365 Days Hunted

by Nancy Isaak

  “You really do, don’t you?” I said, frowning.

  Han’s grin dropped from his face. He turned serious. “I don’t, actually,” he muttered, his voice lowering. “I hate it more than you’ll ever know. But this is the first chance we’ve had to get one of ours into the Arena against Brandon—our first chance to gain control of this nightmare of a tribe. If it means giving you a few whacks…well, sorry, bro.”

  * * * *

  Later that evening, while the football field descended into darkness, the sky above became alive as scores of meteorites arced across the heavens. I laid flat on my back, trying to ignore the bitter cold, and watched the show above me.

  One-after-another, the little streaks of light fled toward the ocean—past stars and constellations whose names I didn’t know. Thinking of Porter, I suspected that he would have been able to tell me those names. I prayed that he was somewhere safe, down on the Point, looking up into the sky and enjoying the show as much as I was.

  But—another part of me was worried.

  The slight metallic reflection that I had seen that afternoon kept coming back to haunt me. I wondered if one or more of my guys might have entered Agoura Hills against my orders.

  Had they taken up positions somewhere on the hill above me?

  Were they—even now—looking down onto the field, planning a rescue?

  * * * *

  I was specifically worried about Kieran, Rhys, and Connor.

  In truth, Pauly should have been at the top of my list. However—with Brandon having broken Pauly’s arm—it wouldn’t have made any sense for him to be on a mission. Realistically, Pauly would be back at the Point, arm in a cast—complaining loudly to anybody who would listen.

  But, then again—it was Pauly.

  Even with a cast, could I truly count on him to stay on the Point, away from any possible action? Like Ru had warned me—Pauly was his own animal—wild and barely civilized.

  * * * *

  My thoughts left Pauly, Kieran, Rhys, and the rest of my Point Dume family, turning in a different direction—toward Kaylee.

  Although I wasn’t entirely certain, I thought that today was her seventeenth birthday. I knew that it was sometime in October—a few days after mine—and, lying on the ground, looking up at the heavens, I figured that this would be as good a day as any to celebrate it.

  So, as a giant meteorite sailed across the sky, I took a moment to wish upon it—sending my girl the only present that I could.

  Wherever you are, Kaylee—know that someone cares for you.

  I pray that you remain safe and happy, that you never experience chains that bind you, bars that confine you. That you always be surrounded by people who love you and will stand beside you when evil rises.

  Stay always strong, stay always righteous, stay always kind.

  And—even though it won’t be with me (although it should have been)—may you find true happiness.

  I wish you the best birthday ever.

  Love, Jacob.

  And then—I stopped thinking of Kaylee.

  I put her memory away—tucked deep inside my consciousness, in a secret room next to the memories of my parents.

  No more distractions.

  It was time to move on.

  To prepare for battle.

  * * * *

  Brandon showed up two nights before Halloween.

  It was after supper, when the guards had retired to the stands to smoke cigarettes and talk among themselves. I was busy with my exercises, slowly pulling my body up, leaning my head back, so I could touch my chin to the bars overhead.

  “It’s useless, you know,” said a quiet voice to my right.

  I dropped to the ground, moving across my cage, in the direction of the voice. Almost immediately, a figure emerged from out of the dark—Brandon.

  “You so sure you’re going to win?” I asked him.

  He shrugged, nonchalant. “I never lose…I just don’t.”

  “Yeah, well,” I said, stretching out my biceps. “You’ll forgive me if I try and change that winning streak of yours.”

  Slowly, Brandon began to walk around the cage. I moved with him, keeping pace, a few feet away, on the other side of the bars.

  “You know,” he murmured. “I turn eighteen on December 24th.”

  “Christmas Eve,” I noted. “Dude, that sucks.”

  “Tell me about it. Half the time the parental units wouldn’t even let me open any presents on my birthday. They’d tell me—just wait until tomorrow since we’re combining your present anyway—one big one for both days. Like they couldn’t even go to the trouble to give me a birthday present and a Christmas present.”

  He turned round a corner of the cage. I matched his step, turning the corner on my side.

  “Then, my dad,” continued Brandon, frowning, “like he always came into my room on my birthday. Every fricking time! Like the dude couldn’t give me a birthday present, so he was going to give me something ‘special’ instead.”

  Brandon stopped and turned toward the bars, facing me. He grinned. “Jacob, you have no idea how happy I was when the little prick died.”

  * * * *

  “Are we really going to do this on Halloween?” I asked Brandon. “With you having only what, a month and a half until…sorry, bro…you disappear.”

  Brandon grinned, tapping absentmindedly on one of the cage bars with his fingernail. “Funny, I was actually thinking about that today. How, when I’m gone, my tribe falls to Mateo.” He gave a little laugh. “Between me and you—that kid is nuts. Like, I mean, he is totally bonkers.”

  “Because he believes in it, doesn’t he? The stuff about the devil and hell.”

  Brandon nodded, his grin fading away. “It was the easiest way to control him,” he confessed. “Easiest way to control all of them…make the meanest ones disciples and give them a black prince to follow.”

  “But you don’t believe it,” I said, hopefully. “Do you?”

  Brandon’s grin returned. He stood up taller, his shoulders going back, his chin up in defiance. “Oh, but I do. With all of my heart—I absolutely believe that we’re in hell.”

  He leaned in close then, his face squeezing up against the bars. “But here’s the really big secret,” he whispered. “I’ve always been in hell.”

  HOW IT ALL ENDED

  In three hundred and sixty-five days, my world had become irrevocably changed.

  Once I had been just a normal teenage guy, worrying about my grades, the surf report, cars—and one particular girl.

  Now I was a prisoner, held in a cage in the middle of my high school’s football field—cold, miserable, scared.

  In a few hours, the sun would rise and my world would change once again.

  It was finally Halloween.

  Time to fight.

  * * * *

  The guards arrived first—twelve of them—adding to the four already guarding my cage. These ten were armed with spears and guns and they fanned out—facing the stands—a line of tattooed warriors to discourage the crowd from walking onto the football field.

  I could hear chanting outside of the stadium, coming from the direction of Chumash Park. The voices were loud and strident, rising to a fevered pitch.

  “Huh, huh, huh, HUH, HUH, HUH!”

  Suddenly—there were gunshots!

  And the chanting ended, mutating into a frenzied chorus of cheers.

  * * * *

  “It’s Brandon…they’re cheering for him.”

  Brent was standing just outside the door to my cage. Han was a few feet away, making sure that the other guards didn’t come close enough to overhear.

  “He’s in Chumash Park,” Brent explained. “It’s like a thing he does—greeting the troops before he goes into the Arena.”

  I nodded. “Brandon used to do the same thing before football games, except then it was usually with the cheerleaders.”

  “Kid is an attention-hound,” Brent acknowledged.

  Outside
of the stadium, except for one final gunshot, the revelry had died away.

  “They’ll be coming in soon,” Han hissed at us. “Move it, Brent!”

  Turning directly toward me, Brent placed his hands on the bars of the cage. “Listen close, Jacob,” he instructed. “You’ll be able to choose your own weapon for the third round. Everyone goes for the swords, but that will be a mistake. You have to go for the spears, instead—the one with the three green rings around the handle. That’s the only weapon that’s made entirely of metal. Everything else will break under Brandon’s sword and it’s one of the things that he will count on.”

  “Metal spear—three green rings,” I repeated.

  “And you remember the sequence?”

  I threw a dirty look in Han’s direction. “Had enough practice.”

  The gate at the far end of the field suddenly opened and the Crazies began to pour into the stadium.

  Brent pushed himself away from the bars and turned to walk away. “Good luck, dude. I’m sorry we couldn’t have helped you more.”

  * * * *

  I had seen my share of Crazies before—but nothing like this.

  There had to have been close to a hundred guys—from seven to seventeen—pushing their way into the stadium. They were laughing and joking, some of them drinking beer, others eating bags of chips, still others smoking cigarettes or joints.

  Like the Lightning Bolt-kid that Brandon had talked to on our way into Agoura, many of the Crazies had small bones through their noses or even through their earlobes. Others wore feathers and ribbons woven into their hair; one guy even had a string of tiny cars that stuck out of his braids at all angles.

  While most of the Crazies were dressed in jeans and t-shirts, a few were wearing only pants and boots—their exposed backs sporting their ‘anarchy-A’ tattoos, like a badge of honor.

  Meanwhile, here and there, I noticed individual kids in the crowd wearing dresses, while their hair was adorned with ponytails and barrettes. There was make-up on faces of these particular guys—their lips bright red, their cheeks covered with inexpertly-applied rouge.

  I tried not to think of ‘why’.

  There were also slaves in the stands, easy to pick out from the chains around their necks. They seemed to sit quietly in their seats, next to guys whom I assumed were their ‘owners’.

  I looked closely at each slave’s face—worried that it might belong to someone that I knew.

  * * * *

  And still the Crazies kept coming—one-after-another—pushing through the gates and up onto the stands. Although I hadn’t recognized any of the slaves, there were faces in the crowd that I did recognize—boys from Oak Park or Agoura High School, some of whom I had played football with, some against.

  When my glance landed on a familiar face, inevitably it turned away, not wanting to meet my eyes. It made me wonder if these guys had joined up with Brandon willingly or been coerced somehow.

  Or maybe they were even one of the ‘others’—the Stars.

  * * * *

  At one point, Brent walked by my cage, heading toward the stands. As he passed, he muttered three short, quick words. “On your left.”

  I waited until he was gone, then slowly worked my eye line along the stands. There, to the left, at the building that housed the stadium’s bathrooms, I discovered a young kid, no more than 10-years if that. He was dragging out weapons, some as long as he was tall, lining them up against the side of a wall.

  For a moment, our eyes met and—as they did—the kid’s foot moved slightly, knocking a six-foot spear toward the ground. He jumped for it quickly, catching it before it landed and replacing it in its spot against the wall.

  As he did, I noticed the three green bands around the handle.

  When I looked back at the kid, he had already moved off, heading behind the stands, presumably for another armful of weapons.

  Had I just met another ‘Star’?

  Would they really recruit someone that young?

  * * * *

  Suddenly—boom, boom, BOOM…boom, boom, BOOM!

  * * * *

  Guys were stamping their feet together, causing the whole stands to thunder and vibrate. As they did, their faces were turned to the left, watching the gate expectantly.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  The guards lining the edge of the field stood up straighter, their hands close to their weapons. One of them pulled out a long whip, flicking it around his head in time with the crowd.

  ...boom, boom, BOOM!

  I looked around for Brent or Han, but saw neither. Off to the side, the young kid lining up the weapons was now arranging two sets of shoulder pads and football helmets.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  The slaves in the crowd kept their heads down, their shoulders hunched, trying to go unnoticed as they were jostled by the manic Crazies all around them.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  A young boy in a dress, with his red hair in pigtails, stood up on a bench and began dancing. He twerked in time to the beat, moving his butt up and down.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  Two Crazies in a back row began to fight among themselves—whether out of anger or excitement—punches and kicks that threatened to fling them backwards off of the stands.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  And then—suddenly—there was Mateo, striding onto the field, straight toward my cage. He stopped a few feet away, turning to face the crowd. With each ‘boom’, he punched the air.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  * * * *

  Sometimes you just have to do something stupid, something that says…I’ve had it. It’s enough.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  The crowd was stomping, Mateo was punching the air; the world was turning itself upside down with mirthless glee and evil.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  Perhaps—we really were in hell.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  As the Crazies continued their loud and raucous screaming and banging, I walked as close to the edge of my cage as possible and unzipped my fly.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  A few of the kids in the front rows stopped their caterwauling, realizing that I was about to do the unthinkable.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  The others were completely oblivious—as was Mateo—wrapped up in their stomping and yelling.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  Taking careful aim, I shot a stream of piss out through the bars, following a trail along the grass and up onto Mateo’s back—aiming for that sweet spot right at the nape of his neck.

  …boom, boom, BOOM!

  * * * *

  The stomping and cheering fell away.

  For a moment—there was silence—punctuated here and there with gasps and quiet tittering. Then, a big guy in the front row burst out into uncontrollable laughter, shoving the kid next to him with one hand while pointing at Mateo with his other.

  Soon—other guys began to laugh.

  The twerking kid in the dress mimed peeing on the boys around him. Another guy took a final slug of his beer and then threw the can onto the field with a loud, “Hooyah!”

  Other trash followed—bottles, apple cores, chip bags—all winging their way toward the center of the field.

  Toward Mateo.

  * * * *

  He was seething.

  I could see it in Mateo’s eyes as he slowly turned to face me. There was a single drop of urine on his cheek and he wiped at it, flinging it to the ground in disgust.

  “Sorry, bud,” I said, calmly—tucking myself back in and zipping up. “Sometimes it just gets away from you, you know.”

  With a roar, Mateo ran for the cage, his arms out. I stepped back—once, twice—just enough so that, when Mateo thrust his arms through the bars, they were inches away from my face.

  “I’m gonna kill you, bitch!” His face was distorted with fury and rage, jammed up against the bars as he tried unsuccessfully to reach me.

 
I put my hand on my zipper once more. “Well, what do you know,” I grinned. “Squeezed it off a little too soon.”

  Mateo leapt back immediately, tripping on his own feet. To the screeching amusement of the guys behind him, he went down, flat on his ass.

  For a short moment, Mateo stared at the ground—as if it had personally betrayed him. Then he looked up, straight into my eyes—full of hate and vengeance. “I will eat your heart, pendejo!”

  * * * *

  It took a while for the guards to get everyone settled down.

  Mateo, meanwhile, disappeared into the school, most likely to clean himself off. While he did, Brent and Han came to stand close to my cage, both of them shaking their head in amusement at my antics.

  “I’d say that you’re going to get yourself killed doing stupid crap like that,” said Brent, “but—”

  “I’m already in a cage, getting ready to fight to the death.”

  “True that,” he acknowledged.

  …boom, boom, boom!

  The guys in the stands began to stomp again. The noise was loud—although not as deafening as before.

  “You’ve got some fans, Local,” said Han, nodding up toward the back row. There, right at the top, was a group of six or seven guys—thrusting their fists into the air in direct counterpoint to the stomping-beat.