by D. L. Denham
“I have looked at the evidence, and there is no doubt that the accused took the life of an employee of Soapy’s Enterprise and Exchange. A man known as Blackwell.” Reho’s muscles tightened as he forced himself to remain still. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, unfurling silently, not unlike the old man and his meticulously focused exercises in his cell.
“Motives are not always clear,” the judge said, “but we must ensure that our consequences are. The accused is left with two options.”
Reho felt Soapy’s eyes on him. He looked at Traylor; he stood limp. Perhaps he had meant to help him, realizing that his fate had been decided beforehand and without him. Traylor’s presence was as ceremonial as the OldWorld statues scattered across the room.
The judge cleared his throat. “You have a choice, Reho: either ten years in the Red Basin work camp or take your chances at Red Rocks. At Red Rocks, you would fight to the death an opponent chosen by Soapy’s Enterprise and Exchange. And your decision will be effective immediately. Do know, our next series of fights at Red Rocks Arena is this afternoon. Here at Red Hall, we don’t believe in delaying justice.”
Soapy made no effort to contain his gnarled, yellow-toothed smile; he already knew what Reho’s choice would be. Around the room, everyone took a deep breath as they paused, eager to learn which choice the former gasoline champion would make.
“Which do you choose?”
Reho straightened. He thought of the old man, how straight he’d held himself back in the cell. The judge shook the red gavel, ready to close the case.
“Red Rocks,” Reho answered, his eyes locked on Soapy’s as they exchanged unspoken—but deadly—promises. Reho would not just kill whichever fighter Soapy presented. Before the day ended, he would rid Red Denver of the crime and corruption that Soapy had spread.
***
An hour later, Reho sat in a second holding cell in the back of an OldWorld gasoline as they moved closer to Red Rocks Arena. He had attended a fight there before deciding to settle in Red Denver. The competition had been brutal. He had thought it too much for entertainment. He’d seen dozens of men die, but always in a real fight with a purpose other than to entertain ten thousand viewers. Out in the Blastlands, only the victors remembered the fight. In the arena, everyone watched. Everyone remembered. The gasoline stopped. The metal cage was ice cold, and Reho could see the hot breath of the enforcers who talked outside near the door. From the lone window he could make out part of the overhang they called Creation Rock. He had arrived at Red Rocks. Across the way, another massive structure called Ships Rock overlooked the arena stage. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there. Soapy would be atop it, watching and waiting for Reho’s blood to be spilled.
Suddenly, a familiar cry erupted from somewhere near Red Rocks. He’d heard the sound before, but it sounded closer than it had at Red Hall. Whatever it was had been brought to Red Rocks.
His chain tightened as both doors flung open. Startled, he pulled back, slamming one of the enforcers into the side of the vehicle.
“Jesus!” he said as he yanked Reho out of the back of the OldWorld prison and into Red Rocks’ freezing winds.
Five enforcers circled Reho. Two held his chain as they led him to what Reho thought would be another temporary cell where he’d be stashed until the games started. His watch and other belongings had been taken. He looked at the sun and estimated it was at least six o’clock.
Despite the blinding sunshine, the temperatures had dropped significantly since early that morning. He would wait until they placed him in a cell; then he would use his AIM to gather information on the stadium. Killing the fighter Soapy chose for him would be the easy part of his plan. As he passed through the opening to the back of the arena, he saw the source of the muffled rumbling he’d been hearing. The archaic, earthen seating area was already packed with spectators. Another loud, high-pitched sound rang out, but this one was different from the beastly screams; it sounded electrical. The whine rose and fell, then rose again to a shrieking squeal. The ground shook as a rhythm replaced the chatter of the crowd. He knew the noise.
A live band played near the arena stage. The music filled the stadium as a voice sang out to the crowd. At first, he couldn’t make out the lyrics but could hear the crowd’s approval. The tune was familiar enough. He’d heard it before in near OldWorld Detroit. The soundtrack to Reho’s funeral seemed to include the chorus from a song called “Worlds Colliding” by a post-blast band called Nifhel. The lyrics followed Reho as he moved toward his cell.
The rain washes away the ash
The oceans wind carries away
The taste of death
The fire burns as
Worlds collide
Reho sat. Alone. He activated his AIM. He could see nothing within the arena that would be useful in his escape attempt. Along the perimeter, several towers ascended above Red Rocks. There would be eyes on him anytime he was outside the cell. His only hope, as he could see it, would be to win the fight and wait to see if they kept their end of the bargain.
He had felt the bitter winds cut through the air; in the arena it would feel below zero.
Reho’s door opened.
“Let’s go,” commanded the lead enforcer who was dressed in a red ceremonial uniform meant for the arena. Reho stood, his chain lifted by another enforcer cloaked in white.
They guided him away from the holding cells. As they approached the backstage stairs, he watched as several costumed entertainers practiced their tricks and flips. Reho had seen the group before at one of the theaters in Red Denver. He saw the thick-muscled giant who could bend OldWorld steel. He wondered why Soapy hadn’t chosen him. At least that guy would stand a chance.
***
The old man stood on the stage, facing the roaring crowd. His body was calm as his opponent danced around him waving a large OldWorld sword in the air. Each time the sword cut through the air, the crowd thundered. The stage rumbled; Reho could feel the vibration and hear his chains rattle. The old man never moved.
From atop Creation Rock, a resounding voice addressed the crowd. Both the rumble and music ceased.
Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to our first night of the twenty-sixth season of “Fight! Fight!” We will be showing two fights every night from now until the next new moon. To kick off our new season, we have two special fights for you tonight.
The announcer waited as the crowd chanted, “Fight! Fight!”
Our first bout is already center stage. We have the foreigner, a man who silently stood by as an unnamed assailant murdered the Ricardo family. He watched as they were slaughtered, their blood spilling at his feet. And why? Because he loves death and refuses to interfere in the fate of others. So, let each one of us ask this question: Will he interfere and prevent his own death here tonight?
The crowd hissed and cursed at the foreigner. The old man stood, unresponsive. Reho had spoken only briefly with him. Would he let a family be murdered if he had the power to stop it? Then again, he thought about his own reason for being at Red Rocks. He believed the old man’s fate had little to do with the lies being told to the crowd. He was here so the blade could silence a silent man—a man who had witnessed Red Denver’s secrets.
The announcer continued.
As punishment, the Ricardo family has hired one of your favorite fighters! You loved him when he beheaded last season’s Red Basin Rapist and broke the spine of the Tenement Arsonist three seasons ago. You know him by name! Give a deathly roar for Nordic!
The crowd erupted, drowning out the band. The archaic, steel blade swung in the air as Nordic worked the crowd for its approval. His muscles reminded Reho of an OldWorld movie poster he’d seen of a man named Rambo. Nordic’s hair was blonde and braided into two long tails that draped across his shoulders. His face was scarred. There was no doubt that he’d spent his entire life fighting. Judging by his style, he was just as much a stranger to Red Denver as Reho or the old man.
Red-clad enforcers led the
foreigner and Nordic to opposing ends of the arena. As the band played, electric guitar riffs set the mood for the first fight of the night. The announcer’s voice boomed over the screaming crowd.
Let the fighting begin! An OldWorld gunshot sounded from atop Creation Rock.
Reho watched as Nordic worked his blade in every direction, showing off his skill and trained precision. How could the old man compete?
Nordic struck first. His challenger quickly moved past the blade and stepped behind Nordic, jabbing the giant’s leg with one smooth movement of his arm. Nordic dropped to one knee but quickly jumped to position, distancing himself from his opponent who stood patiently, waiting.
For a moment, Reho thought the old man might have a chance.
Nordic stood about two feet taller than his opponent. Reho understood the odds were stacked against the foreigner. Despite his speed, the sheer aggression and power of his opponent would be too much.
The old man evaded move after move. It worked for a while, but Nordic soon had his opponent figured out.
Nordic unleashed a fierce battle cry that brought the cheering crowd to its feet. His opponent stood calm as before, but Reho sensed a change in him. Then the old man closed his eyes, just as Reho had seen him do in the holding cell.
Nordic cursed him, attempting to bully him into opening his eyes. The old man lowered himself on one leg, his other leg extended. This time he lowered his chest, bringing his head parallel to the ground. Reho didn’t understand. Has he given up? How was it a fight if he surrendered? Then Reho understood. He is choosing not to fight. Reho watched as Nordic raised his OldWorld steel into the air, then brought it down to the earth.
The old man’s head rolled.
The stunned crowd stood in awed silence, broken only by the clang of the blade as it sliced through to the stone floor. They seemed shocked at the end result, expecting, perhaps, to see the old man move quickly to evade his opponent one more time. Instead, a pool of blood flowed at the victor’s feet. The announcer’s mechanical voice broke the silence.
Our champion! Four seasons with eleven kills! Nordic!
The crowd slowly filled Red Rocks with praise as Nordic made one last show of his sword and walked from the stage. For a moment, their eyes met as the victor cast a shocked look toward Reho. The old man’s unexpected surrender had caught him off guard, leaving him numbed by his unexpected final blow. Unlike Nordic, the crowd would quickly forget the old man’s death as they shouted for the next fighter.
Reho watched a mop-up crew clothed entirely in black take the stage to clean the carnage and remove the body before the next fight. The chanting grew louder and filled the arena.
“Fight! Fight!”
Then Reho heard a voice behind him and turned to find two teens jabbing each other in the side. One of them, sporting a thin mustache and deep, dark eyes, held the possessions taken from Reho at Red Hall. The other had a face filled with pimples, dirty brown hair, and a smile as wide as the Canyon. Neither was big enough to possibly be any help behind the arena.
“You have to excuse my idiot friend here,” the one with the mustache said. “He usually just stays in the concession stands on the other side of the arena. But he’s seen you win every gasoline race. I’m Jester, and my friend here is Siek.”
Reho nodded.
“I bet you’re wondering why we’re here,” Jester said, shifting Reho’s heavy items in his hands. Reho’s OldWorld rifle was strapped to the boy’s back. Who would give these kids weapons?
Reho nodded again as two additional enforcers approached the boys, but didn’t interrupt their conversation.
Siek gleamed with excitement and moved closer to Reho. He wondered if he was going to try and touch him. The other one continued.
“Well, Soapy sent us to let you choose one item for the fight. I did hear him say he took the shells out of your rifle, so you probably wouldn’t want to choose that one.”
Reho watched the guards move in closer. Siek reached out to touch his AIM The chains restrained him, so if the boy wanted to touch it, he could. There was nothing he could do but ignore the awkward kid. Besides, he was not the killer Soapy, the judge and, soon, the announcer would make him out to be. Reho looked at his belongings. Only one would be useful in the arena.
“Leave me the knife. And I want you to go back to Soapy and deliver a message for me.” The boys stared at him, wide-eyed, taken aback by his harsh tone.
“Yeah?” Jester asked.
“Tell Soapy that when this is over, I’m going to cut his face off with that knife,” Reho said, “and drag his body out into the Blastlands to rot in the radiation.” He left it at that, his icy words hanging in the frigid air. Both boys remained silent. Now I am the killer they want me to be.
One of the enforcers took the knife and sent the boys on their way. Apparently that message just made everything much worse.
Then a scream tore through the air, that high-pitched squeal that had haunted him since his arrest. Reho watched as a monolithic metal container hovered in the sky and lowered onto the arena floor.
Its rectangular body landed where Nordic had entered the arena. Whatever it was, it was intended for him.
***
Welcome, Welcome, Welcome!
Oh, have we got a treat for our patrons. As the air becomes ice-cold, only the blood spilled in the arena will warm us tonight!
The crowd repeated its usual cheers.
You know him from the gasolines. Many have placed bets on him. Many have become rich off his name, and many have lost everything because of his racing. So tonight, we have Reho! Red Denver’s own Red Killer!
With chains still on, several of the arena enforcers escorted Reho to center stage. He looked at the massive container to his right then at the crowd. Red Denver’s own Red Killer. He understood that Soapy had taken every precaution to make sure he would not leave the arena alive. Whatever was caged in that container, it wasn’t human.
For the first time since season two, we have for you: man versus beast!
Come on Red Rocks! Let me hear you scream!
He looked toward Ship Rock. He could see the platform and make out Soapy against the light of the moon.
Many of you knew Soapy’s most beloved employee, Blackwell Denver, a man whose family has been part of this community for three generations. His wife and children are here tonight, abandoned and left to defend for themselves because of one man. His family is here tonight looking for justice.
The crowd erupted.
So, Soapy’s Enterprise and Exchange has spared no expense by purchasing one of the few domesticated warbeasts. Some of you are old enough to remember when the Hegemons unleashed dozens of these, sending them to tear through Red Denver. That was nearly three decades ago. Now we shall see one bring justice instead of chaos to Red Denver!
Two spotlights highlighted the enforcers as they approached the container.
They removed the bolts and let the metal front slam to the ground. A fearful gasp spread through the stadium. The chill of the night pierced Reho to the core as the bonds on his legs and hands were unlocked, his chains removed. He watched as the enforcer placed his knife on the ground several feet away, then walk from the stage. Behind him, as the last enforcer left, the gate closed.
He hadn’t noticed it before, but a blue wave of electricity washed across the arena’s fence. Perhaps it hadn’t been activated until now. They seemed more afraid of what lurked in the container then they had of the sword-wielding Nordic.
It was pitch black inside the container. There was no movement, no sound. A bright spotlight illuminated Reho.
Others were focused on his knife and on Ship Rock. The intercom crackled. This time it wasn’t the voice of the Red Rocks announcer but one much more familiar.
Reho of Virginia Bloc 4E!
Reho looked up. Soapy stood, the spotlight bathing him in a holy glow. The crowd waited, eager to see the drama unfold. Reho from the East. Cursed. A coward run out of his own commu
nity for the death of an opponent in a gasoline race. Tell me, Reho. Was winning so important that you let Dink die?
He clenched his fist and forced himself not to lunge for his knife. He felt the familiar anger return, burning through his veins. He had been younger then, more reckless, and some lessons were learned the hard way. The image resonated in his head, filled his mind. The tunnel had been open to both Dink and Reho, the last two racers in Virginia Bloc’s 4E Annual Gasoline Race, its dark entrance a quarter mile ahead; their gasolines passed 120 miles per hour. Both battled to enter the single-lane tunnel.
His natural ability to outmaneuver had inadvertently caused Dink’s gasoline to lose control. It rolled ahead and lodged between Reho and the mouth of the tunnel. As it exploded, Reho drove through the flames, tearing into the gasoline and its driver. He could still see Dink’s body burning as it crashed against his windshield. He had won the race, but its consequences had cost him his home and a life in Virginia Bloc.
Your sins follow you, Reho. You think you can run. You think you can trust those you love the most. But everyone has a price. Especially when they discover their former lover is a murderer.
A fourth spotlight illuminated a girl in the crowd. Jena. Reho reached out, but there was nothing to hold on to. His head pounded as images of Dink tangled with his memories of Jena: lying together in his bed, their naked bodies entwined as they shared their darkest secrets. It was on one of those nights that he had told her about Dink. About everything. She had a past, too. Running away from Ascension Bloc, she had left behind the man her family had forced her to marry.
She was a few years younger than him and desperately wanted Red Denver to be that safe haven she desired—and for him to provide the stability and happiness she hadn’t found in her home community. They’d been wild about each other. She told him it was his eyes that made the difference, made her say yes to his dinner invitation. She felt safe with him; her fears evaporated when she looked into his soft, honey-brown eyes. Looking at him was like opening a window to her soul. But he lacked the one thing she’d needed more than physical passion and protection. Jena needed someone who could be satisfied with a simple life in Red Denver.
