by Steve Liszka
Christopher smiled like he had just told Taylor what the next day’s weather was going to be like.
“So that’s who you’re about to fight. A man whose family were killed by the company you work for.”
He paused for effect, then gave Taylor the warmest of smiles and patted him on the shoulder, “Anyway, they’re ready for you now. Good luck champ.”
Christopher disappeared from the room as silently as he had entered, leaving Taylor to wonder if anything else would come out if he threw up again.
The boo’s rang out around him as Taylor walked toward the concrete circle where Warchild and another large man already stood. It felt strange for him going into a fight without going through any of his usual routines. There were no wraps to systematically apply or gloves to tightly pull over them. No mouth-guard to fit and then refit, checking that it stayed in place when he opened his jaw as wide as possible. He didn’t even have Old George there to do his pad work with. It was just him, his bare hands and feet, and the same pair of filthy jeans he had pulled on after finding Charlotte’s body.
Before stepping into the pit, Taylor stopped in front of Jacob, who was standing with Christopher and the other jail-breakers.
“You going to wish me luck?” he asked, then regretted it, thinking it was the sort of thing you said to a loved one. The bad choice of words was reinforced by Christopher’s sneer.
Jacob ignored, or was unaware of his side-kick’s deprecating look, “You won’t need it, I know you can do this.”
Taylor looked up at the three levels of caged prisoners who had pressed themselves against the bars to get a better view. They were cheering savagely for Warchild.
“Well at least if I lose, this lot will be happy. Maybe if we put on a good enough show, they’ll help us anyway.”
Taylor saw the muscles raise in the area where Jacob’s eyebrows should have been, “Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly lost your confidence, being humble really doesn’t suit you.”
Taylor laughed, “You’re right, I’m not. I’m a bad-ass, and this guy has just made the biggest mistake of his life.”
“That’s more like that,” Jacob nodded, “I’ll see you when you’ve won.”
As he descended into the pit he caught Christopher leaning out from behind Jacob and winking at him. Stepping onto the floor of the arena, the man who was almost as big as Warchild approached Taylor. He had a crew cut and manicured beard that stopped precisely at the bottom of his chin leaving his neck completely hairless. Anyone could tell he was a guard from a mile away.
“Who are you?” he asked when the man was close enough.
“I’m the referee,” was the curt response.
“I thought there were no rules?”
“There aren’t, I’m just here to make sure it stays entertaining,” he looked up and around at the cells that surrounded them, “this lot want to see blood. Any holding, any boring stuff, I’m going to split it up, understand?”
Taylor nodded.
“Good, now wait here, I’ll introduce you to them.”
Normally a smarmy American with thick, black hair and a silver suit introduced the fights to the viewing audience, but as this contest was taking place behind closed doors without the cameras present, the referee would be doing the job. Instead of a microphone he only had his booming voice to accompany him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he yelled, his voice not being able to disguise the irony, “it’s time for the main event.”
Taylor looked across the circle to where Warchild stood. Instead of the stare-down he was expecting, the huge man seemed to be regarding him with little more than a passive, almost bored curiosity. This had a worse affect on him than if his opponent had been spitting fire.
“On my right is the challenger,” the referee cried, then had to wait for the bombardment of insults and obscenities to finish before he could continue,
“Making his prison fight debut… it’s Taylor.”
The referee’s voice grew to an enthusiastic roar as the fighter’s name left his mouth, but even that could do little to drown out the crowd. As he spoke, Taylor threw a volley of straight punches into the air followed by a couple of uppercuts and regretted it instantly. He could only hope that Warchild hadn’t been quick enough to see the pained expression on his face as he let his fists flow.
“And on my left is our very own undefeated Champion. Bringing with him an immaculate record of eight fights with no losses, it’s the man who was born to destroy… Warchild.”
The prisoners in their cells went wild.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s fight is a non-title match-up.”
The referee pointed his hands at the two fighters then brought them together in front of his body; it was the sign for the men to meet each other in the middle of the pit.
Standing feet apart with the referee separating them, Taylor could see for the first time the true size of the man that confronted him. He knew he was sometimes prone to exaggerating the difference in size between himself and his opponents but this giant must have been at least sixty pounds heavier as well as five inches taller.
“Ok fellas you both know what you’re here to do…” the referee seemed to be relishing the thought of the two of them fighting as much as Christopher had.
Before he could speak again, Warchild switched his attention from Taylor to the ref.
“Do me a favour Jackson,” he interrupted, “shut up for a minute, I need to speak to Taylor.”
Without another word, Jackson took a half step back and dropped his eyes to the floor. It was true; Warchild really did run the show.
“Looks like you’ve already bust your ribs up pretty bad,” he said, his voice serious but without menace.
Fuck, Taylor thought, he already knows my weakness. He nodded in agreement; there was no point hiding it.
“Well listen, I ain’t a fan of all that ground fighting shit that I know you like to do. You keep this fight standing and I’ll stay off your ribs. That sound fair?”
Even if he wanted to, he was in way too much pain to take the fight to the floor anyway. If they did end up there, Warchild would only need to get his massive arms around him and he’d get a submission out of Taylor in no time. Luckily, his opponent had not realised how badly he was hurt.
“Sounds fair.” Taylor answered, trying not to sound too keen.
Warchild nodded towards Jackson, whose eyes were still trained on the floor, “So we’re not going to need him then?”
Taylor shook his head, “I guess not.”
Warchild turned to the other man who now looked lost in his own world, “Jackson.”
The man looked up eagerly like a child who had been waiting on the sidelines to join the football game.
“You can go now,” he continued, “we’re not going to be needing you.”
The referee gave Warchild a confused look that lasted a second too long.
“Jackson,” he said, his voice deepening, “fuck off.”
Obligingly, Jackson turned from the two fighters and stepped out of the arena to where his colleagues were assembled.
The two warriors stepped back from one another to the periphery of the circle. Taylor took a deep breath in through his nose, then slowly exhaled through his mouth. This was what it was all about for him; there was no more waiting to be done and the sickness in his stomach had disappeared. He met Warchild’s gaze and with a mutual nod, the battle commenced.
The fight couldn’t have got off to a worse start for Taylor. For as long as he could remember, he had been fighting against bigger, less talented fighters whose size and strength he could use against them. From the off, he could see that Warchild was going to be a very different proposition.
Usually these bigger men would launch themselves at him, allowing Taylor the opportunity to counter attack. The impact of a punch landing on someone who was directing their mass towards it, was always greatly magnified. Just ask Newton, it was one if his basic laws of physics and it was
how Taylor knocked most of his larger rivals out.
With Warchild, he could see that things were not going to be so simple. Instead of charging in, the bigger man patiently stalked him around the pit. He was in a crouched stance making him shorter than normal, with his guard held up high in front him. As he pushed on him, Taylor was forced to move around the pit throwing a few jabs that he knew lacked snap and were easily avoided by his opponent. He was being made to throw warning shots whilst Warchild followed him around, trying to force him toward the walls as he looked for the counter to Taylor’s lazy jabs. The fucker was fighting him at his own game.
Taylor’s body felt heavy and lethargic as Warchild continued to hunt him down. Everything felt wrong, even the cold, hard concrete beneath his feet, completely different to the sprung floor of the cages he was used to. It wasn’t long before the man’s tactics paid off. As he felt himself being pushed once again towards the walls, Taylor threw a jab that lacked any real bite. No sooner had he thrown it, than he was struck by a mighty left hook on the temple. It was the first punch Warchild had thrown.
Sometimes when a fighter takes a really solid shot, strange things happen to them. Taylor didn’t even feel the punch land, he just felt time slow down as he was taken out of the fight and into a different world. He was suddenly aware of happier times; of playing in the park with his mother and father when he was young; of his father pushing him on the swing as his mother took a picture and laughed. The next blow he did feel; it brought him violently back into the real world and real time. It felt like he’d been gone for minutes but in reality it was probably less than a second; the length of time it had taken his head to rock violently to one side then back to its rightful place.
Instinctively, Taylor’s defence mechanism kicked in. He moved to his left and slipped the oncoming right hand before pivoting his body away from the walls of the pit. Warchild was now the one with nowhere to retreat to. Taylor faked another jab then landed a solid right hand directly through Warchild’s guard, smashing into the bridge of his nose. His opponent instinctively threw a right of his own back, but Taylor had pushed off his front foot and was safely out of range; the punch only skimming the air. With a trickle of blood coming from his nose, Warchild tilted his head at Taylor, acknowledging the quality of the shot.
For the next ten minutes, the two men would fight at a pace that neither, given their individual circumstances, should have been capable of. The punch to the temple seemed to awaken Taylor’s fighting spirit. Even though his ribs still hurt, he started to move with a bounce in his feet and his punches became sharper and more focussed. Likewise, for such a large man, Warchild kept pushing the fight at a frenetic pace. He continued to stalk his prey, forcing the smaller man to unload flurries of punches just to keep him at bay.
The fight soon took its own pattern. Taylor would wait for his opportunity and launch three or four-punch combinations then try and get out before Warchild landed one of his own monstrous shots. Sometimes he managed it, on other occasions he took the full force of the oncoming punch, forcing his legs to buckle. With every punch he landed, the crowd screamed in support of their rampaging champion. One solid right hand sent Taylor hurtling to the concrete floor but he had managed to get to his feet before Warchild could advance on him. At no stage did either man look close to throwing a kick or taking the fight to the ground.
Even though Taylor had landed more punches, Warchild’s powerful blows meant that the two were about equal in the damage they had sustained. Nearly fifteen minutes into the fight, the pace had started to drop off and Warchild’s punches became slower and less regular. As his breathing grew heavier and his hands dropped to his waist, Taylor forced him towards the pit wall. He was going in for the finish.
No sooner had he launched his two fisted attack, than the huge man grabbed him and quickly turned Taylor so that it was his back now against the wall. It was classic rope-a-dope; Warchild had been exaggerating his level of fatigue, there was clearly plenty of fight left in him. With nowhere for his opponent to go, he launched a vicious onslaught of hooks and upper cuts with a ferocity Taylor could never have expected.
At first he was able to absorb most of the punches on his bruised arms and shoulders, but then Warchild decided to forego their agreement and landed a brutal shot to his ribs. Taylor’s guard instantly dropped as the searing pain coursed through his body. It was now a hot poker, rather than a screwdriver that he felt he had been stabbed with. Before he could get his hands back up, a thundering uppercut smashed into his jaw, violently rocking his head back and sending him into another reality. Instead of being in the park with his parents, Taylor was now transported back to the white, sandy beach where he frolicked in the surf with Charlotte. With his hands draped around her neck, they laughed as they tried to jump over the oncoming waves.
“Wake up Taylor,” she said, “wake up.”
When he was dragged back to the present, it was Warchild’s powerful neck that Taylor’s arms were tightly wrapped around. After taking the almighty punch, he had somehow managed to grab hold of the bigger man before any more damage could be done. As his opponent struggled to shake off the irritant, Taylor interlocked his fingers, adopting the clinch technique of a Thai-boxer. Warchild managed to get another couple of body shots off before Taylor summoned any remaining energy he could muster. With all his might he pulled down on his rival’s head and at the same time, brought his knee up, driving it into the man’s face.
Warchild staggered backwards, almost losing his footing as he tried to reclaim his senses. His nose was smashed and he was bleeding profusely from a deep gash on his forehead. More importantly for Taylor though, his last attack had taken everything out of his rival; the man facing him was now spent.
As he gasped for breath, Warchild’s hands hung at his side once again, and this time he wasn’t faking it. Taylor could see he was gassed. Taking a deep breath in, he launched himself forward, easily slipping the slow, desperate punches the heaving man was now throwing. It was more his inability to oxygenate his failing body, than the punches that Taylor was landing at will, that was having the worse effect on Warchild.
Sensing his opponent’s desperate fatigue, Taylor threw a final one-two at his head followed by a perfect left hook to the kidneys, rotating every last ounce of his weight into the punch. In an instant, the longhaired warrior collapsed to his knees; buckled over as he fought in vain for air. Even if he’d wanted to get up and continue the fight, it was useless. It would be another minute before he could breathe properly again and in that time Taylor could do whatever he pleased to him.
Whilst the shouts of hate rang out from the prison cells, Taylor looked down at his fallen opponent. Rather than attempt to finish him off, he stood behind him and rubbed Warchild’s massive back.
“That’s it,” he whispered to him, “breathe.”
When he was finally able to get to his feet, Warchild shook hands with Taylor.
“I thought I had you then… at the end,” he said, his chest groaning as he continued to repay his oxygen debt.
“So did I,” Taylor answered, meaning it too, “that was a hell of a fight.”
A slight smile broke out on Warchild’s face, “Sorry about the ribs brother, I couldn’t help myself.”
Taylor chuckled, “I don’t blame you. I would have done the same thing.”
As Jacob and the others made their way into the pit to congratulate their new leader, Warchild spoke again; “I can’t speak for the rest of them but I would have helped you anyway, even if I’d won.”
“I know,” Taylor said.
“But I needed to do that,” Warchild panted, “I had to feel what it was like to be in a real fight for once.”
He rested his hand on Taylor’s shoulder as he struggled for breath,
“Can you understand that?”
Taylor nodded at the bruised and beaten man.
“Yes,” he said, “I think I can.”
Chapter 28
The dust flew
up from the road with each step the men took. Rather than fall back to the earth, it held in the air, creating swirling red clouds for the low-lying sun to hide behind before disappearing below the horizon.
“So tell me,” Jacob said, “if someone had told you a week ago that you’d be leading an uprising against your employers, would you have believed them?”
Taylor turned to look at the army behind him; most still dressed in their production centre jump-suits. He could only just make out the end of the line, and as he well knew, this was only one section of the attacking force.
“To tell you the truth,” he answered, “I’m still not sure I believe it.”
After a pause he turned to Jacob, “You don’t think it’s too late to pull out do you?”
Jacob attempted a smile, “Not as long as you don’t mind telling them.”
Taylor’s laugh quickly turned into a cough as the dust entered his throat.
By the time they got outside the centre, the majority of the volunteers for the makeshift army were already waiting. Taylor estimated that close to two-thirds of the men had joined them, boosting their numbers by over two thousand. If the women had been allowed to go with them they would have had twice that number.
As for the category A prisoners, their numbers turned out to be far higher. Of the three hundred men who had been jailed there, even at a conservative estimate, he reckoned that nearly ninety percent had followed Warchild’s demands and taken up with the resistance. He still wasn’t sure how sensible it was to let hardened criminals into their group but Jacob hadn’t made a wrong move so far. He decided to extend the trust that Jacob had offered, back to him.
No one got much sleep that night. Whilst the women and children had been sent to the other side of the Old-Town, the men spread themselves around the empty rooms of a dozen or so buildings a few miles from the City’s boundaries. On hard, stone floors they did their best to deal with their own fears. Many of them would have laid awake with their eyes open, dreading the next day and the possibility that no sooner had they been released, they may just as quickly be killed. Some though, were more fearful of those that slept much closer to home.
