by Kolin Wood
Bennet sucked in a deep breath and screamed. Sharp, intense pain flooded him, threatening to send him unconscious. The resulting sound was deep and desperate. It slammed violently around the sparse room and out into the corridor, much louder than he had expected. Fear came rushing back in, crushing the hope which had ever so briefly preceded it. He knew that he had just signed his own death warrant. The crazy doctor-kid would be back, stroking his head while taking the rusty scissors on the bench to his outstretched tongue.
The final echoes of his plea rebounded in the deep warren of tunnels. Bennet rested his head against the padded back support of the gurney and closed his eyes. If the crazy son of a bitch was going to cut open his head, he wanted his brain to be as far away from the scalpel as it could be. He needed to meditate; to at least try. He took a deep, controlled breath and held it until his lungs ached and his heartbeat began to slow. God, please have mercy on my family… if they are still alive.
Something faint brushed against his arm. He coughed, snorting on phlegm and dried blood. His imagination conjured that skinny, gaunt face with broken glasses perched on the end of its oily nose. Cold eyes stared back at him. The crooked, lop-sided grin was there, trying to belittle him as though he were the child and not the other way around. The vision was so ridiculous that Bennet laughed.
That’s it, Ben; he can’t hurt you anymore. He has done all that he can do to you. It was his wife’s voice now. The fear which had only minutes ago fully entrenched itself in his brain was fading. He began to feel calm. He would not to show any repentance. He would not show any fear. He opened his eyes.
The sight caused him to take a sharp intake of breath which brought new, almost unbearable pain in his gut. He tried to focus, to clear his scrambled brain.
The face as it came into view was not that of a young and greasy, psychopathic kid intent on slowly spilling his brain from his skull. It belonged to a woman, a handsome and yet tired woman, hard and stern looking but with a softness floating somewhere at the back of her eyes.
Bennet just stared. Confusion pasted a creased veneer across his face, deeply furrowing his brow. Was she an apparition? Maybe a vision caused by the savage beatings and the delirium? Or was she one of them, here to taunt him even more, to give him hope of the chance of survival then tear it back down again. Maybe she’s nothing but another laughing face in the room. He turned his head away.
The woman moved closer until he could feel her breathing on his neck, sending shivers from the base of his spine and making the hairs there stand on end.
“Who are you?” came a coarse whisper.
Stale breath rose into his nostrils, still a welcome change from the smell of death that had stifled him ever since his incarceration. Images came again. They flashed in his eyes, staining his vision like a strobe light in a dark room, twisted and horror-soaked images of his son being opened, the cracking of bones…
It must be a trap. The psycho doctor had been pressing him for answers to simple questions for hours, and now here was this woman, who had appeared from nowhere, asking more questions, playing more games.
He straightened, pushing back farther still into the padding of the gurney.“Get away, you’ll get nothing from me,” he hissed.
The woman stepped back, motioning with her left arm into the darkness. Bennet smiled, the resignation that had been slowly creeping over him suddenly realised. He stared at her, trying to snatch a small glimpse of anger, of failure, proud that he had been able to maintain even the smallest of victories in these final moments of his relatively short life. From the darkness, another figure approached slowly, a shiny instrument flashing in the darkness before them.
Bennet closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He started to pray.
Our father, who art in heaven…
He thought about his wife, her smile, the way her nose had wrinkled when she laughed, the small and beautiful mole under her left eye in the middle of her cheek that she had always hated, but he had always thought made her look beautiful.
Hallowed be thy name…
He thought about his daughter, his radiant and loving daughter who had always seen the best in everybody, even in the height of tragedy and human decomposition.
Thy Kingdom come…
Her giggle, light and innocent, and the way that she had always argued that his lengths and measures in keeping them all locked away in the house had been overkill.
Thy will be done…
People were inherently good, she had said, the world will right itself once the good people in the world found the strength to fight back and reclaim what was theirs. He had always hoped that she had been right; maybe even somewhere, deep down inside, he had believed her.
On Earth as it is in heaven…
A breeze on his face, and the sound of people whispering nearby reached his ears.
Give us this day our daily bread…
He ignored it and thought about his son, his loving, thin and slightly built boy with a soft nature, who would sit for hours and play the guitar to his mother and sister.
And forgive us our trespasses…
Had the world been different, he was sure that his boy would have been an artist or a musician, or perhaps a writer or journalist. As it had been, he had learned to become a superior marksman and hunter, quiet and patient, accurate with a rifle from a distance, but always uncomfortable with the final dispatch of any animal unfortunate enough not to have been killed outright.
As we forgive those who trespass against us…
It was this lack of killer instinct that had ultimately got him slain.
And lead us not into temptation…
It had led to them all becoming entrapped in this prison full of savages; monsters with no compassion and no humanity, butchers and rapists. But, even after everything that had happened, Bennet felt glad that his boy had died with his humanity intact. Even though they had been butchered like animals, they would all die as humans.
But deliver us from Evil…
A tear fell from his eye, hot and wet, tickling on its way down his cheek. He pictured each of their faces in turn as he awaited the puncture of steel into his skin.
For thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory…
He sensed a second person move directly into his personal space and he prepared himself for death.
Forever and ever…
It was not until the tightness in his chest suddenly relaxed and his stomach lurched that he opened his eyes. Blood stained tiles rushed up to meet his face.
Somebody from behind had cut his bonds.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tanner’s brain throbbed as he came to and tried to make sense of what was happening around him. He opened one eye, immediately feeling a sting as something watery and potent filled it. He blinked wildly and tried to sit up against an unusual heaviness. Directly under his face was a puddle of something dark and putrid, the stench of which suddenly caught at the back of his nose and throat and caused him to wretch and gag violently. Agonising arrows shot from his neck and down to his wrists as he tried in vain to push himself away from the puddle before realising that his arms had been bound behind him. He rolled to one side and landed heavily on his back, breathing a little easier as the strength of the vile liquid dissipated. He squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them again a few times, trying to clear away the infringing liquid and at the same time piece together his clearly disastrous predicament.
He thought back to the market… the fight. He remembered the meeting with Teddy, the boring speech, the drink, and then… nothing. Perhaps they had knocked him out while he had been engaging that egomaniac Teddy Braydon?
But no—his head really hurt, but not as much as it would have if had he been hit hard enough to send him out like that. He mentally checked over his upper body, ignoring the sting in his side and the pain in his arms. Apart from an unusual drowsiness, everything seemed to be intact. He stretched his legs, happily revealing that neither
of them had been broken. A broken leg in the New Capital could mean a punishment worse than death itself; a life of begging and grovelling in the filth and shit of humanity on its knees.
So, what then? He remembered looking down at the Pit, Teddy asking him to join with him, refusing, standing, setting down his glass… The whisky… it must have been the whisky! It was the only thing that he had taken from him. Stupid, really stupid.
From his back on the floor, Tanner looked around as his eyes slowly became accustomed to the dark. The room was small; some sort of basic cell. He could see sharp, concrete corners, no more than six metres apart. Up on the wall to his right, a grill with horizontal slats allowed three bright shards of light of surprising intensity to pierce the shadows, almost like laser beams in a science lab experiment. A steady drip… drip… drip… drummed out a callous rhythm on something hollow a short way off to his left. The faint outline of a large door underneath the slotted grill was visible. The light that shone through at the gap at the bottom was bright white; not natural, but man made like a flood-lit sports ground, meaning it was likely night-time. He strained his ears, trying to circumvent the sound of the dripping to include anything else in the vicinity. He was sure he could hear the steady crackle of a fire in the distance.
Painfully, he rocked, pulling himself forwards and up with great strain, groaning as his stomach muscles contracted and stung from the emerging bruises on his torso. His arms, tied tightly at the wrists and behind his back, were numb from his bonds down, making it feel as though he did not have any hands. He waited for the rush of blood to clear the dizziness in his eyes and pushed with his feet, managing to balance forward and lean up on one knee. Every part of him ached dully, but at least now he could properly survey his holding room.
To the right, a dark flat shape turned out to be a makeshift mattress, consisting of about three large, unfolded, cardboard boxes. The edges of the boxes were wet, but the centre appeared to have remained largely dry. The drumming sound was a steady drip of water from the ceiling above hitting a small, half-tubular piece of dark plastic which fed precariously into a large, steadily overflowing bucket. Tanner tentatively tasted the water with his tongue, grimacing at the gritty punch. But it was rainwater and therefore at least drinkable, he thought.
With his forehead feeling as though it were on fire, he submerged his head fully in the bucket and began gulping wantonly. The water was ice cold and felt luxurious, quenching his thirst and immediately helping with the fog surrounding his brain. Then, once his thirst had been sated and whilst still underwater, he shook his head from side to side in an attempt to wash, or at least dilute, the filth he knew to be on the one side of his face.
On a plate by the door, Tanner discovered a hunk of stale bread and some cut pieces of some sort of processed meat, cold and sinewy and most likely poured straight from a tin. He sniffed it for poison, realising quickly that he was wasting his time—he would have no idea what poison smelled like. So he leaned forward and ate, liberally smearing the meaty contents around his face, like a starving dog eating without refrain.
Finally hydrated and with something at least resembling food in his belly, Tanner leaned his back against the cold, damp wall.
For a while he tugged and pulled at his binds, trying in vain to manoeuvre himself against the door and yanking as hard as he could before falling prone again. Eventually, he rolled over onto the cardboard bed in defeat. His wrists were bound tight, and the door was steel and heavy; nothing in the sparse room offered him any sort of leverage. So, for the time being, he conceded himself to his captivity. If they had wanted him dead he would never have woke up in the first place, so he may as well just conserve his energy.
He watched the door, pondering escape scenarios and possible reasons for his capture, each thought becoming more and more confused until he eventually fell into a deep and fitful sleep.
***
He awoke with a start as the effects of the drug induced sleep wore off. Around him, a huge noise filled the air—shouting and cheering, stamping and bellowing, smashing bottles and swearing. The sound hammered in on him, loud and imposing. The room was still dark, but the smell of fire smoke had filled it; confused, he watched as the snaking fumes danced in the shards of light from the high grate, twisting itself into magical swirls and patterns.
The door came crashing open. A large, bulky silhouette filled the frame.
“Get up!” came the order.
The noise and smells from outside intensified and bright light scourged across his eyes. Tanner pushed his forehead into the floor and used his legs to push his body up onto his knees then stood and turned to face his oppressor. Bound or not, he would never take a beating lying down.
“MOVE!” came the same guttural voice again as a rough hand fell heavily upon his shoulder, yanking him in the direction of the door.
Tanner allowed himself to be led, deciding to take whatever chances might be had outside of this current concrete confinement. Maybe he could at least try and gage where he was and what was going on; the noise around him sounded like he was in the middle of a full blown riot or war zone.
He walked on heavy legs out into the light; his brain, still in a fugue state from the drugs, scrambled for clarity. Something sharp struck him in the back but he ignored it. About ten metres from the door, the guard ordered him to stop and he spun slowly, taking the sight in.
The stands rose up a good thirty feet into the air. People —many of whom were screaming abuse at him —were swamped over every inch, like ants on a hill scurrying and pushing, their combined presence bearing down claustrophobically. All around, barrels were alight, billowing forth the putrid and choking fumes of discarded plastic bottles, damp wood, and oil.
He completed a full circle and turned back to the front. The man behind shoved him hard in the back, and he struggled to stop himself from toppling over onto his face without the support of his hands to assist him. The muscles in his thighs burned as though they were being severed under his weight.
The crowd jeered again, louder this time. They were already enjoying this. Tanner could almost taste the blood-lust on their tongues; almost see the crazy wantonness for murder in their eyes. As his mind began to clear, the frayed edges of his consciousness showed every strand. From a young age, this was a clarity which often left him feeling as though he was in a tunnel with only his end goals and aims in sight. It made him feel strong and invincible. He turned to look at the person who had shoved him.
Try that again, I dare you he thought, as he fixed him with a stare that could only mean business.
As if obliging him, the man approached. It only took three or four steps before he was in range. In his hands he carried a large sledgehammer. Tanner spun and jumped, nimbly taking to the air. He flicked his head and brought a heavy brow down hard into the nose of his adversary, flattening it with a loud crunch in a fine spray of blood. Stunned, the big man dropped the hammer, a look of sheer disbelief pasted across his pained and bloody face. Then, with his eyes full of tears, his thick legs gave way from beneath him and he sprawled backward into the rain-soaked mud with a tremendous splash.
The crowd, which had been feverish before, exploded into a chorus of cheering and chanting. The stamping of feet and the clapping of hands created a movement of air that he was sure he could feel on his face and hair. Tanner spat on the body at his feet as blood that was not his own dripped in rivulets down his forehead and over his cheeks.
Three or four large, bright lights suddenly clanked on above him, flooding the whole area in a dazzling white and clear light. Tanner grimaced at the luminance, unable to shield his eyes. The brightness brought with it a clarity which made everything seem false and surreal, almost too detailed. In the centre of the space before him was a large hole, its edges rough with rubble and cracked concrete. The Pit. Two masked men were busy lowering a dirty metal ladder down into the bottom, which was obscured from Tanner’s view.
A booming voice, slightly obscured a
t first as the tannoy system rang out, battling against the uproar of the paying mob. “WELCOME…WELCOME… ONE AND ALL…”
Tanner recognised the voice immediately as that of Teddy Braydon, the guy that had been trying to schmooze him a few hours before. The guy that had drugged him and bound him, left him lying in a pool of shit in a dark room. The thought made him snarl and tense every muscle.
“TO THE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY SIXTH CONTEST OF CHAMPIONS, BROUGHT TO YOU LIVE FROM THE PIT, COURTESY OF Braydon ENTERPRISES AND NEW CAPTITAL PRODUCTIONS! HOW ARE WE ALL FEELING TONIGHT?”
The clustering mob bellowed their approval as papers which had been set alight were tossed like streamers from above, lighting the dark sky like fireworks. Tanner turned slowly, feeling the energy as the hairs on his arms stood on end and a common electric force passed unseen throughout the people. All around him, rubbish reigned down, forming an ever-growing carpet of refuse at his feet.
“NOW MY FRIENDS, PLEASE, IF YOU WOULD JOIN ME IN A MOMENT OF silence.”
As Teddy’s voice hushed, Tanner was surprised to see the crowd do so as well. The noise from the congregation fell steadily until it was simply a few, stray, cat calls and the odd, shrill, wolf whistle.
Impressive, Tanner thought. Teddy had the crowd in the palm of his hand and was playing them like a well-seasoned television presenter. He started up again, more quietly this time. The result was dramatic.
“The last contest,”—he let out a low whistle that crackled over the unsteady frequency of the speakers—“gave us blood…”
A low murmur escaped from the crowd as people nodded and agreed with their host. Tanner looked around trying in vain to see where the voice was coming from, unable to view past the glare of the lights that shone down on him from all directions.
“Gave us guts…”
A slowly building chorus began to bubble in the farthest corners of the huge, makeshift arena.
