo and the drones are too close to fake it.

  So I just stand up and throw it as far as I can towards the closest group of people, and when it slaps into the blocking arm of Lazar, I look down so the drones can’t see me smile.

  “Sick Heart. Sick Heart. Sick Heart.” They chant it now. Not for me. They don’t chant for me. Their chant is submission and nothing more.

  They know who’s in charge on this platform.

  I point to Anya and she sucks in air. Then I motion for her to grab Pavo’s arm. She does this without hesitation and we drag his body across the rough concrete, leaving a river of black in the white glow behind us.

  He is just meat.

  We position him until he’s teetering sideways on the edge of the helipad.

  The silent night breaks and I hear him. Anya’s father, that fucking prick, is screaming my name. My real fucking name. “Cort van Breda! Cort van Breda!” in his stupid Hungarian accent.

  I know he’s running towards us because his calls become louder. And then he’s screaming at Anya, telling her to stop me. But neither she nor I look back at her father. We simply roll the body over the edge.

  And that’s the end of Pavo Vervonal. Because he disappears into the churning black water of an endless ocean of death.

  “No!” her father screams.

  Lazar is right behind us. Very fucking close. Close enough to push either of us over the side. And while I’m not afraid of death and I might be able to get on board with jumping off this ship at some point in time, I just won my last fight and I have more things coming my way than just this girl who saved my life.

  So I turn on him. And I growl at him.

  Maart and Rainer are already running across the platform with several of the mercenaries as backup. But I don’t need backup. Not for this dumb fuck.

  Lazar stops just a few paces off and when I reach for Anya’s arm and tug her behind me, he backs up
.

  Then the lights come on and everything is bright and white.

  I can’t see for a moment, but Lazar doesn’t understand that. He’s never had to fight for his life. He’s never stood under the black lights and fought to the death. He’s never had the white blindness after winning.

  He knows nothing.

  But his face is red with rage. “You’re sick! You know that? Someone should put you down! You’re an animal. And you didn’t win this fight. My daughter won this fight. This ship is mine, this prize is mine—”

  The mercs grab him and pull him away, and now his threats are for them, not me.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” Maart reaches me and immediately begins to assess my condition. “Come on, you’ve lost blood.”

  I reach up to my neck and realize that the entire right side of my body is nothing but sticky red and it’s only then that I recognize the dizziness for what it is.

  I sink to my knees, suddenly weak. Like all the adrenaline that was keeping me going has been used up.

  “No, no, no.” Rainer has one arm and Maart has the other. “We’re not passing out here, champ. That would never do.”

  They drag me off the platform and I let out a long breath as I close my eyes, thinking, Maybe this is the end?

  Because what’s left after this?

  Who am I when the fights are over?

  I dream about Lazar as I drift in and out of consciousness in the clinic.

  I don’t know why I dream about him. I’ve never met him before, but he looks so familiar. I can’t place it, really. It’s just some fuzzy nonsensical association thing that comes with dreams. Especially half-dead dreams.

  Rainer is monitoring my blood transfusion as Maart stitches up my neck. Someone I don’t know is trying to fasten a brace around my ribs, but when I swing at him, Maart yells for everyone to get out and leave me alone.

  Maart. I reach up, grab his hair with a weak fist, and pull him down to my face.

  I don’t open my eyes. Can’t really open my eyes. But I just want to kiss him.

  He laughs and pulls back. “You’re dumb. And you just got blood all over me, asshole.”

  “Where’s my kiss, Cort?” It’s Rainer.

  I lift my hand and wave him over. But he flicks the tip of his finger against my forehead instead. “You’re good. Just relax. You’re gonna feel a lot better once this transfusion finishes. But”—he lowers his voice and whispers right next to my ear—“Anya’s here in the room. I wasn’t sure what to do with her, but I didn’t want her going back with her father in case he got any ideas about keeping her.”