by Nancy Isaak
“Those sickies,” nodded Mateo. “Didn’t fight worth crap.”
“It was a slaughter,” added Brent, in a quiet voice.
“We learned our lesson after that,” said Brandon. “If the Arena is going to be a good show, you gotta’ have good fighters. So, we feed them well to keep the fight in them. You should consider yourself lucky.”
“Yeah,” I frowned. “So lucky.”
Moving quickly, Mateo lashed out. The side of his fist hit me in the head, just behind my ear. For a moment, everything went black and I heard ringing.
“Mateo, stop!”
My vision and hearing slowly cleared and I saw Brandon reaching across the table, gripping Mateo’s arm with a tight fist. He leaned in close, angry and snarling. “You touch him again,” Brandon warned, “and you’ll be the one going into the Arena. And this time I won’t hold back…get it?”
“Got it,” Mateo muttered, his head down.
As Brandon settled back into his chair, I chanced looking over at Brent. He was watching me carefully, his face empty of all expression.
* * * *
I spent the night in the mansion’s master suite, along with Brandon and Mateo. While the two of them snored drunkenly away in the large California King bed, I shifted and tossed, chained to a small couch next to the wall.
For part of the night, I worked on my chains, trying to unlock them or somehow free them from the iron filigreed-arm rests to which they had been attached. At one point, I looked up to see Brandon, sleepily watching me, his eyes half-closed.
“Good luck with that,” he murmured. Then, he closed his eyes completely and went back to sleep.
* * * *
I’m not certain when I finally gave up and fell asleep myself.
But I do know that I woke up to a foot pushing me off of the couch. My chains twisted around as I fell to the floor, winding up my arms, cutting off the circulation.
“Wakey-wakey!” It was Mateo, looming over me.
Just over his shoulder, meanwhile, I could see Brandon sitting up in the huge bed, arms up, stretching. “Cut him loose,” ordered Brandon, not even looking at me.
Mateo took his time, giving my chains an extra twist. But, eventually, he had me unlocked and, grabbing me by my arm, yanked me to my feet. “Piss now, breakfast after,” he told me. Then, he dragged me over to the bathroom just off of the master suite. As we approached, I winced from the smell of urine and feces that filled the air.
“Use the tub,” Mateo instructed. “Not like anyone’s going to take a bath in it.”
Behind me, Brandon wandered into the room and, unzipping, proceeded to urinate in the sink. Mateo watched him for a moment, then turned back to me. “Now, pendejo!”
I looked down at the tub. There was a good six inches of human excrement at the bottom—most of it dried and turning dark brown.
Slowly—hating this—I unzipped my pants.
* * * *
The same two boys who had served us dinner the night before, also brought us breakfast. They moved around us quietly, placing down bowls of oatmeal and slightly-burnt toast.
I wondered where the Crazies had gotten the bread. Did they—like the Locals—have an inspired baker in their midst?
While the chains on my wrists had been removed to make it easier for me to eat, the one around my neck remained. It was fastened to a leg of the table, looped around so that I had a small amount of give.
As I chewed on a piece of toast, I watched the smaller of the guys as he poured orange juice into our glasses. The kid seemed exhausted, his eyes ringed with fatigue. Mateo noticed my interest and, reaching out, placed his hand on the kid’s back, moving it slowly up and down.
Immediately, the boy froze—his eyes filling with dread.
“You like this little chickee?” Mateo asked me, grinning. “Maybe if you ask nice, you get a little extra with your breakfast, you know what I mean.”
“Don’t be disgusting,” I said.
Mateo grabbed the kid’s wrist, pulling him down and onto his lap. The other young boy came racing over, taking the orange juice from the first kid, before it was dropped or spilled.
“Don’t do this,” I pleaded. “Please.”
“But he be such a cute little chickee,” said Mateo, hugging the boy tightly and sniffing at his hair. “And I do like chicken…yum, yum.”
I looked around the table for help, but found none coming.
Brandon was sitting back in his chair, watching Mateo with amused interest. Meanwhile—although Brett looked tense and unhappy—he also didn’t appear likely to interfere.
“Maybe we go back upstairs,” Mateo whispered into the young boy’s ear. “What you say, muchacho?”
“Leave him alone!” I snapped. “He’s just a kid.”
Mateo suddenly spun the boy around on his knee, just enough so that he could lift up his shirt. There, on the kid’s back was the number ‘16’.
“This one’s no kid. This one’s property.” And Mateo reached out and grabbed the other boy, pulling him close as well. “This one’s property, too,” he said, licking the second boy’s arm. “Tasty property. Little salty, but I like it.”
Slowly, trying not to make it too obvious, I slid my hands under the table. Mateo was directly opposite me and I was planning on upending it, right into his lap. Before I could act, however, Brandon stood up and yawned. “You’re boring me, Mateo. Come on. Let’s get started. I want to get back home before supper.”
Mateo immediately pushed both boys away. I watched them stumble off, helping each other through the doorway.
Brandon, meanwhile, came over to attach the rest of my chains. “By the way, dumbass,” he murmured, so only I could hear. “That table has to weigh over two hundred pounds. You never would have moved it without leverage from that angle. No wonder you sucked in math class.”
* * * *
If anything, our second day on Kanan-Dume was even hotter than the first. The sun beat steadily down on our heads and we were all sweating as we slogged up the final hill that led up to the 101 Freeway.
“Man, I miss the snow when it’s like this,” grunted Brent. He was riding alongside Brandon, with Mateo on the opposite side. I was, of course, being pulled along by my chain—attached to the pommel on Brandon’s saddle.
“You can always go back to Oregon,” suggested Mateo.
Brandon’s horse suddenly let out a giant fart.
As everyone laughed, the horse’s tail went up and its anus started to widen. Immediately, I moved to the side, stumbling to get out of the way just as the horse let loose its first massive dropping.
“Having a good time back there?” chuckled Brandon.
“The best,” I muttered.
With a cluck and a slight kick to his horse, Brandon attempted to maneuver it back in front of me. I managed to sidestep, just long enough to keep myself from being dragged into the shower of feces.
* * * *
Halfway up the final hill before Agoura Hills, one of the Lightning Bolt Crazies came out from behind a house at the edge of the road. He was carrying a shotgun and wearing jeans and jackboots—but no shirt. His nose was pierced with what looked like a small bone and his blond hair had been shaved off on both sides of his skull, leaving two inches of growth from his forehead to the nape of his neck. Into this mohawk, he had threaded feathers and what looked to be the plastic head of a Barbie doll.
While the other Crazies continued on toward the 101 Freeway, Brandon hung back, talking to the Lightning Bolt. “Any action?” he asked the guy.
“Five guys, coming along Mulholland,” the Crazy told Brandon. “We need to set up guys along there, I think. Scoop up the ones coming up from over Topanga way.”
“Sounds good,” agreed Brandon. “You can set it up.”
The guy nodded, then turned to look at me. “This is the guy?”
“This is the guy,” Brandon acknowledged.
“Seems small.”
“He’s pretty tough on the f
ootball field,” said Brandon. “Wiry, quick.”
“Should make for a good Arena then.”
“That’s what we’re hoping.”
“You taking him on?”
Brandon nodded. “It’s been a long time coming.”
“I’ll head up for the show then,” said the guy. “Maybe even join in if you need some help.”
“When have I ever needed help?” bragged Brandon.
The two of them fist-bumped—laughing.
A moment later, Brandon yanked on my chain and we started walking again. Behind us, the Lightning Bolt returned to his house.
“Brandon,” I ventured, after a few steps. “Seriously, dude…what the hell are you doing? I mean, I’ve always known you were mean but—killing kids in the football field for sport. You have to see how insane that is.”
“Arena,” he corrected me.
“And Kieran and Pauly, they said that you’re…you’re eating...” I couldn’t even finish the sentence, I was so disgusted.
Meanwhile, Brandon grinned down at me, taking a finger and raising his lip so I could see his teeth. Like Kieran had described—they had been shaved into points.
“Ohmigod,” I whispered—horrified.
“Not God,” said Brandon, shaking his head. “You still don’t get it, Jacob. You just don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“That God abandoned us a long time ago. That we’re living in the other place now.”
“You think we’re in hell?”
“And you know what they say,” he smirked. “That it’s better to reign in hell as a prince than to serve as its slave.”
“That’s what you think you’re doing?” I asked. “You think you’re giving the devil his due?”
Brandon smiled. “Now, you’re getting it, Jacob!”
* * * *
“Think of him as a warning,” said Brandon.
We were looking up at a dead body—a boy of about fifteen, nailed to a cross—on the 101 overpass that led into Agoura Hills.
“See his left hand,” said Brandon, pointing. “The baby finger is missing.”
It was too disgusting for me to look; in all truth, I was having trouble keeping down my breakfast at that moment.
“Mateo!” barked Brandon.
Immediately, Mateo jumped off of his horse. He came over and grabbed my head, turning it so I was forced to look at the body.
The kid’s left hand was shriveled, beginning to turn brown. Where its baby finger should have been was simply a smear of dried blood.
“You know that kid I talked to down on the hill just now?” asked Brandon. “The one who wanted to know if you were going into the Arena.”
Mateo thankfully let go of my head, so that I could nod.
“Well, that’s where the finger bone went,” grinned Brandon. He reached up and touched the bottom of his nose. “A little piece of jewelry for catching the traitor. Dude tried to run off with some of our property…dumbass!”
I looked back up at the body—my eyes traveling across its sunken and discolored chest before following a blackening arm down to its right hand. The skin there was stretched and rotting, brittle across the knuckles. It was difficult to make out, but I thought that I could see a small star tattoo—between the fourth and pinkie finger.
I wanted to look to Brent for confirmation.
Wisely, I chose to look at the ground instead.
* * * *
“I burnt your house down.”
“So Kieran told me.”
“That little dick,” murmured Brandon. “I still can’t believe that he had the balls to come right up into Agoura Hills.”
“Then you don’t know my brother as well as you think you do.”
We were heading down Kanan Road, just passing by the Vons mall. As we neared the intersection at Thousand Oaks Boulevard, Brandon suddenly reined in his horse.
“Would you look at that?” he marveled, staring at an armored car in the parking lot. Its back door was open and a cart with metal boxes lay on its side in front of it.
“El Diablo,” whispered Mateo, crossing himself.
“See him, Jacob?” asked Brandon, pulling out his rifle and cocking it.
I looked over at the armored car, searching for a figure. “I don’t see anybody.”
“Not a person,” said Brandon, quietly, lining up for a shot. “Look on top of the armored car. See the cat there?”
Looking again, I finally saw it—a small black, white, and orange calico cat. It was sitting quietly on the roof of the chunky vehicle, sunning itself.
“Damn thing may have nine lives,” muttered Brandon, “but I’ve got it down at least two.”
Bang! He took the shot and missed.
Immediately, the cat jumped up, disappearing down the far side of the armored car with a leap.
“And there goes another life,” grinned Brandon, putting his rifle away. “Mark my words—that cat has a personal appointment with my frying pan. Sooner or later, I’m gonna’ get him.”
As we started walking again, Brent looked down at me from his saddle. The corners of his mouth were lifted, as if he was trying not to smile. “Brandon’s made it his personal mission to kill that cat,” he explained to me.
“Damned straight,” murmured Brandon.
“And Mateo thinks the cat is cursed,” continued Brent. “That it’s bad luck because no one has been able to kill it.”
Over on the other side of Brandon, Mateo crossed himself once more.
* * * *
I was eventually locked inside of a cage that had been placed in the center of the Agoura High School football field. My new home was just big enough to walk a few steps in either direction. The other two occupants of my cage were a pail in one corner for my ‘business’ and a single blanket for protection against the elements.
“It may seem warm during the day,” explained Brandon, “but it’s getting really cold at nights now that fall is here. You’ll need that blanket. And I’ll see about getting you a pillow.”
“Was that your doing?” I asked, pointing up the hill beside the school where the giant ‘A’ had been replaced with the ‘anarchist-A’.
“I was wondering if you’d notice that,” Brandon grinned. “A couple of our guys went up there and decided to get creative.”
“Looks stupid,” I said. “Like your guys are trying too hard.”
“Come here.” Brandon motioned me forward, closer to the cage’s bars. He was on the far side, with armed guards on either side of him.
“What do you want?” I asked, walking over.
Suddenly—his hands whipped inside of the cage, one on either side of my head. With a brutal quickness, he pulled my head forward, whacking it on the bars. I immediately saw stars, my forehead splitting open, blood spurting from the wound.
“Now, you look stupid,” crowed Brandon.
* * * *
They tattooed me a day later.
I was sitting on the ground, baking in the noonday sun—when they came for me. There were six of them, including Brandon. He waited quietly outside of the bars while the rest of the Crazies entered my cage.
Within moments, I was lying on my stomach—two guys holding down my arms, another two sitting on my legs. The fifth guy sat down on my back and waited patiently as Brandon entered with a bowl of ink and a piece of wood with needles sticking out of it.
“This is going to hurt like a mother,” he told me, handing the tattooing supplies to the guy on my back. “But don’t embarrass me and be a baby about it…okay, Jacob?”
I turned my head, struggling to keep it out of the dirt. “Don’t do it…don’t!”
“What number are we at?” Brandon asked the guy holding down my right arm.
“Seventy-two.”
“Nah,” said Brandon, shaking his head. “Let’s make this one special. Give him a zero, but put a line through it like they do in Europe. On a diagonal, so it’s kind of like our ‘A’.
“Cool,”
said the guy on my back. “I can do that.”
As Brandon left, the four guys holding me tightened their grip. I struggled, trying to lift them off, but their combined weight was too much for me.
“If you move,” one of them whispered into my ear, “it’ll hurt a hell of a lot more. So, just man-up, dude. Take the pain in and enjoy it.”
Thwack!
The needles hit my back.
Thwack—thwack!
Over and over—sharp wasp-stings of pain.
I laid my head down on the ground, silently enduring the humiliation. No matter what, I decided—they would not hear me cry out.
Thwack—thwack—thwack!
* * * *
The next week was spent trying to protect myself—from the elements and from the Crazies, who liked to spit and throw clods of dirt at me as they walked by.
It was fiercely hot during the afternoon, and I took to tying my blanket between the bars, trying to create even the smallest block of shade. At night, the heat fled quickly, replaced by a bitter autumn cold that left me shaking; I would curl up in the blanket, making myself as small as possible to conserve my body warmth.
Rainy days were the worst, however. The ground beneath me became waterlogged, a frigid field of mud that sucked at my every step. If there was one good thing about rainy days, however, it was that—except for the ever-present armed guards—the Crazies stopped coming by to torment me.
For those few wet hours, I was left alone with my thoughts, my memories—and my dreams.
