Nizar looked at Battle. “Help him.”
Battle moved to Buck’s head and pressed gently on his shoulder, forcing him to lie flat. Buck mumbled something and a stray tear ran from his eye along his cheek.
Nizar then took a pair of large tweezers in one hand and a lighter in the other. He flicked the lighter and ran the tweezer through the flame. He blew on the wound to lessen the still-percolating peroxide and picked through the wound with the tweezers.
His eyes tightened and his jaw set as he pulled out a bullet fragment. He dropped it on the floor and plucked two more pieces from the mess of Buck’s lower leg.
Battle turned his attention from the surgery and focused on Buck as Nizar poured sugar into the wound. Battle knew from anecdotal battlefield chatter that sugar liquefied when mixed with any fluid, including blood. If poured into a wound, it pulled the moisture from tissue exposed to bacteria, killing or lessening the chance for infection.
Nizar sprinkled granules around the edges of the injury. “The bone is broken. I cannot fix. I can stop bleeding. It will hurt.”
He gave instructions to Afifah. A minute later she returned with what looked like a short-handled branding iron. It was glowing red.
Nizar put his hand on Battle’s shoulder and then hugged himself tightly. “You hold him,” he told Battle. “Hold him.”
Battle’s eyes danced between the doctor and the red-hot iron. He laid his torso on top of Buck’s to press him into the mattress and turned his head away from Nizar as the doctor pressed the iron onto the wound.
Battle squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to block the sound of skin sizzling, the smell of it burning. With a delayed nervous response, Buck seized and then jerked against Battle’s body. A guttural moan crescendoed into a curdled scream. Buck was thrashing in the bed, violently resisting the pain.
Nazir again touched Battle on his shoulder. “Good,” he said.
Battle, his body still pushing down on Buck’s, turned to see Afifah leaving the room with the iron. Buck’s flailing diminished, and Battle pushed himself to his feet. Buck’s chest was heaving. Sweat pooled on his neck, and his hair was matted flat against his head.
Nazir tore open a square package with his teeth and pulled out what looked like gauze. He separated it into several sheets and, one by one, stuffed them into the gaping, cauterized hole running across Buck’s shin and calf.
Once he’d finished packing the wound, Nazir took a wide strip of fabric and wound it around what was left of Buck’s lower leg. He called something to Afifah, who appeared a moment later with a glass of water and some pills.
“Kill pain,” Nazir said. He cradled Buck’s head and force-fed him the medicine. “He live. Foot no good. He live. Now you.”
Battle nodded and sat on the edge of the bed, ready to be the patient to his newfound doctor friend. “Why are you helping us?”
Nazir shrugged as he cut away Battle’s sleeve. “American Army help me. Help my daughter. Help her children.”
Battle winced and bit the inside of his cheek as the man probed his injury. It was deeper than a graze. “How?”
“My family like America. Like Army. You help Syria. Some people do not like American Army. They do not like me. They kill my son. Almost kill me and my family. American Army stop them.”
“Why not leave?” Battle asked. “If you’re in danger.”
Nazir laughed and stopped working on the injury. He held Battle’s arm with the nimble fingers of a surgeon. His smile faded and his stare intensified. He spoke slowly and clearly. “Syria is my home. A man does not leave his home. I…protect…hide…stay quiet. No people take my home from me. If I die, I die here. My home.”
CHAPTER 29
OCTOBER 16, 2037, 7:53 AM
SCOURGE + 5 YEARS
LUBBOCK, TEXAS
It was a Friday. The sun was low on the flat horizon surrounding Lubbock, Texas. Jones Stadium’s walls climbed steeply toward the clear pale blue morning. High wisps of clouds floated above an otherwise empty sky.
The stadium could hold sixty thousand people. There were maybe five thousand cluttered along the lower levels near what would have been the field’s fifty-yard line.
They were huddled in coats and jackets. Some of them had blankets draped across their shoulders or laps. The collective puffs of breath from the waiting crowd hung in a haze above them.
The field was covered with remnants of artificial turf. It wasn’t the bright cheerful green that had greeted football players before the Scourge. It was more of a brownish color, stained in large splotches from the blood of those who’d been forced into the arena and lost.
Battle was standing inside a holding area at one end of the stadium. He was one of twelve gladiators chosen to fight that day. Each of the men carried their own manifestation of fear on their faces. Some were wide-eyed, others were trembling. A few seemed defiant and brimming with testosterone. The group was ripe with body odor and the smell of urine.
Battle didn’t fear death; however, the idea of pain, of not knowing how much suffering he might endure, was all consuming. He’d learned in the Army that the threat of pain was far more effective a weapon than the pain itself. It was true.
Battle put his hand on Sawyer’s shoulder and whispered into the boy’s ear, “Stay with me. Stay close. Do what I tell you to do. We’ll make it.”
Sawyer nodded and bit his lower lip. He brushed the hair from in front of his eyes. Battle felt the tension in the boy’s shoulder as he gripped it and let go.
The large doors that separated the holding area from the stadium floor swung open, sending in the blinding pinkish light of the dawn and the loud rumble of the awaiting crowd. Three grunts powered through the opening and slammed the door behind them. The loud bang sent a shudder through Battle’s core.
“All right,” one of the grunts announced, “here’s how it’s gonna work. There are twelve of you. All of you are traitors, thieves, or people we don’t like. We could have killed you already.”
One of the testosterone-emitting gladiators snarled, “Why didn’t you?”
“This is more fun,” said the grunt. He licked his teeth. “I mean, I ain’t a history student, but this is good for morale. The Romans did it. They was an empire. If it’s good enough for the Romans, my guess is the generals think it’s good enough for the Cartel.”
The same gladiator snickered. “Killing us is good for morale?”
“Seems to be,” said the grunt. “We always get good crowds. They come from all over the region. Now shut up and listen.”
A grumble rolled through the assembled gladiators. Battle eyed the men he didn’t know. None of them looked capable of surviving the Jones. Granted, Battle didn’t know exactly what lay ahead, but he couldn’t see any of the men faring well in a game designed to kill them.
“There are six from the Cartel that’s gonna fight you,” said the grunt. “They’ll have horses and weapons. You don’t. It ain’t gonna be a fair fight.”
“No weapons?” said one of the gladiators standing behind Battle. “We get nothing?”
“I didn’t say that,” said the grunt. “You don’t walk into the Jones with any weapons. There’s a few out there on the ground if you can get ’em. Like I said, it ain’t fair. That’s not to say we don’t want it to be entertaining.”
“So there are weapons?” asked another gladiator. “We just have to find them?”
“Yup.”
Battle cleared his throat. “What happens when we kill all of the fighters?”
The three grunts laughed. “When?”
“When,” Battle stated.
“That’s funny,” said the leader of the grunts. “You’re funny. I can’t tell you what would happen if you killed ’em all ’cause ain’t nobody ever done it.”
The grunts laughed again.
“All right,” said the grunt leader. “We’re gonna open the doors here in a second. Then you run out and you fight. I mean run. Don’t walk. Don’t be lackadaisical. Run.�
�
The grunt leader planted his hands on his hips. He eyeballed the assembled gladiators and pointed at them. “You can kill each other if you want, but it probably ain’t a good idea if you plan on killing all of our fighters.”
Battle looked at Sawyer, Pico, and Baadal the Dweller. They nodded at each other, acknowledging they’d do what they could to keep each other alive.
From beyond the doors there was a loud roar and the rhythmic thump of feet pounding on the aluminum stadium bleachers.
The doors swung open. “Go now!” yelled the grunts. “Go! Go! Go!”
The dozen men pushed against one another out onto the edge of the field. To their right was a large crowd.
Battle’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the light as he ran to the front of the pack. By the time they did, he was a quarter of the way across the field, nearing its center. He scanned the turf, looking for weapons and for his adversaries. He didn’t see either.
Then the crowd roared and Battle heard the thunder of horses behind him. He spun around in time to see the slowest of the gladiators knocked to the ground and trampled.
There were six horses and six men atop them. Battle stood frozen with Sawyer at his side. Three of the men had shotguns. One of them had some sort of flail or mace, which he was swinging in a large circle at the end of its chain. One looked to be unarmed, but Battle couldn’t be certain. The last was carrying a crossbow, a quiver of bolts strapped to his back. He unwound an arrow right into a gladiator’s back and through his chest. The gladiator squeaked, grappled with the arrow as he fell, and collapsed.
The horses were approaching fast and fanning out to attack the gladiators one on one. Battle looked past them toward the doors through which they’d entered. To the left of the doors, pressed against the wall of the stadium, was a small pile of objects. He couldn’t tell what they were, but guessed they were the promised weapons. He’d have to get past the horses and their armed riders to reach them. Battle took a deep breath, trying to slow the chaos around him. He gained focus and ran straight at the horses approaching him.
One of the shotgun-carrying grunts took aim at a short gladiator who seemed dumbstruck. An easy target, the man took two in the chest and fell to the ground in a heap. The grunt who killed him didn’t adjust his path, and his horse tripped over the dying gladiator. It tumbled to the ground, snorting and neighing as it fell, its fragile legs kicking up into the air. It landed on top of its rider, crushing him. Battle was feet from the horse. He bolted toward it with a quick step and pulled the shotgun from underneath the animal. The rider wouldn’t need it anymore.
He knew it was empty from the twin shots that had killed the gladiator. He gripped it like a baseball bat and wrapped both of his hands around the warm barrel. He planted his feet and swung at the next approaching rider. Swinging as hard as he could, he hit the rider across his side, knocking the grunt from his saddle. His shotgun flew to the ground, and Sawyer scrambled to pick it up.
“Run to the doors!” Battle called and moved to the stunned, winded grunt gasping for air on the ground. Battle swung the Browning again, this time like an axe, and drove the butt into the man’s chest. He swung again, connected again, and was rewarded with a shallow crack.
Battle tossed the shotgun to the ground and ran, blinders on, toward the pile of weapons. Sawyer beat him there. He was already picking through the offerings.
“This is all junk!” Sawyer said. “A pocketknife, a two-by-four, a can of ball bearings, and a slingshot.”
Battle smirked. It was his slingshot. “The slingshot will do. You good with that shotgun?”
Sawyer shrugged.
“Point it away from me,” Battle said. “You’ll be fine.”
Battle spun back to gauge the fight’s progress. He counted five gladiators on the ground. There were four horsemen still on the attack. Only one of them had a shotgun.
Battle slid the tactical slingshot onto his right wrist and eased the pistol grip into his hand. He uncapped the bottle of ball bearings with his teeth and stood up.
“Let’s get back there,” he said to Sawyer.
***
Salomon Pico was running for his life. The grunt with the flail was behind him and gaining. Pico tried to dodge him by darting back and forth, but it didn’t work. They were at the far end of the field, well past where anyone else had run. Pico turned at the moment the spiked head of the flail swung upward at him. He ducked, lost his balance, and tumbled to the ground. He slid along the stained, aged turf and into the stadium wall.
Pico was done. He backed himself against the wall and tried unsuccessfully to regain his footing. The grunt laughed and pulled his horse to a stop. He dismounted and for effect turned to the crowd a half-stadium away and raised his arms in triumph. The crowd roared its approval.
He swung the flail in circles. Faster and faster it spun, and he walked toward Pico, who cowered against the wall.
Pico buried his head and covered it with his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting a fatal blow at any second. Worse, he thought, would be a nonfatal blow. Instead he heard a grunt, cursing, and the sound of a scuffle.
He looked up to see Baadal on top of the grunt. He had him pinned to the ground, his legs wrapped around the grunt’s neck. The grunt’s eyes bulged as he reached for Baadal’s thighs, clawing for breath.
Pico saw the flail on the ground a few feet from the struggle. He crawled over to it and picked it up. With one hand he pushed himself to his feet and swung the heavy weapon in a circle, gaining momentum.
He caught Baadal’s eyes and shouted, “Move!”
Baadal released his hold and rolled away from the grunt. The grunt clutched his own neck, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. He likely never saw Pico slam the spinning spiked iron ball into his face. Blood, cartilage, and bone exploded outward. Pico let go of the weapon and left it embedded in the grunt.
“Thank you,” he called to Baadal.
The Dweller yanked the flail from the dead man, eliciting a sucking sound as he removed it. He nodded and waved Pico to follow him back toward the center of the field.
Pico ran behind Baadal as he worked his way toward the action. The Dweller, Pico surmised, was not afraid. He whipped the flail to his side as he ran, spinning it like a wheel propelling him forward, spitting blood and matter onto Pico. He wiped it from his face and joined the fray, choosing to help one of the gladiators who’d already taken an arrow to his leg.
The grunt drew a second bolt from his quiver and set it into the bow. He lowered it at the gladiator who was kneeling on his good leg. His injured one was extended outward as if he were stretching it. He was intermittently squealing in pain and begging for mercy.
The grunt pulled his finger to the trigger, but before he fired, Baadal released the flail. He hurled it, whipping it a short distance through the air until it connected with the bow and knocked it from the grunt’s hands.
Pico ran to the side of the horse and dove to the ground. He gathered the bow into his lap, aimed upward, and tugged on the trigger. The bolt shot forty-five degrees and drilled into the grunt’s side. The short distance meant the projectile was traveling with a lot of force.
The grunt’s mouth dropped open. He blinked rapidly, his nostrils flaring. He reached for the bolt and tried tugging on it as he rode past Pico and Baadal. Baadal ran alongside the horse for a moment and then athletically leapt into the saddle behind the grunt, tossing him from the horse.
Pico held onto the empty crossbow and, crouched low, made his way to the injured grunt as a shotgun blast tore through the man’s torso. The rider galloped past, reloading his Browning for another run.
“Get the quiver!” Baadal yelled to Pico. “Get it now!” Baadal turned his horse and ran it toward the entrance to help surviving gladiators on that side of the field.
Pico scurried to the grunt he’d killed with the bolt. Instead of grabbing the quiver, which was trapped underneath the man’s body, he drew a single bolt and loaded it into
the crossbow.
He got to his feet in time to see the shotgun-wielding grunt galloping straight at him. Pico didn’t take the time to aim. He fired. He missed.
***
Battle saw three horses with riders. One of them carried Baadal. The Dweller was driving his horse toward him.
One of the surviving grunts was farther away and was bearing down on Pico. The other, the one who Battle had thought was unarmed, was circling around for another pass; then Battle realized that the grunt was armed. He was flinging throwing stars at his prey. He’d punctured and killed two of the three remaining gladiators.
“Throwing stars?” Battle thought aloud. “Are you kidding me? Does he think he’s a ninja?”
The words of the grunt inside the holding area rang in his head. “Like I said, it ain’t fair. But that’s not to say we don’t want it to be entertaining.”
Battle dumped the ball bearings into a pile on the ground. He knelt, grabbed a pair of them from the turf, fingered them into the leather pouch, and pulled the rubber tubing taut. He aimed at the approaching throwing-star ninja and plucked the fingers of his left hand free, releasing the pouch and firing the ballistic ball bearings with enough force that when they hit the ninja on the bridge of his nose, they shattered it.
The grunt cried out, screaming, “My eyes! I can’t see!” He floundered atop the saddle, squirming in pain as his horse maintained its gallop toward Battle.
Battle drew back the leather again.
Pow!
A deafening shotgun blast stopped Battle’s draw. The shell exploded into the ninja’s chest, making him immediately forget about his nose and eyes. He grunted and moaned, slumping forward.
Battle turned to his left and saw Sawyer with the smoking shotgun pulled to his shoulder. The horse galloped past them and Sawyer anxiously looked at Battle.
“Good job,” Battle said with a hint of surprise.
There was one grunt left. He was halfway across the field between Pico and Baadal.
Battle looked over toward the crowd, an indistinguishable mass of people cheering death. In a place rife with decay and pain, they wanted more. Or maybe they wanted others to suffer a fate worse than their own. Human nature was a bitch.
Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) Page 18
