Skin Game

by Tonia Brown

  “Anything,” he said.

  “If you get the chance to rescue those men and get away, don’t waste time trying to get me out of here.”

  He furrowed his brow in confusion. “But you’re part of the cure. Ain’t ya?”

  “I think they know how to make it, with or without me.” I didn’t know this for a fact. The only thing I did know is Dillon had trapped the brightest minds to do his bidding. If Mab and her crew could get them out, I wasn’t going to be the one to hold up the rescue. “Those men are important. Don’t let Dillon keep them here. If it comes down to it, promise me you will get them out and get them back east.”

  Stretch didn’t look happy about it, but he nodded. “Alrighty. I promise. I can’t speak for Mab, but I will make sure she knows how you feel.”

  “Good.” A thought struck me, and as much as I hated to admit it, the horrible idea needed to find a voice. “There’s one other thing.”

  “Just one?” Stretch cocked his head to me. “For the man going to keep me alive, he can have as many things as he wants.”

  “This one is going to be enough. There’s another doctor here with the others. She’s not a good woman, but she’s smart and vital to whatever cure there is to make. You need to make sure she gets out of here too.”

  “She huh? All right then. I think I can manage that.” He glanced around the room for the umpteenth time. “Just as soon as I get myself out of here.”

  “You will.”

  “We will.”

  I smirked at him, and nodded in agreement, yet in the pit of my stomach I knew the truth. I couldn’t explain why, or how, but I knew I wasn’t getting out of here alive.

  * * *

  Sam

  We reached Truth by the next sunset, though the smell reached us long before then. To say it wasn’t what I expected would be an understatement. Mab described the place as a fallow field turned quiet pig farm a little over a year ago. This place was a madhouse of folk rushing to and fro. It reminded me of the street fairs we had back east. Those times when the celebration of a particular event spilled out into the roads, and everyone participated.

  I could see the skeleton of the town, the pig farm put together by Dillon in a desperate attempt to provide his men with meat and other pork based products. Truth centered on a dilapidated ranch house. Around this stood several shacks and lean-tos, housing all manner of folks. Beyond this was an enormous makeshift camp of a thousand men or more, all drawn to Truth for this so called competition. A wooden fence bordered this camp, no doubt part of the original farm. Sentries had taken up places at points of the fence, east and south as far as I could see, and I supposed they were at the other points as well. They were checking folks in. Some men were getting complete pat downs. Some just got a nod. Everyone got a mark on a clipboard. Not enough scribbling to suggest the men were taking names. I think they were counting folks.

  Next to the house stood another fence, accompanied by benches on risers. I realized it was a stadium of sorts. A shoddily built stadium for Dillon’s horrid main event. That was where the fights were being held. That’s where we needed to be.

  “Whoa,” Mab said as we approached the wild scene. “This place has changed a lot since I was here last.”

  I scanned the crowd, wondering if anyone would recognize me from my time at Newton. I doubted it, but the chance of it nagged at the back of my mind as a real worry. “We have to find Stretch.”

  Mab watched the crowd as well, her face hard and determined. “Did he say when Dillon planned on pulling off this little event?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “No matter. We need to find him and get out of here.”

  I gaped up at her. “We’ll be back for the others. Right?”

  Her face softened. “Of course we will. I am pretty sure those men and your mentor will be safely locked away when it all goes down. Stretch, on the other hand…” her words faded as she frowned. “It’s my fault. I’m going to get him killed.”

  I touched her shoulder. “You aren’t and he won’t. We will find him. But we ain’t gonna find him standing around here worrying about it.”

  “You’re right. Come on.”

  We fell into the crowd, moving along the line that led into the town of Truth. When we reached the checkpoint, the pair of guards stopped us. They whispered back and forth for a furious moment. One then shrugged at the other, held his hands up and said something that sounded like your funeral.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to step to one side,” the other man said with a grin.

  Mab must’ve known what this meant as well as I. We had been watching the line and knew that if someone was asked to step to one side, that indicated they were going to get a pat down. From head to toe, the guard would all but molest the man to make sure they weren’t carrying whatever the guard was told to look for.

  What that could be, I had no idea.

  I did know this much; Mab wasn’t going to let that man lay a finger on her. I think his partner knew it too. As did most of the other men. Everything had come to a stop, with the entire crowd circled around us to watch the oncoming show.

  “Then ask me,” Mab said. She flexed her fists, then opened them. Flexed. Relaxed.

  The man grinned wider and I took a step back to give Mab room to do her thing, when another man wearing the Syndicate uniform came rushing up. He whispered in the first man’s ear. The guard’s eyes widened and he lost the grin.

  “You can go on, ma’am,” the man said. He waved us past.”Sorry to trouble you.”

  The crowd around us groaned. I had to admit I was a bit disappointed myself. I was hoping to pick up another move from her. Instead, Mab tipped her head to the men, thanking them for being so reasonable. We both shouldered our packs and headed into Truth.

  A huge roar went up from the crowd gathered at the stadium.

  “We should check out that ring first,” Mab said. “I bet that’s where he’s making men fight the undead.”

  I smiled quietly to myself, pleased that I had thought of this already.

  “I’m surprised they aren’t checking guns at the door,” Mab said as we pushed through the crowed toward the bleachers. “I thought that’s what they were doing when we first walked up.”

  “I wonder why they aren’t?” I said. “If Dillon wants the undead to bite everyone, why leave them with their guns.”

  “I am gonna guess it’s because no one would stay. If they asked for my guns I wouldn’t have stayed. I know at least ninety percent of these men here wouldn’t turn over their weapon either.”

  “Ah.”

  “What do you think was up with the note taking?”

  “I think they were counting people.”

  “Makes sense I guess.”

  “Does it?”

  “Sure, he’s gonna want to know how many men he started with compared to how many survive.”

  What an awful idea. I still couldn’t believe Dillon would do such a horrible thing to his own men, yet the proof was all around me. Why draw them all here like this? Why gather a crowd of followers without purpose?

  Besides that, it sounded exactly like something he would do.

  We had to push and shove our way to the front of the excited crowd, but eventually we made our way to the edge of the fence. Sure enough, in the middle of the pen was a man fighting a rev in hand to hand combat. The smaller man struggled under the weight of the rev, the beast’s teeth snapping just a few inches from the poor man’s unprotected face. With a huge effort, the man threw the rev back and scrambled to his feet. The crowd shouted in approval, though some booed his efforts. He squared his shoulders and braced himself, but it was no good. The rev was twice his size. The undead monster lumbered toward the man, knocking both of them to the ground again. The crowd roared once more until the man let out a blood curdling scream.

&nbs
p; The rev had landed a bite, chewing off a good sized chunk of the man’s forearm. The poor man tried to fend off the thing, swatting weakly at it with his now blood slick arms. The rev went in for another bite. And another. And another. The man screamed and screamed and screamed until the rev chewed away his still shrieking throat. Blood spurted across the dry dirt. The man struggled for another moment, then fell still under the feasting monster. A dark pool spread under his twitching legs. The watching crowd went silent during this display, until the only sounds that filled the air were the tearing of flesh and the lingering echo of terror fading into the cool evening air.

  A wave of nausea rolled over me as the onlookers began to cheer even louder than before. It sickened my heart to hear them cheer over such an atrocity. A pair of men with pistols and whips rushed onto the field. They poked and prodded the rev, beating and steering the now sated beast back toward a barn at the far end of the field. Another man ran out and put a bullet between the now dead man’s eyes, then dragged away the corpse.

  “This has got to stop,” Mab said.

  “It will,” a man beside of us said. “That was the next to last fight for tonight.” He nudged me in the side. “But y’all made it just in time for the main event.”

  Mab glanced to me, then back to the stranger. “And what’s the main event?”

  “You don’t know?” he chuckled. “Well then, young lady, get ready to meet a legend. I’ve been here all week watching him train up. You are in for a treat, yes you are.”

  Before Mab could ask more, someone else began to shout over the still hollering crowd.

  “Gentlemen!” he shouted. “Gentlemen! Can I have your attention please?”

  My body went cold and rigid at the sound of his voice. That voice I had come to hear in my worst nightmares. A voice I had come to loath with my every breath.

  The crowd fell to a hushed murmur as everyone turned to look at the south end of the field, near the house. A platform had been constructed beside of the fence, hosting a small roof, a few chairs and a podium of sorts, from which our host now spoke.

  “It’s almost time for the main event!” Dillon cried as he raised his arms.

  And the crowd cried and raised their arms in response.

  Dillon stood at the podium, flanked by at least ten men all up and down the platform, all well armed and all stony faced. There was no strolling the family friendly streets of Newton here today. No. That Dillon was gone, replaced by a man of obvious power. Theo had underestimated him at Newton. Bowden underestimated him at Convergence. I wouldn’t make the same mistake here. If the chance provided itself, I would kill the man.

  I would kill him if it was the last thing I would ever do.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard. I glanced up to Mab’s warm smile. She squeezed my shoulder again, telling me to keep calm. To keep quiet. To keep my sanity.

  “This is the moment you have all been waiting for,” Dillon said. “I know you’re excited. I know I am. Tonight we get to witness a legend in action.”

  The crowed hollered again. Several hundred men pressed against the fence as even more lined the bleachers. They were all here to watch the show. All Mab and I could do was watch as well, and hope the main event didn’t include the terrible deed that Doc Bowden warned me of.

  “First,” Dillon said when the crowd settled down again. “I wanted to thank you for joining me here tonight. I know some of you are part of my Syndicate, while many of you are not. You might be thinking about joining me, or maybe even working against me. Either way, you are here and I thank you for your presence. Let me assure you of one thing, whether you are friend or whether you are foe, you are here in the Badlands and there is no going back east.”

  The murmuring around me ceased as everyone fell silent. The groans of the undead drifted up from the barn, as did the shuffling of many, nervous feet. Dillon struck a chord with the men, no doubt about that. He let this silence linger for a few heartbeats, then started up again.

  “We aren’t alone out here,” he said. “We have each other. We are stronger when we work together. They don’t want us back east, then fine! We don’t need them!”

  He paused here, giving the crowd a moment to cheer. It wasn’t the same from the gut hollering they were doing before. This cry seemed more sincere. Which made me worry.

  “There is only one law in the Badlands,” he said. “Eat or be eaten. Will you fight or will you die? That’s what this whole gathering is about. A chance for you to show your brothers your willingness to survive.”

  The crowd cheered once more, louder this time.

  “He’s a crazy man,” Mab said in a soft whisper. “We are dealing with pure tee crazy.”

  I nodded. Only a crazy man could convince strangers to climb into a ring with the undead and fight, barehanded, in order to prove their worth to other strangers.

  Dillon held up his hands again, silencing the crowd. “As a token of my appreciation, I have a little present for you.”

  The murmurs rose again.

  “Is it the cure?” one man shouted.

  Others shouted the same question.

  Dillon grinned, wide and weird. “Not quite. But you men stick with me, and I can promise you before the year is out you will have it.”

  A collective gasp rose from the crowd. I was even surprised by that. I didn’t expect Dillon to admit to having a cure. It was a masterful move, especially after that speech.

  “You heard me correctly,” Dillon said. “Give me a few months of your service and I swear I will give you the same immunity that I have. I have the means, and I have the knowledge. But I need to the time to make it work. I am willing to share all of this with you, if you are willing to share your loyalty to me.”

  There was a moment, a hesitation in the crowd, a genuine faltering that I thought would erupt into cries of dissent. But no. Someone started chanting, Dillon, Dillon, Dillon. Others took up the chant, then others, until soon the entire crowd was chanting that awful name.

  Dillon closed his eye and let the adoration wash over him. I didn’t know if Doc Bowden was just plain wrong or if Dillon was playing the crowd. I didn’t care. The more they chanted his name, the more that desire to see him in a pool of his own blood came over me. Dillon raised his hands again and silenced his followers once more.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Stick with me and you will be justly rewarded. For now, I offer a round of bourbon. Not that rotgut garbage whiskey you’re used to drinking every day. Real, barrel aged bourbon, gentlemen. Drink up.”

  The crowd ohhed and ahhed as a group of men rolled a series of barrels out of the barn, across the field and out the east and west gates, into the crowd. They tapped the casks and began pouring up glass after glass of amber liquid. The men temporarily forgot the main event in favor of free drink, rushing the casks and all but knocking each other down for a swallow of the stuff.

  “Son of a bitch,” Mab said. She lowered and whispered in my ear, “He’s gonna give it to them without them knowing about it.”

  “You think it’s in the drink?” I said.

  “I’d bet my horse on it,” she said.

  “Should we stop them?” I said.

  “I don’t see how we can.” She patted me on the shoulder and pointed to the other side of the fence. “We need to spread out and look for Stretch. If I know him he will be first in line for free booze. He never could resist a drink. You head to that side and I will look over here.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said and began pushing my way around the men.

  It took me a few minutes to push my way to the west side of the fence. It held the same scene, with three casks serving the thirsty and unwitting crowd. I peered from face to face, man to man, but couldn’t find Stretch in all of the crowd. Maybe he never made it. I parked myself by the line as casually as I could and waited for him to arrive. I had to t
urn down more than one offer at a sip of whiskey. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. No sign of him.

  Behind me, Dillon started his orations again.

  “Who is ready for a fight?” he shouted.

  The crowd, growing tipsy from the free flowing drink, cried out in a slurred agreement.

  “Gentlemen,” Dillon said. “Allow me to introduce to you the man you have all been waiting to see. The slave that got away! The one, the only, Theophilus Jackson!”

  I spun about and stared open mouthed at the field as the crowd went crazy around me.

  From the opposite gate from me, in chains as thick as my wrists, stepped my mentor. He was bare-chested and wearing a scraggly pair of torn pants. His chest was covered in lacerations and bruises, as was his face and hands and arms. I didn’t think there was a place on his body not marred by a wound. He was also barefoot. He shuffled across the field, head bent low, his manacled bound feet affording him only the smallest of steps. It struck me that he looked, at that moment, more of a plantation slave then my mentor. Which I suppose was the desired effect.

  No one seemed to care that my mentor was in chains. They cried out in delight at the sight of him, shouting “give ’em hell” and “let loose the revs” and “keep the nigger in chains” as he made his way across the field.

  My eyes were damp, yet I did my best to hold my tears. Mr. Theo wouldn’t want me to cry at the sight of him. Not like that. I would weep later, when we were both far away and safe from this madness.

  When Mr. Theo reached the middle of the field, the men escorting him stopped and began to remove his chains. They unlocked his feet, followed by his hands, then leapt back, scurrying away as if Mr. Theo would jump them right then and there. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. Jump them and beat their behinds into the dirt, that’s what he should’ve done. It would’ve served them right. Instead, Mr. Theo rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, sending the crowd into fits of excitement. I am sure it wasn’t for theatrics’ sake, still the crowd loved it. I saw in a strange way, they loved him.