by James Tow
in conversation with her mother. “Nobody is stopping you from walking over there,” Gabriel told me.
“I don’t want to intrude,” I told him—still staring.
“If someone tries something, I’ll go over there and bust some heads,” Chris said putting his hand against his fist. I laughed.
“If they do try something, I’ll be the first one over there.”
The old man with the microphone started announcing the teams who passed preliminaries once the riot slowed down. “The Army of Apocalypse has already taken eighth place by default. Seventh goes to Black Faction with fifty-two points.”
A group of black males stood up, screaming an incoherent chant while pumping their fists in the air.
“Sixth goes to Vicious, with fifty-five points,” he announced and a group of tattooed males, sitting in front of us, started banging their fists on the table.
“Convicts,” Chris whispered in my ear, but I wasn’t paying any attention—I was fixated on Alyse. She looked over, and I switched my gaze to the board—the woman was writing Vicious on the sixth place slot. I find it creepy when guys watch girls like I just was, but I couldn’t help myself.
“…Unique Mixture takes fifth with fifty-eight points.” The woman was writing down their name on the bracket when a group in the back, of the middle row, hollered and chanted for their victory.
“This is sounding like professional wrestling,” Gabriel commented on the names that were being announced.
“Wait until they call our name,” I told him and he let out a sigh.
“Fourth and third was a tie between Rocket Boys and Red Faction with seventy points,” the old man said. More cheering followed but I didn’t care to look—until Gabriel nudged me with his elbow, “Look who it is,” he said. On the far right, in the middle of the row, stood a bunch of twenty year old males wearing beanies and baggy clothes.
“Is that the rice rocket group?” I asked looking at the bunch jumping on the table-tops.
“Rocket Boys,” Gabriel muttered.
I scrutinized the exasperating bunch as they bellowed with laughter and cheers. I was recollecting the images, in my head, of Gabriel shooting out the tire on their Honda, and wondered if they still held ill contempt toward us—we’ll soon see.
“Second place…” the old man started and the crowd was instantly muted, “…goes to Freedom Fighters with eighty points.” Several tables behind us, the Freedom Fighters faction remind silent besides the clinking of each other’s beer mugs with one another. They chugged away as the populace of the tent stared and the woman at the board filled out the second-to-last slot.
“Damn,” Keith grumbled. “Looks like we didn’t make it.”
“Hold on Keith,” Chris said and turned to me. “How many points did your brother rack up?”
I glanced at Gabriel, who smiled and said, “Enough.”
Tension built amongst our table as they anxiously waited to hear the announcement of the leading team.
“Last and undeniably not least…” the old man said looking through his clipboard. “Is Omega Unit with one hundred points.”
Our table erupted as the crew of the Omega Unit jumped with elation. I couldn’t help but laugh with the excitement the others exerted. I turned to Gabriel who grinned at the announcement of our accomplishment. Chris paused and turned to Gabriel, “Fifty points?!” he exclaimed and jumped on his shoulders with a bear hug. Gabriel broke out in laughter—laughter I haven’t seen since we were kids.
A pair of arms wrapped around my neck, followed by a set of lips on my cheek.
“I’m so proud of all of you,” Alyse said. I looked over to her parents—they both smiled at the sight of our small triumph. I then focused on the crowd around us to see several people standing and clapping.
This feeling…I want it to last forever.
The old man tried cutting in a few times—to slow the celebration. When it died down he announced, “To the seven teams, report here tomorrow morning at nine.” His cleared his throat and his tone changed. “General Pollick will discuss with you the terms, conditions, and rules of the upcoming matches.” The tent broke out in chatter. Gabriel’s glee was gone—replaced by something dark in his eyes.
“We can’t show up tomorrow morning,” he said—I nodded in agreement.
“…Why not?” Alyse asked—settling down in the seat next to me.
“Pollick knows our faces,” I told her. “Why would Pollick take over as host like that?” I pondered out loud.
“These workers,” Gabriel said pointing at the group of white shirts who cluttered the front of the stage, “They have to be working with Pollick—it’s like they’re handing these factions over. Maybe some kind of sick deal…” Gabriel trailed off in thought. “This is totally fucked,” he added.
“In conclusion, I would like to congratulate the seven teams who passed preliminaries—and good luck. The road ahead will be difficult…not that it isn’t already,” the old man finished and he, along with the woman at the bracket, joined the rest of their group at the face of the stage.
Groups of people started getting from their seats—heading for the exit.
“Want to bug out?” I asked Alyse.
“My parent’s tent isn’t far from here, I was going to stop by and stay there for a bit,” she told me.
“Don’t leave yet!” Spenser cried out from further down the table.
“Yeah, let’s celebrate,” Chris said.
“Sorry guys,” Alyse said, “But I want to spend time with my family—they should be leaving soon.”
“You’ve got time for one beer,” Chris said and slid her mug across the table.
An elbow to my side turned me to Gabriel, “A friend of yours?” he asked looking up.
Behind Keith stood a man with a busted lip and a heavily bruised face. I hardly recognized Justin Flowers with his battered countenance. He stood there, in front of us, staring. Alyse slid closer to me and grabbed my arm, but I stood up with him. His left eye was half shut due to immense swelling and he wore a frown.
Seconds passed, then he outstretched his hand—a smile broke his frown. I shook his hand and he said, “Thank you.” He then turned around and walked back to his table at the front of our row.
“Intense,” Keith said.
“Who was that?” Alyse asked.
“Justin Flowers…he was my…” I started to say but the heel of a shotgun cracked against the corner of my forehead. The force of the impact sent me backwards off my seat and onto my back. I could feel the blood trickle down the side of my face as I slowly rolled onto my chest. My vision was distorted. I tried pushing myself to my feet, but a hand grabbed my hair and forced me up. My vision gradually came back, and I found myself staring down the barrel of the shotgun that just struck me.
“You owe me a new car,” said a voice and I turned to see who it was. The lead Rocket Boy stood behind Alyse, holding a pistol at his side. Everyone amongst the crew had their hands in the air—except Gabriel. He stood at the edge of the table in front of me with another Rocket Boy holding a pistol to the back of his head. The people within the tent stared in horror as we were one flick of a finger away from getting our heads blown off. Hunter Watson and Justin Flowers, along with their teams, held up guns of their own against a wall of Rocket Boys. Behind me, were the Freedom Fighters holding up Dirty Harry revolvers at another group of Rocket Boys.
Damn, there are a lot of them.
I was still squinting from the throbbing pain in my head—Gabriel glared at their leader with disgust.
“I was under the impression that all of us here were on the same side,” I groaned.
“Not until you get me a new car,” he said smugly.
“Not until you apologize for what you said to us,” I avowed.
He started laughing, and his group joined in, “Does it look like I’m going to apologize?” he retorted.
“Does it look like I’m getting you a new car?” I tell him flatly.
He th
rows an irritated look my way, and then eyeballs Gabriel. He walks up to Gabriel, pointing his pistol at his forehead, and says, “You thought it was pretty funny, didn’t you?—Shooting out my tire like a punk.” Gabriel doesn’t say a word—only glares with vicious eyes. I could imagine what is going through Gabriel’s mind right now.
“Say something!” he yelled at Gabriel.
“Let me shoot him John,” said a woman from behind me. I glanced back to see a woman holding the shotgun to my head.
“John,” Gabriel hissed. John, the assumed leader of the group, uses the pistol’s grip and pounds it into Gabriel’s forehead with a vicious downward thrust. Gabriel takes a step back, and grunts with the pain—blood starts running down his face.
“Stop it!” a voice calls out from behind me.
John turns to the voice, “Looks like you boys have some friends,” he fumed.
“We all stand behind the Reed brothers!” the same voice said—I turned to see the Freedom Fighter with the thick mustache.
John staggered backwards as the information bowled him over. “The…Reed brothers,” he muttered to himself. Then an evil smile spread across his face. The rest of John’s group dropped their guard at the news that rang through their ears. This was my chance…
“I’ve wanted to meet you two for so long,” John said. “But not to shake your hands—no, no, no. I never thought you deserved the fame and appreciation everybody gives you. The Reed brothers are only good at running away and hiding in the shadows—in my opinion, you two are pathetic…”
“How dare you!” Alyse blurted
