by Burks, John
“No, I’ve never had the honor of being called,” Glenn told him. “I have to be happy with just knowing that more winners wear our clothing and shoes than anyone else.”
“You’re the only ones who make clothing?” Steven asked, perplexed.
“Yep,” the old man laughed. “I guess you could say we have a monopoly, if such a thing exists in the Cave.”
“Well, what do I have to do to get a pair?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.” Glenn told him. “We make them for free.”
Steven picked one up to look at it. The sole of the shoe was tire tread glued and sewn to the human leather top. As he turned it over, he could make out the slightest remains of a tattoo, a heart surrounding the word ‘Mom’. He shivered involuntarily, but knew if he didn’t find something to cover his feet they were going to be cut to hell and, in this cesspool, infected quickly. “Do you have something in a ten or eleven?”
“Oh no,” Glen laughed, taking the shoe from him, “you can’t have one now.”
“You said they were free.”
“They are free, but only to those with a mark,” he said, pointing to his forehead.
“So I have to win a Game before I can get a pair of shoes?”
“And then there’s the waiting list,” Erma put in. “There’s a back order, you know?”
“A back order?”
“Sure,” Glen told him, “along with the pieces of leather armor for the two- and three-timers, the other pieces of clothing…there just isn’t a ready supply of leather for making shoes, though it looks like we’ve got quite a bit more since yesterday, huh, Erma?”
“The Castle bless us, yes.”
“So how long is the back order?”
“At least a year, maybe more. Come back and see us when you win a game and you can order a whole outfit, if you want. That’s not to say you’ll ever actually get any of it,” he said, laughing. “But you can order anything you want.”
Steven left the workshop in disgust, and, ironically, stepped on a fist-sized rock and cut his foot.
* * *
Amanda hadn’t heard John’s comment to Steven, but revenge was all she could think of as well.
Amanda Gordon’s life had been relatively simple, as simple as an American girl’s could be. Born to middle class parents and loving parents, Amanda had grown up on Houston’s west side, not in the most affluent neighborhoods, but in neighborhoods not yet touched by the curse of gangs and drugs. She’d been a Girl Scout, a cheerleader, in the Honor’s Society, and played high school basketball. She’d done everything expected of her, and then some. She’d graduated in the top ten percent of her class and had college paid for by scholarship.
She’d done nothing to deserve this, she thought, and Cassandra had most certainly done nothing to deserve being eaten alive, stored like that for later use like she was some sort of Quickie Mart. She couldn’t get the look on her friend’s face just before Rebecca had put her out of her misery off her mind.
She doubted that she’d ever forget that look. She doubted she’d ever forget the absolute pain in her friend’s face.
Amanda envied the strength she saw in Rebecca. Through the tears and sorrow there was something else there, she knew. There was a spark that, for whatever reason, the others didn’t see. She’d have to get close to the woman, she knew, if she wanted to survive.
The others she didn’t really care about. She wanted Darius just as dead as Cassandra was, but John and Steven were two bumbling male idiots in world filled with bumbling male idiots. They were, at least for the moment, harmless. She’d known both their types in the world before the Cave and she considered herself a great judge of character. Steven was a loving dad and husband, one of those rare types that actually were what he seemed on the outside. She could see him and Rebecca at the park, sitting on a checkered tablecloth with a picnic basket, maybe sipping on wine, while watching their sons play. She was sure that, like her own parents, they were the stereotypical good Americans.
John Hussein, on the other hand, seemed nice on the face of things, but was ultimately a spoiled rich kid. She’d known quite a few like him from River Oaks, Houston’s premier neighborhood. They always had money that their parents, or even grandparents, had earned and expected life handed to them on a silver platter. They were sly, wearing a camouflage suit of politeness and education until they were all-too-ready to show their fangs. John always seemed so concerned, yet she knew there was a monster lurking just under the surface. She could see it in his eyes.
Darius on the other hand, she was sure, was a garden variety criminal. He was a man who, by virtue of his sheer imposing size, had little to fear from physical confrontation. She thought the story of him running a grocery store was laughable, the crisscrossed scars on his face telling another story entirely. She’d seen those scars, that night in Club Zero, as she and Cassandra danced with him, even touched them, running her fingers down the long crevice while her hips moved in sync with his, Cassandra dancing behind her and her hand doing much the same. On the dance floor, she didn’t care who a person was. It was as close to sex as you could come without actually having intercourse. The blaring music, the people moving as one…and Darius had played the part well with both of them.
Later, in the van with the other men, he’d had on a mask but she could still tell it was him. When he was on top of her, thrusting with his mule dick while the other men laughed and Cassandra screamed out, she knew it was him.
“Please,” Cassandra had whimpered during the multiple rapes, “it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
She’d blown off the resemblance before she’d been taken off the beach, but now she wasn’t so sure. Had Cassandra known something of what was coming? Amanda tried to shake the thought, along with the stricken look on Cassandra’s face before Rebecca killed her, from her mind.
It wasn’t possible, she thought. My best friend in the world wouldn’t do that to me.
But what did she really know about Cassandra Mills? They’d met their first year at Rice University in Houston and hit it off like long lost sisters. Cassandra had come from similar roots—middle class parents that were maybe not wealthy, but well off. She’d only met them once, when she’d gone home with Cassandra for the holidays, but they seemed just as nice and well adjusted as her own parents. There didn’t seem to be any dark secrets, no axe murdering sideline hobbies or drug addictions, and the two had spent nearly every free moment of their freshman and sophomore years together. There was nothing that she could think of to indicate her friend had known about this situation in advance.
And yet she’d said it twice—It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
She sat down near a pile of rubbish, exhaustion and fear and panic overwhelming her, and sank her head down between her knees. She didn’t know what was going to happen to her or if there was even a way out of this place. Rebecca didn’t know how she would survive in the place. Nothing in life had prepared her for it.
The only thing that she knew, for sure, was that Darius was somehow responsible for her and Cassandra being here and that meant the man had to die
* * *
John watched Steven stomp off, searching for his wife, and wondered why the man was here.
“He’s not going to make it here,” Darius told him. “He doesn’t have the fire you need.”
“Steven does seem to lack passion,” John agreed. “Yet I can understand his emotional state.”
“Things are tough all over,” Darius said, nonchalantly. “He can get over it or he can die. That’s just all there is to it.”
“That’s pretty harsh, Darius. The man lost his children. They were killed right there in front of him while he listened. I don’t have children, but I can’t imagine that being any sort of pick me up.”
“None of that matters,” Darius told him. “Nothing about where we came from or what we were matters here. They could have butt-fucked the Virgin Mary while snorting coke off Mother Theresa’s ass in fr
ont of him and it just doesn’t mean shit. You can either get with this program, learn to adapt and survive, or you can fucking die.”
Darius’ tone bordered on rage and John couldn’t help but wonder if the man had two voices. There was one that he used in front of the women, soft spoken, demure. And then there was this one, showing the hint of rage and anger that sat just under the man’s scared black skin.
“I take it you have some experience with situations like this?”
A strange look of recognition passed between the two men.
“Yes,” Darius said calmly, his tone returned to his first voice. “I’ve got some experience in something like this.”
“I was being facetious,” John said. “I mean… how does one have experience with cannibal savages unless they’ve spent time in some Amazonian jungle?”
“Prison…prison is sort of like this, without the cannibalism.”
“Oh,” John said, unsure of how much to ask the man. “I’m sorry.”
“There isn’t anything to be sorry about. You didn’t put me in jail and you didn’t put me here.” He said the latter with conviction, “I spent ten years in Huntsville,” he told John, referring to the prison just north of Houston, Texas where the state executed death sentences.
“You…you were on death row?”
“No, but maybe I should have been.”
Again, John was unsure if he should pry or not. He decided to let it alone and give Darius the time to tell him, if he so chose.
“I can see where prison would be somewhat like this, if modern fiction is any judge, in a survival sense.” John was almost jealous that Darius had that experience. He’d had nothing of the sort in preparation for the Cave and the Game in his life. He’d never touched another man in anger, never been in any fight besides verbal altercations. There had been the few women and he could still feel the pleasure at seeing the occasional bruise. The women had been nothing, servants hired by his father to be used as he liked, as was his right. He’d never hit a woman he’d had any personal interest in. John had never even played any of the popular American sports through school, instead focusing on his studies in preparation for the eventual day he’d take over his father’s company. He knew where the real power was, even at that early age. Sure, in school, the football players were popular with the ladies, but he knew that one day he’d employ people like that—the brain dead sheep that made up the working class. They were his servants, his subjects, and even then, he’d looked down on his fellow students.
“You do what you have to do,” Darius told him. “Just like I’m going to do what I have to do here to survive. I’m getting out of here,” he said, rubbing his chin and staring at the mud-covered stone floor. “And no one is going to stop me.”
John didn’t doubt that and could see the passion—passion they both thought Steven was lacking—lurking behind the big man’s eyes. He too felt that same passion, though he knew he didn’t have the base physical skills Darius did. He simply didn’t know how to fight or how to perform when confronted by larger and more capable adversaries. He felt, though, that since Darius did, he was the guy to stick with. It was either Darius or the apparent leader of the Cave, Block.
“I don’t know these things, Darius,” John told him, sitting at his side. “I’ll admit I’ve lived a life of indulgence and pleasure. I never had to work for a thing in my life, and my father,” he said softly, remembering the gunshots in his own home, “gave me anything I ever needed or wanted.”
“Is this supposed to somehow endear me to you, John?” Darius asked curiously. “I don’t really give a shit what pampered life you came from. It might have mattered there, though it wouldn’t have to me, but it doesn’t mean shit here.”
“That’s my point exactly. I don’t know anything about this place, this situation. I…” He paused intentionally for effect and spoke softly. “I need help.”
Darius laughed out loud. “Seriously, that’s hilarious. I’m in the same boat you are, champ. I’m here and I have to survive, just the same as you. What in the hell would make me want to risk my own survival for the sake of yours, even if I could help you?”
“You can help me,” John insisted. “You can show me things that you know. Teach me.”
Darius shook his head sadly, still laughing. “The things I know…the things I don’t really want to know…they can’t be taught by someone. You have to learn them on your own, in your own way and on your own time. I can tell you what a man’s neck snapping feels like but I can’t tell how it feels in here,” he said, pointing to his chest.
The conversation didn’t get a chance to go any further as the same siren they’d heard previously before the Game sounded again. They heard several people wondering aloud about “two in a row.” From the look of surprise on their faces, John figured that the Game was, thankfully, not a daily occurrence. Still the crowd marched merrily out of the Cave, many carrying garbage bags, bowls, and various cutlery in anticipation of the garbage feast afterwards. John’s stomach grumbled in fury, and suddenly a rotten apple was sounding pretty good.
* * *
Steven thought again that the Game resembled a baseball game back home at Minute Maid Park, and he remembered one in particular.
It was hot in Houston, the June heat oppressive, and Steven wondered how the Cincinnati Reds would fair. Did they get off the airplane with their eyeballs sweating and their pores threatening revolt? He wondered, briefly, how different temperatures and climates affected team’s playing abilities. It didn’t really matter, he thought with a smile as he looked to his right where Corey and Lonnie sat between him and Rebecca. It didn’t matter if they won or lost. He was here with his family, a cold Saint Arnold’s in one hand and a hot dog in the other, and the boys were having a great time. Corey had started t-ball the year before, so he studied the Astro’s catcher as if he were a college professor, intent on learning everything he could. Lonnie, a year younger, wasn’t as into the game yet, but Steven had no doubt that with the brother he idolized playing, he too would join in America’s Favorite Game.
Rebecca looked at him and smiled in that way only she could. “I love you, honey.”
He couldn’t hear her over the din of the crowd’s cheering, but there was no doubting what she’d said. He didn’t reply, but returned the smile in kind.
Steven tried to return to watching the game but was distracted by a man, three rows down, staring up at his wife. He looked confused, as if he were trying to decide if she was someone he recognized. Eventually, he got up, made his way up the stairs and then down the aisle to her. Rebecca hadn’t noticed the man’s staring, but instantly recognized him. She hugged him deeply and Steven couldn’t make out what the man was saying over the roar of the crowd. He though he heard She’s alive for now, but wasn’t sure.
The man, tears in his eyes, grasped her shoulder firmly and then left. He didn’t return to his seat, but instead left the game, and Steven didn’t see him return. Rebecca was crying at that point, and he rearranged the boys so he could sit beside her.
“Who was that?”
She hesitated at first, stammering, and then said, “He’s my cousin. I haven’t seen in him in years.”
“Is everything all right?”
She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked as if she didn’t want to say any more. He was confused, wondering why she would want to hide something from him. “Yes. It’s just that my aunt is in the hospital. She might not make it.”
“Do we need to leave? Do I need to take you to her?”
Rebecca laughed through the tears. “No…it’s a very long trip and I…” It looked like it pained her to say it. “I wasn’t very close to her.”
“Well…maybe we can send flowers, or something?” He couldn’t understand why she was lying to him but he knew she was. He could see it in her eyes.
“I’ll do that,” she told him, the tears gone. “Let’s enjoy the game for now.”
* * *
The crowd gath
ered just as they had the day before, in a U-shaped formation around the edges of the canyon. They were cheering the same gladiator cartoon again, the bare red forms of the outlined combatants doing epic battle, and he wondered if the same one won every time. His question was answered shortly thereafter as one fell to the other’s sword. It was the same one, repeated over and over again as the crowd settled. He still couldn’t find Rebecca anywhere, but Darius and John joined him.
“Have you seen my wife?”
“No,” John replied. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t. I’m sure she’s okay, though.”
“How can you be sure of that?” he asked, incredulous. “How can anyone be okay here?”
“I don’t know for sure,” John told him. “But it seems that all violence is centered here, in the Game. You notice Block’s men didn’t attack us, though they said they could? There were also no incidents last night that I could hear among hundreds of people sleeping, though you would think there might be.”
