That was why the pockmarked brick ****house that was the Hammer didn’t scare him. Well, brick ****house was a relative term in the post-Famine world, but the guy was about as thick as men came anymore, with wide shoulders and fists like kettle balls. He was hopping and cheering and riling up the crowd like he was confident, but Asher saw that his eyes were tight.
He’s like a rooster, isn’t he?
Asher’s father’s voice filled his mind so vividly that he gasped. The memory washed over him. His first tournament. He was only eight years old and minutes before he was scheduled to fight, he admitted to his father that his opponent scared him.
“Why does he scare you?”
“Because he’s so much bigger than me.”
“But don’t you see that he’s scared of you?” His father had crouched beside him and pulled him in, pressing their blonde heads together.
“Scared of me?” It had been a whisper. He hadn’t believed it, thinking his father was just building him up. The other boy high-fived his friends, his boisterous laughter filling the small gym until Asher felt he couldn’t breathe.
“Yes, Ash. Look closer. Don’t look at what he says or does, look at HIM.”
Asher looked again. Despite the boy’s pretense at laughter with friends, his eyes never settled. They darted toward Asher and his father again and again, fluttering in nervous circles.
“I see!” Asher cried, before slapping his hands over his mouth and whispering triumphantly, “I see!”
“Yes. Now you see. Always remember – no man in his right mind enters a fight unafraid.”
“What you got, man?” The Hammer jumped into his face, sneering.
Asher blinked, but did not move as the Hammer spun around him – a human dust devil. Though the man was thick, he was at least six inches shorter than Asher, and seemed to have a pretty strong case of little-man’s disease. Asher couldn’t be sure if he was kidding.
“You got a pretty sword? What are you? Some kind of fucking ninja?”
The Hammer turned to the crowd and made squeaky “hay-yah” sounds while pretending to chop the air, earning the laugh he’d been seeking. It took everything in Asher not to laugh himself. The guy was already covered in sweat. In the old days, Asher would have assumed he was a tweak, but there was nothing to tweak on anymore. He waited patiently for the Hammer to charge him again, and like a bull, he obliged.
It must have been an error of confidence, or maybe a naïve belief in rules after so many mostly fair fights, but Asher was caught by surprise when a baseball bat slammed into his chest. Somehow he’d missed the split second when a “fan” handed the bat to the Hammer just as he made his move. Asher fell, smacking into the asphalt, his skull exploding into lightning to echo the pain in his chest.
The Hammer was over him in a millisecond and chaos erupted. Eliot was shoved aside as men poured into the ring like lava, fists and weapons raised. With the crack of Asher’s ribs came his screams, emanating from him as if from someone else while his eyes searched the seething tide of humanity. All he could think of through his pain was Ginny and Cassie. He shoved at the bodies around him, desperate, when a sound like a tree cracking in half spilt the room and everyone froze. Only Asher’s mind still moved, circling around a sickening reality.
Gun.
The Lobos Domesticated Us
The room solidified into a museum of vicious statues: blows nearly landed, weapons drawn, foes on their knees or prostrate…
“This is fucking over!”
Asher’s eyes landed on the speaker and his heart sank. Scarface.
“I claim the Dragon. Anyone who makes a move toward us dies.” He gestured to Asher. “C’mon, man. Let’s go.”
“What?” Asher scrambled to his feet, groaning as fire shot through his chest.
The man’s face twisted, spinning the diagonal scar into grotesque knots. “If you wanna live, you better come with me right fucking now, man.”
Asher’s mind was screaming, “No!” in every language he could conjure. Despite the Mexican stand-off going on, he wanted nothing to do with the man with the gun at the “gun-free” Lifer fight. “No way, man. We do our own thing. Thanks and all.”
Scarface laughed. “You’re kidding me, right? It’s not like you and your friends…” He raised an eyebrow, appraising Cassie and Ginny, who gripped Asher’s sword, still in its sheath, bearing the least convincing expression ever. “…can help you.”
Asher sighed. He really didn’t want this kind of fight, but for the first time in his life, he faced a gun barrel with no hesitation. Who the hell cared if he died anymore? The main thing was trying to save Ginny and Cassie. He shifted, positioning himself between the scarred man and the women. “I’m not expecting them to help me. I’m expecting a fair Lifer fight. Period.”
Scarface laughed again, the sound shattering the petrified forest of shadows. He never removed his gaze or aim from Asher and his opponent. “Yeah, well we all want unicorns and rainbows, now don’t we?”
Asher’s thighs tensed, his pulse hammering against every artery wall.
Scarface stepped forward, pressing his contorted face into Asher’s. “What you want doesn’t matter, Dragon. If you want your fluffy bunnies to live, you come with me.” He stepped back. “Now.”
Asher’s eyes flicked to Ginny. “No!” she mouthed, her head jerking. “We can run.” Her knuckles whitened around the sheath of his sword. His eyes swung back to the others, his pulse roaring in his ears like pounding meltwater. At least twenty between him and the door. All in red, just like Scarface. So all Lobos. His eyes found Eliot and the boy dropped his head. Shit. Asher closed his eyes, savoring a millisecond of uncomplicated darkness. Ignoring Ginny’s pleading eyes, he held up his hands. There was no other choice. “Alright, man. We’ll come if you take us all.”
Scarface grinned, his tattooed gums making him seem as if his teeth were rotting out. “That’s right, boys,” he gestured as he backed out while Asher dragged his sword over his hanging head. “Looks like we got us a new pet.”
October 28, 2033
So I’m a Lobo now. Apparently, this is cause for celebration, or at least the chugging of swill someone swears is alcohol. Not that they’re wrong, since I’m pretty sure it was mostly rubbing alcohol. (Hope we don’t have any wounds anytime soon.) Somehow this being part of a group thing already seems like a bad idea. Not that I had a choice.
At least now Ginny and Cassie have more than just me to protect them, though Ginny seems less than thrilled. I know she’s worried about all these guys. After the top four or five guys (all gang members), there are another 20 or so men of fighting age. Compare that with our two “members” over 50 (both mothers of younger members, hence the still having beating hearts thing), our six members under 18 (all children of members, except Cassie), and our five females, and the ratios get a little frightening.
And of course, there’s Sid. I don’t know what’s creepier about the guy, the temple-to-jaw diagonal scar, or the tattoos he’s gotten to accompany it. A couple of the other guys have similar tattoos, though, thankfully, without the crazy scar. It’s like someone sliced the guy with a rusty can. It makes my skin crawl.
The rest of our “crew” (yo!) of fighters includes five guys.
The most important is Sid’s right hand man, aka Eliot’s father: TinMan, the vet with the spray painted bionic legs. I tried to talk to him a couple of times, but he doesn’t speak. As in, EVER. Unless someone pisses him off. Like Eliot.
It’s like he hates the fact that Eliot’s genius. The other day he backhanded the kid and I wanted to kill him more clearly than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life…including food. It shook me to my core. Now I just try to avoid him, which isn’t hard, given that he mostly sits in a quiet heap in the corner. Still, the full sleeves of prison tattoos and burn scars speak volumes about his post-Sudan life, as far as I’m concerned.
Sid said they’re both former UBD, which was a New York version of the Bloods. G
uess that what’s makes them so tight. So tight that when Sid left, TinMan went with him. In fact, the Lobos didn’t exist at all until Sid got annoyed with his higher ups. Once Foodmageddon happened, he said they still harbored the old grudges. Something like that. To hear Sid tell it, he’s an innovator in “gang,” which is not something I’d be particularly proud of myself.
The other fighters in the Guard?
Stryker. Ex-veteran like TinMan, but with all his limbs, except his heart. The guy seems to truly enjoy the killing that comes with guarding our “turf.” He has one of the only “girlfriends” in our group, but it’s pretty obvious she didn’t have a choice. Cassie tries to take pity on her and braid her hair or exchange stories, but the girl doesn’t talk much.
Conner. Of all the Guard, Conner is the least vicious, which might not be saying much, but at least he doesn’t seem to actually enjoy cruelty. Still, he’ll do what he has to do. And he’s pretty freaking creepy around Cassie. It’s like his eyes always follow her. I told her to stay as far as possible from the Guard.
Lyle. The best skill Lyle has to offer is gun expertise. The guy’s been collecting them (and obsessing over them) his whole life. Besides Sid, he’s the only one allowed to carry because he’s a crack shot. We give him most of what little ammo we can find. I try not to let that haunt my dreams.
Hodge. A big dude with big fists. His style is…well, you really can’t call it a style. But he’s willing to beat a man to death in the up-close-and-personal way that even most of the coldest killers really can’t.
Lonnigan. A friend of Hodge. He’s smaller, but he’s quick. He tends to win because people underestimate him.
Dragon…That’s right. I’m one of the Guard. Turns out I’m not that different from Conner. I do what I have to do…
“Hey, Ashhole! Where the fuck are you?” Sid’s voice broke his concentration.
Shit. Daddy’s calling. Time to stop with intellectual pursuits. I hate my life.
He balled up his journal, stuffing it into his waistband and pulling his shirt overtop as he slid out of his hiding place behind the shelving in the warehouse office.
“Hey Ashhole!”
“What, Sid? Jesus. I was sleeping, man.”
“Too bad. We have to go right now.”
Something about Sid’s tone got his attention and Asher pulled his sword. “What’s up?” Then he noticed the Guard assembled around Sid. All of them. Goosebumps flared on his neck. No matter how many times they went into battle, it never got less scary.
“Sentries reported Deacons on our turf.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Let’s go, Dragon.”
The Deacons were a mostly Irish gang, though they had enough African-American members these days to make you either question their commitment to racial purity or respect their adaptability. Regardless, all names aside, the Deacons were no saints. They were a “babyshit” gang when Sid liked to talk big, saying how none of them were anything before the Famine.
No matter. They were SHIT now, Asher knew. He’d watched more Deacon murders than any others, given their turf’s proximity to Columbia. That was why he gripped his sword with an electric thrill, the same sickening accelerant he’d felt every time he’d taken Sid’s side.
As he always did before the Guard left, he shot a look at Ginny, who nodded. They had an agreement that if he didn’t come back or if things got sticky for the ladies while he was gone, they’d sneak out the back of the warehouse, by the loading dock, and disappear. It wasn’t a great back-up plan, but it was the best he could do. At least he’d managed to secure knives for both women that they kept tucked at their waists, beneath the winter coats he’d found. Sid had cracked on him for the coats for weeks, insisting that “fluffy bunnies” already had fur to keep them warm.
Asher took one last look over his shoulder and then turned, resolute, as the Guard fell behind. He tried to suppress the flare of pride in his chest at their deference. It was sick, he knew. Though Sid’s Guard liked to pretend that they were badass (and given that they’d all murdered more people by far than he, they had a point), most were sickos with no skill. They needed guns. They needed lead pipes. They needed Sid. And not one of the men tip-toeing through the ebony valleys of the City behind him thought for one split second that he needed them.
His feet moved without sound, unlike his compatriots, whose feel slapped like drunken sailors. He scanned the darkened street and saw a shape dart against the horizon. “Stop,” he hissed.
“Shit, we listening to him now?” TinMan started to say when Sid whirled, pointing his gun between his man’s eyes.
“Shut up.”
TinMan scowled, but remained silent. They crouched, Asher barely paying attention to their heat at his back. They were a liability anyway. He didn’t know why Sid bothered bringing them except for “show of force” reasons. His eyes were fixed on the shadows carrying the bobbing flashlight that shone through the windows of the store on the corner…their store.
Sid pulled up beside him, his eyes narrowing. “Do you believe this shit? Right in the center of our turf!”
Asher’s stomach growled. It was the perfect response. “I got this. Just watch my back,” he murmured, crawling forward. His only thought as he slipped forward, the shadows he stalked unaware, was Cassie…her cinnamon eyes drowning in hollows. Those eyes needed food. He reached the store and pressed his back to the wall, pausing.
“Hey man, look at all this stuff!” A high, excited voice spoke to Asher’s right and he stiffened.
They were just around the corner. He gripped his sword and spun. “Freeze.” His voice was so quiet that he thought they wouldn’t hear him, but he was wrong. The shadows froze, whether from fear or surprise, he would never know, but it didn’t matter. “Don’t move and I won’t hurt you.”
The smaller shadow cowered, but the larger straightened. “Oh yeah?” There was a glint as a blade was drawn. “Says who?”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Sid said, striding up beside Asher, the Guard assembling behind him. “My man here is much better at sticking than bein’ stuck.”
Asher bristled. “I got this, man.”
“Sure, sure, I know. Just thought we might as well help with clean up.” Sid flicked on a flashlight, blinding everyone present, much to Asher’s annoyance.
What was worse, the “high” voice sorted itself out. It belonged to a young boy, not much older than thirteen. The bony man with him who had been stupid enough to threaten Asher in the dark looked to be his worn-out dad. Shit. Asher’s heart sank. He spun, enraged. “I thought you said these were Deacons!”
“I thought they were!” Sid spat. “Who the hell expected this shit after all this time,” he waved, the indicated ‘shit’ cowering.
Asher lowered his sword and eyed the father. “Put everything you have back and leave now and we’ll let you and your son live.”
Sid roared, smacking Asher’s shoulder and nearly knocking him off-balance. “Who died and left you in charge? You don’t negotiate for me! More mouths, less food, remember?”
Asher recovered and slammed into Sid’s chest angrily, his eyes just inches away from his leader’s. “And you don’t own me!” He turned to the father and son. “Run!” he growled. “Toss your shit and run right now. Get the hell out of the City and don’t ever come back.”
Sid cursed and Asher shoved him back, sword still ready. “Don’t push me, man. They’re not Deacons. I’m letting them go. You wanna kill me? Do it in my sleep.”
He turned back. The man started to say something when his son dropped the cans in his hand and grabbed his father’s wrist. “C’mon, Dad, let’s go. We gotta go.”
Asher’s chest tightened. Dad. How he wished he could run for his life with his father. He breathed easier, his chest loosening, as the men disappeared into the darkness, leaving their food stores behind. It was probably a death sentence, he knew, sending them into the wilderness. But “probably” was all he could give people now. If it w
ere up to Sid, they wouldn’t get a probably. He turned, ignoring his Leader’s glare as he stalked away.
“You know that you can’t keep costing us forever, right, Ashhole? At some point, you’re going to have to pay for being a Lobo.”
Asher sighed, wishing that he could deny the words as he walked back toward their hideout. But he couldn’t. They laid over him like filth.
What’s Mine is Mine
Asher’s arms swung and pressed into the space, his legs anchored and strong, and his weight light and balanced on his toes. He breathed out, pressing the breath with his palms as they held off the imaginary enemy. He focused more than he could ever remember as he moved through the forms, defeating foes at every turn, with Cassie and Ginny as his back. It was so real, so concrete; his father’s lessons solidified into a whole that he’d never imagined in his privileged American life. And he knew that his father probably never imagined it either. But this was real. And there was no “honor” to be had, no matter how his father had dwelled on that concept.
“What are you doing?”
He whirled. “Uh, um…” he stammered, finding Cassie eying him.
“Sorry.” She lowered her gaze. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I just…wanted to learn.”
“It’s ok, Cass.” Eliot emerged from the shadows. “It would be nice if we knew something.”
Asher’s heart squeezed. Yes. It would be even nicer if the new world made allowances for children. But it didn’t. He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Would you like to train with me?”
The question was gentle, like the children to which it was directed. It almost pained him to think of training these two. They were two whom the World should have loved and protected. If there had been a God. Wouldn’t He protect these two? It was the question that left Asher sweating at 4AM and puking whenever he came across tiny bodies. And then the thought occurred to him. Maybe it was his job to help them. Maybe it wasn’t about God. Maybe every day, every decision, every action…was about human beings. “I’d be happy to teach you if you wanted.”
Dragon Rising: The Untold Story of Asher Grey (Eden's Root Trilogy Book 4) Page 4
