I kept thinking how much longer I would last. I was on borrowed time as far as I was concerned.
“Can you complete your mission, Knight?” my handler persisted. I didn’t see any other option but to comply. He was right, my life depended on it, but also several others if not hundreds.
“Wilco, Castle One-Zero, out.”
I cut the call, put my fist to my mouth, and sat in the hot shower. The shower then ran cold for an hour. Command saw us all as assets. They didn’t care what we were going through. He didn’t even hesitate when Alonso died, not a shred of sympathy.
That night, after much deliberation, I made a call to the only other man I knew with the pull and means to get me out. Sod the objective and to hell with this undercity. I did, at that moment, regret choosing the life of an Infiltrator. It’s true that decisions do indeed haunt you. The choice to call Liam Roberts was one of those. Perhaps the only one that did. I believe I have seen enough of this underworld to fulfill the lifetimes of two people.
12
CLICK
Dill stared down Mister Click carefully as he grew closer to the Wargame racing paddock. Each step he took represented a stage in his life building to that very moment. London’s undercity as a child with his baby brother, his training as an Infiltrator, his guise as a Wargame Boss. It was more than enough to tip him over. He had won the race for his team, but the following was for him and him alone. He couldn’t suppress it any longer.
Dill pulled his pistol and held it behind him as he approached, cocking the hammer back.
“Hey, Click!” Dill shouted. Mister Click slowly turned to see him with a puzzled face, not even recognizing his face other than his most recent opponent.
“The Circuit Enforcer, come to kiss my ass before you get your prize?” Click said as he turned slowly.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Dill approached closer, alerting the other Wargame members in the paddock, stepping forward as they saw Dill. Soon a small crowd formed at the commotion.
“Should I remember a piece of shit like you?” Click looked to his posse and smiled a smugly.
Dill quickly raised his pistol and pulled the trigger. The shot boomed as the bullet knocked out a chunk of Click’s lower jaw, the bullet exiting out the back of his neck. He dropped to the ground, rasping blood as he squirmed on the floor. The other Wargame crew was expected to charge like madmen, but they faltered seeing one of their own Chiefs mortally wounded, acts of dominance and violence the only thing they halted at, Dill very well knowing what he was doing. The Wargame crew merely watched in shock. Dill looked behind him to see Humphries standing tall with his weapons raised at the crew.
“Take another step, meatsacks, and you’re expired,” Humphries said. Dill wasted no time and walked up to Click. He tried to reach for a weapon close by, but his hand was crushed by Dill’s boot. He knelt next to him and pulled him close.
“Look at me…” Dill hissed. “Do you remember my face?” Click shook his head, his eyes big and swelled. He was unable to speak and his jaw was an inch below its normal position, his yellow teeth shattered behind it. “You thought you let me live that day based on a choice. One simple, goddamn choice.” Click’s eyes widened as he finally remembered who was speaking to him, recalling the event perfectly in his head. “My father’s life for mine. Helluva choice to give, isn’t it, Click? Truth is, you killed both of us that day. Maybe that’s some consolation knowing that was the biggest mistake of your fucking life!”
Dill shoved a knife through Click’s throat and continued to make cut after cut until his hands were covered in blood and until Click finally stopped squirming. When he was done, he looked up at the other Wargame crew members as even they watched in distress, themselves horrified as they looked upon Click’s head, almost detached from the body, only held together by strands of tendon.
Dill stood up panting and turned to see the rest of the team present, all watching in shock. Soon a few Wordkeepers ran up to them, weapons ready.
“What’s going on here?!” the Wordkeeper said as he looked to the body on the ground. “What happened?!”
“It was self-defense, Hasker meatsack. I saw it all!” Humphries said as he quickly hid his pistols. “I speculate the Wargame mongrel wanted revenge on someone for losing the race.”
“What? This doesn’t look like self-defense! What team are you with?!”
“Martian Greys,” Hugo said reluctantly. Rossberg turned around in anger, already knowing what the consequences were. They had both put up a lot of time and equipment to secure a win in the race, only to have it lost.
“Martian Greys is forfeit from The Games for bringing intentional harm against another racer—”
“Hold on, you can’t do that,” Rossberg said. “The race is over and he was across the finish line with no faults, plus there was Hasker’s driver acting like a prick on lap four. You hold no authority over what happened after the race, therefore this incident can’t be held accountable.”
The Wordkeeper knew Rossberg was right on certain accounts, but the Red Sector Games was Hasker’s turf and rules need to be enforced somehow to keep the ceasefire in check. The Wordkeeper began muttering to the other Keeper beside him and then onto his headset. After a few words with a higher authority, he turned back to Rossberg and Hugo.
“Your race winnings are non-forfeit,” the Wordkeeper growled. “But killing a rival Prime Point team member is unacceptable and your team is forfeit from any Prime Points accumulated from this race and that’s final! Now clear out of here!”
“You can’t do that!” Hugo said, stepping forward in anger.
“Can’t we?!” the Wordkeeper shot back. Hugo restrained himself and hated Dill to length right then.
Dill said nothing as he walked back to the paddock. He walked ahead of the rest, eager to get distance from them.
“Goddamn that man,” Rossberg said as he watched Dill walk away.
“He was a loose cannon, but he won us the race,” Hugo said.
“At the near cost of the prize. He deserves the loss from the Prime.”
“What’s in your bike is more valuable than any of these prizes. Everyone’s already talking about your bike and how perfect the thing is. I guess you’ll steal my engine now and kill me in the process, right?”
“Hugo, if there is one thing I’ve learned from this race, it is that trusting your gut is fucking bad. I was well paid to get you out of the race, then your teammates come and kick my ass. Roberts wants to kill a driver, you get no Prime Points. So, I’m going to go against my gut and hire you on as a full time.”
“Ha-ha, that’s cute, but I think I want to gain my distance from this place and you for once.”
“You don’t understand, I have connections all over Freedom as well as some major aerospace designers. You make me some winning bikes and maybe I’ll put you in touch with them. How about it? Partner?” Rossberg smiled and nodded.
“Partner?” Hugo said, almost demanding.
“So that’s a yes? I’ll pay you handsomely, of course, as my lead engineer. Maybe some free lap dances at the ManEater?” Hugo reached out his hand prompting Rossberg to smile and extend his. A firm handshake sealed a deal.
Kimmy saw Dill had walked ahead and almost out of sight. She looked up to Humphries.
“What am I going to tell McKenna, Humphries? Should I even say anything? What would Dill do to me? I think I was just starting to grow on the English turd.”
“Such a dilemma I cannot provide a solution to, Madame Kimmy. I am designed for high-degree combat, not emotional consolation subroutines. Perhaps the master will understand Detective Roberts’ rage-filled outburst.”
“Maybe. What do you think, Rip?” Ripper barked at Kimmy but she didn’t know what to make of it. She immediately opened her OPIaA and contacted Speakeasy. “Speaky, we have a problem.”
“Would it have something to do with no Prime Points being added on the board?!” Kimmy shook her head. “I’ve just been infor
med we’re receiving no Prime Points due to ‘un-sportsmanlike murder’?! Gideon is just ahead now in Prime Points!”
“I know. Dill just snapped. That guy Click was on his agenda all along, but he’s awfully calm now.” Kimmy caught a glimpse of Dill as he stopped and stared her down for a moment until he stepped back inside. “There’s only one opportunity to get ahead in the Prime Race. It’s all up to McKenna now.”
Dill stood in front of the sink, someone else’s blood splattered on his face. He had his revenge now; the man who killed his father had been burned into his mind for years. It was true that he felt some degree of weight lifted, but not enough. He looked into the mirror and saw his father’s face, mutilated as it was long ago, the final image of his father unforgettable. Revenge was all he had and, now, Dill Roberts was empty.
13
THE RED FIELDS
“Red Fields, Red Fields! Kill ‘em in The Fields! Red Fields, Red Fields! Kill ‘em in The Fields!”
The chanting of the stadium rumbled the undercroft of the arena. McKenna’s heart vibrated within his ribcage. He leaned against the large iron gate in front of him, looking onto the red dirt of the massive arena on the other side. He peeked behind his shoulder to see the dozens of other contestants waiting with him, each eagerly waiting, or dreading, for the gates to the arena to open. Some cowered and whimpered and some could already taste the blood in the air. He and everyone else was stripped of all weaponry, devices, and tools. Even clothing was minimal; only their trousers and boots remained and a blue armband for everyone in the undercroft. Anything else like weapons and gear would need to be procured during the battle.
By tradition, the first game type was team-based, a just as eager force on the other end of the arena. McKenna felt a heavy tap of a finger, though it felt like a thud on his shoulder. He ignored it at first but this only aggravated the man behind. The man tapped a little harder, testing his patience.
“You really want to lose that finger before the show?” McKenna said as he turned to see the man behind. It was the big man from Team Gideon. Now up close, the man was massive; he easily towered over McKenna by over a foot and outweighed him with four hundred pounds of muscle and brawn. McKenna smirked as he looked up at the man. “You again?”
“Thought that was you when they stuck you in the cages for sortin’.” His accent was deep and from the Aussie Isles. “Fancy that, now we're on the same team.” McKenna turned his shoulder to him. “They call me Titus, Team Gideon.” The mob up above continued to chant as Titus closed his eyes and listened. “Hear them out there? The crowd lusts for blood even more than the whelps in here. Grand. It’s going to be a grand evening.” He smiled.
“I guess they're not the only ones begging for it,” McKenna said as he looked at Titus.
“I've been through The Fields five times already, won my second year. It seems like only yesterday I walked through these gates to my first victory.”
“These gates? Must have been a tight fit for a big boy like you.” Titus only chuckled more. “I was a last-minute addition to Gideon this year. Truth be told, I’m retired. But once I heard the Demon of Mars was fighting, I came out of retirement just to squash your puny head.”
A few heads turned when they heard. The Demon of Mars was a legend to those who’d been on the battlefields of the Solar War.
“You figured out who I was. Guess there is a brain in that brick on your neck.”
Titus turned McKenna around violently while others stopped to look. “Listen, Demon, we may be on the same team for now, but you can rest assured when the terms change, and they will change, I'm coming for you. Martian or not, Gideon stands a good chance now at the grand prize with your boy screwing up at the race. So, you better get crazy or you’ll die.”
Titus released his hand from McKenna's shoulder and smiled ear to ear. McKenna dusted his shoulder off and returned a smug look at Titus while he thought about the race. He had no access to information since he’d been in the arena undercroft. The last thing he saw was that Dill held a good position in the race, almost ensuring his victory. If what Titus said was true, McKenna had to win.
“Animals, all of you!” a man said behind them. He was smaller statured. Thin, not a soldier or warrior of any sorts by his appearance. McKenna and Titus turned to him. “The Demon of Mars, Titus the Wonder…” Titus shrugged off the comment.
“Forget where you are?” Titus said. “We’re all animals down here.”
“Not me!” the man snapped. “This is all madness, the worst beings in one place. To wish death on each other for a fucking game’s sake?!”
“So, what exactly are you doing here?” McKenna said. “You go through the wrong door somewhere?”
“I’m not even supposed to be here… Wargame recruited me, if you could call it that. I own a bookstore. I have a family for heaven’s sake!”
“Doing this for money?” McKenna asked.
“Sure, if I win. Big fucking if. Wargame donates bodies to this show every year. I’m one of them…”
“Bah!” Titus scoffed. “Whimpey over there wants to act like fertilizer, he’s got every right to. You don’t fight, you die.” The man grew silent and began to whimper. McKenna looked at him again.
“What’s your name?” McKenna asked.
“Pence… just Pence to you, Demon.” The man wasn’t too confident of his odds, nor did he even look at McKenna. Pence had already accepted his fate.
Just then, McKenna saw a cage being lowered into the middle of the arena with an announcer leaning out of it with a microphone. The chanting continued louder and louder. He began motioning his arms up and down to pump the crowd even more. His retro black shades, blonde hair, and thin mustache were as recognizable as his white pinstripe suit.
“Kill him in The Fields!” Spunkmeyer shouted as he pointed his finger at the entirety of the crowd, completing their chanting. The crowd erupted even louder as the chanting turned to cheering.
“Do I need to say it? Do I?! Very well! Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 5th annual Red Fields!” It was no myth that The Red Fields was the fan-favorite event. The crowd quieted as Spunkmeyer picked up a handful of the red dirt from the ground. “This dirt was once a pale shade, light and vibrant, but now it has been stained by the very blood spilt in this arena, forever holding death in its composition!”
The crowd erupted once more. McKenna scoffed, knowing it was most likely imported from elsewhere. Each year, The Red Fields had a theme for the battle, always a mystery until the start. The crowd eagerly waited for it.
“Good and degenerate of this fine city, join me for a trip through time.” The crowd quieted as the announcement of the theme was almost half of the excitement. Spunkmeyer was a flamboyant storyteller, enjoying it all himself. “The year is 2460, anno domini. The elite and cunning Martian Navy serves as the sword of Earth yet independent and defiant. Raised from birth to be warriors, brainwashed to kill without recourse! Under their false gods of Mars, Minerva, and Fortuna, they see themselves as the ultimate spear through these dark times! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, The Martian Elite!”
Spunkmeyer spun around and pointed at the gate on the opposite side of McKenna’s team. The gate opened and a couple dozen men and women walked out half-naked sporting their red arm bands. The crowd booed and roared at the Martian team. “And the opposing team: The many, the proud, the enduring! The pride and soul of Earth’s might! The protectors of our great species and the greatest military in the universe. I give you The Earth Marines!” The gates before McKenna creaked open and allowed the contestants to walk out onto the red sand in the arena. The crowd erupted in cheer for their home team.
McKenna felt all the fighters brush past him. McKenna casually walked out with them to the formation. It was his first view of the arena from within. It was massive in size, several hundred meters in either direction. Its size could no doubt host several different game types. There was barely any cover between the two teams except for a few mobile stru
ctures and boulders. In the middle of the field were crates, presumably filled with weapons. It was to be full contact, close combat. The crowd began stamping their feet, mimicking the rhythm of war drums.
“This is where the war will start!” Spunkmeyer shouted. “This is where the greatest examples of human bloodshed will be showcased. This is the greatest war of all time, at its infancy, and the start of our event!” The announcer’s cage began lifting to the ceiling and away to safety. “Lords and ladies, I present to you: The Mars-Terra War, the Battle for The Last Colonies, or as we all know, The Solar War!”
The crowd roared their highest as the announcer left from view. The rules were simple, incapacitate the other team and survive. McKenna took an aggressive stance, ready to charge for the middle. He felt his heart rate rise, but as he breathed and calmed himself, everything became clear and collected.
The buzzer overhead began pulsing before letting out a huge blaring horn, starting the match. The teams yelled their battle cries as they charged at full sprint, leaving McKenna well behind. He opened his eyes slowly after his short meditation, ready for battle.
Kimmy and the others were in a private booth above the arena watching the entire spectacle. Unlike the other events which were more morally sporting, the one below was a pure blood-sport. Kimmy was a bit confused when she saw McKenna merely walking to the middle of the arena while the others bull rushed.
“What is he doing?” Kimmy said. “If he doesn't get to those weapon caches—”
“He'll most likely be slaughtered if he rushes in,” Dill said. “He's going to let the field thin out before he…” Dill knew what was to come next. McKenna was in a pure game of survival. Kimmy looked to Speakeasy who was also watching the match with anticipation.
“Oddly, in The Red Fields there aren't many rules,” Speakeasy said. “Survive. But there’s no denying what the mob wants, and that is pure carnage.”
The Bloodlust: (Volume Three of the Virion Series) Page 16
