Crossing Bedlam

by Charles E Yallowitz

  The Half-Dead pounces again, expecting Lloyd to dodge like before. Instead, the serial killer grips his machete in both hands and raises the weapon over his head. The blade comes down on the assassin’s head and is driven down to its wielder’s knuckles. With the Half-Dead still twitching and hissing, Lloyd frees the machete and delivers several more gleeful whacks that turn the creature’s skull into shard-filled pulp. Doubting that he can keep the weapon, he stabs it through his enemy’s back and twists to make sure the heart has stopped. Towels rain down on him as the crowd cheers and he cleans himself as best as he can. The nausea is getting worse and patches of burnt skin are on his neck, so he makes a note to tell the twins that their pills are not very effective for constant exposure.

  “We will have a small delay while a biohazard crew cleanses the arena and the doctors tend to Lloyd,” the announcers declares, receiving no complaints from the crowd. Teams of workers come out in protective suits to replace the dirt and remove the radioactive corpse. “Pretty sure nobody wants to follow that display of pure awesomeness. It might not have been flashy or long, but this may be the first time a human has killed a Half-Dead in close combat. At least doing it without suffering severe injuries or dying as well. Don’t worry, folks, because I’ve just been told that we will have Lloyd appear for autographs as soon as the doctors clear him to leave a necessary quarantine. Now for a message from the man who brought us this great fight.”

  All eyes are on Commodus, who is standing in the window of his private box. Cassidy is sitting on a chair next to the naked ruler, the young woman still unsure of what just happened. He accepts a microphone from one of his champions, but remains silent as he watches the doctors tend to Lloyd. Waving to the men in silver biohazard suits, he nods his head when they hold up three fingers and wiggle their hands. He is about to speak when the crowd chants the victor’s name and stomps their feet, the killer’s grinning face remaining on the big screen.

  “All of you will be happy to hear that our newest fighter will be healthy in three to four days,” Commodus announces, stopping for the expected applause. He is mildly amused that the same sound is bursting from outside the arena and he can only imagine how much money has changed hands over this one fight. “Sadly, Lloyd and Cassidy have a more important journey ahead of them and only stopped here to earn some gold. So, as long as they win, our new friends will not be staying after their next match. I tell you this because it means you will only have one more chance to see them in action unless they return at a later date. Clear your calendars because it will be standing room only for a midnight match. It will be Cassidy and Lloyd versus . . .” The veteran pauses for dramatic effect, leaving even his bodyguards anxious to hear who will get to face the outsiders. “Me.”

  *****

  Five days after Lloyd killed the Half-Dead, the stands are packed and a massive crowd surrounds the brightly lit arena. Instead of an open fighting area, the smooth dirt has been covered by an assortment of walls and obstacles. Doorways open up to roofless buildings that are either dead ends or contain hidden passages to an underground tunnel system. Ramps lead to narrow walkways that crisscross over what could easily be mistaken for ancient ruins. The illusion is broken by the occasional depiction of Commodus’s face on the marble structures, but the graffiti gives off the sense that this is his playground. A cat-and-mouse match of his own design, the battlefield makes it difficult for the audience to see the action. So the excited crowd has been given neck pillows to remain comfortable when they stare at the large screens that show what is caught by flying cameras. Even so, everyone fears that they will miss something important and have already begun shouting threats at the men and women controlling the whirring drones.

  Cheers erupt when Lloyd and Cassidy step out of an entrance, the pair dressed in their usual clothes. Armed with the paintball gun, the young woman waves at the crowd and tries her best to build some tension in her mind. After days of enjoying the spa and getting pampered, Cassidy finds that her muscles are remarkably loose. The chronic anxiety and stress of a survivor have been absent in her for days, but the young woman can already feel them returning now that her life is on the line. She notices an odd lightness to her steps and feels faster than she has in years, which boosts her confidence. It helps that she has learned a few new tricks from her sparring partners, all of which felt that she should know how to block with something other than her ribs and face.

  Holding up a new machete that has his name emblazoned on one side, Lloyd revels in the attention. While not built like an ancient gladiator, the man emits the energy of a being who thrives in brutal combat. Having spent the last few days in the hospital, he is itching to get into a fight and stretch his legs. There are still some lotion-covered patches of burned skin on his arms and knuckles, but the doctors have cleared his system of the mild radiation poisoning and the pills. Without the medicine, Lloyd can feel his delicious bloodlust returning to full strength and all of the kills that he has failed to make during his journey come to his mind. Flipping his new weapon, he grins at the sight of his own face that gives the illusion of turning into the picture of a demon.

  “All stand for Commodus!” shouts a man from the far side of the arena.

  Wearing centurion armor, Commodus looks like he has stepped out of the past and is hungry for blood. He bangs his heavy spear against his shield to get the crowd to stomp their feet, most of them having never seen their leader in action. The giant, decorative sword is strapped to his back and drawing it signals a woman on the announcer tower to sing a powerful battle hymn of Commodus’s own design. He frowns when he hears that most of the audience is mumbling and trying to fake the words. Once the anthem is done, he plunges the sword into a stand that is shaped to look like a boulder.

  “I think he’s getting his mythologies mixed up,” Lloyd whispers while watching the display on one of the screens. With all of the obstacles in the way, it is impossible for the opponents to directly see each other. “Good thing he’s wearing pants too. Not sure how I’d handle fighting a naked guy who is that aggressive and gifted. Mostly there’d be too big a temptation to make him a eunuch and that’s just offensive.”

  “I was worried about that too,” Cassidy admits while stretching her legs. With a rejuvenated sense of energy, she is able to lift her booted foot to her head like a professional dancer or gymnast. “I really don’t want to kill him. I mean, he’s been so nice to us and this place is amazing. On the other hand, we really have to win and get back on the road. That armor is going to be a problem for you. Have any tactics in mind?”

  “At least he can’t fly or fire lasers out of the damn thing,” her companion answers with a playful smirk. The crowd begins stomping their feet again while the announcer makes his introductions, the one for Commodus hinting that it will take a few minutes to complete. “I’m not much into strategy. Everything he’s carrying is a problem, so why focus on one part? I’ll let you work by a plan while I be my spontaneous self. Wish I had a magnet. Ideally one that had a bawdy message on it or maybe an inspirational kitten.”

  “I don’t know if armor is magnetic.”

  “There’s always glue.”

  “Wouldn’t that mean stickers would work too?”

  “Eh, too predictable.”

  “Sometimes I think you doing the predictable would count as unpredictable.”

  “Awww, now my cheeks are blushing. Not the ones you can see.”

  A chorus of horns blare from the top of the arena and Cassidy sprints for the nearest ramp to reach higher ground. Not in much of a hurry, Lloyd makes sure his new shoes are tied before wandering into the fake ruins. There is a faint crashing noise that the pair assume is Commodus in his bulky armor. With so many twists and turns in the maze, neither of them can be sure of the direction he is coming from. Cassidy tries to spot the champion from her high perch, but his knowledge of the area helps the large man stay concealed. All she can see is Lloyd roaming through the lower paths, the serial killer occasionally
stopping to pick his nose or warble in what she assumes is his imitation of a dying bird.

  The glint of metal catches the young woman’s attention and she signals for her companion to be careful. She tries to find a way to get a clear shot at Commodus, his armor negating her non-lethal weapon until she can see his face. Walking across a narrow beam, Cassidy stops in the middle because the other side would expose her to their enemy. Needing the veteran to leave his hiding place, she fires a few harmless shots at what she believes is his shoulder. Her hope is to startle the patient man and herd him toward Lloyd, who is no more than twenty feet away. The paintballs splatter against the armor, which disappears behind the black stone wall with a hollow clang.

  Before Cassidy can shout a warning, Lloyd hears a single footfall and dives away from a nearby doorway. Commodus’s spear slams into the far wall, the man wearing only the bottom of his uniform. Sparks fly when the machete strike the shield and skids along the metal disc’s decorations. The champion finds it difficult to get a clear view of Lloyd, who repeatedly aims for the man’s head and forces the shield to act as a blinder. Paintballs pepper Commodus’s arms and stomach, the ones with itching powder making him uncomfortable for a few seconds. He jabs at where he thinks his opponent is hiding, but the only result is Lloyd making the sound of a wrong answer buzzer.

  “You are trying to irritate me,” the muscular man growls, charging forward to hit the serial killer with the shield. He raises his spear for a quick stab, but a paintball bursts against his sweaty forehead and sends black pepper into his eyes. “That is a very effective and agonizing weapon. Perhaps I should make a rule that bans them from fights unless every combatant has one.”

  “I’ll leave a note for the next guy,” Lloyd says as he moves to attack. He is too close to avoid the spear as it is swung into his side and sends him through a fragile wall. “Blind does not mean deaf and stupid. Have to believe I’m fighting a guy with some type of radar or warning sense. You didn’t happen to be bitten by a glowing insect as a child, did you?”

  “No and I am not from outer space either,” Commodus replies with a chuckle. He blinks a few times to see a blurry figure stepping back into his path. “You are not much of a stalker, my friend. It is all about finding your prey and going in for the kill. Not a wise decision when facing a stronger and more experienced opponent.”

  The serial killer wipes some plaster off his shirt and sighs at the tear along the sleeve. “Oh, I’ve done my time in the ring too. All death matches and I was the reigning champion until Cassidy broke me out. Not sure what you were before society took a bear trap to the dick, but shit like this is what I live for.”

  “I was a freelance mercenary.”

  “So military trained and you did jobs that you couldn’t talk about?”

  “More or less.”

  “Well . . . fuck me then.”

  Commodus is about to attack when Lloyd kicks a rock at the shield and runs away. The retreating fighter skids around the corner, stepping back to slap his butt toward his incoming opponent. He leaps to the side of the spear, spins around the bigger man, and sprints back the way he came. The crowd laughs at the frantic chase that repeatedly sees Lloyd change direction and narrowly avoid an impalement. During one of his more colorful passes, he tries to slash Commodus up the back. The veteran dives forward as soon as he feels the touch of the machete and whirls around to deliver a stab that grazes the serial killer’s knee. It is enough to make Lloyd’s leg buckle and he leans around the next attack to catch the spear under his arm. With the polearm trapped, Commodus’s shield is used to smack the smaller man in the face before he manages to slice through the straps. The machete swings for the man’s unprotected side, but the champion’s longer reach allows him to catch the killer by the wrist. Lloyd can already feel himself losing the test of strength, so he considers releasing both weapons and taking his chances in hand-to-hand combat.

  The crowd roars at the sight of Cassidy dropping down from one of the walkways and slamming the flat side of Commodus’s giant sword against his head. The decorative weapon snaps as she lands and crashes to the ground with a twisted ankle. As soon as the blonde gets up, she is backhanded in the face and slammed against the wall. With only the hilt of the sword in her hands, she slashes a thin wound across the thick limb before she falls. It is enough of a distraction for Lloyd to wrench the spear out of Commodus’s hand and jab the blunt end into the man’s groin. The weapon is tossed to Cassidy, who stabs the veteran in the calf and smacks him in the center of his lower back. She rolls away from the collapsing fighter and uses the spear to remain standing, her injured leg wobbling from even the smallest bit of pressure.

  “I really want to kill you,” Lloyd growls while he straddles Commodus. The serial killer is practically drooling as he tries to force the machete toward the other man’s throat, his hands engulfed by his opponent’s meaty paw. “To see your blood flow onto the ground and hear your breathing stop. Been too long since I had a fun kill. Wait, there were the freaks in Wyoming, but this is different. You’re strong and gave me a really good fight. My blood is crackling with energy.”

  “Then stop talking and finish the job,” Commodus says as he tries to get some leverage. A sharp pain in his shoulder weakens his grip, one of his strained muscles tearing. “Killing is frowned upon, but not illegal. The next leader will still give you the gold, so stop wasting time and strike.”

  “Oh, I will. Don’t want to give you a chance to . . .” the killer replies, stopping and nervously licking his lips. “I forgot the word. It means to give up, but more official. Damn it. Right on the tip of my tongue.”

  “Surrender?”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t hear you. My ears are ringing from that shield shot.”

  “I said surrender!”

  “We win!”

  Commodus is staring dumbfounded at Lloyd as the serial killer twists and releases the weapon, so that it drops harmlessly on the champion’s chin. Realizing that the fight is over, the crowd cheers while their leader and Cassidy try to figure out what is going on. With the announcer declaring Lloyd the winner by submission, Commodus begins laughing and sits up to watch the maniac celebrate with a variety of strange dance moves. The audience leaps to their feet at the sight of all three combatants standing, the fight being so exciting that they do not care about the odd ending.

  “I think he likes you,” Cassidy says, handing the veteran his spear. She is surprised when he lifts her onto his good shoulder and uses the weapon to support both of their weight. “Think we could get fixed up before we leave? Maybe a day in the spa. Lloyd didn’t get to go there yet and it might be nice to revel in a little local fame. Maybe I can get my mom a nice polish from the local jewelers. She has to look her best for San Francisco.”

  “It would be my honor to have you remain as my guests and friends,” Commodus admits, wincing at the aches and pains throughout his body. He breathes a sigh of relief when a group of doctors come around the far corner, two of them stopping to wait for Lloyd to stop waving his weapon around. “You will always be welcomed here. Though I sense both of you are too wild to contain for very long. I hope the rest of your journey is easy and Battle Mountain is soon graced with your presence again.”

  “I won’t promise a fight during every stay, but I’m pretty sure we’ll find ourselves here again now and again,” the blonde claims with a smirk. One of the doctor’s helps her off the large man and sticks a pair of crutches under her arms. “So close to finishing this journey, mom. Just have to breeze through Reno and then off to California. Simple as that.”

  Really, Reno?

  “But we were supposed to breeze through Reno and then head off to California. Simple as that,” Cassidy mutters as she watches the jeep get towed away with most of their belongings still inside. She is numb to the sounds of the nearby casino, her eyes never shifting from the well-dressed man who has been guiding them through town. “What’s going on, Baxter?”

  “As your designated W
allet, I have to inform you that we must take all of your supplies and belongings to pay off your debt. As a courtesy, you are allowed to keep the clothes on your back,” the calm man states while keeping his distance from Lloyd. He prepares to hit the button on his bracelet again, which will call the nearest guard to tranquilizer the hardy serial killer a second time. “The Midas Group thanks you for your patronage and future servitude. This casino has been chosen as your place of employment, so work hard and you may be able to afford passage to California. Please note that all meals, rooms, clothes, paperwork, medicine, toiletries, towels, pillows, tissues, and any miscellaneous items I fail to remember at this time will be deducted from your weekly wages. Here is your bill and welcome to Reno.”

  Baxter hands a small packet to Cassidy before turning on his heel and walking across the street. The man swiftly climbs onto a bus that takes him away from the confused and angry travelers. With nowhere else to go, Lloyd guides Cassidy into the busy casino where they are greeted by a wall of bells and voices. A bouncer is about to stop them when he sees the bill in the young woman’s hand and nods in sympathy. The pair weave their way through the slot machines and poker tables, every set of eyes filled with understanding and broken spirits. Bright lights and tinted windows prevent people from figuring out if it is day or night, which Lloyd guesses is to screw with their sense of time.

  “I need a drink,” Cassidy suddenly mumbles, slipping out of her friend’s grip. She heads for the bar and smacks the packet down in front of the bartender. “Give me what you’re most proud of. My friend will take a soda. Having both of us drunk might be a problem, so he’s going to make a sacrifice for the greater good. Pass that bowl of pretzels down here too and a small plate of olives with plastic swords in them. Bring up the cost and I’ll strangle you with that line of Christmas lights. Thanks.”