by Celia Loren
Bane is on trial.
The hefty, bearded man I recognize from the bar as the Sergeant at Arms is here. So is Judge Jefferson from the band, who evidently moonlights as club Treasurer. President Jack Keller is heading the meeting, his severe face smug and leonine. It finally occurs to me who Jack reminds me of: Scar, the evil uncle from The Lion King. I can’t stop staring at the void and burn mark where Jack’s eyebrow should be.
He even sounds like Jeremy Irons. “All you officers are witnesses,” Jack rasps between puffs on his cigar. “Road Captain Bane ‘the Beast’ Harme openly confesses that he killed our brother Paul ‘Smokey’ Gunn over a piece of tail of all goddamn things. Death Layer has a strict no-kill policy among members. We look down on that sort of bullshit. Retribution has always been blood for blood. Now I call upon you officers to act as judge, jury and executioners.”
The men all shuffle, tense. The grandfather clock with the skeleton and D.L. initials engraved on top tells me we’ve been here for over an hour, the men grilling Bane about Smokey’s death. Now Bane clears his throat, taking the floor.
“Look down on killing at Death Layer, do we?” Bane says. “That’s rich. What about manipulation, stealing, destruction of property, raping a brother’s property? Smokey broke charter laws too!” Bane holds up one finger. “One, he stole my dog and threw her in the ring; but that was probably on your fucking orders, right Jack? You all know I don’t do dog fights. Fucking stealing, not to mention you almost succeeded in killing my dog!”
Jack’s eyes gleam but he doesn’t answer.
Bane continues, pointing at me. “Two, Smokey attacked my property. Twice. Now you yourself agreed to my terms that no one touch her. I warned the son of a bitch that I was serious after he got too familiar yesterday, and tonight I catch him fucking pants down and dick out. You expect me to just slap his fucking wrist?”
“So you killed a brother over pussy?” This comes from the furious Sergeant at Arms.
“I killed him when he took a shot at me!” Bane’s tone is uncompromising and disdainful. “But he deserved it before. I’d do the same to you, Bug Breath. I was unarmed! There’s only one bullet hole in that stairwell, and any idiot can see it wasn’t from my Remington. You’re gonna blood for blood me because of an act of provoked self-defense?”
There is a grumble around the room. Bane is striking a chord. I swallow, hopeful.
“Make sense, people,” Bane shouts. “I wouldn’t have had to kill Smokey if he’d acted like a brother. But if a man pisses on my shoes, I’m gonna fucking decapitate him. That’s the law of the jungle. We all joined Death Layer to have each other’s backs in this kind of shit, not cause it amongst ourselves!”
Judge Jefferson clears his throat, “I believe Beast, Jack.” He says. “I was there in the clubhouse yesterday when Smokey got a little too handsy with his property. Beast warned Smoke that if it happened again, they’d have a serious problem.”
“It don’t matter!” This comes from the Sergeant at Arms guy again. “Bane killed Smokey over a fucking woman! Blood for blood!”
“Jesus, you’ve got to be kidding!” Bane bellows.
The room breaks out in shouting and it’s chaos until Jack smacks a gavel on his desk. Silence falls as fast as if he’d shot a gun.
“Blood for blood law in effect?” Jack bellows. “Vote yea or nay. Yea?”
Jack, the Sergeant, and three other guys raise their hands.
“Nay?”
Only Judge Jefferson votes nay, his eyes darting around the room nervously. Bane shakes his head and mutters as if praying for patience, rolling his eyes heavenward.
“Blood for blood is in effect,” Jack announces.
Those words do not sound good. It might just be my imagination but the faces around us seem to harden and grow more sinister, their humanity withdrawing from their eyes as they look at Bane and me. Even Bane clenches his hands into taut fists.
“Bane?” I whisper, my skin crawling. “What’s blood for blood?”
He doesn’t answer me. Lost, I take a reflexive step closer to him. I’m afraid to find out what blood for blood means, but I have a sinking feeling that I’m going to have to. I’m afraid of the men around us, afraid of Jack, afraid of being separated from Bane.
Bane feels my body’s presence at his side, I can tell because he turns his head toward me. But he won’t look at me. He is staring at Jack, waiting. The room is deathly quiet.
“How’s this gonna look?” Bane demands.
There’s another long pause. I can hear the grandfather clock ticking, seconds of our lives melting away.
“Since it is a divided vote,” Jack finally answers, his one eyebrow glowering at Judge Jefferson, “And because I want to preserve unity and strength in this club as much as possible in spite of the sedition of certain fucking members who take their pussy too seriously, I will give the Beast a choice of blood.”
“How nice,” Bane quips. “How about yours?”
Jack leans forward over his desk and sets down his cigar, growling at Bane.
“Don’t fucking open your mouth again except to answer my questions,” Jack says, “Or I’ll end you right here.” The ash of his cigar falls in a silver tray. Jack nods at the grandfather clock. “It’s four a.m., time for the last elimination match of the night, the climax of the evening’s entertainment for our high-paying patrons. You tell me who is going in the ring, Beast: you, or your precious red pussy.”
“You can’t be serious,” Bane barks.
“Personally I’d like to throw you both in,” Jack shouts back. “But unlike you, I don’t let my emotions get the better of me. Smokey was a good friend, a great rider, a true brother. That’s your price for Smokey’s death: fight for your life, or she does. One of you goes in the ring, now. Decide.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The seconds on the skeleton clock stretch and warp and my head feels light, like I’m having an out-of-body experience and watching myself from above. My mind flashes back to when Mr. King first dragged me through the D.L. Club, when I saw the skinny kid having his throat cut in the ring and bleeding out on the sand. That fight wasn’t fair: everyone knew from the beginning that the skinny, frightened kid didn’t have a chance against the giant body-builder he was paired against. He was always going to loose.
Going to die.
I close my eyes, trying to get my brain to accept what’s happening. I try to picture Rachel’s face for comfort, but it only makes me panic as the thought occurs to me that I may never actually see her again. If they put me in the ring, I’ll die. How could I possibly win? I’ve never fought anyone in my life, not even on the playground in second grade.
I open my eyes and stare at Jack, whose face is rigid and devoid of emotion. He’s rigged this, I’m sure. Bane’s words come back to me with a sickening pang: they’d love to have an excuse for me to be dead, Red. They want for us to fuck up and give them a reason to come after us. Bane was right, and I fucked it up.
However twisted this whole situation is, however soulless and evil Jack and the D.L. Club are, I realize my actions played a decisive part in this moment. I could have listened to Bane. I could have tried trusting him. But I didn’t. My hair stands on end as I realize that there’s no way out, no mercy.
Whichever one of us goes into the ring isn’t coming out.
“Me,” Bane announces. “I go in.”
The moment he says it, my heart plummets to my feet and beyond. No, he can’t. He can’t go in the ring. This can’t be happening.
But it is. Jack nods and two bouncers step forward. They push me out of the way, flanking Bane on either side. One takes Bane’s arm and starts to tug him toward the door. Bane punches his arms away.
“Don’t touch me motherfucker,” he snaps. “I’ll go on my own or not at all.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “Let him alone.”
The bouncers step aside to let Bane pass. His face is angry and fierce and determined, and more handsome than I ever re
member. I want to stop him, throw myself at his feet and force him to stay. Something inside me bursts and a roar of scalding fear and sense of loss rips through me. I realize he’s choosing to fight and die for me. For me.
I can’t lose him. I can’t.
The sudden knowledge galvanizes me and leaves me hollow.
“No!” I breathe. “No, Bane, they’ll kill you, don’t! Jack, don’t! Please!”
No one listens to me, even as my screams reach a hysterical pitch. Judge Jefferson comes up behind me and wraps his gentle but firm fists around my arms, holding me back. I’m wailing, shocked and terrified by the grief that has turned my limbs into lead. The seconds are slipping away, my last seconds with Bane.
“No don’t do this Bane! Don’t do this!” I scream. “Let me go! Let me do it! Put me in! Bane, don’t, I don’t want you to die! Please! Put me in instead!”
Bane pauses as the bouncers open the door for him. He turns his chin over his shoulder and looks at me for the first time since the trial started. As our eyes lock, I have the familiar sensation that he is reading my thoughts, seeing all of me. His face softens and there’s a ghost of a grin on his lips.
“See you, Red,” he whispers.
He turns to go.
No…not like this…
“Ava!” I shout. This stops Bane in his tracks and I see his shoulders tense. “My name is Ava.”
Bane spins slowly around, facing me completely. He’s blinking at me in surprise, the old question and the light of confidence back in his eyes. His lips part, whispering my name. I wish I could kiss them, pour myself into them, but a couple thousand pounds of mean biker muscle is standing between us and no one is letting us move an inch closer to each other.
“What is this, a god damn soap opera?” Jack roars. “Get on with it!”
Bane tries to take a step towards me but the bouncers shove him back and out the hall.
“Goddammit!” Bane shouts at the bouncer. “Don’t touch me again. I’m going.”
Bane gives me one last parting look, heavy with unspoken things. His eyes flash dark and then he turns and disappears down the hall with the bouncers. The club officers trail out after him, making a sort of dark parade to the death arena. Finally, Jack stands and leers at me.
“Well ain’t you curious Red?” He gloats. “Why don’t we go watch?”
Chapter Fourteen
There is no drumbeat; the soundtrack to this fight will be the wild pounding of my heart in my ears. Sure, the crowd is chanting their hungry song for death. In my periphery I see spittle flinging from their twisted lips and their fists pounding in the air, but I can’t hear anything over the thundering beat of my heart and a high white noise in my ears—the same ringing that I hear when I wake from a dream. Only this is no dream. It’s not even a nightmare. It’s worse.
They’ve just opened the gate and shoved Bane into the caged ring. I can’t take my eyes off him as he steps forward, all two hundred pounds of him pissed off and unwavering. They’ve stripped his shirt and jeans and he’s standing in his boxers, his tattoos and bulging muscles shimmering with sweat under the floodlights. His brow furrows as he faces the enemy gate and waits, hands swinging loose at his sides.
Oh my god. His hands are empty! They’ve not given him any weapon.
I’m vaguely aware that Judge Jefferson is still holding me up on my feet and we are standing at the edge of the ring between the fighter gates, a sort of backstage area with no seats. This is where the Death Layer officers have come to watch. My fingers are twined through the chain link that domes over the ring, as if by sneaking one tiny part of my body through the fence I can break its barrier and set Bane free. But it’s a useless fantasy. He’s in there, and I am out here, and there is nothing I can do about it.
As I stare, Bane’s body goes completely still and he bursts out laughing, his eyes narrowing. Following the trajectory of his gaze, I see why: his opponent has entered the ring, and we’ve stepped into a lethal joke.
My mouth falls open in dread. Just like the winner of the death match I witnessed before, this new guy could be Schwarzenegger’s body double. He is pale, missing teeth, missing an ear. He looks like those deep-sea creatures with external jaws and filmy eyes that spend their lives in the lowest cracks of the ocean floor blasted by lava and chewed by leviathans. He is a leviathan, fully a head taller than and twice as wide as Bane. His broad chest and back are stenciled with tattoos of what looks like the Moscow skyline, all puffy towers and crosses and alien alphabet letters. Clearly, this is not his first death rodeo. He has probably been down here fighting death matches all his life. It certainly looks like he’s never seen the sun.
Where do they find these guys? Do they fucking clone them?
My attention rivets on the punch line of the joke, the reason Bane is laughing: his opponent’s meaty fist is closed around an 8-inch bowie knife. A fucking bowie knife. Bane is unarmed, and Jack has thrown him against Vladimir Putin’s steroid-popping evil twin with a bowie knife. A hollow thrill shoots down my legs, a sense of foregone conclusion.
There’s no way out. It’s happening, happening now.
Putin throws his knife-wielding arm forward in a heavy jab and Bane’s body compacts into a capoeira ginga step, feinting away from the strike. The two men dance around each other slowly in the center of the ring, Bane’s forearms raised like a shield under his chin.
Putin moves like a Mack truck, seemingly slower because of his size but dangerously powerful. When his knife flashes out again, I realize his speed is just as potent as his girth. He’s just saving it. Waiting. Circling like a shark.
Bane manages to duck under the next jab and quickly lands a punch on Putin’s chin before dancing away again. Putin’s head wobbles a little but keeps advancing toward Bane, herding him toward the cage.
Switching tactics, Bane changes his feet around and pops up on Putin’s side behind the knife, quickly volleying a roundhouse kick and kidney punch before the giant can react. It doesn’t seem to faze him, though, and Bane retreats.
Putin’s knife flashes, and they are backing toward the fence. Bane kicks at Putin’s knees and shins, stalling, and I feel each impact, root for every flash of his feet to bring the man down. Putin pushes through it, though, deliberately following Bane’s movement like a locked-on missile. As hard as Bane is working to wear down Putin with jabs and kicks, it seems their trajectory toward the edge is inevitable.
Putin swings again and Bane ducks, kicking at his ankles and making contact. As he does so, his arm-guard lowers for a split second. Putin two-steps but doesn’t trip, instead taking advantage of Bane’s lowered guard and barreling forward like a bulldozer.
Their bodies crash together and I groan, terrified, as the knife swings toward Bane’s hip. He catches it, though, a rough hand closing around Putin’s wrist just in the nick of time. Bane digs in his heels and the two men’s revved up bodies gravitate and lock into each other, their opposed strengths bringing things to a grinding halt in the center of the ring like a couple of dancing bears.
Bane’s arms clench around Putin’s side and knife-arm, holding it at bay, while Putin’s massive body is straining to push to the wall. Neither seems able to break out of the grizzly grip. I can see Bane’s arm muscles trembling with stress and my solar plexus trembles with him. Both men’s faces are concentrated, their breathing labored. Veins are standing out in Putin’s neck and his eyes dart toward the fence.
The standstill is short-lived. Bane brings his knees up to Putin’s groin, fast and furious. In response, Putin’s free hand flies out and in, battering Bane’s ribs. Bane’s face is stoic, registering no pain, but the Russian’s blows take a toll, and his grip slips.
Putin’s knife-arm is moving again.
Like kids arm wrestling, both men transfer their entire attention to grapple around the knife. Putin gains enough freedom with his arm to draw it back a few inches, moving into position to stab Bane. With tremendous effort, Putin lashes the knife forward.
Bane uses the momentum and pulls Putin’s arm beyond its intended path until Putin is stumbling forward, his head at Bane’s waist. Lightning quick, Bane twists the knife-arm up behind Putin’s back at a withering angle. Putin’s fingers loosen and the knife drops to the sandy floor.
“Yes! Bane! Grab it!” I scream.
Bane can’t hold the angle on Putin’s arm for long, though, and tries to climb up on his back. But Putin spins like a crazy bull, throwing Bane off. He rolls on the ground and speed-crawls toward the knife, but before he can snatch it, Putin lunges.
Bane jumps out of the way, skirting toward the knife. Putin is right behind him, aiming his shoulders at Bane’s waist like a battering ram knocking him sideways. On impact, Bane bends forward over Putin’s torso. Their bodies ram into the fence a few feet down from me, and the whole structure shakes.
So do my knees.
Lightning quick, Bane shoots his left arm out and loops it around Putin’s neck, making a lock with his other fist and squeezing both elbows up. It’s a guillotine, and Putin is choking. Bane threads Putin’s head under his armpit, his bicep pushing into the other man’s air pipe. Putin’s arms flail into Bane’s sides, but Bane will not let go of his stranglehold. Bane uses the hold to force them both down to their knees.
Bane’s face is crinkled with strain as he squeezes his arm tighter and tighter around Putin’s neck. The big man’s arms slow down as his air supply shortens. Bane pulls him forward and down, wrapping his legs around Putin’s ribs and locking his ankles behind. Bane’s wrapped around him like alligator jaws, cutting off air and blood flow.
Putin’s head goes red, then purple, and blue. Finally, he stops moving altogether, his massive body draping over Bane like a bearskin rug. Still, Bane holds on. I count to a hundred in my head before two bouncers enter the ring and manage to pry Putin’s dead body out of Bane’s lethal embrace.
