When Nothing Is All You've Got

by Kirsty Dallas

  By

  Kirsty Dallas

  Copyright © 2016 Kirsty Dallas

  EBOOK EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. While writing this book I broke out in a sweat on the odd occasion. Not an ugly man sweat with saturated pits, but a delicate perspiration on my brow. One day I even kicked my toe on the corner of my desk and it bled, causing me to cry (just a little). I wrote this book and literally gave it my very own BLOOD, SWEAT, AND TEARS, so don’t steal it . . . Quote it if you wish, tell your friends about it, create shit-hot trailers and teasers (I love those), just please, DON’T STEAL IT!!

  PROLOGUE

  The thing about having nothing meant I had nothing to lose, and that’s what made me invincible. My name is Nada, which is Spanish for nothing, but there were few who bothered to call me by that title. Most called me ‘girl,’ the rest completely ignored me. My story is not a pretty one. There is no gentleness, and the love I find is like a jagged, raw stone, as unpolished as the rock walls I live within. My world is full of hate, greed, lust, and violence, and I was born here, in a prison of darkness, where the warm caress of the sun never reaches.

  The world is a different place to what it once was, or so I am told, because I’ve only ever known this hell. I’ve heard stories about the world above, where the saintly and divine live, where freedom is their right, and sunshine is their blessing. In their world, when a person commits a crime, there is no trial by jury and there are no second chances. When one of the blessed commits a crime, they are delivered straight to hell and thrust over the threshold of the Underworld.

  While our prison has a makeshift school for the few children who live here, I was taught to read and write by the only man I have ever trusted in this facility: Dejohn, my mentor, my trainer. He also tried to teach me about the history of the world below the ground and above. His lessons were mind-numbingly boring, and the books he found often had pages missing, torn from their binding, leaving behind a mystery of jagged edges. Such books, depending on who wrote them, heavily swayed in favor, or against, this new world we lived in. It was difficult to peel away the lies and hatred to find the truth, and more often than not, they were repetitive and dull. The stories told by the numerous inmates, however, were a much more fascinating history lesson.

  As a little girl I would sit in the shadows and listen to their tales of a world my young mind couldn’t possibly fathom. When an important man, a leader of the free world I am told, was assassinated by those wishing to subdue and dominate with their fanatical ideals, America began to crumble. They called it the war for freedom. It wasn’t a slow decline; it was instantaneous and powerful. Washington, New York, L.A and Houston were the first to be attacked. The acts of violence brought buildings to the ground and powerful men to their knees. As America burned, the hopes and dreams of millions went up in ash. Desperation saw good people do bad things. Living sometimes meant killing, and mass hysteria ensued with an every-man-for-himself mentality. Food supplies ran low, and those who were once rich were now poor, and the poor were mostly decimated. For a time America was in darkness, electricity gone, technology reduced to that of a more primitive era. One of the world’s most powerful countries had been broken, as weak as a new born babe. Other countries lent their support, but the destruction was on too large a scale for immediate reprieve for the ravaged nation.

  Years went by, over a hundred to be exact, and little by little, control was won, evil was brought to heel, and a zero tolerance on crime was voted in. The soldiers fought the terrorists out of the borders, and slowly reclaimed control over the chaos created by the citizens within the borders. Cities were cleared as terrorist free zones, and then divided by heavily guarded borders in an attempt to stop terrorists from re-entering. As the world tried valiantly to rebuild broken infrastructure and demolished states, the Underworld was born. Subways, caverns, mines, and bunkers were transformed into formidable prisons, buried under cement and rock, locked down tight, void of light, peace, and freedom. Each underground prison housed anywhere from a hundred inmates to more than a thousand in the larger states. In the world above, a new man was brought to power as the nation’s leader, and a strong military presence remained on the ground to enforce the law. Military commanders took positions of leadership in each state, commanding with an iron fist. In this newly formed America, if you committed a crime, regardless of whether it was with malicious intent on not, you were condemned to life in the underworld. The law was harsh and unforgiving, but it worked, and people were quick to fall in line.

  I am one of the unfortunate who is caged in what was once the New York subway system, simply because of my parents’ careless, wanton lust. Birthing children was not against the law down here, but it was most definitely frowned upon in an effort to prevent unfortunate accidental births like mine. Our prison is unlike the prisons of old. Once you’ve been cast into the underworld, there are no bars to hide behind, there are no guards to prevent lawlessness, there is simply our world, however corrupt and ugly it may be. Money has no value down here; however, the people from the land of freedom fought for the rights of their loved ones who were cast off into the Underworld prison. For that reason alone, we are given food, basic living necessities, used tools, hand-me-down clothes, generators for electricity, water…everything we would need to piece together an almost functional existence . These items became valuable, something as simple as a toothbrush could be a highly sought after commodity people were willing to trade for. Hence, our thriving trade system. And no item was more highly sort after than drugs and alcohol. Synthetic drugs and moonshine, manufactured in windowless labs, often causing its manufacturers deadly medical conditions, helped supply the never-ending need for an escape.

  This Underworld had its own leader, and his word is law in this cavernous pit. He refers to himself as our ‘king’. His law isn’t complex or difficult; it’s simple: do as the king says. His soldiers protect him and keep a modicum of peace down here, while often creating their own kind of mayhem along with it. Murderers and rapists, the worst of the worst, have been placed into powerful positions they would never be assigned to in any other world but ours. The king wasn’t born here, he was sent here for the brutal murder of a man he worked for , and since arriving had slaughtered his way to the top.

  I was born to the Underworld king, but I am no princess. I am nothing, and then again, to some, I am everything. In an effort to subdue me, they use me as a fighter in their ring. Little do they know that by doing so, they’ve created a monster. My name is Nada, and this is life in the Underworld.

  1

  NADA

  My eyelids sprang open with the first heavy thump on my door. I hadn’t meant to doze off, and from the heated feel of my body, it had only been a few minutes at most. I was a light sleeper, you had to be to survive the Underworld; otherwise, you’d never wake at all. I lived in my own small room, barricaded by a heavy, steel door. It couldn’t be locked from the inside, though, so anyone could enter at their own discretion. Few would dare, but those few who did rarely did twice.

  “Es la hora,” Pablo’s gruff voice murmured from the opposite side of th
e heavy, steel door before his retreating footstep echoed down the tunnel outside my room. It was always the same before every fight; Pablo would give me a few minutes’ notice before Kingsley’s soldiers came for me. I could walk out my door of my own free will and make my way to the arena on my own, but Kingsley liked to put on a show, and having me escorted was, apparently, all part of his insane display. Slowly, I sat up, allowing my legs to swing over the side of the bed. My boots hit the cement with a thud as I hung my head in my hands and just breathed. Another day breathing was a good day . . . right?

  Reaching down, I tightened the buckles that strapped my knee high boots to my calves, then repositioned the knife I hid, in one of those buckles, before reaching for my baby. I caressed the black, nine-inch carbon steel blade before attaching my thigh holster and slipping it into its sheath. I always slept fully clothed, ready for anything and everything. My pants were tight enough that nobody could ever grab a fistful of the fabric. My black, long-sleeved top was just as tight and zipped up the middle, where more buckles pulled a leather chest piece tight across my breasts. It was thick enough to prevent a knife to the heart, but still flexible enough not to restrict my movement. A fellow inmate, Regan, had designed it especially for me. I’d found the leather, fabric, and needles in a dump—when the world above sent their hand-me-downs to the world below. Regan had enjoyed creating the ensemble I now wore. Apparently, according to her, it was “badass”. As far as I was concerned, I didn't care how it looked, as long as it was practical.

  Standing, I stretched and glanced at my reflection from a grimy mirror hanging against the cold, stone wall. The jagged short hair style, which often flicked any-which-way in a completely disorderly fashion, had somehow managed to gather itself into a rough Mohawk during my sleep. I tilted my head to one side and considered how utterly menacing it looked. My dark eyes were surrounded with charcoal; a look I had adopted after my first fight in the cage at thirteen years of age. Regan thought it made me look menacing, but I’d merely smeared it over my eyes in an effort to hide bruises. It was important to never let your opponent know your weaknesses. Bruises were a weakness that could be capitalized on in the ring. Glancing down at my all black outfit, I adjusted one of the buckles and made sure my movement was free and easy. Theoretically, I was supposed to wear white; I had been born in the Underworld, which made me white . . . innocent. But I was far from innocent. The day I’d made my first kill I began wearing black clothing with red wristbands, which represented the blood I had spilled. I had dressed this way every day since, a reminder that I was just as guilty as the murderers condemned from above.

  Glancing down at my pillow, I noted the black smudges I had rubbed into the dirty, grey fabric. What was a little more dirt on top of a lot of dirt? Shrugging, I reached for a heavy black jacket, my eyes lingering on the loose stone in the wall, which held all my secrets, at the furthest corner of my room. The best way to keep a secret was to pretend there wasn’t one. I had ignored the innocuous loose stone for months now, but my fingers twitched with the need to dig it from its place and unearth the slip of paper behind it. I had been holding that folded piece of paper for so many years now; it was barely intact, thinning at the creases, the pictures and words faded to a dull, translucent image. That fragile piece of paper, with its vanishing effigy, held the one thing my life had been absent of thus far . . . hope.

  Heavy footsteps propelled me into action, and I pulled open the thick, steel door just as those footfalls came to a standstill on the other side.

  “Ready?”

  I didn’t respond; he knew I was ready. I simply stepped out before him and walked down the dark, narrow corridor, the enemy behind me. It was a cardinal rule broken. I had learned the hard way to never allow an enemy out of my line of sight, but the mood I was in dared the fucker to try something. A spot between my shoulder blades itched with discomfort, the need to switch positions a driving force. There had been a time when I would never have allowed such vulnerability, but that was a different time, and I was a different girl then, a girl who should have known better, a girl who put trust in a world where trust didn’t exist. I’d allowed myself to be vulnerable, and the results still plagued my dreams with horrifying detail. I could still feel the intrusive hands on my skin and the unwanted invasion into a part of my body I’d always considered sacred, but nothing was sacred in the Underworld. I shook off the nauseous feeling those thoughts always left me with and concentrated on breathing while keeping track of the heavy footfalls behind me.

  I’d taught him a lesson to keep his hands to himself nearly two years ago. I’d carved an ear from his head, and now he was nervous around me. He feigned nonchalance well, but I could see the nervous tick in his jaw and the way his body was rigid with anxiety. Solo was one of my father’s soldiers. He was built like a tank, with a bald head, muddy brown eyes narrowed to slits, a bulldog mouth, and wide shoulders that almost brushed either side of the tunnel we were in. His legs were like tree stumps, his hands big and meaty, yet for all his muscle and bluster, I’d bested him. He’d dared to touch me without my permission, and I’d taken his ear, because he obviously didn’t use it.

  There was only one rule the men had to follow where I was concerned: Don’t touch the merchandise. The rule came a little too late for me, but it had saved a repeat performance of the degradation that had been forced upon me at just sixteen years of age, and I swore I’d never be that weak again; no one would ever touch me like that again without losing a body part.

  I was Kingsley’s possession, his number one cage fighter, and as Kingsley discovered after that horrific event, to hurt me, hurt business, so he’d had implemented the only rule I’d ever thank him for: Don’t touch the king’s daughter. If I hadn’t been valuable to the man as a fighter, he’d have cast me aside years ago. I could never understand King’s hatred of me, I’d never done anything to warrant such loathing, but over time I’d come to accept it. It was simply the way things were, and in effect, it helped make me the strong, resilient woman I was today.

  We passed by other inmate’s rooms, some with steel doors barring the entrance, some with nothing more than a thin veil of fabric to give privacy, others without doors at all. Only a few of us had padlocks to protect our belongings when we left our rooms, and the dungeon, deep in the Underworld, was a place saved for child molesters and those who opposed Kingsley. For the most part, we were free to wander around in our world, but that freedom came at a price. The Underworld was a dangerous place, and people often died down here at the hands of others.

  The thunder of voices and music reached me as I entered the stairwell, descending the stairs two at a time. I kept my eyes front and center, ignoring the few men who lingered in the shadows. Someone pulled open a door, and I strolled through, the noise growing steadily as I neared my destination. The walls shook from the uproar that drowned out the usual quiet of this area. I followed another long, dark passageway, Solo still at my back, before taking another short stairwell that opened into a wide, well-lit corridor. My gaze took in the men who waited at the opposite end, standing like silent sentries in front of a door that led to blood and chaos. My eyes betrayed me by finding him first, my father, though to call him so would be a lie. The man had done nothing more than inject enough sperm into my junkie mother’s womb to produce offspring, a child neither of them deserved nor wanted. To me, he was an evil son-of-a-bitch; to everyone else, he was the king. King of this Underworld prison who had more power than any single man should be allowed to amass.

  Kingsley Duke, aka, The King. I guess, at face value, he was a handsome man. I had no idea how old he was, but I’d put him around fifty. His hair was only slightly greying at the tips over his ears, his nose was straight, and his lips were full. He always dressed well, in suits, albeit some ill-fitting, and yet fit for a king. Where he got them from I had no idea; such finery was hard to come by in the Underworld. But for all his aesthetic beauty, the man was pure evil with a soul as dark as the Underworld’s depth
s. He was brutal and without mercy, ruling over his domain with an iron fist that earned him a fearful following rather than respect.

  As his cold, dangerous eyes settled on mine, my gaze rose, only to betray me again, by settling on another man I loved to hate. Shadow, my father’s favorite assassin. He was taller than my father, if that were even possible, for Kingsley always seemed to tower over everyone. He had a body made for killing, tall, built with muscle that looked carved from stone. Fast and deadly, he was the assassin of the Underworld, and my father’s most trusted soldier. He also drew my attention, making me feel things I didn’t quite understand. My stomach fluttered at the sight of him, my heart rate increased, my eyes drawn by a will of their own to his beautiful eyes and strong body. I’d read about love, and while my symptoms were reminiscent, I knew I didn’t love him, I hated him, but I had been told love and hate shared a precarious line that could be crossed at any moment. I didn’t know love, I had no idea what the emotion felt like, but I knew hate.

  The lines had been blurred a little when Shadow had pushed open the door to that storage room and discovered my brutal assault. That moment was like a never-aging memory, still sharp and brutally accurate. I could recall the moment my head rolled to one side and I saw him standing there, his face filled with a rage that would have scared me to death had my body not turned inward and numb the moment the men had subdued me. Shadow had taken out those men; he beat the one who had been upon me at the time to an unidentifiable pulp. Then, with a gentle touch I had never felt before, he carried me to Dejohn’s door. Not a single word had been said during the entire ordeal, nor since.

  My feelings for Shadow were full of conflict. One part of me was grateful for what he had done for me, while the other saw him as little more than my father’s dog, obeying every command without question. The man was a mystery of contradictions. His own unique accent had a lazy drawl that suggested an easygoing façade, and Shadow was anything but easygoing. His penetrating gaze promised pain and death, but sometimes, when I caught him unashamedly staring at me, those dark eyes became almost reflective and something replaced the rage, though I could never quite tell what that was.