“It’s time,” one of the guards said to Jordan.
Jordan stood, his knives in hand. Derek wanted to thank him, to wish him luck, but Jordan looked like a man on a mission, like a boxer on his way to the ring. Jordan stepped from the dugout, and an Aryan man introduced him to the crowd as The Executioner.
A handful of Aryan guards escorted Jordan to shallow center field, just about dead center of the stadium. From the opposite dugout, Aryan guards escorted a large man with a fresh sunburn. The red-skinned man was over six feet tall, stocky and shirtless, with tattoos covering both arms like sleeves. Once the competitors were in place, the Aryan guards marched back to their posts.
The crowd went dead silent. Jordan stood in front of his opponent, relaxed, holding a knife in each hand. The man howled and ran at Jordan, his sword raised. But Jordan was light on his feet, sidestepping him, the man swiping at the air.
An audible gasp, then laughter came from the crowd.
The man howled again and took another run and swipe, but again Jordan moved. The man’s chest was heaving as he sucked air into his lungs. The man tried again, but he was even slower this time.
As the man caught his breath, with the heavy sword at his side, Jordan took a few steps back, as if lining himself up with the man. Then, Jordan wound up and threw one of his knives, like a fastball, the blade rotating and sticking deep into the man’s chest. The man dropped his sword, falling to his knees.
Jordan walked to the man with purpose and cut his throat from ear to ear, the crowd cheering in the background. The man slumped to the ground. Jordan removed the blade from the man’s chest, blood pouring from the wound, the crowd still cheering. Jordan didn’t celebrate or acknowledge the crowd.
The Aryan guards surrounded Jordan and escorted him back to the dugout. For a moment, Derek had forgotten his place. He was reminded when the guard said, “Choose your weapon.”
Derek grabbed the lightest sword he could find and a fixed blade knife. Jordan and Derek had strategized the day before. Derek would decide which weapon to use based on the opponent and their weapon of choice. Fighting a smaller man with a sword, Derek would use the sword. For a larger and slower man with a sword, Derek would use the knife.
An Aryan man stood on top of the dugout and introduced Derek as The Taliban King. Like Jordan before him, Derek was escorted to the middle of the stadium. His opponent was already there, holding a large sword with two hands. Derek recognized the man. He was the one who had been chained to Summer. The one who had harassed her and had threatened Derek. He’d told Summer his name, and Derek had overheard.
Aaron.
He smirked at Derek. “I remember you. Punk-ass motherfucker.”
Derek narrowed his eyes, sizing up his opponent. Derek was five ten, about 165 pounds. Aaron was about the same, maybe an inch taller and a little thinner. Aaron had small deep-set eyes, surrounded by dark circles. He had a long large nose and a weak chin.
The Aryan guards left, and Aaron approached cautiously, his sword held out in front. Derek tossed his knife to the side, deciding on the sword as his weapon of choice. Aaron’s arms flexed with the weight of the massive long sword.
Aaron took a swing, but Derek stepped back out of range. Derek played defense for a minute, Aaron the aggressor, swinging wildly; Derek avoiding or blocking his chops and swings. Derek waited until Aaron was tired, until his shoulders slumped. This time when Aaron swung wildly and missed, Derek knew he’d be too slow to recover from the miss, leaving Aaron’s midsection open to attack. At this point, after Aaron swung and missed for the third time in a row, Derek countered by plunging his sword into the man’s stomach. Derek moved aside quickly, to avoid a counterattack, leaving his sword in the man’s midsection. Aaron dropped his heavy sword, his eyes wide with shock, his hands vaguely touching the hilt of Derek’s sword. Aaron dropped to his knees, hunched over.
The crowd roared with approval. Derek stepped back a few more steps, wanting to distance himself from what he’d done.
The Aryan guards surrounded Derek, the crowd still cheering. One of them said, “You want that sword?”
“Yes,” Derek replied.
“Then you better get it.”
Derek stepped to Aaron, who groaned and moaned, his head hanging. Derek grabbed the handle with two hands and pulled the sword from the man’s stomach. Aaron wailed in pain and slumped to his side, blood pouring from the wound. Laughter came from the crowd, many mimicking Aaron’s wailing.
Derek was escorted back to the dugout. Two women perused the weapons.
“You need to leave that sword here,” one of the guards said.
Derek leaned his sword against the dugout wall, the blade slick with blood.
The women gave Derek a wide berth as he was led through the dugout, down the hall, and into the locker room. Derek sat next to Jordan, the locker room less crowded and much quieter now. Only four men were left, including Derek and Jordan. Two battle royales and the first round of individual bouts had eliminated most of the men.
The reality of what Derek had done hit him like a ton of bricks. With Zhang Jun, it had been about revenge, justified in his mind. Even then, he’d decided not to kill the man—the deadly shot only delivered after Zhang Jun grabbed the gun. But this was different. Derek had killed a man for sport, as part of a competition. Derek shook, first his hands, then his whole body. He hung his head, tears streaming down his face.
Jordan put his hand on Derek’s upper back. “Now’s not the time for that. Get yourself together. Focus on your breathing.”
Derek breathed in and out. His trembling subsided, and his tears dried. None of the other men stared or laughed. He was one of the few who had fought and lived. Derek sat up straight, not bothering to wipe his face.
“We have to do it three more times,” Jordan said. “Now’s not the time to question. Now’s the time to survive. You understand me?”
“I understand,” Derek replied.
* * *
Derek won his next two matches, beating two large white men with agility, endurance, and a very sharp knife. Jordan disarmed his next opponent in the first five seconds. The man ran away, but Jordan sprinted after him, tackling him from behind and plunging his blade into the back of the man’s neck.
Derek was assured a place in the finals, but he was worried that he’d have to fight Jordan. He would fight his third match soon, and, if he won, which he undoubtedly would, then Derek and Jordan would be the last two fighters left. The Aryans wanted to maintain their race-war theme, with whites fighting nonwhites, all the way to the final match. The Aryans would have that with Derek and Jordan, whether they knew it or not. Ironically, if the Aryans hadn’t misjudged Derek’s swarthy traits, he already would’ve fought and lost to Jordan. Without Jordan’s tutelage, who knows? Derrick might’ve lost his first match.
Derek turned to Jordan and said, “They’re gonna make us fight.”
Jordan, sitting on the bench next to Derek, said, “I know.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Neither will I.”
“They’ll kill us both.”
“Probably.”
Apart from the woman in the corner, they were the last fighters left in their locker room. Those who refused to fight were killed at halftime by the Aryans. The winners of the battle royales had already been released, and the losers, well, they were dead.
Two Aryan guards approached. One of them pointed to Jordan. “You’re up.”
Jordan stood from the bench.
The guard leaned in and said, “You’re one bad motherfucker. Too bad you’re a nigger.”
Jordan didn’t respond. The guards led Jordan from the locker room to the tunnel. Derek went to the locked doors, watching Jordan through the little window. Jordan walked through the tunnel, his figure and the guards seen only as dark shadows. At the end of the tunnel, they were more visible, the light from outside touching them.
Three more guards appeared, Jordan now surrounded. One of the gu
ards stabbed him in the back. Jordan fell to one knee, but they hoisted him to his feet and pulled him into the dugout.
78
Jacob and to Hell with Everything
Jacob stood at the kitchen sink, staring through the window, watching Lindsey and the boys play in the pool. Rebecca lay on a chaise lounge, wearing a blue bikini, an umbrella shielding her tan skin. Ethan and David were only six and seven, but they could already swim, although they weren’t allowed in the pool by themselves. Jacob thought about Housing Trust and the likely nationalization. He thought about his father. Why am I doing this? We could sell the house. I could quit. To hell with everything. With the money I made shorting Housing Trust stock, plus our savings, we’d be fine.
Jacob was vaguely aware of the back door opening and shutting.
“What are you doing?” Rebecca asked, entering the kitchen.
Jacob woke from his trance and turned to his wife. “Just thinking.”
She sidled up to him, placing her hand on his forearm. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Rebecca shook her head. “I know that’s not true.”
“I made some money shorting Housing Trust stock.”
She furrowed her brows. “Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“Isn’t that insider trading?”
“That’s not the point. We could leave all this. Sell the house. I could quit. We have enough money. We’d have to be smart. We’d have to budget and live someplace cheaper, but we could do it.”
Rebecca tilted her head, staring at her husband. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I don’t enjoy being the CEO of a company that’s responsible for burning people alive because we’re trying to save Fed Coins. I’m sick of being under my father’s control. I’m sick of the corruption. I’m sick of the politics. I’m sick of everything.”
She squeezed his arm, her eyes brimming with tears. “You’re not sick of me, are you?”
He forced a smile and pulled her into an embrace, kissing the top of her head. “I love you. I could never be sick of you.” Jacob sighed. “I’m just tired.”
She looked up, still in his embrace. “If that’s you want, it’s fine with me.”
Jacob leaned back, eyeing his wife. “Really?”
“I just want you.”
“We’re really doing this?”
Rebecca smiled that perfect smile. “Why not? When we get back from the Virgin Islands, we’ll start making plans.”
“About that. We have no idea how long it’ll take to find him, and, to be honest, I think it’s very unlikely that we do. This whole trip is a huge waste of time and money.”
Rebecca broke from his embrace and crossed her arms over her chest. “You already agreed. We’re supposed to leave in two days.”
“I’m not backing out. I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“I know it’s a shot in the dark, but it’s important that we do the right thing. If not for Derek, then for Lindsey.”
“Did you arrange for a nanny?”
“We don’t need one. Jeeves is safer than a human nanny anyway. The state designated his model as a competent caregiver.”
79
Summer and Race Wars
Summer had begged Roger to let her take a canoe to the games. The locals called it the Race Wars. Roger had been against her or anyone from 1776 attending the games. He’d said it was an unnecessary expense and an unnecessary risk. But Summer had been relentless, telling Roger that she’d go by herself if she had to. Roger had acquiesced, and Javier had volunteered to escort her to the games. Roger had asked Gavin to provide additional backup. Gavin had reluctantly agreed.
They’d paid their admission with one unopened can of Coke. Great seats too. Right behind the visitor’s dugout. Or the dugout for the nonwhites. The day had been clear and sizzling hot, but she knew they’d have a late-afternoon thunderstorm, at least there’d been one every day since she’d been on the island.
The men in the crowd didn’t bother Summer because she’d been given a haircut, and she was dressed in Fred’s oversize coveralls, with a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. Gavin had even muddied her face a little. A few men had looked at her sideways, but she’d been unmolested.
Summer had watched Connor win his first two matches with expert swordplay. He’d killed one man with a deadly slash to the neck, another with a plunge deep into the man’s stomach. Connor had been a bit of a nerd in his younger years. He’d learned sword-fighting as teen and as a young adult, partly because of his obsession with Game of Thrones and The Lord of the Rings. Like a character from his favorite stories, the Aryans named him Connor the Great. Summer was relieved he was still alive, but she’d been horrified by his brutality.
Interestingly, Derek had been fighting from the nonwhite dugout. His skin was tan, but Summer had thought he was white, Italian maybe. The Aryans had nicknamed Derek, The Taliban King. Derek wasn’t as skilled as Connor with a sword, but Derek had used his quickness to win all three of his fights. Derek had spent most of his fights running around, avoiding contact, then, when his opponent tired, he’d go in for the kill. The crowd had hated that strategy, booing his cowardly fighting style.
Now Connor faced the man Summer feared the most. The Executioner. The Aryan announcer, standing on the dugout, called out his name as he stepped onto the field. The crowd cheered. He’d been far and away the crowd favorite. The Executioner looked like he was carved from granite. But something was wrong with him. He staggered as he walked toward center field, one hand on his lower back where blood stained his shirt, the other holding a knife.
In the middle of the stadium, Connor stood with a sword and a shield. It was the first shield Summer had seen that day. The Executioner didn’t wait. He reared back and threw his knife with an audible grunt. Connor dipped his head beneath the shield, the knife sailing past, missing Connor’s face by a split second. The knife throw exhausted The Executioner. He collapsed to one knee, still holding his lower back, the blood spot on his T-shirt growing in size.
Connor dropped his shield and stalked toward The Executioner, his sword in both hands. Connor raised his sword over his head and chopped downward. The Executioner raised his arm, catching the blade on his forearm, the blade cutting to the bone. Connor slashed, The Executioner raising his arm again, this time blocking the blade from his neck. But then Connor thrust his sword forward, sinking the blade deep in the pit of the man’s stomach. Connor stepped back, watching the man bleed.
Summer winced, feeling sympathy for the big man, despite the situation.
The Executioner slumped to his side, and shortly thereafter his body jerked with the death throes. Then he was gone, and Connor raised his hands over his head in celebration, but the crowd booed.
More than a few “fans” complained that the Aryans had stabbed The Executioner prior to the fight. That they had rigged the game. That they never let a nigger win. Fans threw rocks at the Aryans, forcing them to take cover in the dugout.
That’s when Derek exited the dugout with a sword and a knife, distracting the crowd. Summer wasn’t sure if it was due to the dark clouds creeping in or the fact that the Aryans were losing control of the crowd, but it was obvious that the Aryans wanted to finish the games and quick.
Connor hadn’t had much rest, but he didn’t need it. Ironically, his bout with The Executioner had been more of an execution than a fight.
Derek approached Connor, who stood in shallow center field, holding his sword and shield. Derek stuck his sword in the sand and said something to Connor. Derek held out his hands in surrender, and the crowd booed.
A group of Aryans approached, one of them pointing a machete in their direction and saying something. This spurred Connor into action. He rushed Derek and took a swipe with his sword. Derek avoided the attack but left his sword in the ground.
Derek tried to avoid Connor’s sword by doing what he’d done in his other matches, using his quick feet an
d lightweight weapon to tire his opponent, but the group of Aryans formed a circle, like a noose, with their pointed steel out front, forcing the fight into closer quarters.
Derek looked over his shoulder at the tightening of the metaphorical noose. He ran for his sword, barely grabbing it before the Aryans took the precious real estate. Derek dropped his knife, taking the sword with two hands. Connor moved closer, holding his sword one-handed, his other hand holding the circular shield.
Summer watched her fiancé intently, telling herself that Derek was a murderer or a rapist. He wasn’t like them. Derek deserved to die.
Connor took a big swipe at Derek’s head, but Derek ducked. As the blade cleared Derek’s head, he slashed at Connor’s calf, drawing blood. Summer winced as Connor cried out in pain. Derek took a step back, and Connor limped forward. Connor attempted an overhead chop, but Derek sidestepped and swiped at his legs again, this time slicing at Connor’s knee. Connor’s leg buckled; his knee wobbled. Derek swung with two hands, knocking Connor’s shield from his hand. Derek swung again, this time hitting Connor’s sword, the sound of steel on steel reverberating through the stadium. Connor struggled to stay on his feet, and Derek swung at the sword again, this time knocking it from Connor’s hand.
Javier grabbed Summer’s hand and said, “Don’t look.”
But Summer snatched her hand from his, her unblinking eyes still locked on Connor, her mouth open.
Connor fell to his knees, his hands in the air. He said something to Derek, and Derek said something back, but it was inaudible from the stands.
The Aryan guards closed their circle. Derek stuck his sword into the sand and the crowd booed. The Aryan’s said something, and Derek shook his head. They pointed their machetes, and Derek picked up his sword. Derek said something and Connor raised his head, gazing to the heavens. Derek sliced Connor’s exposed neck in one strong swipe, arterial blood spraying into the air.
The crowd roared with approval.
2050: Psycho Island Page 28