365 Days At War

by Nancy Isaak

  Looking up into their wild faces, I had no doubt that I was looking at the true beasts hiding among humanity.

  And I was about to fight their king…their god.

  * * * *

  The Christians at the end of the row stood quietly as I passed, heads bowed, praying. My hand was touched gently and I looked up at the tallest of them, a kid with a large scar that ranged from his cheek all the way down to the edge of his cross tattoo.

  “Let me,” he begged. “Please…you can’t go down there alone.”

  I placed my hand on my belly and smiled at him.

  Because I wasn’t alone.

  There were two of us going into battle that day.

  One who would fight to the death…and one who would be the reason for the other to stay alive.

  * * * *

  Even as I descended the stairs, heading toward where Brandon stood with hand outstretched, I could see small movements out of the sides of my eyes. These were the Stars subtly easing themselves into position—using the drama I was creating to cover their maneuvers.

  Preparing for the final stage of our rebellion…our revolution.

  I saw flashes of metal—hands moving out from under sheets; small knives were being pulled from crosses. Weapons were being passed from hand-to-hand, something I suspected was being repeated all around the bleachers on both sides of the football field.

  “M’lady.” Like a gentleman, Brandon took my hand and helped me down the last few steps and onto the running track.

  This caused some of the Crazies to hoot their derision; others laughed and pointed at me, especially when Brandon leaned over and sniffed at my neck.

  “Girl, you smell good,” Brandon murmured. “Kind of sweet and salty, all at the same time.” Then, he licked me—his tongue pulling up my throat and over my cheek. I tried to wrench away, but he held me in place. “This is going to be so much fun,” he whispered, so only I could hear. “At least for me, it will be.”

  There was something deeply masculine about Brandon. From his glistening muscles to the heady musk he exuded to the way his smoldering eyes traveled slowly up and down my body—Brandon was, without a doubt—an Alpha Male.

  And, although I hated it—detested it, in fact—I found a small part of me responding to his ‘masculinity’.

  Still leaning in close, his tongue tickled the edge of my ear. “Of course there’s always another way, Kaylee. Me and you…we take this somewhere private. I get what I want—you get what you want.”

  I turned my head to look at him. We were inches apart and my eyes betrayed me by looking down at his full lips. He smiled, pleased by my response; then he shrugged. “I’m so bored, Kaylee…of all this.” Brandon motioned with his head, toward the Arena, toward his tribe. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It was fun for a while but, now…well, I’d rather get my fun the old-fashioned way, you know.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?” I asked.

  Over on the right, Tray took a step toward us. Brandon’s hand immediately swung out in her direction, like a traffic cop—telling her not to come any closer.

  What Brandon had to say—it was just for me.

  “You pick any guy in those bleachers.” Brandon spoke quietly, so only I could hear. “I’ll give him the tribe. He can do with it whatever he wants.”

  “And in exchange?”

  He bent over and kissed my cheek softly.

  A shiver ran through my body; without even realizing it, I leaned slightly in his direction.

  There were even louder hoots and hollers from the Crazies in the bleachers. Orla stomped back to her wooden box in irritation and Tray took another step in our direction.

  Brandon didn’t even look at Tray; he just held out his hand and said, “Don’t!”

  Tray dropped back—the look on her face one of complete fury.

  “Well, Kaylee?” Brandon asked me.

  “What would you want in exchange?” I wanted to sound strong, but I knew that there was weakness in my question—hope.

  In truth, the last thing I wanted was to have to kill anyone. If Brandon was honestly giving me an alternative, perhaps there was another way after all.

  “Simple,” said Brandon. “Me and you. Let the tribes figure out everything else on their own.”

  “And you’ll let me pick the leader?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I promise.”

  My eyes finally broke away from Brandon’s, turning toward the bleachers. I saw Nate there, sitting low on his bench—his head lowered, hiding his face. Erroll was beside him, staring at Brandon and me, shaking his head in a kind of horror and regret.

  And—when I looked over to the side—there was Connor.

  He was not even looking in my direction. Instead, while his redheaded captor was seemingly engrossed in what was happening between Brandon and me on the field, Connor was slowly—inch-by-inch—pulling his chain toward him.

  Because Connor trusted me—to do the right thing.

  And the right thing was to never trust the beast.

  Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I turned my attention back to Brandon. “You’re a lying sack of turds,” I told him. “You’d never give up this tribe.”

  Brandon pulled back from me and grinned. “Guilty.

  * * * *

  Before either Brandon or the Foxes could stop me, I spun toward the bleachers and yelled out, “The rules have been set then—she who wins, rules the tribe!”

  Immediately, the Stars in the bleachers began to cheer—chanting out Brandon’s name—just like we’d planned. Other Crazies took up the call, their voices rising in a furious fever…“BRANDON…BRANDON…BRANDON!”

  And then…“Kill her…kill her…kill her!”

  Brandon leaned over and whispered in my ear, his warm breath causing goosebumps to rise all along my arms. “You sure you want to do this, Kaylee-bird?”

  Oh god, no…no, of course not!

  “Let’s get it over with,” I told him.

  He grinned, lips parting—exposing his pointed teeth—like a vampire suddenly sighting his prey. “You know, Mateo always said that you were a bruja—a witch. He said that you were the dangerous one down there on the Point. Did you know that he wanted me to crucify you when we caught you—nail you to a cross right in the middle of this football field here?” He chuckled. “Maybe I’ll do just that—except upside-down. What do you think, Kaylee…nailed to a cross…your little angel wings upside-down, just like those stupid wings you tattooed on our guys.”

  For a moment, my knees went weak. I struggled to remain upright, to not move an inch…to not let Brandon know how much he was scaring me.

  “You’ll have to beat me first,” I countered—praying that my wavering voice didn’t betray my growing fear.

  Meanwhile, the cheering from the bleachers had finally lessened.

  For the first time, Brandon and I could hear Orla; she was hissing at Brandon from her little wooden box—her arms waving furiously to get his attention. “It’s like a stupendously bad idea fighting Kaylee! Just pick one of the fricking church-guys like we planned and get it over with!”

  When Brandon ignored Orla, Tray took a step closer to us. “We need to talk this over, Brandon…now!”

  Trying to stifle my disgust, I placed a hand on Brandon’s chest—looking him directly in his eyes. “Can you beat me, Brandon…the god versus the fallen angel?”

  “Brandon, stop!” barked Tray. “She’s just trying to wind you up.”

  “And we had a plan!” yelled Orla.

  “We all have plans,” I said, my eyes never leaving Brandon’s. “So, I guess your choice now is whether you follow your own plan—or your masters’.”

  A hand slapped down on Brandon’s shoulder; it was Tray, trying to yank him away from me. Strong as she was, however, Tray was no match for a behemoth like Brandon. He merely pushed at her, sending Tray tumbling back toward Orla—screeching in fury.

  Then, Brandon grabbed my hand and pulled me toward t
he center of the field. “I am so going to enjoy this.”

  * * * *

  The drummers—both snare and bass—began to pound away at their drums, softly at first, then louder…then faster.

  BoomBoomBOOM…RatatataTAT…

  Brandon and I stood opposite each other—no more than five feet apart.

  He looked confident, in control—the muscles in his arms rolling and rippling every time he moved. I—on the other hand—was trying desperately not to collapse in a quivering heap…or worse—spin on my heel and start sprinting for the gate at the far end of the field.

  BoomBoomBOOM…RatatataTAT…

  “Do you really think…like you’re a god?” I asked Brandon—more to calm myself, than really caring about his answer.

  Brandon shrugged. “Enough of them think so. That’s all that matters, right?”

  “And the ‘fallen angel’ stuff? Let me guess—Orla’s bright idea.”

  “She said it would work for us,” Brandon admitted. “Add to our storyline.”

  “The demon mythology…end of the world stuff.”

  “It is the end of the world.”

  BOOMBOOM…RATATAT!

  The drummers fell silent; even the Crazies in the bleachers went quiet. Except for a frustrated grunt of displeasure from Orla, no one made a noise.

  They were all focused on us…Brandon and me…preparing to do battle.

  “Even if you kill me, enough of them will hate you for it,” I warned him.

  “I can live with that.” Brandon began to move—slowly circling around me; I turned with him, afraid to let him anywhere near my back.

  Almost as if they had a will of their own, my eyes flipped upwards—toward the hill above the school. My heart skipped a beat, when a figure carrying a rifle moved in front of the giant ‘A’.

  Brandon chuckled; he must have seen the sudden hope on my face. “If you’re looking for someone to rescue you, sweetheart, it won’t come from there. Any soldiers you see up on that hill belong to me.”

  The figure moved again and I realized that he was wearing a white shirt. Disappointed, my eyes dropped back down to Brandon; he was grinning at me.

  “It’s all entertainment now, Kaylee-bird,” he taunted. “This is simply where we do whatever we have to—keep the masses happy.”

  “Feed the beasts,” I murmured.

  “Feed the beasts,” he nodded.

  Then—blindingly fast—Brandon leaned in and slapped me across the face. My head snapped to one side, my cheek burning.

  “Little love tap,” he said.

  There were tears in my eyes and I quickly wiped them away. As I brought my hand down, Brandon lunged for it, using it to swing me around, so he could slap me on my butt.

  Just as fast—he pushed me away, prancing on his toes until I’d recovered enough to turn and face him again.

  Many of the Crazies in the stands began to cheer; others burst out in laughter, bumping fists or high-fiving.

  “Last chance, Kaylee,” Brandon said. “I can still be talked into a little compromise.”

  “Let me guess…I give you everything you want,” I snarled.

  “Either that or I take everything I want…ladies’ choice.”

  “I choose battle!” My fists raised in an offensive position, I charged toward Brandon. He deftly side-stepped my attack, once again whacking me on my butt as I stumbled past.

  “You gotta’ do better than that,” he advised me. “We’re putting on a show here, remember.”

  Regaining control of my feet, I turned and faced Brandon again. He was just standing there—waiting. With an angry cry, I lunged at him, my fist swinging toward his forehead. Brandon caught it easily and—using my own momentum—flipped me over his shoulder.

  Tray yelled in triumph as I was slammed onto the ground. “Stomp on her, Brandon!”

  Terrified that one of Brandon’s heavy motorcycle boots would come down on my head, I quickly rolled over and jumped back onto my feet—my fists coming up in front of me.

  “Not easy, is it?” said Brandon. “My first real fight, I didn’t last more than thirty seconds before my dad clocked me—almost broke my nose. There’s a learning curve to fighting, Kaylee…like first you have to learn how to take a hit, before you can give one.”

  And he rushed in and—before I could even think of protecting myself, let alone hitting out at him—Brandon had punched me in my right breast; it wasn’t a hard hit, meant more to humiliate me than anything.

  Which it succeeded in doing.

  I grabbed protectively at my aching breast—and Brandon quickly leaned in and pinched the other one.

  The laughter and cheers from the bleachers increased.

  Mortified, I looked over to see dozens of Crazies pointing and smirking at me.

  But there were others—Crazies and Stars alike—who were simply watching intently, engrossed by what was happening on the field.

  Not able to help myself, my eyes dropped to Nate; he appeared to be holding onto an absolutely furious Erroll, trying desperately to keep him in his seat—to keep him from hopping over the guard rail to come to my rescue.

  “Aw, Nate…I was wondering who your little owner would turn out to be,” murmured Brandon. I practically jumped out of my skin, surprised to find Brandon right behind me, bending down to whisper in my ear. “I’m going to skin him, you know. When this is all over, that boy is getting skinned alive and I am personally going to put him in the stew pot.”

  Horrified that I had brought Nate to Brandon’s attention, I spun around, my fists lashing out. I feinted with my left, following it up with a right hook that barely grazed the tip of Brandon’s chin.

  “Nice…there you go, Kaylee,” Brandon nodded, happy. “That’s what these guys came to see.”

  My right foot came up; I jutted it out, snapping it toward Brandon’s groin. It came close enough that Brandon actually had to jump back.

  “Look out!” yelled Tray.

  Brandon turned away from me and gave Tray an irritated look.

  I took the opportunity to spin around, gathering momentum for a kick that I aimed at the back of Brandon’s right knee. Kieran had taught me the move in one of our late-night classes; I was to follow it with a 2-fisted hammer to the back of Brandon’s neck when he went down.

  Only Brandon didn’t go down.

  My foot was an inch away from Brandon’s knee, when he spun around and latched one hand onto my ankle, twisting it. The pain was immense and—for a moment—I thought that my ankle would break. Then, my body began twisting—a head-over-heels that somehow landed me back on the ground…again.

  “You’re not paying attention, Kaylee,” said Brandon; he reached down and grabbed my arm and yanked me back onto my feet. “Find your opening and really give it to me.”

  The pain of standing on my injured ankle was immense. I stumbled, hopping on one foot—trying to pull away from Brandon. He simply tugged me closer, his hand running down my back to cup at my buttocks.

  “Stop it!” I cried—struggling to hold back tears of humiliation. “Brandon, stop it…please!”

  But he didn’t—laughing, he squeezed me even harder.

  “No rules in the Arena, angel. Didn’t you hear? I can do anything I want with you—before I kill you…after I kill you.” And he stuck one of his hands between my legs, groping at me.

  Tears of shame fell freely from my eyes, even as I leaned my head back.

  Then—as hard as I could—I snapped it forward, slamming it into Brandon’s chin.

  Out of the side of my eyes, I saw Crazies leaping to their feet in the stands—heard the gasps of surprise as Brandon actually stumbled back from me, rubbing at his chin, his eyes narrowing in anger.

  “How’s that for finding my opening?” I taunted him. “Is that what you meant by giving your psychos a little show?”

  A shadow fell over Brandon’s features; his head lowered, moving slightly from side to side, like a bull in the stadium, about to take down its mata
dor. “Bitch,” he growled, “I was willing to stretch this out. Now, I think I’m just gonna’ kill you.”

  My hands and feet immediately went ice cold as terror permeated every cell in my body. Not for the first time, I wondered what in the hell I had been thinking when I came up into the Conejo Valley.

  I was so obviously outmatched; Brandon could destroy me whenever he wanted.

  And now it looked like he did.

  With a little snort, Brandon began to move toward me. I quickly stepped back—hobbling painfully on what I hoped wasn’t a fractured ankle.

  “Here, chickee-chickee,” he cooed. “Bran-bran needs to snap a little neck.”

  Desperately trying not to put pressure on my right foot—arcing around in an ever-widening circle—I struggled to keep out of Brandon’s reach. He easily kept up, however, inching closer with each stomp of his heavy boots.

  Meanwhile, Crazies on both sides of the field took up Brandon’s taunt, yelling, “Here, chickee-chickee…here, chickee-chickee!”

  “Put her in the pot!” screamed one guy.

  “Put her in the market!” yelled another one. “Put the bitch on sale!”

  There were other Crazies, their sneering insults even baser—more degraded. They were out for more than just blood, more than just death; they wanted me humiliated, stripped of every piece of dignity I was straining to maintain.

  And—from the feral look on Brandon’s face—so did he.

  With a sinking feeling, I realized that I had definitely made the worst mistake of my life. What hubris—to actually think that I ever had even the slightest chance of winning against these monsters…these beasts.

  This beast.

  * * * *

  Momentarily distracted by my thoughts, I didn’t even see Brandon move.

  He was simply there—directly in front of me—his mouth opening, his pointed teeth coming down onto my right shoulder.

  Startled, my fist lashed out of its own accord—somehow connecting with his nose. It wasn’t a hard punch, a simple jab that still must have stung—because Brandon jumped back in surprise.