by Nik Davies
Chapter 11
Law 12
To Achieve Desired End, Use Brute Force
“Would you like something for the pain?” Doc teased when Akeem stumbled from the trees and limped toward him. Night had fallen hours before, and the thin boy was impressed that Akeem had made it back through the forest alone.
“Keep your devil juice away from me, Doc.” Akeem winced as he eased himself slowly down onto the pallet that had become his bed. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.
“Perhaps tomorrow you should sit for a while in the hot spring. It does wonders on the muscles.”
“Hot spring? Thanks for telling me this now.” Akeem sighed wearily, which only made Doc chuckle more. He handed Akeem a bowl of cold meat and grains. Akeem’s stomach grumbled, and he ate ravenously as Doc gently removed his filthy bandage.
“I’ll poison that Highlander’s potatoes if he’s popped your stitches. He has no idea how difficult it is to make proper thread here.” Doc growled. Akeem paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. He glanced at his food then raised a suspicious eyebrow in Doc’s direction.
He groaned before handing the bowl back, appetite lost. “You scare me sometimes, Doc.” His body screamed in protest as he curled up on the bed. He had never been so sore in his life. It even hurt to talk. MacNab had turned out to be an intense and merciless instructor. With only one good arm, it was impossible to get a thorough idea of Akeem’s strengths, but that didn’t stop MacNab from making him try every practice field in the camp. Archery was a total bust because he was unable to get his right arm to do anything but dangle uselessly by his side. He showed promise with a wooden scabbard, but he wasn’t sure if it was because he was so big that the other boys ran screaming whenever he started swinging. He did surprisingly well at hand-to-hand combat—even with one good arm he avoided his attackers with ease. He also discovered that although he was right-handed, he could use his left hand with equal skill. MacNab seemed especially pleased that Akeem was able to dodge anything that came his way. He moved with a grace and speed that didn’t seem possible for a boy so tall. He spent most of his time ducking, dodging, and twisting until his sparring partner was just too tired to go on. He avoided glass-tipped shivs, heavy, wooden broadswords covered in thorns, and spears with jagged rock tips just as easily as he dodged punches and kicks. Even when someone landed the occasional blow, nothing slowed him down; he had had far worse beatings in his life. Although his confidence rose with every victory, MacNab continually warned him that Angels would never be as merciful.
As Doc checked his stitches and cleaned the dirt from his arm, he stared up at the leaf-covered roof and longed for Quinn. For the thousandth time that day, he wondered what she was doing and prayed for her safety. He spoke to her in his mind, telling her all about the camp and the strange boys that called themselves Dogs. He willed his words to find her, wherever she was.
“I’ll be back early to check on you,” was the last thing he heard before falling into a deep and troubled sleep. He fell asleep with a grimace on his face but woke eager for more training. There was no high school in Fifteen. The only topics taught were life and death. There was no authority, no conventionality, nothing but a demented set of rules to follow. Yet somehow there was an order to the constant chaos. Gideon kept the boys’ energy tempered by giving them various chores and duties. Everyone had a job to do, and each boy did his job well or suffered the wrath of Gideon. Akeem had no job, yet. His only discipline was exercise and training, and he threw himself into it enthusiastically.
Each new day for him was a mirror image of the first. He got up, ate a breakfast of cold rabbit or hot oats, and splashed water on his face in a poor attempt at bathing before exercising mercilessly. He punished his body in hopes of easing the growing restlessness that plagued his troubled mind. On rare occasions he soaked in the hot springs at the far east of the forest or swam in the river to the far west. He trained from sun up until well past sun down, burning off nervous energy and strengthening his body. Soon he would have to leave the Dog House to find Quinn, and he knew he would need to be in top shape to do it. These boys were possessive and tight-knit. They kept each other close and protected each other with their lives. They wouldn’t let him go off into danger alone, but he was certain none of them would volunteer to help him find Quinn, not even Doc. He learned everything they taught him, watched their comings and goings closely, and tested the boundaries and rules of the Dog House.
He spoke to nearly every boy, getting to know each in turn. He asked questions about their lives outside of the cube. Many talked of the past: of horse-drawn carriages, black and white television, and the first man to walk on the moon. Some remembered the persecution of Jews, flower power, Spanish influenza, and apartheid, and one boy with tattooed eyebrows talked of a future where the president of the United States was a half African American, half Chinese woman named Gracie Yin. Akeem in turn spoke about his New York, about terrorism and war, electronics and athletics. Most were awed but none were surprised. Each new boy that arrived in Fifteen brought news of the changes in the world outside. To his surprise, some couldn’t remember their lives before Fifteen but all remembered the cube. Each boy’s story was a bit different yet eerily the same. Some found the cube in unlikely places; others received it as a gift from family or friends. Some bought it from stores where the proprietors were men or women alike, but one thing was eerily consistent—the cube always opened when they were alone, with one exception, him. Surprisingly none had seen the same old woman he had. He originally thought she had something to do with his banishment to Fifteen, but soon he came to question her involvement, and instead of finding answers, his probing seemed only to bring about more questions. He still had no idea why he was in Fifteen or who was responsible for putting him there. He hadn’t figure out how everyone stayed the same age or who started the endless war either. Nevertheless, he would never stop asking, he would never stop searching for a way out. He would find a way back to Aly, and he was determined to bring Quinn back with him.
He worked hard, healed rapidly, and grew stronger with each passing day. By the end of his first month in Fifteen, he had beaten every boy in the camp in combat and became a strong match to MacNab, who boasted constantly about his skills as a trainer. His injured arm was getting stronger, although Doc still strictly forbade him from practicing with a bow and arrow. He discovered that he had skill with every weapon he picked up, yet close combat remained his favorite. He liked the idea of disabling someone without killing. He could wrestle any boy to the ground in seconds, and his matches became a bit of a spectacle in the camp. Boys would stop what they were doing to watch Akeem wrestle. They cheered and coaxed him on enthusiastically.
It was foggy and wet on the day that Gideon walked into the camp. Overnight it had rained fat, heavy droplets that turned the mud into a soggy mess. Akeem was barefoot and covered in mud to his shins, teaching a group of boys how to make smoke bombs, when Gideon sloshed his way into the camp followed by a group of his closest thugs.
“I ’ear tell you’re nigh unbeatable in a fight,” Gideon growled.
“Just lucky I guess.” Akeem shrugged before lowering his head back to his task.
“Your bloody luck runs out today, mate,” Gideon threatened, rendering every boy in earshot frozen with anticipation.
Akeem gazed at the eager faces and noticed Doc stepping nervously through the crowd. Akeem looked at him questioningly.
Doc sighed. “Go on. It’s not as though you will listen to me anyway.” A savage cheer spread through the crowd.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the boys roared, sending the sound echoing through the forest. Boys emerged from the trees by the dozens and swarmed into the camp, scrambling for a good view of the upcoming battle. The chanting grew louder until a voice peeled like thunder through the throng.
“Quiet!” MacNab bellowed, and the boys gradually settled down. He pulled Akeem and Gideon through the mud to the center of the camp. “Budge u
p, you brutes!” He swatted at the converging mob, beating them back into an enormous circle. Akeem stared, surprised by the sheer number of boys. There were so many. They were big and tall, short and thin, black, white, and in between, but no matter the differences they all grinned with a feral joy.
He wasn’t sure what was expected of him, but the look on Gideon’s face suggested homicide. Akeem’s stomach tightened and his mouth grew dry. Wrestling he could handle, but he drew the line at killing. The mere thought of taking another life worried his mind and whittled away at his frayed nerves. Truth be told, during practice he avoided his opponents for fear that he might actually hurt someone. The first time he nicked a boy with a spear, his heart hurt so deeply he couldn’t fight for the rest of the day. MacNab told him repeatedly that his only flaw was his own bleeding heart and that killing would get easier with each death. His sentiments did nothing to comfort Akeem. In fact, the ease in which it was said disturbed him. It confirmed that these boys were wild things, creatures slightly above animals with the ability to know the difference between right and wrong but the nerve to ignore that knowledge.
These boys lacked a moral compass; they contained no sense that murder was wrong. What made them so eager to kill? So anxious for the finality of death, didn’t they realize that death was the end? He remembered the day he learned that life didn’t come with a reset button.
For an entire week Akeem had nursed an injured kitten he had rescued from a Dumpster. He named the orange tabby Edgar, without knowing if the cat was male or female. The tiny creature barely moved as it slept in an old shoe box on the table next to his bed. Just when the kitten started to show a bit of life, Akeem had come home to find that his mother had found and taken Edgar to the pound to be destroyed. Akeem was sitting with the empty shoe box clutched to his chest when his father pulled the box gently out of his grasp. His little heart hurt desperately, and the only thing that made him feel better was the tiny stuffed kitten his father produced from his shirt pocket.
“Edgar’s gone,” Akeem cried.
“Yes, I heard. I’m sorry, son, but Edgar was one lucky cat.” His father’s words soothed as he pulled Akeem into a tight hug.
Akeem looked at his father confused. He sniffed. “Lucky?”
“For a whole week Edgar had you, and it was probably the happiest week of his life. That little kitty was lucky to have you, and so am I.”
“But she killed him. Why Daddy?” Akeem pleaded.
His father’s face turned thoughtful as he contemplated an answer. “There is something missing in her heart. There are holes that neither one of us can fill,” his father had whispered sadly.
Akeem faced Gideon and stared into his murderous eyes. Perhaps there was something missing in these boys too, something missing in every child in Fifteen. Something that the golden cube took away, and they could never get back. He gulped, undergoing a heroic effort not to let his fear show.
Gideon was no fool. He smelled Akeem’s anxiety like a bloodhound smells the scent of fleeing prey. He smiled as he lifted a heavy wooden morning star spiked with sharpened nails. His weapon resembled the mace’s deadlier cousin and appeared to have come straight out of medieval times. Someone slapped an enormous curved cutlass into Akeem’s hand, and he gazed down at it dumbfounded. It was a real sword, and it glimmered at him menacingly. Being a kid from the inner city, he had glimpsed a few guns in his life but had never seen a sword that wasn’t in a pirate movie. His hand shook as he looked down at it. These boys are crazy! He wouldn’t do this…he couldn’t do this.
He had finally escaped his abusive mother, and now these crazy boys were trying to turn him into her. He couldn’t let that happen…he wouldn’t let that happen. He prided himself on the knowledge that even though he had been raised by her, he was nothing like her. After the worst of her abuses, he would often imagine himself as an adult and sometimes even as a parent. He promised himself he would never be like his mother. He would be loving and kind, nurturing and encouraging. He’d take his kid to ballgames and parks, he’d coach Little League teams, and help with homework. He would be a great dad and a good man. But they were trying to turn him into a killer. He wouldn’t allow it. He was his father’s son and his father was a peaceful man, a kind man. He tore his eyes away from the cutlass and back to the present when he heard Gideon roar. The crowd went wild. Chanting, pumping the air with their fists, and stomping the mud into oozing puddles.
“I mean to hack off bits of you and feed ’em to the bloomin’ crows,” Gideon threatened as he spun his morning star in hypnotizing arcs. Gideon pounded his chest and howled, riling the crowd into a heated frenzy.
“Have at it!” MacNab yelled. Gideon raised his club high over his head and grinned maliciously at Akeem. Akeem stood frozen, unable to move and hardly daring to breath. The roar of the crowd was deafening but failed to lessen the sound of his heart rattling against his ribcage. It nearly stopped beating when Gideon charged.
