365 Days Hunted

by Nancy Isaak

  * * * *

  Parents—brothers—Locals—Kaylee.

  Their presence—if only in my mind—became my four cornerstones during my time in the cage—grounding me, keeping me sane. Whenever I felt alone or lost, they were there in my head. Their spirits protected me and spoke to me—a mystical quartet of hope and expectations.

  My mother and father—their phantom voices, murmuring of love and pride.

  My brothers—cajoling me not to let them down, to be the big brother they expected of me.

  The Locals—calling me toward the Point and the tribe who needed me.

  And Kaylee—as always—a sweet voice, only in my dreams.

  * * * *

  Brandon showed up one morning, just as I had finished using the ‘pail’. I turned around, zipping up my pants, only to find him standing there, just outside the bars, watching me.

  “Enjoy the show?” I asked.

  He didn’t say anything, just began walking around the cage—never once taking his eyes off of me. In the stands at the edge of the field, I could see Mateo sitting with Brent, watching us carefully. Meanwhile, the guards who usually were within close range of my cage, had retreated to a spot next to the fence.

  Having made a full revolution of my small prison, Brandon finally stopped and faced me. In his right hand, he was carrying a curled whip, which he held up now. “Happy Birthday, Jacob.”

  I moved so that I was directly in front of him, closing the distance between us. As I did, his guards started forward, pulling out their guns.

  Brandon quickly turned around and waved them back. The guards stopped their advance, but they didn’t look happy about it.

  “What’s the whip for?” I asked, not sure that I wanted to know the answer.

  “What is any whip for?” said Brandon. “Whipping.”

  I sighed. “That’s going to be my birthday present, isn’t it? Let me guess, seventeen whacks—one for each year…very original.”

  Brandon frowned—as if I had just taken some of his fun away.

  “I saw you last year,” he confessed, the look on his face somehow sly and almost feral. “At your birthday party.”

  “I didn’t have a birthday party last year.”

  “You did,” he insisted. “With your family. I saw you at that restaurant, Ladyface Alehouse.”

  “That wasn’t a party—that was a family thing.”

  “Exactly,” Brandon nodded. “But you didn’t see me, did you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Because you were too busy with your family,” Brandon continued. “But I saw you. Your dad and mom sat on one side of the table. And Kieran and Rhys sat on the other side. They put you at the head of the table, because you were the birthday boy.”

  “You got a point, Brandon?”

  He continued as if he hadn’t even heard me. “There were presents and cake and everyone in that section of the restaurant sang “Happy Birthday” to you.”

  “It was a good night.”

  “I was sitting up near the bar with Tray. We were on a date, nothing special, just out for some fries and a soda. But we watched you…all of you guys. And you were laughing and talking and it was all so easy for you.”

  “What was easy, Brandon?”

  “Being a family.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Brandon cocked his head, lifting the tip of the whip and touching his lips with it. “And then when you were leaving, your dad came around the table and hugged you.”

  “He’s a hugger,” I admitted. “So’s my mom.”

  Brandon looked down at his feet for a moment. His shoulders sagged, as if he was carrying a heavy weight. When his eyes rose up again, they seemed sad, almost confused. “My dad was a hugger, too,” he told me. “Just not like your dad.”

  It took me a long moment before I realized what he was talking about. “Oh God, Brandon…I’m so sorry.”

  “Some kids are lucky,” he shrugged. “Then, there are some kids like me and Peyton who aren’t so lucky. Her dad’s a hugger, too.”

  “That’s how you knew,” I murmured. “About Peyton being abused.”

  Brandon looked around quickly, checking to make sure that none of his guys were close enough to hear our conversation. He leaned in then, one hand on the cage door, the other smacking the whip against his leather pants.

  “Nobody said anything about abuse,” he hissed. “We’re just unlucky, that’s all.”

  “I’m still sorry,” I said, honestly. “Nobody deserves that…nobody.”

  “Well,” he said, the sadness and confusion leaving his eyes. “Needless to say, things have changed. My old man died last year and yours disappeared this year. And guess what—that makes me lucky. You—not so much.”

  And—he held up the whip.

  * * * *

  I took eighteen lashes to my back that afternoon—seventeen for my age and one, according to Brandon, for good luck. The pain was intense, unlike anything I had ever experienced before. It felt as if a hot iron was both scalding and ripping off my skin at the same time.

  By the fifteenth lash, I was unconscious.

  When I woke up again, I was lying back in my cage and Brent was bandaging up my bloodied back. “Lie still,” he ordered, when I started to struggle. “It doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches, which is good. But you’re definitely going to have to keep this bandaged if you want it to heal.”

  There were guards in the cage with us, or I would have said something smart about why did I need to heal if I was heading into the Arena on Halloween.

  Instead—I just laid my head on the ground and retreated into my shame and misery.

  * * * *

  For the next week and a half, my life settled into a predictable pattern.

  After a night spent struggling against the cold, I would wake under my one, thin blanket to a breakfast tray of cereal, soy milk, and some kind of juice. Lunch would inevitably be a sandwich—canned meat, eggs, or a blend of vegetables.

  My suppers, however—were a completely different matter.

  When my plate arrived and there was fish or a piece of roast beef or chicken, I relaxed—because I could identify the meat being served. The stews worried me, though. If the Crazies really were eating human flesh, I wouldn’t put it past Brandon to try and trick me into eating some. So, unless I was one hundred percent certain of the meat in my bowl, I simply refused to eat the stew.

  This would anger some of the guards—specifically a large, Asian kid named Han. He would hit me around my shoulders with a stick whenever it happened, never enough to really harm me—just enough to make it sting.

  * * * *

  The pummeling I took from Han—as well as my fear of the upcoming Arena—compelled me to start training. For hours, I would work out in my cage—squats, jumping jacks, pull-ups that tilted my head back against the bars above my head—anything I could think of to keep myself in shape and prepare myself for battle.

  For the most part, I exercised at night, when the heat died and the guards took shelter in the stands. I practiced what few defensive and offensive moves I knew, wondering often what chance I would ultimately stand against Brandon and his brown belt in karate.

  From the conversations I had overheard between the guards, I had come to understand that there were four basic rules to the Arena.

  1. Rounds One and Two were two minutes long.

  2. Only bare hands were allowed in Rounds One and Two.

  3. Round Three was called ‘the kill’. Any weapons—no time limit—fight to the death.

  4. The winner took all. That meant the loser’s possessions, their slaves—and their position in the tribe, if it was greater than the position that the winner had previously held.

  Ironically, that meant that—if I beat Brandon on Halloween—I would not only not be a slave anymore—I would also be the leader of the Crazies.

  Of course, the chances of that actually happening were beyond slim.

  Still—I e
xercised—and I trained.

  * * * *

  There were always guards wandering around the football field—at least four, often more—stopping by my cage to peer in at me curiously, usually when I had to relieve myself. As the days went by, they tended to ignore me more and more, except when they had to deliver my food trays or change out my ‘pail’.

  At times, small groups of Crazies would sightsee, circling my prison, calling me names or spitting—the younger ones giggling at my torment. The guards usually let them taunt me, drawing the line only when the kids got too close to my cage or attempted to draw blood with rocks or sticks.

  There were ‘others’ who passed by my cage—usually on their way to someplace else. They moved with certainty—rushed, determined to get to their destination. Yet, I began to notice that these others would always lessen their step as they passed my prison, their eyes flicking sideways toward me—downcast, full of shame. I wondered if maybe these were the Stars that Brent had mentioned or simply kids who knew that what was happening was wrong.

  * * * *

  Although I was limited as to what I could see—being stuck in a cage and surrounded by football stands—I still was able to look upon the hills rising up above Agoura High, just beyond the far end of the field. It stung, seeing the ‘A’ that represented our school on those hills, turned now into an anarchist’s symbol.

  We used to take such pride in that simple ‘A’—each class jockeying to paint it their own colors.

  Now, it was a bright red—the color of blood.

  I thought it looked evil—but I supposed that was the Crazies’ intent.

  * * * *

  One night—just as the sun was setting—I looked up at the ‘A’ on the hill and, for only a moment, I could have sworn that I saw a glint of metal.

  As if someone was hiding behind the giant letter, perhaps looking down upon the football field through binoculars.

  Like a fool, I gasped, and Han—who was in the process of placing a supper tray of suspicious stew inside of my cage—immediately spun around to see what had caught my attention. After a few moments of studying the hillside, however, he turned back around and placed the tray down on the ground, thrusting it forward roughly with his foot, so that the stew spilled over the edge of the bowl.

  “It’s chicken, dumbass,” he growled.

  “Sure it is,” I said, making no move toward it.

  Han sighed, reaching toward a pair of leather gloves that he had tucked into his belt. For some reason, he liked to wear them when he hit me.

  I sighed, knowing what was coming.

  So, apparently, did two of the other guards. As Han put on his left glove, they started across the field toward us, recognizing that the ‘entertainment’ was about to start.

  “You really should eat,” Han muttered, tugging at his glove. “It’ll make for a better Arena if you’re strong. And we need you to fight.”

  “I’m touched by your concern.”

  With a snort, Han shook out his right glove dramatically. As he did, his hand rose chest-high, the back of it toward me. His fingers were unnaturally splayed, just enough that—for the first time—I could see the tiny black star tattooed on the webbing between his fourth and pinkie fingers.

  Surprised, I lifted my gaze to meet his eyes. His face remained blank, but his head dipped in the slightest of nods.

  * * * *

  “Face me,” Han hissed, his voice no louder than a whisper. “Take the hits and watch what I do. And remember the moves…remember the sequence!”

  Behind him, the two guards had finally reached the cage. They closed the barred door behind us, staying on the outside to enjoy the show and cheer on Han.

  “Show the bitch who’s boss! Do some damage to that pretty face!” yelled one.

  “While you’re at it, Han…shove your foot up his stuck-up ass!” the other one added.

  * * * *

  Han came toward me, a long stick held high.

  I had been hit by it many times by now and knew that the best way to defend myself was to curl into a ball, tucking my head and hands in—taking the blows with my shoulders.

  This time, however, I faced Han squarely.

  He held the stick in his right hand, threading it back and forth in front of me like a knight with a long sword marking a figure eight. The movement was mesmerizing—up until the moment he lunged forward, delivering three quick jabs to my mid-section.

  I managed to fold over after the first one, reducing the force of the second and third blows.

  “Head up!” Han said—so only I could hear.

  Looking up, I stumbled backward as he suddenly leapt toward me.

  His stick just grazed the ground and, with a turn of the wrist, he lifted it, slicing diagonally from my left hip up to my right shoulder. Whether it was luck or simply that Han was holding back, but the stick merely slid across my torso—inflicting no real damage.

  Han wasn’t finished, though.

  At the end of his upswing, Han turned his wrist once more, slicing the stick back and down. This time, it made full contact—from my right shoulder all the way down to the left side of my waist.

  The pain was immediate, sucking the air from my lungs, leaving me reeling.

  I bent over, struggling to recover from the force of the blow.

  At the same time, Han took his left hand and—reaching around his body—pulled out another stick, this time from the right side of his belt. This stick was only about a foot long and a couple of inches thick.

  But it still hurt—a lot.

  Han slammed the stick forward—straight into my gut.

  I went down, gasping, struggling to catch my breath.

  Outside of the cage, meanwhile, the two guards pounded on the bars, totally entertained by my utter humiliation.

  * * * *

  I stayed on the ground—afraid that, if I stood up too quickly, I would pass out.

  Han knelt down beside me and slowly pulled off his leather gloves, shoving them back into his waist belt. For the smallest of moments, the tattooed star between his fingers was exposed; it seemed so obvious now that I knew it was there.

  How had I ever missed it before?

  Oh yeah—I was too busy being beaten with a stick.

  “Can you remember those moves—the sequence?” he asked, quietly. “A figure eight to three jabs to the middle, then left side up to right shoulder, then back down to the left side again. Then, comes the killing strike with the short sword. That’s important to remember—Brandon will have a second sword on him. A smaller one, in his belt.”

  I was still having problems catching my breath, so I nodded instead.

  Han turned around to look at the two guards outside of the cage. With the show over, they were retreating to the stands, pulling out a carton of cigarettes as they went.

  Returning his attention to me, Han motioned to the food tray and the bowl of stew still waiting in a corner of the cage. “It really is chicken.”

  “I believe you,” I muttered, slowly pushing myself into a sitting position. Everything hurt but, at least, I could talk again. “So, what was all that about anyway?”

  “Besides the pleasure I got in beating you?”

  I glared up at him, not amused.

  Han slowly looked around again, his eyes traveling across the football field and over to the guards smoking in the stands. Finally—having assured himself that no one was close enough to hear—he turned back to me.

  “One of our guys noticed that Brandon has a system that he follows before he makes his kill in the Arena,” he said, quietly. “So, if you want to have any chance of surviving, you’re going to have to beat him at his own game. That means—in the first two rounds—you’re just going to have to take the hits. We haven’t figured out any sequences there, so we think his fighting is random—probably because of all the karate he knows. You’ll get bloody, but he probably won’t kill you. Most likely he’ll just bat you around a little—like a cat toying with a mouse.
”

  “You’re assuming that I can’t defend myself,” I said, sullenly.

  Han sniffed, amused. “The dude’s a fighting machine in the Arena. Hasn’t been beat, yet. But we think that will give you a chance, because it’s made him kind of over-confident. And it’s also made him predictable—at least in the third round. Because that’s where we found the sequence.”

  “He’s got a set of moves,” I murmured, beginning to understand.

  Han nodded. “But we’ve only seen it in the third round, so you have to last until then. Brandon will have a long sword and a smaller one that he’ll wear tucked into his belt. What I did to you just now with the sticks—that’s the only sequence, the only set of moves—that we’ve been able to identify so far that Brandon’s used every time in the third round. So, if there’s going to be an opportunity to take him out—that has to be it. You see those three jabs coming at you, know that he’ll follow with a diagonal slice up and then down. Your opening will come after that—when Brandon reaches for the smaller sword at his waist.”

  “Because he’ll have his left side open.”

  Han nodded. “And that’s your target.”

  “So, I just have to make it to the third round and hope that Brandon hasn’t changed his routine…plus, remember all the moves and figure out a defense.”

  “Well, I can help you with that,” grinned Han, holding up his stick. “But we should probably wait a few days for your next beating—until you’ve recovered from your boo-boos.”

  “Great,” I groaned, gingerly touching my tender mid-section.

  “Aw, it’ll be good for you to practice,” said Han. “Besides—I get a kick out of beating you up.”