by Mark Tufo
“Go to your death or go to your victory, hu-mans!” a voice thundered from overhead. The crowd went nuts, the huge screens went blank. Apparently, they didn’t want us watching what our opponent was doing. The aliens began a sort of hissing, it sounded like a battalion of tires having their air let out; the noise was deafening. I got up, my head still spinning from the impact, and I wiped the blood away. Maybe the fall was the best thing that happened to me, I finally got moving and ran to the wall behind me and grabbed the closest weapon, a sword. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, I had no intention of actually using it on that man. Maybe if I waited long enough he would die of natural causes. But the need to have that weapon in my hands was somehow primordial, instinctual. It felt good. Blood pulsed through my veins. My senses were heightened to their max. I thought I could smell the fear of my prey, but more than likely I was smelling my own. My eyes honed in on the slightest movement. My feet began to move with stealth modern man had long since forgotten. I began to wonder if my forehead was beginning to protrude a little more. No time for intellectual thought, I began to surrender myself to the most basic of thoughts—survival. I had crossed what I took to be roughly half of the arena without a single cognitive thought beyond kill or be killed. I didn’t even hear the crowd anymore. And then it hit me, my modern mind raced to catch up; fear suddenly and eagerly gripped me with a force equal to dread. I dropped my sword. It made a loud clanging noise as it slid down a small embankment. The crowd quieted, it almost sounded like they were holding their collective breath. At the same time I heard him coming. Apparently, he wanted to live too.
“I almost forgot there was somebody in here with me.” To this day, I’m not sure if I said that out loud or not. I turned to look and there he was, about thirty yards away and closing fast, at least as fast as a fiftyish year-old could move. It was kind of comical. Here was a wafer-thin man hefting a spear almost double his height, huffing and puffing his way toward me. It would have been even funnier if he weren’t huffing and puffing his way to kill me.
Dude, I thought, have a heart attack and save us both the trouble. I didn’t think he heard me. His face still contained that look of utter terror but now there was something else. Was it determination? He wanted to kill me. I unlocked my feet and luckily this time they weren’t nailed to the floor like in so many of my childhood dreams. In fact they were quite the opposite, they felt like feathers. It was amazing what pure adrenaline could do. I moved with not a second to spare, the man went tumbling past me. He cart wheeled down the embankment more times than I could count. I’ve got to get my sword before he recovers. I ran down the embankment about ten yards to retrieve it; the man was another ten yards beyond that at the bottom of the rise. He was still on his back. His eyes were closed but I could tell he was still conscious, he was sobbing. He kept pitching his spear in different directions almost with the hope I would impale myself on it. The crowd went crazy as I approached the downed man, sword in hand. When I was just out of reach of his outstretched spear I stopped. The man was begging and pleading with me not to kill him; if I had eaten any lunch I would have left it there on the forest floor. I let my upraised sword hand drop down and half-turned to leave. It was then that I noticed what that outcome would entail. The guards raised their weapons level with my head. So this was how it was going to end—either I went against everything I was and killed this man, or the croc-things were going to melt my head. Survival is by far the most demanding of instincts, I turned to do that which most repulsed me in life. I was going to take another human’s life; I had to kill. The man had stopped flailing his spear, his arms were around his head now; his breathing came in ragged sobs. I think he had finally resigned himself to death.
“Sir,” I said, my breath coming out in thin wisps, “Sir, I’m sorry. I’ll make it as quick and painless as possible.” Tears flowed from my eyes almost to the point of blindness.
“Sir, what is your name?” I asked.
“Tom Greenborough.” His breath hitched in his throat.
“Mr. Greenborough, I promise on my soul I will avenge your death.”
“Thank you, son,” he replied more calmly. He placed his arms by his side and said the Lord’s Prayer. I waited for him to finish before I brought the sword crashing down through his upper chest. The shock of his breastplate collapsing almost jolted my arms out of their sockets, but once through his chest I felt the sword go all the way through his internal organs and stick into his spine. The sound was horrible, it sounded like a cockroach being crushed only a hundred times louder; the blood, however, was far worse. I had pierced his heart and the blood flew up in an arc looking like some sort of macabre fountain. It stung my eyes and assaulted my mouth, it tasted like steel. The sword rose and fell once with the final beat of Mister Greenborough’s heart. I fell to both knees sobbing and I cradled him in my arms. The crowd was in near hysterics. I had not noticed before, but the guards had circled me and motioned for me to get up. I half thought to grab the sword and do what damage I could, but no, I wouldn’t make it two steps, and then my promise would have been futile. So I got up and let the guards do with me as they would. I was led back to a cell, not necessarily my cell, though. The corridor I was led down appeared to be different, although it was in the same direction I had come from. My adrenaline surge was waning, I could not think clearly and I was visibly shaking from head to toe. It was all I could do to walk straight. And then it dawned on me the cells I was passing on my left were bigger. Yeah, that was it, they were bigger, almost double the size. Then I came to the horrific realization they were double the size because half of us were dead. I collapsed, whether from the shock of the truth or just because my body could no longer withstand the rush of stimulants I had been producing, I guess I’ll never know. I awoke minutes? hours? days? later. I just didn’t know, there was no way to tell the passage of time here. I awoke with a start. Whoa, I thought, this room is a lot different from my last abode. There was a table in the middle of the room with a bowl containing what appeared to be fruit and a door that actually led to a bathroom, but what really caught my attention was what was on the far wall from my bunk. It appeared to be a large video screen. I walked over and hit the only button available; I hoped it was the power button. I was right, I stepped back as the screen lit up. At first, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, it was just a bunch of names with a number next to them. Then it dawned on me this was their rating system. The first round was over. Two-thousand, forty-eight men were alive, and tragically two-thousand, one hundred two had died. I knew my event wasn’t a very artful and/or cunning one, so I figured I would be somewhere in the middle of the pack in terms of ranking, but obviously there were a lot better warriors out there than me. I was ranked number 1,738, almost the bottom of the barrel. I was paired against number 310, one Hank Sterns. Things were not looking good. I barely survived against a fifty-five year-old man, how was I possibly going to take down my next competitor? I leaned against the wall pondering my mixed emotions but mostly to keep from falling over. The screen changed, but it took me a moment to register this fact; what I saw on the screen both frightened and thrilled me at the same time.
Round Two had begun, and like a pay-per view event I sat on my bunk and watched. I never even looked at the food I was eating as the games started. number 1, Thomas Durgan, was squaring off against number 2048, one Albert Timmins. Timmins looked as if he had eaten his last competitor. He weighed in excess of three hundred fifty pounds, all of it fat. Maybe he had fallen on his last victim. Sweat dripped from his brow, in fact, his whole body was wet and he hadn’t even moved from where the guards had deposited him so unceremoniously. He was too busy biting his nails in nervousness to obtain a weapon.
“Get up you idiot!” I yelled at the screen. “At least defend yourself!” How the hell had he made it to this round? It was later that I found out his competitor had died of a heart attack as I had wished mine had. But if he thought divine intervention was going to happen again he
was sadly mistaken. It was clear he was not going to see Round Three. Durgan was closing fast, the axe he had obtained was held high. There was no tact here; Durgan went straight up the middle of Main Street in what appeared to be Mayberry. They even had mockup dummies of Floyd the Barber and Barney Fife; where was Andy when you needed him? He would have stopped this slaughter. Durgan’s body was a rippling mass of muscle straining against his tank top and jeans; this man spent the majority of his days in the gym from the look of it. He was the type who walked the beach and made girls melt and smaller men look with envy. He even had the looks to match the muscle, although that face was now contorted into a grotesque sort of war mask. He looked like the Roman God of war, all ferocity and determination. He was not going to be denied. I turned my gaze just a fraction of a second too late, I had seen in horror Durgan’s axe hit home, straight on the top of Timmins’ skull and from the force and sound of it, I’m certain he split the fat man in half. I shook like a leaf in a gale; my body wet with a sheen of sweat. I watched hundreds of battles and subsequently hundreds of deaths. I was becoming numb. The one fact that stuck in my head was how well the aliens had done on their handicapping of these events. Very rarely did a lower seed pull out an upset and that was usually only when the higher ranked competitor made a serious blunder. I was not feeling very confident about my chances when I turned to see the guards entering my room. It was my turn and ready or not I had to go. I said a prayer, but I wasn’t sure to which god I was praying to. How many gods would help those who kill? I was led to the arena almost courteously. I guess winning did have some advantages. This time I wasn’t even shoved through the door, although I did not get the luxury of gathering my thoughts in the isolation booth. Apparently, everyone was supposed to know the rules by now. I waited patiently for number 310 to enter the arena.
CHAPTER 18
“Is there any new news from Colorado, Captain?” the President intoned. The captain was under the impression the President was more concerned with his plummeting approval ratings than with the semi-invasion of Earth. Three ships had deployed from the mothership and had removed thousands of people from three different venues around the globe. One in Russia, one in China and one here in the good ole United States. The lack of response by any of the governments was astounding, but really, what could they do? Nobody was prepared for this scenario; there were no computer mock-ups for this, no drills. Nine thousand people in Morrison, Colorado had simply vanished. One moment the amphitheater had been packed with concert-goers enjoying a show, the next it was empty. Even the surrounding fauna had been uprooted. Anything living had simply ceased to exist in that spot, for some unlucky few who were actually half in and half out of the ship’s radius, they were neatly sliced in two as if by a laser. In one example, some eyewitnesses were still visibly shaken as their friend had been chasing a Frisbee when the mass exodus occurred. They had watched in horror as his right outstretched arm, his leg from his knee down and a quarter of his face just disappeared. He was able to half turn to his companions, his one eye pleading with them for answers; he had not even been able to vocalize a scream because that portion of his brain had been removed.
The captain had no desire to be in Washington. He had always despised politics, he was a soldier. He did as he was ordered and expected the orders he issued to be attended with the same attention to detail. Everything in Washington came at a price. Every word here had meaning on multiple levels. Ulterior motives were the norm in this town. Here he was trying to avert a National Disaster and the President, a pot-smoking draft dodger, was more concerned with recent poll numbers. The President couldn’t believe the aliens would come to Earth on an election year.
“Sir, we’ve got some eyewitness reports but they are not all that reliable.”
“How so, Captain?”
“Well, sir, most of the eyewitnesses are still pretty shaken up or else they were under the effects of various types of drugs.”
“Drugs, Captain?”
“Yes sir, it was a concert, it’s tough to get an accurate picture of what happened from a person tripping on mushrooms,” the captain noted sarcastically.
“Captain, I’m not much in the mood for humor today. I know you don’t like politics much, or more specifically me. I know you think I’m more concerned with poll numbers than the crisis at hand.”
The captain looked up with a start, not meaning to, but the President had hit his thoughts on the button.
“Ah, I see by your reaction I was correct. Captain, I am concerned with the numbers only for the fact I need to stay in office to deal with this threat. If the Republicans get into office we both know their stance on this new crisis, hit it with everything in our power. Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret, Captain. That wouldn’t do a damn thing.”
“Sir?” the captain said, now a little curious.
“Captain, what you are now about to hear is top secret information only a handful of the most brilliant minds in this country know about.”
The captain was hooked.
“We had prior knowledge of these aliens coming.”
The captain bolted upright out of his seat. “Sir, how could you not let us know—we could have prepared ourselves!”
“Sit down, Captain, we didn’t have forewarning of their intentions, only on their possible arrival. Do you remember that outbreak of anthrax in Kansas last year?”
“Yes sir, the National Guard was mobilized and pretty much shut down the town of Missoula.”
“Well, it wasn’t anthrax, it was an alien probe. It actually wasn’t all that remarkable looking. At first we thought it might be some sort of Russian device. The first inkling we had it was not a terrestrial device was the fact that it had no burn marks on it. Any satellite that could possibly survive reentry would at the very least have some serious burn marks. This was perfect, spherical, roughly the size of a VW bug, smooth as a polished stone. We had our scientists study it for months; they couldn’t even get a shaving off it to study what type of material it was. They radiated it, exposed it to molten metal and absolute zero freezing temperatures, nothing. We actually had no idea it was even a probe until one of the scientists by accident discovered it was sending signals on a super low frequency. It’s actually a frequency we just discovered and as of yet have not figured out how to send a signal on. Once we discovered there was a message piggybacking on the signal we had twenty-two Cray super-computers working nonstop, twenty-four seven to decipher the message. The problem was these machines were programmed to crack any language or mathematical code on this planet; we had no previous basis for the computers to rely on. So the gears spun inside the computers but we couldn’t crack the code. The only things we learned from the probe was their technology was far advanced of ours, that the probe was indestructible, and where the general direction of the signal was being transmitted. We were not even able to learn the planet of its origin. Near as our scientists can figure, the signal is being sent to a black hole out in the Beta-Centauri area, and the aliens must be using the hole as some sort of worm device to transport the signal to God knows where.”
“Sir, I thought nothing could escape a black hole’s gravitational field once it entered it.”
“That’s what we thought also, Captain, but apparently, that’s not the case. This probe is indestructible and I fear the mother ship uses the same technology. Any direct assault on these beings will most likely unleash hell on earth. For the first time in my life I am afraid, Captain. Not for me but for our country, for our planet, for mankind’s very existence.”
The captain saw beyond his prejudices and began to admire this man. He could finally begin to understand with his charisma and bravery how he had been elected to the office of President.
“We have actually had contact with the ship.” The President turned to look at his monitor.
“Sir, how is that possible? NORAD has detected no signal from the mothership.”
“Well, Captain, you didn’t know where on the frequency
spectrum to look. And unlike the probe’s unknown signals, this message came through in perfect English. Would you like to see a transcript of the transmission?” Without waiting for the captain’s response the President hit his intercom button and requested his secretary to get the ‘Project Blue-Fire’ dossier.
The captain read and re-read the transmission, not entirely sure what to make of it.
“Humans, make no attempt to contact us or confront us. Any and all perceived threats to our ship will be met with unbridled fury. We have come to your planet and intend to stay until what we have come for is accomplished.”
“Sir, that’s it? Nothing else?” the captain said, bewildered.
“Nothing, Captain. It’s very direct on what they’ll do about any perceived threats, but not very clear on their intentions. We can assume from their actions thus far their visit isn’t entirely one of peace. But I will sacrifice those thousands that were taken for the good of the planet. That haunts me; I do not sleep very well at all. I know sacrificing the one for the many is the prudent thing to do, but their souls torment me. And the fact we are powerless doesn’t sit well, either. Even if I did not feel that we should give those people up without a fight, there isn’t a damn thing on this planet we could do.” The president sounded nearly desperate.
“Nukes, sir, would nukes do anything?”
“Captain, when the probe could not be deciphered or studied and after we learned of the imminent arrival of the ship, we attempted to nuke the probe to see the effects. We broke the Paris peace accords by detonating that bomb. Well, the Pacific Island of Guimina was completely leveled, the probe however did not so much as suffer a surface scratch.”
