Escape from Oz (The Falken Chronicles Book 1)

by Piers Platt

  “Welcome!”

  Three men were approaching the group along the balcony. All three were bulky, imposing figures, and bore the counting scars Falken had seen on his captors. But the man in the middle, the one who had called out, demanded his full attention.

  He was old – in his late fifties, Falken guessed – his gray hair gathered in a wild tangle over a sun-weathered face. But despite his age, he moved quickly and confidently, and he had the solid, wiry look of a man accustomed to physical exertions. His eyes were a piercing blue, and they flitted with alarming speed from inmate to inmate as he inspected the newcomers. And unlike anyone else Falken had seen on the planet so far, he was clothed not in the standard yellow prison coveralls, but in a threadbare, faded blue guard uniform.

  “Welcome to Oz, men,” he said, smiling. “This grand palace,” he gestured expansively around the room, “is now your home. And I am your benefactor, your audience, and your ruler. My name is Archos, and I am the warden of this planet.”

  “The fuck you are,” a man next to Falken muttered. “You’re a goddamn nutjob in a stolen uniform.”

  Archos stopped and smiled at the man. “Our first volunteer, and before I’ve even finished welcoming you all. Outstanding.”

  The two men next to the warden stepped forward and took the protesting inmate by the arm, guiding him to the wooden plank that led out to the disk. With a shove, they pushed him forward, and he stumbled, nearly losing his balance, before catching himself.

  “Get on the disk,” one of the men ordered him.

  “No,” the inmate said, teetering in middle of the plank.

  “Get on the disk or we knock you off the plank,” the man repeated.

  The inmate took a quick look at the hard ground several floors below and hurried across the plank.

  “Now,” Archos said, steepling his fingers together and inspecting Falken and the remaining new inmates. “I will continue. I have just a few rules, if you’re going to live under my roof.” He looked meaningfully up at the open sky above, smiling at his joke.

  “First: you will follow the orders of my men without question. Any refusal to comply – and any attempt at escape – will be punished swiftly and severely.”

  The warden clasped his hands behind his back. “Second rule: until you prove yourselves, you are all probationary members of this … community. And probationary members have no rights whatsoever. You do not leave the pit, you do not talk … and you do not eat.”

  Falken eyed the pit, frowning. That’s why those men look thin. He’s starving them.

  “How do you prove yourself? Simple. You fight.” He pointed out at the man on the disk. “Right out there, on the disk. Win one fight, and you get a meal. Win three fights, and you may become a full member of the community, with all the privileges that entails.”

  “Like what?” another inmate asked.

  “All the food you can eat,” Archos replied. “Entertainment, in the form of fights, on a regular schedule. A room to call your own, with a bed, if you’re lucky. And the protection of your fellow brothers-in-arms. And we always stick up for each other, is that clear?” Archos pointed at each of them in turn. “Separately, we are nothing. Together, we rule everything. And that brings us to our final rule: everybody must fight.”

  “What if we lose?” the inmate asked.

  “Then you go back down in the pit until your next fight,” the warden said, shaking his head with feigned concern. “And you go hungry.”

  “What if we don’t want to be in your gang?” the man asked.

  Archos smiled. “Then you may leave. But you won’t last long trying to fend for yourself. Which leaves the colony, and serving out the rest of your sentence doing hard labor, day in and day out, with no end in sight.”

  “We don’t have to work if we stay here?”

  “No,” Archos said. “The colony is for sheep. We are the wolves of this planet. Wolves don’t work … they hunt. And fight.” The older man grinned, showing his teeth. “Anyone want to go join the sheep?”

  Falken glanced over his shoulder, back at the door to the garage, considering. Not sure I like this. But I know I can fight.

  “No? No one? Good,” Archos said. He ran a practiced eye over the five remaining inmates, pacing slowly along the line of men. The way he paced reminded Falken of a caged wild animal he had seen once – his movements were angry, unpredictable.

  “Now. I need one more volunteer for our inaugural match today ….” Archos stopped in front of Falken.

  “That one’s a troublemaker, Warden,” the driver said. “He didn’t want to come in the truck. Tried to resist.”

  “Did he now?” The warden cocked an eyebrow. “He looks a little unsteady.”

  “We had to give him a jolt to convince him to come.”

  Archos laughed. “Still feeling a little shaky from the stun-glove?” he asked.

  Falken stayed quiet.

  “On the one hand, it wouldn’t be fair to make you fight so soon after getting stunned. You look like a stiff breeze might knock you over.” Archos crossed over to a button mounted on the wall, and pressed it casually. A loud alarm bell rang out, startling Falken. As he watched, several dozen inmates emerged from doors along the walls, turning out of their rooms and taking up positions around the balcony, in anticipation of the fight.

  “On the other hand, I’ve never really been one for fairness. Put him on the disk.”

  Chapter 7

  One of the warden’s men pulled the supply kit off of Falken’s chest. Then he turned Falken and pointed him at the wooden plank.

  “What are the rules?” Falken asked. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the clamor of the alarm bell.

  “Rules?” The inmate laughed. “Don’t lose.” He gave Falken a push, and Falken stepped out onto the plank, shuffling slowly until he reached the disk. He stepped on, and the inmate withdrew the plank, stranding Falken and the other man on the disk.

  His opponent stood in the center of the disk, eyeing him warily. Then the alarm bells stopped. Inmates lined the inside of the balcony now – like the ones that had captured him, they all appeared to have scars on their bodies, the same counting marks he had noticed on the man who had captured him. Falken heard whistles and cat-calls, and noticed that a group of men arguing on one side of the room seemed to be exchanging small metal objects – placing bets on the fight using a makeshift form of currency.

  The warden held his hands up, and silence settled over the room.

  “Another month, another airdrop of fresh meat,” he said. There was laughter from the assembled inmates. He turned and addressed Falken and his opponent. “For your sins, you’ve been sent here to join us. New Oz is a harsh, unforgiving planet. So it’s only fitting that your introduction to it is just as brutal. Fight well.”

  The spectators cheered raucously, pounding the railing with their fists. The noise was deafening. Falken turned his attention to his opponent. The shorter man approached him warily, fists held up on either side of his face.

  He’s fought before. Not professionally … probably in jail.

  Falken circled to his left, but as he moved, his legs – still numb from the stun-glove – slid on the slick surface of the disk, and he nearly lost his footing. His opponent took advantage of his sudden distress, and tagged Falken with a jab to the cheek. The crowd roared.

  Falken shook his head and stepped back, reeling, but his opponent lunged forward and tackled him at the waist, knocking him onto his back. Slammed against the hard surface of the disk, Falken felt the breath forced from his chest. The man was on top of him, reaching for his eyes, trying to gouge them. Falken twisted his head out of the way and pushed the man’s hands away with a grunt. He tried to punch the man in his stomach, but the strike was weak, and his opponent ignored it.

  Still feeling the effects of that damn stun-glove.

  They wrestled for a moment, sliding across the disk, and then his opponent resettled himself, and punched Falken in the
face again. Falken’s head snapped back, banging against the disk. He heard the crowd roar. He squirmed, trying to throw the man off of him, but his stiff limbs couldn’t generate enough momentum, and his opponent stayed in place. Falken realized with a sudden shock that the fight had brought them to the edge of the disk – his shoulders were now dangling in thin air.

  You’re losing this fight. He’s going to push you right off the edge of the disk.

  The man reared back to punch him again. Falken saw it coming, and shifted his weight at the last second – the punch passed by, glancing off the back of his head. His opponent switched tactics, grabbing for Falken’s neck, wrapping both hands around his throat. But the choke was largely ineffective – Falken could not breathe, but he knew from long experience that the hold wasn’t tight enough to stop blood flowing to his brain.

  You’re fine. Use this to your advantage.

  Falken pretended to flail against the man’s arms, working his mouth silently, and then he let his arms slip limply to the floor. He heard the chanting of the inmates reach a fever pitch, and then he relaxed his body and closed his eyes, pretending to be unconscious. His opponent stayed in place for several more seconds, then let go of Falken’s neck and stood up. Falken inhaled carefully, waited another second, and then cracked one eye. His opponent stood over him, both arms raised to the sky in victory. He turned to leave the disk, and Falken struck.

  He tripped the man first, and then scrambled to his knees, jumping on top of the startled man with as much speed as he could muster. His limbs were still shaky, unreliable, but he managed to get his legs wrapped around the man’s waist, sitting on top of his back. The inmates around the balcony roared their approval at the sudden reversal.

  Okay. You got position. Don’t need fine motor skills for this part.

  Falken postured up, and then let loose an unrelenting flurry of punches. The man tried to cover the back of his head, and Falken’s aim was decidedly off, but for every punch his opponent warded off, Falken landed two more. Falken pounded until he saw blood, and was sure that the man was no longer defending himself. He stopped, breathing heavily, and looked over to the balcony, where he caught sight of the warden. Amidst the cheering inmates, Archos stood watching the fight with grim satisfaction – when Falken caught his eye, he inclined his head slightly in salute.

  “Kill him!” one of the inmates shrieked.

  Falken lifted the man’s semi-conscious head off the ground. “No. He’s done,” he said, and let the man’s head fall back onto the disk. His jaw ached, and his bloody knuckles throbbed – some of the blood, he was sure, was his own. He stood wearily and saw an inmate lowering the plank back into place. Falken crossed the wooden board, and stood panting, as a group of inmates surrounded him, congratulating him. For a moment, he felt the familiar surge of pride and relief that followed a victorious fight. Then he glanced back at the disk and caught sight of his opponent. Two inmates had tied a rope around the man’s legs – as they lifted him up, blood streamed from his scalp onto the disk. They lowered him unceremoniously down into the pit, and then mopped the bloody disk half-heartedly. As the inmates around him continued to cheer, Falken felt his stomach turn.

  I might have been handicapped a bit, but I still had twenty pounds on him. And years of training. This wasn’t a fair fight.

  Falken felt someone grab hold of his arm, and then he felt a searing pain – he bellowed and turned to see two inmates holding him, while a third cut a single line with a scalpel along his forearm.

  “That’s one,” the man with the scalpel told him, holding up a single finger. “Two more, and you’re one of us.”

  One. One scar, to mark my first victory. Falken glanced at the men around him, whose torsos were covered in scarred notches. He frowned. They must have to keep fighting even after they’ve made the crew.

  “Don’t fuck around next time,” another inmate advised him. “Just go for the knockout straight away. Hurt ‘em fast, see?”

  “Sage advice,” Archos said, pushing his way through the crowd. He held out his hand and after an awkward pause, Falken grasped it. “I look forward to seeing your next fight, Mr. …?”

  “Falken,” Falken said.

  “Like the bird?”

  “Spelled different,” Falken said, shaking his head.

  “Do you know what a falcon is, gentlemen?” Archos asked the inmates.

  “Like an eagle,” one said.

  “Yes. A bird of prey. A ‘raptor,’ I believe is the term.” Archos smiled. “Excellent. Show our raptor to the mess hall, please. And let’s get the next fight going.”

  Falken saw them pick two more of the new inmates out, and march them over to the plank. Then an older man handed him his supply kit, and beckoned for Falken to follow. He turned away from the disk, and trailed the man through a side door, into a long hall filled with tables and benches.

  The man motioned for Falken to sit at one of the tables, then disappeared through a swinging door, returning several minutes later with a bowl full of lukewarm stew and a metal cup of water. He set the stew in front of Falken and handed him a spoon, then took a seat across from him. Falken’s stomach rumbled at the smell of the food – it had been far too long since he had eaten. He dug in.

  The man watched him in grim silence as he ate – Falken got the distinct impression he had little interest in getting to know Falken better. Falken wiped juice from his chin.

  “What is this stuff?” He gestured at the bowl with his spoon.

  The man grunted. “Carrots, potatoes, corn – Earth vegetables they imported years ago. They grow them over at the colony.”

  “And the colony shares them with you?”

  “You could say that,” the man allowed.

  “What about the meat?” Falken asked. “Is it pork?”

  The man smiled. “Does it taste like pork?”

  “No,” Falken admitted.

  “That’s ‘cause it ain’t pork,” the man said.

  Falken nudged a piece of meat with his spoon. Suddenly, his eyes went wide. “It’s not human, is it?”

  The man chuckled. “No. It ain’t human, neither.”

  Falken waited for him to explain, but after several seconds, it became clear that the man had no intention of telling him the source of the mystery meat. Falken eyed it distrustfully, but eventually his hunger won out, and he started to eat again.

  “If I win two more fights, I get to join you – be part of Archos’ crew,” Falken said, talking around a mouthful of stew.

  “That’s how it works,” the man said. “If you lose, but you showed spirit, we might let you stick around a couple weeks. See if going hungry for a week or two can motivate you to get your three wins.”

  “And if someone doesn’t want to fight anymore?”

  “Depends. Sometimes the warden will just kick ‘em out – they can go join the colony. But sometimes he makes an example of ‘em.”

  Falken sipped his water. “If all of you made it onto the crew with three wins, why do you all have so many more fight scars?”

  The man shrugged. “Fighting’s all we got around here. Warden says to fight, you fight. Man likes his entertainment. That’s just part of the deal. Keeps us sharp. That’s why your third fight won’t be against another newbie. It’ll be against one of us.”

  Falken mulled that over. “What about the guards? They don’t care that we fight?”

  The man frowned. “Guards? Finish that shit up: I gotta take you down to the pit.”

  Chapter 8

  The second fight was still in full swing as Falken followed the old man down into the bowels of the building. They walked down several staircases, and finally arrived at a thick steel door, where a lone inmate sat picking at his nails. He stood up when they approached, checked through a peephole in the door, and then swung it open. Falken paused, and the man gestured impatiently toward the doorway with a hand – Falken saw he was wearing a stun-glove.

  “Well? Get the fuck in there,” he
said.

  Falken stepped inside, and the door slammed shut behind him. The steel-gray mass of the disk towered over him – along the cement floor, cracks and tears radiated out from its base. He glanced up, and saw the inmates cheering along the edge of the balcony, goading on the unseen combatants above.

  “Stay away from the sides,” an inmate nearby said, by way of warning.

  “What?” Falken asked.

  “Keep away from the sides,” the man repeated. “If one of them falls off the top of the disk during the fight, you don’t want to be underneath them.”

  Falken stepped back hurriedly.

  “You manage to bring any food down with you?” the man asked.

  Falken shook his head. “They made me finish it up there,” he said.

  “Still got your energy bar from the supply kit?” the man asked, eyeing the kit on his chest. His cheeks were sunken underneath the scruff of a beard.

  “No,” Falken said. “Sorry.”

  Falken circled around the outside of the pit, staying close to the outer wall, looking for a spot to call his own. He had to step around inmates sitting or lying on the floor, but most paid him little attention. Then he saw an unconscious form lying face-down in the middle of the floor – his opponent. Falken crossed over to the man and gingerly turned him over, sliding him farther away from the disk. A groan escaped the man’s lips. Falken winced.

  I put the hurt on him pretty bad.

  Falken took a closer look at the man’s scalp – the skin had split just above the hairline at the back of his neck, and was now a clotted, bloody mess. Falken stood and continued around the disk until he found a thin pipe with a makeshift valve attached to the end, next to several buckets. He picked up a bucket and filled it with water from the pipe, then carried it back over to the man. Falken tore a piece of cloth off the bottom of one leg of his coveralls, and then dipped it in the bucket. Slowly, methodically, he cleaned the man’s wound. The man moaned from time to time, but stayed still. After a while, another inmate wandered over and squatted next to them, watching Falken work. He had the hollow, haunted look of a man who had spent a long time in the pit.