by Tillie Cole
I recognized the signs from watching Alik rip apart his victims in the cage.
Crawling to the wall of the alley, I used the damp brick to stumble to my unsteady feet and whipped my head to the hooded man … who now had his hands on my attacker’s jaw.
As I realized what he was about to do, I lurched forward and shouted, “No!” But with a sharp jerk of his large hands, a loud snap ricocheted off the walls. My attacker’s lifeless body dropped to the ground at my feet—neck broken.
I stared at the unmoving body. Death didn’t usually faze me. I’d seen many dead bodies in my lifetime, more than most undertakers see in their whole careers, but the ease with which the hooded man killed filled me with fear and dread. It was obvious he had killed before; no first-timer was that smooth in the kill.
My eyes drifted up to the hooded killer, who was eerily still. He faced his victim, fists clenched at his sides, his packed chest rhythmically rising and falling under the sweatshirt that clung to his heavily muscled torso.
He was close to me. So close that I could feel the heat radiating in waves from his body. My breathing was labored and I wanted to get the hell out of here. But I couldn’t move, caught in hypnotic rapture as I stared at the strange man who loomed menacingly before me.
He took a step forward, my body bracing for attack, then he took another step closer. My back hit the wall as I drew back in fear, and the hooded man took one final step until he was almost flush against my chest.
My eyes were wide as I stared at his dark form and my breath came slow at the close proximity. The hooded man never moved, just stood still before me like a statue.
He was huge; wide and tall. Only the bottom half of his face was in view—his full lips, his stubbled strong jaw … the bare top of his wide chest, demonic-looking tattoos covering his beautifully defined high pecs.
His head tilted up and more of his face hove into view. My heart began to pound harder as I waited to see his face, but the material from his hood hung low, shielding his eyes.
I watched as the man’s teeth ran over his bottom lip. Mustering a modicum of bravery and clearly defying all of Alik’s rules, I cautiously edged forward and blurted, “You … you saved me.”
My hands were shaking, my legs and voice, weak, and as dangerous as this man seemed, his body too tense and rigid, my fear waned. It seemed, as we stood here toe to toe, he wanted to study me, be closer to me.
The hooded man’s jaw tightened and his head tilted to the side, as if contemplating what I’d said. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, his aura animalistic, feral, yet it somehow … wasn’t. I couldn’t explain it.
As I drew slowly closer, his scent drifted on the warm wind. It was intoxicating, meadow fresh, like he’d been outdoors for months, like the scent of the first snowfall settling on the cold grass in Central Park. It cut through the stench of the dirty alley like a knife through butter, sending shivers down my spine.
“Do … do you have a name?” I asked, my voice gaining some strength.
The hooded man’s built frame suddenly straightened, like a jolt of electricity had just ripped through his body. For the first time I heard his heavy breathing in the quiet alley. He was breathless, sucking in air like he’d taken a hit to the chest. He was breathless at my question.
He took a step back, then another, and another until he moved beside the attacker on the ground. I edged forward, drawing his attention, but he never lifted his hood.
His head was always downcast. He wouldn’t show his eyes.
The hooded man bent and flipped my attacker’s corpse with his foot. He kicked the body into a dark corner of the alley like he was kicking away an empty beer can. Then he started to back away.
My heart sank and I pushed out my hand, signaling him to stop. “No! Please, I just want to thank you for saving me. That man … I think he was going to kill me. You saved my life…”
But my words had no effect. The hooded man backed off, his fists clenched once more. Then he sprinted away down the opposite side of the alley.
“Wait!” I shrilled, but all I could see was his dark garb disappearing into the shadows.
A cold hand suddenly gripped mine. I screamed out in shock, spinning around to see Talia, her face pale and her brown eyes wide.
“Kisa … what the hell just happened?” she whispered, her voice urgent.
Then the shock of the attack I’d resisted, delayed with staring at the hooded man, instantly surged through my body and tears dripped from my eyes.
“I … I was attacked…” I cried and Talia wrapped me in her arms.
“Shit! Who was that man running away?”
“I don’t know. But he saved my life.” I pulled back and looked at Kisa. “He k-killed that man to save my life.”
“Shit!” Talia hissed again. “I’ll call one of papa’s men to dispose of the body.”
That stopped my tears. “They can’t tell my papa or Alik. They’ll go insane if they knew I’d broken away from the group to go on my own.”
Talia stared at me like I was crazy, but reluctantly nodded her head. “It’s okay. I know someone who’ll keep this quiet. I won’t tell them you had anything to do with it.”
“Thank you,” I said in relief.
Talia stroked my messed up hair. “Can you walk? Are you okay?”
“Just shaken up,” I replied. “I’ll be fine, Tal. I just don’t want papa or Alik to know about it.”
Within seconds, Talia was pulling me down the alley and away from the kill scene.
Casting one final glance in the direction the man had sped off, I let Talia lead me back to the truck, all thoughts of the murdered man on the alley floor out of mind.
Father Kruschev watched me approach, quietly shaking his head in reprimand.
Stepping onto the truck, the waiting volunteers clearly pissed at my tardiness, I slumped into a vacant window seat, my forehead hitting the hot glass.
Talia sat beside me and gripped my hand in silent support, but I kept staring out of the window as the truck slowly rolled into the road.
My attention fell lazily upon the rows and rows of homeless men and women hunkering down in their makeshift shelters for the night. I shuddered at the thought of what just happened, the gravity of the attack, of the kill starting to hit home.
My heart filled with sympathy for the homeless and their unfortunate situation. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a large, no, a huge dark figure sitting at the end of the rundown street. A huge dark figure sporting a gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his face, sitting with his legs crossed, head downcast. A huge, dark male figure clutching a big glass jar in his hands. My palms spread on the window as we rolled by. My eyes urged him to look up so I could see his face. A passerby walked past him and causally dropped money into his jar.
I froze in realization.
The man who saved me … the man who had just saved my life was … homeless?
The man who fought like an animal freed from a cage, a killer … was begging for money in the street?
I owed my life to a mysterious homeless man on the street.
A homeless man who fought like a killer.
Chapter Three
818
One month ago …
Guns firing.
Crashes.
Screaming.
Gunshot after gunshot and the tumult of shouting pounded through the stone ceiling as I paced the small area of my dank cell. Above me was a stampede, the thunder of hundreds of feet; prisoners were on the loose. And here I was trapped in this fucking cell!
I need to get out. I must get out! I screamed inside my head as I ran my hand over the metal bars keeping me trapped inside.
Charging the door of my cell, my right shoulder slammed into the metal. It didn’t even shake. Wrapping my hands tightly around the bars over the “window,” I scanned the dimly lit hallway, its flickering dull bulbs swinging back and forth from all the heavy movement upstairs. This level of the pri
son, the Gulag as it was known amongst the inmates, was reserved for us champions, the most prized of the death fighters. The fucking killers, the murderers, the monsters they’d created to want nothing but to feel rage and spill blood. We were jailed in the bowels of this shithole, no chance of escape. Our cells were too far apart to ever see another fighter except when we were training.
My breathing became ragged. Bellowing in frustration, I pulled on the steel bars, my arm joints creaking with the enormous pressure I put them under. My bulging, drug-created muscles corded with the effort. I roared out a final yell when they refused to budge.
The shot they’d just given me was making my skin crawl and was evoking the need to fight. I was scheduled to fight later tonight. I felt rage, nothing but rage.
I needed to kill. It was the only way to stop the rage.
The first shot had been fired about thirty minutes ago, I guessed. I didn’t know; time had no meaning in the Gulag.
I could hear the other fighters shouting, screaming that they’d been released, could hear the screech of cell doors being wrenched open, the screams of men dying.
I was fucking incensed.
I wanted blood.
And I needed to fight!
My blood boiled under my flesh, fiery, searing, preparing me for a fight to the death. To do what I did best—maim, slaughter … kill.
Roaring out, I released the cell bars and once again began pacing the cell. My eyes, even in the dark, focused on the wall and the name engraved in the stone. Alik Durov. Underneath was an address. Brooklyn, New York. Below that, a motive. Revenge. Lastly, there was a clear instruction. Kill.
I had no memory of writing it down, no memory of my life before this place. Didn’t know if I ever had a life outside of these stone walls. My brain had shut down, blocking out anything but the need to kill, erasing any knowledge of who I was, where I was from, and why I was in this fucking shithole. But one thing was certain. I had written that name, that address, that motive, and that instruction. When I stared at those jagged letters carved permanently on the wall in my line of sight, anger consumed every cell in my body and I knew, without a doubt, I had to do what the inscription commanded.
But I had to get out of this place first.
The sound of the hallway door slamming open echoed off the walls. I rushed to the bars to see what the fuck was happening. My skin was itching with the need to break free, to join the fight … to get my revenge.
The clinking of cell doors opening made my heart race faster. My knuckles cracked with the intensity of my grip on the bars.
“Get me the fuck out!” I growled as I heard heavy footsteps approach my cell. My cheek pressed hard on cold metal as I stretched to see who was coming, my hands rocking the cell door until blood began to ooze from the constantly splitting skin on my fingers.
“Go! Go!” a male voice ordered a prisoner, and I heard a man running away. “They’ve been overpowered. Head for the east gate.”
They’ve been overpowered. Hearing these words spoken out loud, I lost it. Wildfire pulsed through my veins. Running to the back of my cell, I charged the door, my shoulder dislocating with the force.
Seizing my right hand, I popped my shoulder back in place. “GET ME THE FUCK OUT!” I bellowed, my voice sounding as sharp as razors.
The light above my cell flickered off, plunging me into darkness, but it didn’t matter. I could hear everything, I’d learned to embrace the dark. Thudding on the stone floor made its way toward me. My roaring and bellowing increased.
Suddenly, the footsteps stopped and I could hear the sound of heavy breathing outside my cell.
“Get. Me. The. Fuck. Out,” I warned. I caught a nervous flicker of movement to my right.
Two men.
Two men were pussying out of facing me head on.
“It’s him,” one of them whispered as my jaw ticked in annoyance. “It’s 818.”
“I won’t tell you again. Get me the fuck out, or when I find you, I’ll snap your spines,” I threatened in a low voice, as the bars creaked louder with the pulsating power of my anger.
The men still didn’t move. I could smell their fear and it just fucked me off even more.
“Get him out!” a voice ordered from behind and, suddenly, the familiar face of 362 came into view—my greatest rival but the man I spoke to and respected most.
362 grabbed a key and unlocked my door, his broad chest bare, black sweatpants covering his legs and his long black hair hanging down his back. He swung the door open and met me toe to toe at the entrance. His brown eyes bored into mine as my chest pumped with adrenaline. Then he smirked and slapped me on the arm, laughing. Shaking my head, I sized up the two men who blocked my way and then I smiled. I could kill the two weak fuckers in seconds. Snap their necks before they could fucking blink.
The smell of piss filled my nostrils as the two men stood frozen, wide eyes fixed on me. Then the tension of the moment was shattered when a gunshot rang out from upstairs.
362 backed up. “We’ll go out through the east gate. The guards have been overpowered, but they’ll send more soon. We’re the last to be freed. No fucker dared come down here apart from those two. They had no idea it was for you and me.”
362 set off at a sprint back up the stairwell, leaving me stunned at the entrance of my cell. I looked down at the invisible line that separated me from the hallway and, when I looked down, my hands were shaking.
My hands were shaking …
I’d never left my cell of my own accord before. I’d never been beyond this room unless to fight, be tortured or train.
I ran my hand over the mass of scars from being tortured along my body, still feeling the pain that had been inflicted when I’d tried to remember my past. The metal rods the guards would use to shock me, the ones that made you feel like you were dying until you lost consciousness. The pain that felt like fire raging through my body every time I tried to remember anything from my life before this place.
Hearing shouts and what sounded like a brawl upstairs, I clenched my fists and ran back into my cell, ripping my spiked knuckledusters off their hook on the wall.
Bending down to the tub of dirt I kept on the floor, I dipped in my two fingers and ran the dark, almost black, mud under each of my eyes. I’d always hid my eyes. I didn’t know why, it was just something I’d always done. The guards liked it, thought it made me look more vicious, so they collected the dirt for me. They said it made me look more animal than man in the cage.
Slipping on my weapons of choice, I ran my fingers over the carved writing on the wall and recited my mantra.
Alik Durov.
Brooklyn, New York.
Revenge.
Kill.
Hearing the familiar sound of the guards’ heavy footsteps on the stairwell, I threw the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, rolled up the sleeves to free my knuckledusters, and gritting my teeth with single-minded intent, ran full force at the three guards coming my way.
Years of life in the cage, fighting to the death for sick fuckers’ entertainment ensured my strikes were quick and effective. I was a reigning champion. I was the sure bet … I was a machine … I was death.
My spiked fist punctured the chest of the first guard, his heart and lungs sliced open, guaranteeing a swift death. A blow to the head of the second guard saw him drop lifeless to the ground. The third guard turned on his heels when he recognized me. He should. This fucker had beat me, tortured me. It was his time to feel pain.
He’d run just four steps when I gripped his shoulders, wrapped my foot around his calves, and bent him backward until his spine snapped in two. Dropping his corpse, I pounded up seven flights of stairs, not even out of breath.
Revenge.
Kill.
Revenge.
Maim.
Alik Durov.
Brooklyn, New York.
Kill.
They were the only thoughts occupying my mind as I navigated my way through the narrow hallways, do
dging bodies under my feet, following the rush of fighters of all ages … even scared little kids, freshly brought into this hell.
I pushed people out of the way heading to the outside, my lungs burning as they coped with the unfamiliar sensation of fresh air. I stumbled as the freezing night breeze whipped the skin on my face and oxygen filled my raw lungs.
Fresh air.
I hadn’t been outside for … I didn’t know how long. Years, I thought. Years trapped in a cell without a glimpse of daylight, breathing in stagnant air, a mixture of dampness, mildew, and blood.…
And death.
Death had a unique smell, a unique taste. I had breathed it in day and night, tasted it for so long that I found it difficult to breathe in the clean freshness of the outdoors.
Seeing the other fighters run free and out of the east gate, a guard sprawled on the floor caught my eye, a stab wound to his stomach. 362 was backing away with bloodlust in his eyes, his bloodied sai in his hand—his choice of weapon in our Gulag cage.
362 watched me approach. “We’re free, 818!” he shouted, his face lit with excitement and his words seemed to echo in my ears, my mind not allowing me to believe it.
“Wh-what now?” I asked, looking around the yard filled with dead bodies, the ground drowning with blood, the Gulag’s sirens wailing and prisoners running for the safety of the nearby forests.
362 dropped his tense shoulders and moved before me. “This is it, 818. It’s what we’ve been waiting so long for. What we’ve survived for.” His eyes brightened and he said, “It’s time for us to seek our revenge.”
R-E-V-E-N-G-E … I spelled out each letter in my head, feeling the anger take hold of me. My mind suddenly caught up with my heart telling me my chance had finally come. After years of killing and becoming the monster the guards had wanted me to be, I was going to get my revenge.
“Where are you going?” I asked 362.
