by D. L. Denham
He chased the adrenaline of the gasolines. She had accepted his abilities and differences. She understood him as much as anyone ever had. But the thought of losing him later prevented her from loving him now. Jena left . . . and Reho chose to stand by and watch her go. He then focused all his time into becoming the best gasoline racer on this side of the Blastlands.
Your past always finds you. This man must be stopped here today. By all means! And the only way to ensure that is to unleash our worst nightmare. We say these captured warbeasts are domesticated, but it's a lie.
The crowd gasped then chanted. Warbeast! Warbeast! Warbeast!
The beast is just as much a killer as this man you bet your money on, a man who kills anyone who stands in his way. Men like Blackwell. But no fear, Red Rocks! We do offer some protection from this warbeast. The fence you see has over 100,000 volts running through it. And this remote controls the warbeast.
The crowd cheered then quickly quieted as Soapy continued, the remote held high.
We control when it attacks. And we control who it attacks.
Soapy activated the controller. The holding-container shook, followed by the familiar scream. The spectators covered their ears as they roared in approval. He searched the crowd for a glimpse of Jena. He spotted her—elbowing her way through the crowd as she tried to leave the arena.
Reho hadn’t seen her for almost a year. Their time together had been brief. One particular night they’d spent together haunted him. He had awakened from a terrifying nightmare of a man in a bright city who guarded a door to what looked like a tall office building from the OldWorld. Reho could never see his face, but his hands stood out, despite the blinding light. His fingers were long and sharp like claws. He was dressed in a black suit. Reho could always make out the tag on his suit, a triangular symbol with an eye and a single name under it: Jimmy. The nightmare had only occurred a few times, but that particular night he’d been with Jena.
Jena had been full of compassion and concern, so he had shared the dream and much more. He’d told her about Dink, his home community, his years in the Blastlands, his time east near OldWorld Los Angeles, and north around the Great Lakes. Somehow Soapy had known they’d been together. Now it didn’t matter. Their lives were on two different paths. And for Reho, his primary concern was whatever lurked—hidden and waiting— in the container across the stage.
The spotlights shut off one by one. He quickly grabbed his knife as the remaining spotlight went out. The arena lights came on, illuminating the stage with an eerie blue glow. He could see the electricity as it sparked along the fence. Nothing moved in the container.
The temperature had dropped. He activated his AIM: it was 7 degrees Fahrenheit. There was no escaping the arena. Killing whatever waited for him was the next step, his only choice.
A thick, icy fog blew from inside the container. He tightened his grip on his knife’s handle.
The spotlights were gone. Now it was just Reho and the beast that Soapy controlled from atop Ship Rock.
He saw its eyes first. Two luminous green spheres moved closer to the opening of the container. The cheering crowd and screeching instruments faded into the background as Reho focused on the task at hand.
As if on cue, the creature launched out of the container and landed several feet from the electric fence. It hissed at the crowd, which shrunk back, suddenly wary.
Surprised by its size, Reho got his first look at one of the genetic creations of the Hegemons. The alien invaders had created these beastly soldiers for one purpose: to kill humans. It was certainly large enough for the task.
Tales of these genetic mutations were often on the lips of adventurers and wanderers who traveled throughout Usona, but few had actually seen one. The beastly killer was twice the size of the cows they raised in Virginia Bloc. Its skin was black and shiny like the whales he had seen in picture books as a child. The creature’s head was tagged. He recognized the embedded metal as a Colorado license plate from the OldWorld. The plate read: SO-7APY3. The numbers clearly marked the warbeast as Soapy’s property.
The creature crouched and moved closer to the cheering crowd, distracted by their noise and movement. The beast reared back and launched itself toward the fence as panicked spectators on the first few row pushed their way into the upper rows. The warbeast hit the fence.
Thousands of sparks lit the cold night sky. The warbeast shrieked and backed away. It thrashed and struck its tail at the fence like a giant whip. Then its attention was on Reho.
Reho could see diamond-shaped burn marks on the beast’s tail, courtesy of the electrified fence. Its skin was tough. He wondered how hard it was going to be to get his blade into its side. He stared into its glowing eyes and moved back as the beast headed in his direction. It bared its teeth, revealing what looked like dozens of genetically designed razor blades.
Both Reho and the creature were momentarily distracted as the large crane returned and lifted the container out of the arena. The beast jumped at its swinging cage, hitting its side and falling back to the ground.
Reho moved back and positioned himself in the center of the arena.
The beast returned its attention to Reho. For a moment he thought of the old man, how he’d stood motionless in the face of his opponent. Reho calmed his body. Always let your opponent strike first.
The beast leapt, its mouth open, teeth flashing their intent. He evaded the attack. As the beast passed, its tailed whipped across Reho’s chest, launching him into the air. As he landed on his side, the jolt sent his knife skidding across the arena. It sparked as it hit the fence. The beast circled in front of him. He knew he had no chance without his knife. He waited for the beast to strike again.
The beast moved for Reho. It had already learned his reactions, and it shifted its attack to interrupt his dodge. Reho felt its thick body knock against him. He hit the ground and immediately rolled in the direction of his knife, which rested nearby. He grabbed the weapon and moved into position as the beast approached.
He plunged the eight-inch blade into the beast’s side, surprised when there was little resistance, as if he’d stabbed a bag of flour instead of a tough, scaly surface. He would have to reach much deeper to do any critical damage to the beast. No wonder Soapy had let him choose his knife for the fight. Bastard is up there laughing.
He pushed himself away from the beast, dragging his knife across its side. A sticky, white and blue jelly-like substance spilled out and quickly coated Reho’s side. The beast retreated to the corner of the arena.
Reho refocused.
From across the arena, the warbeast crept toward him. The substance still dripped from its side, but it wasn’t enough to stop its attack.
Reho noticed something else: its claws. They were now fully extended, each larger than Reho’s knife. The beast’s eyes glowed brighter. He needed something larger to stab the beast deep enough for a critical wound.
His breath hung heavy in the air, clouding his AIM. He looked at the knife again . . . at his powerful hand . . . at his muscular arm. That’s it! I have all the weaponry I need to win this!
He moved confidently toward the warbeast. This time he would be the aggressor. He thought of Soapy on top of Ship Rock, sending the beast to finish him with one final attack.
He dove straight for the beast’s chest, his knife and arm extended.
Reho felt his own skin rip as his arm plunged through the beast’s warm chest cavity. Pain shot through his left shoulder and down his back as three of the beast’s claws found a home there. Then the claws stopped moving. The shaking in the beast’s chest ceased. The band stopped playing and the arena went silent.
The warbeast’s claws remained buried in Reho’s back as he retracted his arm from its chest. His hand could not break free. It seemed tangled in something. He twisted his wrist, refusing to let go of his knife. He yanked hard. His hand and knife freed, along with what appeared to be wires and some sort of device. He saw lights on the device fade then turn off.
He lifted the dead warbeast’s claws out of his back and rolled away. Looking up, he thought of Jena for a split second. Had she decided to stay? He looked over at Ship Rock. No spotlight. The moonlight revealed an empty booth.
He stood, blood flooding down his back and onto the arena floor. He would heal, but it still hurt like hell. The crowd roared with excitement. Then, the announcer congratulated him. Several enforcers entered the arena as the gate opened.
Reho walked out, his head held high.
Behind the arena, a medical technician dressed Reho’s wounds. Reho let him. The stitches would stop the bleeding much quicker. His jacket would also need stitching.
***
The technician had been gone for a while. A tall, older man with long, black hair and round glasses approached him. He wore a tie and a wide smile. As soon as he opened his mouth to speak, Reho knew who he was.
“That was the most magnificent fight we’ve had here in Red Rocks. And I’ve been doing this for nearly twenty years,” the announcer said, lavishing Reho with another of his salesman smiles.
“I’m not doing it again, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Reho said.
“Oh no, no. I’m Donald Rackette. You can call me Donnie,” he said, extending his hand toward Reho. Reho made no effort to raise his hand. Instead, he faked pain from his shoulder even though the wound had begun to heal and the pain had nearly ceased.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot.” Donnie said. “It isn’t often that we have a fight like tonight’s. I know the law says you have to leave Red Denver. I have a friend out on the East Coast who runs a sister version of what we do here at the arena. If you’re interested in making some good points by fighting, they’re always looking for a new star to fight their criminals.”
“You forgot something else,” Reho said, his eyes as cold as the night air.
“What’s that?”
“I am the criminal. Now get out of my way,” he said, putting on his jacket as he stood. He grabbed his sack and other possessions and started for the gate.
***
The road leading away from Red Denver was empty. Reho had been down this road and others like it hundreds of times. He checked his AIM. The next stations for food and other supplies were twenty miles down the road. He’d made a quick stop at his apartment in Red Denver. He owned few possessions, all of which were now in his traveler’s pack. From here he would head into the Blastlands. It would take at least six weeks to reach Virginia Bloc, but he knew he needed to return. There was nothing left for him in Red Denver, just as there had been nothing in South Usona, the West Coast, the Great Lakes, or in the Blastlands.
In each place, Reho had kept his abilities a secret. But they’d always found a way to reveal themselves and expose him as a threat. His domination in the gasolines was due to his unnatural ability to anticipate what would happen next. It made him fast. And his body had a remarkable healing power. He had been shot by both OldWorld rifles and pulse blasters; he’d been stabbed and exposed to lethal doses of radiation, yet nothing killed him. He traversed the Blastlands without an oxygen suit, which attracted the worst attention as traveling parties either attempted to help him or kill.
Reho traveled the Safety Zone line running along the Blastlands as he waited to fulfill a promise he’d made back at the arena.
***
The Blastlands lay before Reho. He had enough food and water to make it for at least two weeks. The next travelers’ station would be at least ten days away. Already he’d seen other trekkers in the distance, oxygen suits on, prepared for the journey to either the south or the east.
He checked his AIM. Having been here before, this part of the Blastlands was already mapped out. He wondered if he should have stopped sooner. He looked back in the direction he’d come, toward Red Denver. Then he saw them, several figures silhouetted on the horizon.
***
Reho had known they would follow him. He’d been traveling for most of the morning and was almost outside the Safe Zone of Usona. He had used his AIM to walk along the Safe Zone to give them time to catch up with him. He intended to keep his promise to Soapy.
They wore no suits. They were on the verge of the Blastlands and must have expected to reach Reho much sooner. If Reho had not slowed down and waited for them, he would have been in the Blastlands, leaving them behind.
“You can’t go much farther without a suit,” Reho said as three men approached. He looked at each goon, then at Soapy. The massive one they called Smacks back at the betting booth in Red Denver stepped forward first. Reho figured he was here to do what the warbeast couldn’t.
“We don’t plan to go any farther than right here,” Soapy said, raising his OldWorld rifle at him.
“You follow me as though you made a promise,” Reho said.
“I’m just making sure you keep yours,” Soapy replied.
“Here we are. The Blastlands behind me and Red Denver miles away,” Reho said.
Reho could tell by Soapy’s snarl that he’d gotten the message about Reho cutting off his face and dragging him into the Blastlands.
“You idiot. We hunted you down. This is our show,” one of the other goons said from behind Soapy.
“Boss, let’s blast this guy!” Smacks added, lifting his gun toward him. Reho dove forward, grabbed Smack’s rifle, and knocked it aside. The OldWorld weapon blasted, tearing a hole the size of a loaf of bread into one of the silent goons.
Reho quickly drew his knife and released it toward his assailant who had just aimed his pulse blaster. It released two energy blasts, both hitting the gunner’s own foot as Reho’s knife struck his chest. Reho lifted the rifle off Smacks and fired twice into him. An explosion of blood and flesh showered the area.
Panicked, Soapy managed to fire his rifle twice, sending the shots into the ground. Reho fired at Soapy’s arm, which caused him to drop the OldWorld rifle.
He pulled his knife from the dead goon and approached Soapy.
“I am breaking my promise. There has been enough death,” he said, kneeling next to Soapy as he attempted to crawl away.
Soapy turned and fired twice at Reho with an OldWorld pistol he’d tucked behind his back. One shot went wild as the other skimmed Reho’s shoulder. Reho buried his knife deep into Soapy’s leg.
A scream much like the warbeast’s echoed through the Blastlands.
“What did you expect? Your arrogance and ignorance brought you out here to the edge of Usona. And it’s your ignorance that got you killed,” Reho said, grabbing Soapy by the collar and dragging him deeper into the Blastlands. He had no intention of keeping his full promise to Soapy, but he did plan to keep the most important part. Soapy would not return to Red Denver and continue to spread his disease of corruption and greed. He checked his AIM. The radiation levels were climbing. A mile into the Blastlands, he let go of Soapy.
He removed his knife.
“You’re going to stay here,” Reho said.
“The radiation will kill me,” Soapy said.
“I know.”
“I’m not a freak like you. My body can’t take this stuff.”
“Could be worse. I could have kept my promise and left you out here without a face. That’s not what you want,” he said. He glanced at his atomic watch; they’d been in the radiation area for almost twenty minutes. Reho stood silent and removed his OldWorld rifle. It still didn’t have any bullets. He wouldn’t need them anyway, as he waited for the first signs of radiation sickness.
The sun was high in the sky. If he let Soapy go now, he could make it to one of the OldWorld buildings before nightfall.
Bluargh.
Soapy vomited. Reho told Soapy to stand. He could see that the man’s skin had begun to redden.
“Go back to Red Denver. Use the time you have left to do some good. Or don’t.”
Soapy wobbled then looked up at him.
“Doesn't matter. Once I’m dead, there’s always another to take my place. You can’t stop us. If it’s not me�
��” Soapy stopped as another dreadful bout of vomit spewed forth.
“Then they’ll have to answer for what they do. Just like you,” Reho said, then turned his back and walked away.
***
After two years in Red Denver, he was once again a wanderer. His brief time with Jena had not lasted. His success in the gasolines had only resulted in tragedy.
For now, he would trek east. On the other side of the Blastlands, the Virginia Bloc community where he grew up would have to make a choice: they would either accept him or send him away once more.
For the first time in years, his thoughts went to his aunt and uncle. Both had sacrificed everything to raise him. Now Reho wondered if there was a place for him in their lives again.
Thoughts of home faded in and out as he continued east. The old man had chosen his own death over being a killer. He controlled his own fate—something Reho did not yet understand. Whatever lay ahead, it waited beyond the Blastlands. The old man’s words resounded in his head: Demons… Red Denver doesn’t flow red with the blood of men but glows green from the veins of the OldWorld…
Suddenly, a strange cry filled the air, yanking him back to the present. Except this time it wasn’t the horror of a warbeast or the agony of a dying wolf.
Ahrooo.
It was just before dusk. Ahead was the abandoned building where he would spend the night. Just past it, he saw the silhouette of an animal. Its howl was unlike anything he had heard before. At first it had sounded like the noises that had plagued him, but it was different. The long howl soothed him somehow as he moved farther away from Red Denver. He was not the only thing that moved in the Blastlands without an oxygen suit. Its red eyes followed his every step. Perhaps he would have some company on his journey home.
