by Ethan Cross
114
Corin Campbell had endured a lot of pain. She had been kidnapped, raped, beaten, shot, broken, and punished with molten silver. Pain had become an intimate bedfellow. As the weight of the cinder blocks combined with Derrick’s weight tore her flesh against the fountain nozzle, she barely recognized the sensation. It felt more like the shock of a cold shower than the ripping of skin and muscle.
But she knew her body wouldn’t be able to withstand the pressure for long.
Her only saving grace was that Derrick’s weight was distributed between herself and Tia, the tongue-less girl. That changed when Tia slid from her perch. The other girl wailed and clawed the concrete as the cinder blocks towed her across the slippery surface like a child on a Slip ‘N Slide.
Corin heard Tia’s screams a moment after she disappeared from sight. Then a splash. And then nothing but Derrick’s wheezing as he tried to pull himself up her chain.
At that moment, she realized that all she needed to do in order to assassinate Derrick the Tyrant was to let go. She could push herself off the nozzle that was chewing through her midsection and slip into oblivion, just like Tia. Perhaps it was worth her life to put an end to Derrick’s madness.
Then she felt the weight of the circular saw against her back and became aware of another option.
Corin twisted her arm around and grabbed the circular saw’s grip. Then she pressed the trigger to activate the blade and swung it toward the chain connecting her to the blocks.
The blade’s edge sparked against her thick iron restraints, but it only took a second for her to realize that the attempt was futile. She would never be able to cut through the metal in time. And what was the point anyway? Derrick would be dead, but his brother was still alive. There was no escape for her. Perhaps it was best to just let go. Surrender. Give up.
But, from the back of her mind, she heard a small child’s voice whisper: The saw will cut through bone.
Knowing what needed to be done and not hesitating to act, she met Derrick’s gaze and said, “Believe it or not, darling, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.” Then Corin brought the spinning blade down onto her own ankle.
115
Stefan Granger rushed to the edge of the railing as his brother fell and then watched as Derrick and Corin struggled. He pulled his pistol and took aim at his brother, but he stopped himself from squeezing the trigger. First, because he hadn’t really intended to kill his brother, although he supposed that ship had already sailed. Second, he stayed his hand because they were outside and the sound of a gunshot coming from a condemned property could draw a lot of unwanted attention. He cursed himself for removing the suppressor for cleaning.
In the end, he decided that saving Corin and Tia wasn’t worth taking the risk. Derrick was dying, drowning in his own blood. If his brother took one or both of the ladies with him, then so be it.
But Granger watched with fascination as Corin—the girl who refused to die—staved off all of his brother’s attacks and returned them with a feral ferocity. She was a virile and tenacious specimen. He hoped to get to know her better on a personal level once they reached the Island, if she survived this encounter.
Those hopes were dashed when the cinder blocks went over the edge. And then again when Tia soon followed.
His brother’s pointless struggling for life didn’t surprise him. The older Gladstone had always displayed a stubbornness of thought and action.
But Corin’s desire to survive was nothing short of awe inspiring. Even in the face of what was certainly overwhelming pain, she tried to cut through her chains. And then, upon failing, she spat words of contempt and chopped off her own appendage, dropping the spinning blade down with force and allowing gravity to do the rest.
Derrick Gladstone’s life ended with a wheezing gurgle and a splash. Granger felt it a fitting end for his piece-of-shit brother. He imagined Derrick being dragged to the depths, just like his father before him.
And then he turned his attention to Corin, who had passed out and was sliding toward the edge of the waterfall.
Without another thought, Granger leaped over the railing and clamped one hand onto a nozzle and the other onto Corin. He heaved the small woman up and over the railing, dropping her beside Sonnequa.
Then he climbed out of the waterfall and examined the bloody stump where Corin’s foot had once been. He wrapped a tourniquet around her shin using his left-push dagger and a piece of her dress. Then, turning to Sonnequa, he said, “Go down where I keep the tools and bring back a hand torch. We need to cauterize her wound to keep her from bleeding out.”
116
Francis Ackerman Jr. had been mentally preparing for this moment since he had watched the video of Agent Fuller being beaten and devoured. Fuller had played his cards well. He had tried to calculate the perfect opening move. He had taken his time and thought things through and had tried to get one step ahead of his opponent.
The Gladiator had made a mistake by giving Ackerman the extra time to plan his perfect move. It was an error born of vanity, and such arrogance warranted a slight uptick in the chances of their survival to twenty percent.
Ackerman and his brother had been secured to chairs identical to those used with Agent Fuller. And, just as before, the door opened, and the hellhounds entered like a processional of proud warriors. The Gladiator followed close behind. He now wore his typical skull mask, and Ackerman much preferred him with it on. He was shirtless and splattered with blood.
Marcus said, “Where did all the blood come from? You said if we were quiet and cooperative, then you wouldn’t hurt any of the girls.”
“The ladies are fine. I would worry about yourself right now.”
The Gladiator ran through the usual rules of his game, while Ackerman waited, chomping at the bit, yearning to be let off the chain.
“Prepare yourselves for combat, gentlemen. Get cleaned up. Take as long as you wish, but I wouldn’t get too close to my pets. They’ll tear you to shreds if you try to leave this room. I always feel it appropriate to give my opponent the opening move, and so I will be here meditating. When you’re ready, make your move.”
Noting that his opponent had used the exact same speech he had used with Fuller, as if it were a planned monologue, Ackerman increased their survival percentage to twenty-two percent.
After undoing their restraints, Granger struck a lotus pose, and they were given their moment to prepare before the match.
But Ackerman didn’t need a moment. His plan was already cemented in his mind.
As soon as Granger was in position, Ackerman took off in a sprint and rolled onto the floor, heading straight for his opponent. The Gladiator didn’t even have time to close his eyes and enter a state of meditation before Ackerman leaped into action.
He saw a flash of fear in the other man’s eyes, and it tasted like blood in the water to a shark.
It seemed like a very long time since Ackerman had witnessed such a look in the eyes of a victim. It gave him strength. It was a small reminder of a fact he had only recently come to realize: his lack of fear always gave him the advantage in a fight.
He adjusted the odds in his head to twenty-five percent.
Ackerman rolled twice before coming to a stop three feet in front of the Gladiator. Then he mimicked Granger’s yoga pose and said, “So … are there a lot of people watching?”
Because of the mask, Granger’s voice sounded muffled and metallic as he replied, “You should be honored. It’s a record-breaking night. Nearly doubling our next best ratings, which was the death of the FBI agent that you witnessed. It’s truly amazing how many people will pay such large sums of money to watch me kill you.”
Ackerman chuckled and said, “I’m afraid there are going to be a lot of sick and twisted folks who will be very pissed off when they don’t get to see what they want tonight.”
“I am undefeated, Mr. Ackerman. But even if you did best me, they would then get to see me die. Which would definitely be a
twist ending.”
“You misunderstand me. I’m saying that they are not going to see what they want because we are not going to attack you. I’m going to sit here until you make the first move. Because you see, I think you’ve forgotten how to really fight, and so I’m turning your own challenge around on you. I’m going to sit here until you open the fight yourself.”
The Gladiator’s muscles tensed as if he was ready to spring into action now, but he hesitated. He said, “The rules of the match have been set. Choosing not to attack is a choice in itself, and if you don’t choose, then we will turn on the red light, and the Hellhounds will devour both of you.”
Ackerman closed his eyes, leaving himself completely vulnerable. Granger would see it as a great sign of disrespect, and even that small action would sow the seeds of doubt in the Gladiator’s head. After a few breaths, Ackerman opened his eyes and said, “That wouldn’t be much of a crowning achievement for you. Let’s be honest, you’d merely be showing everyone what a weak little freak you are. A confused child with both Daddy and Mommy issues.”
Granger balled his fists and then used a deep breathing technique to calm himself. “Fine, Mr. Ackerman. Let’s play a game of Who’s the More Patient Killer. But I warn you … stalling for time, thinking that one of your friends will rescue you, is pointless. No one’s coming to save you.”
“I’m merely demonstrating what a weak little freak you are. What is it that you hope to gain out of all this? Do you truly believe that if you prove yourself to be the strongest and toughest, then maybe Mommy and Daddy will actually love you?”
“I won’t fall for your bait. In reality, that’s a pretty poor attempt to manipulate me. But the longer you draw this out, the more our viewers will love it. So go ahead.”
“We’ll see. But if you’re too afraid to open the fight, then I suppose we’ll just sit and chat while we wait for the dogs to get hungry enough to eat us.”
“You can talk all you want. But I’m done answering. I’m going to close my eyes and go into a state of meditation, and as I said, you can begin when you and your partner are ready.”
“My dear boy, do you have any idea who I am? I was raised in a nice penthouse apartment atop the seventh layer of hell. I spent most of my life in isolation, staring off into oblivion. I could sit here and entertain myself for days on end.”
The Gladiator didn’t respond.
With a small smile, Ackerman winked at his brother and said, “This is going to be fun. What should we talk about? Or rather, what subject would you like me to explain to you, Mr. Gladiator?”
117
After lecturing on the battle of Appomattox, quantum physics, string theory, and a torture device called the brazen bull, Ackerman decided it was time to start pushing his opponent’s buttons again. He was aware of the level of rage the Gladiator held inside. He had seen it in his handiwork. He had witnessed it in his cold and calculated actions that night at Willoughby’s, and he had observed it in the man’s eyes during dinner. A rage like that could make one sloppy.
Adjusting their odds of survival to thirty-five percent, Ackerman said, “Well, enough about me, let’s talk about you. After all, this is not our first date. It’s time we get to know one another better. Let’s see, considering your brother’s personality and the way he dominates you, I’m betting you didn’t have a proper father figure during your youth. Did dearest Dad pass away, or did he merely abandon you?”
He studied the Gladiator’s minute physical reactions, and as he mentioned the man’s father, he made note of a brief tensing of the shoulders. Obviously, a raw nerve.
“I’m betting he left you. Have you ever considered that your deformity may have had something to do with that decision? I’m sure it played a role. Many weak-minded individuals simply can’t deal with having a freak for a child.”
The Gladiator’s muscles screwed down even tighter.
“And what about your mother? Both you and your brother have consistently demonstrated a blatant disregard for the fairer sex. This also gives credence to my absentee father theory. I get the sense that your mother was present, but you would have been better off if she had not been, correct?”
His opponent looked like a volcano ready to blow, the thickly muscled man’s skin growing noticeably redder by the second.
“So how did your mother abuse you? Was it physical, psychological, or sexual in nature?”
The Gladiator began deep-breathing exercises. Ackerman saw that as a sign that the mountain was nearing eruption. Keeping a close watch on the telltale markers that his opponent was about to strike, Ackerman readied himself for his pre-planned defense.
He said, “Did they realize you were a mangled monster from birth or did your deformity present itself later? I’m sure it made it even more difficult, considering how your brother is such a pompous—”
The Gladiator sprang from his seated position like a silverback gorilla. He rolled forward, using his left arm like a vaulting pole to propel himself toward Ackerman. It was a straightforward and brutal attack, all the man’s weight shoved forward into one locomotive punch.
But Ackerman saw it coming a few milliseconds before it happened.
Rolling away from the attack, he reached back and jammed his fingers beneath the Gladiator’s skull mask. Dropping all his weight down, he used the mask as leverage to drive his adversary’s head to the hardwood floor. Then Ackerman started pummeling the back of his opponent’s head.
After landing a few brutal blows, he ripped off the mask, and sticking his fingers through the eye holes, he brandished it as a weapon. He drove the metal mask down at the back of the Gladiator’s neck, going for the death strike.
But he struck nothing but floor. The Gladiator had rolled away at the last second and was now on his feet, coming at Ackerman for retaliation.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Marcus joining the fray. His brother ran at the Gladiator from behind, wielding the small table as a club.
The Gladiator seemed to be attacking with reckless abandon, but looks were often deceiving. As Marcus swung his makeshift club at the man’s back, the Gladiator dropped to the ground in a sweep kick that pulled Marcus’s feet out from beneath him.
Ackerman closed the gap and unleashed a flurry of powerful blows, utilizing some of his favorite Indonesian Silat techniques. He had studied many forms of martial arts, but Silat was a personal favorite since it was designed to completely annihilate an opponent. It was an elegant and brutal art for use against someone who desired to take your life.
Unfortunately, the Gladiator easily countered every attack with the perfect counter move. The man’s skill and accuracy were astounding, like nothing Ackerman had ever seen before. It was as if the Gladiator was a fighting supercomputer reacting with flawless precision. He felt as if he had picked a fist fight with Deep Blue.
Going on the offensive, the Gladiator deflected one of Ackerman’s strikes and responded with three powerful punches of his own. Then the big man grabbed Ackerman’s throat with one hand and his crotch with the other. Picking him up over his head, the Gladiator tossed him across the ring like a rag doll.
Midair, Ackerman readjusted their chances of survival back down to twenty-five percent.
118
Ackerman had now adjusted their chances of survival to eleven percent, following a series of attacks from both he and his brother—working in unison and separately—that had resulted in unequivocal defeat. He felt as if they were fighting a cyborg from the future rather than a man of blood and bone. The Gladiator was without doubt the most skilled hand-to-hand combatant he had ever faced.
Realizing they couldn’t best their enemy in a fair fight, he searched for a way to cheat.
He found none.
His instincts told him to discover and exploit a weakness.
He found none.
From over his shoulder, his father—the serial murderer known as Thomas White—whispered, Then make a weakness, boy.
Ackerman ignor
ed the voice. It certainly wasn’t the first time his father had vividly spoken to him. At times, he could almost feel and smell the old man’s cigar-stained breath on the back of his neck. But, in all other instances, his own internal projection of his progenitor merely quoted scenes from his memory, and he couldn’t recall his father ever speaking those exact words to him.
Chalking it up to a deteriorating memory—while ignoring the darker possibilities—he rushed in, slid to the ground, wrapped his legs up with his adversary’s and twisted the Gladiator to the ground.
Unfortunately, Ackerman soon learned that was a big mistake.
The Gladiator’s ground and pound was even better than his standing game.
Barely rolling away before the enraged pit fighter could pummel him like a gorilla, Ackerman shot to his feet, instantly on guard. But his mind seemed foggy, his razor’s edge not as sharp.
His father whispered, That’s not at all what I meant.
Another line from a memory that he couldn’t quite recall …
Ackerman said aloud, “The first rule about having delusions is that you don’t talk about, or to, the delusions.”
He realized a millisecond too late that he was speaking to no one. Luckily, Marcus was too preoccupied getting his ass handed to him by the Gladiator to note him slipping.
The killer formerly known as Francis Ackerman Sr. said, I meant you should use your brother against him.
“I’m not listening to you.”
You really don’t have a choice in the matter. What are you going to do, plug your ears? I’m in your head, child. Let’s be realistic here.
Ackerman watched the Gladiator flip Marcus over, nearly snapping his brother’s arm.
He said, “I’m open for suggestions.”
Use your brother.
“More specific instructions, please.”
You need to create a weakness.
