by Nancy Isaak
…boom, boom, BOOM!
Only their fists were directed at me.
“Are they Stars?” I asked, quietly. “Are they your guys?”
Brent shook his head. “Not, yet.”
* * * *
When Brandon finally entered the Arena—galloping in on his black horse—the guys in the stands burst into a mixture of applause and cheers. The redhead in the dress began to jump up and down, so annoying to the guys around him, that he was tugged off the bench and shoved to the ground.
Another guy—down in the front row—pulled out a gun and began to shoot it in the air in celebration. Immediately, two of the guards at the edge of the field raced over and confiscated the gun.
That caught my attention.
Interesting—the guys in the stands hadn’t been allowed to bring in their weapons.
Was that for their safety, mine—or Brandon’s?
* * * *
As he circled the football field, racing around the same track where we had once ran laps during P.E., Brandon held his long sword in one hand, the reins of his galloping horse in the other. He was wearing black leather pants tucked into motorcycle boots—both of which sported fringe and silver studs. On his arms—from wrists to elbows—Brandon had black leather bracelets and, around his neck, a gold metal band at least four inches in width had replaced his choker of bones.
Finishing his pre-victory lap, Brandon trotted toward the stands—pulling his horse up, in front of the cheering guys. He waited there, enjoying the attention for a moment, before finally holding his hands in the air for silence.
“Welcome to the Devil’s Playground!” he boomed. “Who’s up for some Arena?!”
And—the crowd went wild.
* * * *
My cage was directly behind him—in the center of the field—so that I couldn’t see much of Brandon’s face as he talked to the crowd. But I could see his bald head and the lightning bolt-‘A’ there.
That tattoo irritated me—a corruption of our high school’s symbol. I looked up onto the hill above the stadium to where the true ‘A’ stood and, once again, a glint caught my eye.
A reflection of light—coming from the barrel of a rifle, poking out from just behind the base of the left side of the letter.
I was certain this time.
Someone was up there!
* * * *
“Round one,” said Brandon, holding his index finger up. “Two minutes long, bare hands. What are the rules?”
“Live or die!” screamed the guys in the stand.
* * * *
As I stared up at the ‘A’, I watched the rifle barrel slowly withdraw, disappearing from my sight. For a moment, I wondered if I had simply imagined it. Then, suddenly, I caught another glint as the rifle barrel reappeared in a new position, this time on the right side of the ‘A’.
* * * *
“Round two…two minutes long, bare hands. What are the rules?”
“Live or die!”
* * * *
My heart was thudding in my chest.
If there was someone up on the hill, was it one of my guys or was it one of Brandon’s? And, if it was one of the Locals—were there others?
Trying not to appear obvious, my eyes started flicking—from one end of the Arena to the other. I was searching for anything—any sign of my guys—or my brothers.
Frankly—I was scared for their sake that I would find someone.
And I was scared for mine that I wouldn’t.
* * * *
“Round Three…no time limit, choose your own weapon. What are the rules?”
The shouting was deafening.
“LIVE OR DIE!!”
* * * *
Mateo came out onto the field from the direction of the school. He had changed clothes, wearing black jeans now and an Agoura High sweatshirt.
“Sheesh!” I said, as he stalked by. “Take a shower, dude. You smell like piss!”
Mateo slowed just enough to hawk a loogie in my direction. I stepped back quickly, so that it missed me by a couple of inches.
He continued on—studiously ignoring me—heading to where the weapons had been arranged. I watched as he picked up each piece, carefully going over it as if searching for flaws.
Meanwhile—Brandon continued to speak.
* * * *
“They call us crazy, insane. That what we’re doing is wrong.”
Much hooting and hollering from the crowd.
“That we should bow before their God and our country and be the good citizens, the good boys that our churches, our schools, and our parents demanded of us.”
The redhead climbed up onto the bench and began twerking. Once again, he was knocked back down.
“But guess what? Our parents are gone and so are our schools and our churches. So, we have no country and we have no God.”
A few guys in the crowd lowered their heads at the mention of God. One even surreptitiously crossed himself.
“We have only ourselves now. We are the schools…we are the churches…we are the parents.”
Brandon rose in his stirrups, climbing up to stand on the saddle, arms wide, sword held high in the air.
“This is our heaven…this is our hell. And we—we are its gods!”
* * * *
“You know, you’re a complete psycho,” I told Brandon, as he circled me on the football field. The round had just begun and he was taking his time, waiting for exactly the right moment to attack.
“Tell you what, Jacob,” he said. “No karate this round. Just to make it more of an even fight.”
“Works for me,” I shrugged.
And—Brandon lowered his head like a bull and came at me. He hit me dead center in my chest, knocking the wind out of me and laying me flat on the ground—all in one move.
The guys in the stand roared their approval, while I laid there gasping.
“Dude,” said Brandon, looking almost embarrassed as he reached his hand down to help me up. “You’re going to have to work harder than that if you want to give a good show.”
I slapped his hand away and pushed up from the ground, ignoring the throbbing in my chest. With a smirk, Brandon stepped back, allowing me to rise. “There you go, grandpa.”
In the middle of the stands, a group of Crazies began to chant. “Kill him…gut him…stomp, stomp, stomp!”
“They want me to step on your head…bash your brains out,” Brandon translated for me.
“Yeah, well…I’d rather you didn’t.”
I lowered my head and went for him—the same bull-move that he had used on me. Brandon stepped to the side easily and—although I didn’t miss entirely—I barely managed to graze him.
“Just like in football practice. Keep your shoulders back and down,” Brandon advised me. “You’ll have more control that way.”
“Shaddup.”
“Just trying to help,” he smirked.
Then he squatted, moving into ‘breakdown’ position and shuffling back and forth on his toes. “Get ready to juke, Rikes.”
I had only enough time to think one thing before Brandon exploded up, straight at me.
…oh crap…
* * * *
It wasn’t experience that caused me to turn around and use my back to absorb Brandon’s attack—it was full-on fear.
As his beefed-up arms snagged around me, I pushed back into his rip, pumping my legs hard to counter his forward motion. For a moment, we stalemated, his arms like pythons, reaching around my ribcage, trying to constrict my breathing.
Still, I continued to move my feet, heels hitting the ground hard, one-after-another.
At the same time, I whipped my head backward. There was an immediate clunk—the back of my head meeting up with Brandon’s forehead.
And, just like that—the balance of power shifted.
Suddenly, my pumping feet were gaining purchase; I was pushing us both backward. Brandon struggled with the movement, his motorcycle boots becoming a liability as h
e tripped over his own big feet.
We began to fall—going down on our backs.
If this had been football practice, I would have tried to twist my body away—so I wouldn’t land on Brandon and hurt him.
But this wasn’t football.
And it certainly wasn’t a practice.
* * * *
Somewhere, I heard the blare of a trumpet.
In the back of my mind—just before my whole body thumped down on top of Brandon’s—I remembered thinking that this must be the trumpet that Pauly and Kieran had reported hearing in the Arena.
There was an oomph from below me. I prayed that it was the sound of air being forced out of Brandon’s lungs by the back of my right elbow.
“Get off of him, bitch!”
* * * *
It surprised me to realize that it was Brent pulling me off of a struggling Brandon. He grabbed me by my arm, swinging me around—hard.
“Round’s over, asshole,” he hissed.
On the other side of us, Mateo leaned down to help Brandon up. “You okay, jefe.”
Brandon pushed Mateo’s hands away and got up on his own. He looked irritated and—from the way he was holding his ribs—maybe hurting a little.
I certainly hoped so.
* * * *
One of the guards brought out two bottles of water. He handed one to Brandon and then—at a nod from Brandon—gave the other one to me.
“Good show,” said the guard. “How long ‘til Round Two?”
“Five minutes,” answered Brandon, taking a long swig from his bottle, then dumping the rest over his bald head. “Tell the guys to smoke them if they’ve got them.” Then, he turned and walked off the field toward the school. As he passed me, Brandon didn’t say a word—didn’t even look in my direction.
Mateo quickly raced after him—the ever-obedient dog to his master.
* * * *
“If I had to guess,” said Brent, quietly, “I’d say that Brandon’s getting his ribs taped up. Looked like he took a hell of a hit when you slammed down on him. Did you hear how funny his breathing was?”
I shook my head. “Couldn’t hear anything over my own gasping?”
“You crack a rib?”
“I don’t think so. Just bruised, I think.”
“You going to be good for the second round?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Brent shook his head, looking down at the ground—ashamed.
I took the moment to peer up at the ‘A’ on the hill. Sure enough—the rifle barrel was still visible. And higher up—right at the top—I was certain that I saw movement, like a person moving down the slope, slowly, through the bushes.
Taking a drink of water, I used the bottle to hide my words from the guards and the Crazies in the stands. “Does Brandon have guys up in the hills?” I whispered. “Sentries, maybe?”
Immediately, Brent tensed. His eyes strayed up and to the left, taking in the hill at the end of the football field.
“Brent?”
It took a moment before he turned from the hill to look at me. He didn’t say a word—but his eyes were wide.
He had seen someone, too.
“Brent?”
Finally, he shook his head slightly. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I honestly don’t.”
* * * *
“You’re sounding like an old man there, Brandon.”
“Shut your pie hole,” he grunted, moving into a basic karate stance, balancing back and forth on his feet until he found his ‘center’.
I shuffled backward, wanting to keep as much distance between us as I could. We were both jacking ourselves up, huffing and puffing—two aggressive males trying to psych each other out.
Over in the stands, meanwhile, the Crazies were becoming restless.
There was a lot of pushing and shoving, and one of the younger kids actually tumbled over a bench, slamming his face on the cement below. He was led away, crying, wiping at the blood pouring from a cut on his forehead.
“One of your vicious Crazies just got an owie,” I said.
Brandon turned his head slightly, watching as the kid was escorted out of the stadium. He shrugged, unconcerned.
“That kid’s what—seven, eight?” I asked. “A little boy.”
“You got a point?”
“Yes, I’ve got a point,” I growled. “The same point that I’ve been trying to get you to see all along. That this is stupid and ridiculous. And it’s bad enough that you’re involved. But that you’re bringing these little kids into it is just so beyond wrong—it’s evil.”
“You’re always so full of yourself, Jacob,” Brandon muttered. “I’ve always hated that about you—that you always think that you’re so much better than the rest of us.”
“I’ve never said that,” I insisted. “And I’ve never believed that.”
“Could of fooled me—with that goody-goody act you got going.”
Suddenly…BANG! It was a gunshot, fired by Mateo from over near the bathrooms.
The Crazies started to cheer.
Round Two had just begun.
* * * *
I had no idea that Brandon could move so fast.
On the football field, he was always the punisher, the enforcer. He tackled, he dropped guys, he threw them over his shoulder and slammed them into the ground.
And, although I knew that Brandon had a brown belt—truthfully—I’d never really believed it. I guess, because he was such an oaf at school, I figured that he’d be big and lumbering in the dojo, too.
But this kid who came at me now—he moved quick.
Too quick for me.
* * * *
The roundhouse kick caught me in the left shoulder. I spun around, immediately off-balance, my arms windmilling.
Brandon moved in then, his hands lashing out. The heel of one caught me on the right side of my jaw, rattling my brain. That was followed with a jab to my solar plexus that nearly knocked me onto my back.
Over in the stands, the Crazies were screaming. Out of the sides of my eyes, I could see bodies jumping up and down with excitement. Reacting to their cheers, Brandon turned away from me, putting on a show for them as he balanced on one leg—“Karate Kid”-style.
In response, some of the guys immediately started yelling. “Wax on, wax off!”
* * * *
Hoping to catch Brandon while his attention was focused on his adoring fans, I raced forward, pulling my right hand back for a punch.
I didn’t even get to throw it.
Brandon spun around—almost as if he had been waiting for me—and his base leg lashed out, smashing me on the bottom of my chin. I flew back, my teeth biting into my tongue and my mouth filling up with blood.
“Wax on, wax off!”
* * * *
I’ve no doubt that Brandon could have killed me any time that he had wanted during the second round. That he did not, I think, had simply to do with his wish to ‘put on a good show’.
He pummeled me badly, however—with hooks and jabs that sent my head flying back and split open the skin above my left eye. Meanwhile, an elbow smash left my ear ringing and a side kick came close to crushing my throat.
It wasn’t much, but I’m proud of the roundhouse that I did manage to connect to his ribs as Brandon came in for a series of heel snaps to my stomach. Other than that one roundhouse, however, the only other time I touched Brandon was the foot stomp I gave him when he enfolded me in a bone-crushing bear hug.
* * * *
When the trumpet blew, ending the second round, Brandon and I both slumped to the ground—exhausted. I was spitting out blood and had more dripping into my eyes from a cut on my forehead.
* * * *
While Mateo went over to do a final check on the weapons for the third round, Brandon and I sat close together on the football field. The guards—including Brent and Han—were nearby.
Out in the stands, meanwhile, Crazies were using the break between rounds to share a smo
ke or a joint. Others were wandering about, talking to friends, eating sandwiches or potato chips. The atmosphere was friendly and slightly raucous—more like a bunch of guys having a tailgate party during halftime than waiting to witness a murder.
* * * *
“Do you still miss girls?” Brandon asked.
I turned my head slowly to look at him; he was half-lying on the ground, his sword in front of him, drinking from his water bottle.
“Yes,” I answered, honestly.
“I don’t,” said Brandon. “Mostly…I mean, I miss the sex. That kind of goes without saying. But the other stuff—the talking and the pretending to care and all that. I just don’t miss it. Not at all.”
With my fingers, I probed the teeth in my mouth, jiggling each one in turn, checking to see what, if any, damage had been done to them.
“Girls smell good, though. I’ll give them that,” Brandon admitted.
“They smell amazing.”
