365 Days At War

by Nancy Isaak

  Damn…someone had been paying attention in self-defense class.

  * * * *

  “Can we get on with it, Tray?” Orla asked, looking mildly bored. She had returned to standing on her wooden box and was leafing through the papers on the clipboard again. “We’ve got an awful lot to get through before lunch.”

  Tray immediately lifted her sword and placed the blade against her prisoner’s neck. As she did, the kid’s eyes began to flick back and forth—desperately searching the bleachers in front of him for a way out, for a rescue that wasn’t coming…

  …and then he recognized Erroll and Nate.

  “Wait, wait!” the boy screamed. “Over there! I know who…”

  Before the kid could finish betraying us, however, Tray drew her sword across his neck.

  Blood immediately oozed from the open wound.

  Crazies in both bleachers began to cheer.

  I felt sick to my stomach; beside me, Erroll began to dry heave. Nate was refusing to watch, looking instead at his shoes in revulsion.

  Out on the field, meanwhile, the young kid was frantically trying to staunch the blood flowing from the cut Tray’s blade had made. He held both hands to his neck, swaying back and forth on his knees, holding tightly, even as he became weaker.

  Tray circled him, enjoying his distress. She dragged the tip of her sword along the ground, letting it slice over his legs and feet with each pass—a lioness menacing her prey.

  The dying kid’s desperate eyes sought out Nate and Erroll once more. There was a sad hope in them that clutched at my heart

  Even now, he was still waiting for rescue.

  I must have tried to rise up from my seat once more, because Erroll again reached out to hold me down. That movement caught the poor kid’s attention and his pain-filled eyes shifted to my sheeted-figure.

  When they widened—I realized that he knew.

  He knew that I was there.

  “Oh god!” I cried out, placing my hand against my heart. “I’m so sorry…so very sorry!”

  With all the cheering going on around me, I knew that the kid couldn’t have heard my words and—since I was wearing the sheet—there was no way he could have read my lips.

  Still—in some way—the boy must have understood my intentions.

  In some way, I have to believe that he knew that I cared—that I would have saved him if I could.

  And I have to believe that he forgave me.

  For my own sanity…I have to.

  Because—

  Even as Tray lifted her sword high above her shoulders to prepare for her killing blow, the kid released one of his hands from his neck, allowing his lifeblood to spill out; it was a horrifying spray of scarlet—inciting the feral in the audience to even louder cheers.

  But the kid—this wonderful, scared boy—didn’t stop there.

  Looking straight at me, he took two of his fingers, dripping with blood, and passed them across his face—one above and one below his eyes.

  Two red bloody lines that established him—once and forever—a Local.

  * * * *

  “Dammit!” yelled Tray.

  Irritated at the kid’s final act of rebellion, she swung her sword down, slicing straight through his neck. The boy’s head dropped to the ground, his body falling over it a moment later.

  The cheers from the Crazies became intense, punctuated by booted feet slamming against risers, fists punching into bleachers.

  “Did you see that?” whispered Nate—pure awe in his voice. “Did you see what that kid did?”

  “Rebellion,” Erroll nodded. “Today, it began with him.”

  I said nothing, however—I was too busy crying.

  * * * *

  It was hard to watch what happened next.

  At times, I wanted to turn my head away like Nate, but I felt strongly that someone needed to bear witness—that I had to bear witness. Perhaps it was just my own guilty conscience, but I simply couldn’t turn away from that poor kid.

  So, I watched as Tray reached down and lifted up the boy’s severed head, holding it up high to the cheers of the Crazies. Blood dripped steadily down from the bits of muscle and sinew hanging loose at the bottom. Tray held her finger below the drops until it was covered, the blood beginning to flow from her finger down along her hand.

  “Seriously, Tray!” Orla looked like she was getting nauseous.

  “It’s first blood, bitch!” Tray snapped. Then, she pulled back her reddened finger and stuck it in her mouth. To the hoots and hollers of the Crazies, Tray turned in a slow circle—holding the boy’s head up high, sucking seductively on her bloody finger.

  Orla, meanwhile, just shook her head—disgusted. Then, she motioned toward the two White Shirts nearest her, pointing toward the kid’s headless body. “Get it out of here!”

  Moving quickly, the White Shirts lifted up what was left of the kid—one holding onto a pair of legs, the other the headless shoulders—and ran toward the far end of the football field. I was utterly horrified when I realized that the young boy with the chef’s hat was waiting for them—a meat cleaver held lightly in one hand.

  “Gonna’ be some good eating tonight!” the kid yelled.

  * * * *

  The thunk of the chef’s cleaver, the roar of the crowd.

  I will never forget the sounds that evil makes.

  * * * *

  There were two other executions that morning—one following quickly after another—boys that Nate, Erroll, and I didn’t know. They were older kids of about seventeen and their executions were for stealing, having been caught taking a bag of weed from one of the tribe’s supply sheds.

  It seemed ridiculous that the Crazies would murder a teenage boy just for stealing a bag of marijuana. To watch a kid’s head taken off, his body carried down the field to be thrown into a stew pot, to bear witness to such insanity—it reminded me of exactly why I had returned to Agoura Hills.

  Why I didn’t just stay home and let someone else fight this battle—let someone else lead this rebellion.

  Because I was the one…the sure thing.

  The one person who truly had a chance to change things, to bring back sanity.

  I was the one person who could get close enough to Brandon.

  And then kill him.

  * * * *

  As the sun rose in the sky, heading toward its apex, the killing on the football field continued with the non-challenger games; body-after-body was carted off toward the cooking area.

  There were five victims in all, boys too stupid to have resolved their differences in a civilized manner. Instead, they had decided to fight it out in the Arena, believing wrongly that they would ultimately prevail against their enemy—to take his lands, his property, his slaves, his bragging rights.

  Only to land in the stew pot.

  * * * *

  Watching the third boy go down, his neck being throttled by a skinny Crazy with ugly red scars all over his back, I noticed suddenly that there was less cheering coming from the Crazies in the stands. Indeed, many of them weren’t even paying that much attention to the battle on the field. Instead, they were talking to each other or gazing with half-lidded, bored eyes at the people around them.

  A few of the guys actually appeared to be dozing off.

  They were becoming immune to the violence.

  * * * *

  There was a short break after the non-challenger bouts, primarily so that the White Shirts could clean up the remnants of the slaughter. Seven heads—all of them cut off by Tray—were lined up along the cement wall that fronted our set of bleachers.

  Thankfully, their eyes remained closed; I was feeling horrible enough without having to endure their accusing gaze.

  “It’s almost time,” whispered Nate, nudging me with his elbow; he sounded nervous, scared. “We don’t have to stay, Kaylee…we can just get up and walk right out of this place. We’ll say that I need to go out and smoke a cigarette or something.”

  A very tempti
ng idea.

  My belly had begun cramping badly. My irrational side was convinced that it meant something was wrong with the peanut of an embryo I was carrying; my rational side knew it was just nerves—the beginnings of a panic attack.

  “Kaylee?” Nate tried again.

  I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak; I was just barely holding it together, I was so scared.

  Ironically, it was the severed head of the young Local on the cement wall before us that ultimately kept me in my seat. Seeing those two bloody lines above and below his eyes made me realize that I couldn’t betray him.

  At the very last moment of his life—terrified as he was—the kid took a stand.

  Now, it was my turn.

  I began to take deep, even breaths—forcing myself to be calm…

  …ish.

  * * * *

  When Orla returned to the wooden box once more, the bleachers on both sides of the field quieted down, turning their full attention toward her. There were a few murmurs here and there, comments about the shape of her breasts, the curve of her leg, the ‘pink’ of her outfit; a couple of appreciative hoots even came from the back row.

  For the most part, however, everyone seemed—respectful.

  Or maybe they were all just scared.

  * * * *

  “Our tribe has been built on strength, on power.”

  Orla spoke loudly, turning slowly in a circle, so that she could be seen by the Crazies in both sets of bleachers.

  “And it is through this strength and power that we choose to live our lives. It is through this strength and power that we choose our leader. We are not like the weak tribes who fight with words, who run away and hide when their god shuns them, when their god abandons them. Our tribe is too strong for that, too powerful. No, we do not run away from violence in our tribe…we welcome it!”

  Rat-a-tat-a-tat.

  I hadn’t noticed them before—four snare drummers, one at each corner of the Arena. Their beat was soft, barely heard, a steady cadence leading up to the main event.

  Rat-a-tat-a-tat.

  “We do not run—because our god leads us, because our god is one of strength and power…and of violence!”

  Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

  The drum beat began to speed up.

  “Our god fears no man…he fears no woman…and he certainly fears no fallen angels!”

  Fallen angel?

  Was that just a coincidence or did they know that I was here?

  My skin began to crawl—the cramps in my belly intensifying along with my fear.

  Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

  Orla held up her arms. “Our god is more than divine...he is vengeance personified! He is…”

  Tatatatatatatatat…TAT!

  “…HERE!” yelled Orla. “Our god is here!”

  * * * *

  On both sides of the football field, the crowds went wild!

  Crazies leapt to their feet, jumping up and down in their excitement, pounding their feet and fists against anything that would make noise. A few fell against their neighbors and momentary fights broke out—simply more chaos to add to the bedlam.

  Buh-bah-buh-BAHHHH!

  A trumpet blared—the sequence of notes implying the proximity of royalty.

  Their Crazy king was coming—the self-appointed god of these tattooed and barely dressed boys, jumping and screaming in all their feral glory.

  In front of us, meanwhile, the line of White Shirts on the running track got down on one knee, lowering their heads in respect and deference. Out in the center of the field, Alice and her riders dismounted their horses and also assumed similar positions of submissiveness.

  Buh-bah-buh-BAHHHH!

  The trumpet sounded again.

  All around the Arena Crazies began to chant—one word—slowly at first, then louder and faster, a thumping warning that echoed throughout my head.

  Bran—don—Bran—don—Bran—don—Brandon—Brandon—BrandonBrandon—BrandonBrandon—BrandonBrandonBrandonBrandon—BRANDON!!

  * * * *

  He entered the stadium—not on a horse and surrounded with White Shirts like I would have expected.

  Instead, Brandon came through the far gate by himself—walking slowly, one step-after-another—the confident gait of a young man who knew his own destiny.

  Or thought he did.

  * * * *

  With the exception of a 2-inch mohawk teased and sprayed into full attention, Brandon’s head was shaved. On his face, the two black tattoo lines above and below his eyes remained, but he had added two thinner lines leading from his bottom lip down to a few inches under his chin.

  I couldn’t be certain from where I was sitting, but it looked like he was wearing make-up. Dark eyeliner was smudged around his blue eyes and there was a trace of blush on both of his cheeks.

  Like the last time I had seen him—on the hill above Point Dume—Brandon was wearing black leather jeans and a bone breastplate. The golden bracelets on his arms were gone now, however, replaced with black leather bands, stretching from his wrists to his elbows.

  And he was big—scary big.

  Just looking at him made me feel smaller…insignificant.

  It wasn’t just that Brandon was tall; it was that he was ripped—a lumbering titan of muscled testosterone. While the rest of us had been struggling just to get enough food to survive, it was obvious that Brandon had been taking in more than his fair share of calories.

  And he had clearly been spending his spare time lifting weights…a lot of weights. He reminded me of those old action heroes—actors like Arnold Schwarzenegger and the Rock—guys you knew would never back down from a fight.

  Guys you knew would never lose.

  * * * *

  Brandon held his massive arms straight out from his sides—palms-up—as if absorbing the screeching adulation that thundered all around him. Passing among the kneeling Crazies in the center of the field, Brandon slowed, pausing here and there to touch one acolyte on the head, shake another’s hand.

  Alice—however—received the nudge of his foot—a not-so-subtle prod from the square toe of the black leather motorcycle boots Brandon was wearing. The shove tilted Alice over slightly; even so, her head remained resolutely lowered—her eyes never leaving the ground.

  “What the hell was that about with Alice?” whispered Nate. “I don’t like this…I don’t like this at all!”

  Neither did I.

  My mind spun with scenarios—none of them positive.

  Did Brandon just not like Alice? Or did he know what she was planning?

  What we were planning?

  * * * *

  When Brandon turned from Alice to reach for Connor’s chain, my heart fell.

  Hand-over-hand, Brandon pulled the chain toward him, until Connor was finally kneeling at his feet. Then, with the same boot that he’d nudged Alice, Brandon stepped down on Connor’s right hand.

  He exerted pressure slowly—grinding Connor’s fingers into the dirt.

  The Crazies in the stands began to hoot; many of them screamed out for Connor’s murder. A young kid dressed in leather chaps and a child’s cowboy hat literally hopped down from the top of the bleachers, yelling something about ‘eating chicken fingers’.

  When he made the mistake of passing in front of me, I kicked at the kid—as hard as I could—sending him tumbling over the guard rail and onto the running track below. The White Shirts stationed there fell on him immediately and, like the other unfortunates before him, the kid was carried away behind the stands.

  And—if Nate was correct—over to the stew pot.

  I should have felt guilty.

  But I didn’t.

  * * * *

  It was Orla who—ironically—came to Connor’s rescue.

  As the pressure of Brandon’s boot came close to breaking Connor’s fingers, Orla took a deep breath and yelled, “We still need him!”

  With a hearty laugh, Brandon lifted his foot off of Connor’s hand and tapped him
on the head with his knuckles. “Just messing with you, dude. So, relax, Coco…your chicken fingers are safe—for the moment.”

  When Connor didn’t respond, the redheaded Crazy who held the far end of his chain gave it a vicious yank, causing Connor to grab at the thick links around his neck.

  “Thank your lord, slave!” demanded the redhead.

  Slowly, Connor’s head rose up. “I thank my Lord,” he said, carefully.

  Brandon laughed even louder, ruffling Connor’s hair in his amusement. “Dude, you are so lucky you’re so smart.”

  “Which is why everybody might just want to leave the kid alone,” suggested Orla. With her hands on her hips and her lips pursed in irritation, she was looking both cross and bored. “Can we please just get on with it?”

  “I’ll be happy to get on it!” Tray sashayed over to Brandon and dragged a blood-soaked finger across his cheek. “What do you say, baby?” Her finger tickled the edge of Brandon’s mouth and, with a quick biting motion, he caught it between his lips and began to suck. “Ooo…that’s a good beginning,” Tray purred.

  The Crazies in the stands began to hoot; a couple of guys on the other side of Erroll stood and wiggled their hips suggestively.

  Orla, however, just seemed bored by it all. She pretended to examine her fingernails carefully, looking up only when Tray finally withdrew her finger from Brandon’s mouth.

  “You two finished?” she smirked.

  “For the moment.” Tray responded. Then, she turned, stood on her tiptoes, and gave Brandon a deep, overly-energetic kiss.

  “Ooooo!” yelled the Crazies in the stands, enjoying the show.

  Beside me, Erroll hissed under his breath, a long drawn-out, “Exhibitionists!”