by Tracey Ward
“Yeah, well, when I say ‘whatever we want’, I mean eating a donut and surfing the internet. Not corrupting genetic code.”
“It’s cool that it’s quiet outside, but a quiet Hive is creepy,” Ryan continues complaining. “Where is everybody?”
Kevin shakes his head dismissively. “It’s been slowly dying out ever since Vin was sent to the Stables. It’s nothing new.”
“If you look at it outside the scope of the last couple of years, broaden it to the last four years, even five, it’s completely new,” I point out. “Shockingly so.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” he asks me blandly. “Analyzing the last five years of data?”
“Judging by your tone, we are not. But I am.”
“And what does your analysis tell you?”
“Today is weird.”
Ryan points at me sharply in vindication. “See? He feels it.”
“I don’t fe—”
“You don’t feel anything. I know. I know. I meant you get what I’m saying.”
“If what you’re saying is that based on the last five years, tonight is an anomaly, yes. I get what you’re saying.”
“Yep,” he agrees with a quick nod. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“What’s ‘anomaly’ mean?” Kevin challenges his brother.
Ryan glares up at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You agreed today is an anomaly. Do you know what that means?”
“Do you?”
“Doesn’t matter if I do. You agreed with it, so what is it? Or don’t you think you should know what a word means before you hitch your wagon to it?”
“What wagon? What are you talking about?”
“I just want to make sure you’re thinking before you’re speaking.”
“I’m thinking you’re a dick,” Ryan spits. “That’s what I’m thinking.”
They stare at each other over a long silence heavier and richer than the one that’s blanketed the Arena for the last year. And it’s just as telling.
There’s a discord in the house. Both of them.
“It’s an oddity,” I cut through the tension. “That’s what ‘anomaly’ means.”
Ryan shakes his head, breaking his stare with his brother. He grumbles something under his breath. Something I can almost hear but choose not to.
This is our norm now – these little bouts between them. They kick off about as often as Ryan puts Kevin on his back. It’s his way of telling his big brother that he’s grown, and these humiliations are Kevin’s way of reminding him that he’s not. Not yet. I’d say they’re both missing their parents right now. Kevin has had to be a father figure to Ryan for years, and now that Ryan sees himself as an adult, he doesn’t want Dad all up in his business anymore. He wants to be left alone to hang out with his friends, hunt, and fight under his own name in the Arena. Basically be his own man. But Kevin is scared to let go. He’s spent years keeping Ryan safe, and he’s not ready to let him run free. Who is he if he does? What does Kevin do if no one needs him anymore?
Just as Ryan is finding his identity, Kevin is losing his. It’s a rough transition, a time when each could really use a brother; a need so desperate they’ve been turning to me.
It’s a scary time for all of us.
“Chapman’s asked me to fight for the Hive.”
Kevin takes a step back, stunned. I feel the same way; like Ryan’s words touched me physically, sending a chill up my spine.
“He didn’t,” Kevin grinds out.
Ryan is defiant. “Yeah. He did. And I’m thinking about it.”
“Why would you fight for the Hive? You’re a Hyperion man, Ryan.”
“Am I?” he barks. He stands to face off with his brother on an even plain. “Because every time I try to fight for the Hyperions, you tell me not to.”
“You’re not ready for that yet.”
“What difference does it make if I fight freelance or for a gang?”
“If your allegiance doesn’t matter, then why fight for the Hive?”
“Because Chapman is offering me a bigger cut of the winnings than Dylan gives you. And I think I deserve that.”
Kevin chuckles darkly. “Really? You deserve that? For what? The eight fights you’ve been in this year?”
“It’s more than that.”
“It’s actually less,” I correct. “You’ve won six fights. All tier threes.”
“And I only got half the profits because I was freelancing.”
Kevin widens his stance, digging in. “You’re not fighting for the Hive.”
“Then let me fight for the Hyperion.”
“Not yet.”
“You always say that!” Ryan laughs in exasperation.
“I mean it. Not yet. You don’t know what it means to fight under a gang, Ry.”
“Yeah, I do. It means I get paid more for my work than if I keep doing it freelance.”
“It means someone owns you,” Kevin explains heavily. He pinches his lips together, breathing out sharply through his nose. “Look, I love the Hyperion, okay? I do. It’s our home and it’s a good one, but when I agreed to fight for them in the Arena, I sold my soul. They own me. ‘Til death do us part.”
Ryan frowns. “What do you mean ‘they own you’? I thought the agreement was you just couldn’t fight for anyone else.”
“That’s true, but think about what that means. What’s my skill? What’s my value to a gang?”
“You’re a good hunter.”
“Trent is. He makes me look good.”
“You’re a good fighter. You know how to kill a Risen better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“Hey,” I protest openly.
Ryan’s eyes dart to mine, then back to his brother’s. “Sorry, man. You know how to kill Risen better than almost anyone.”
I nod in appreciation. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, T.”
Kevin ignores me, staring at his brother with regret and longing. “I’m a fighter. That’s all I have to really offer anyone, and if I ever wanted to go to another gang, I couldn’t fight for them. They’d have to use me somewhere else, probably on patrols or guard duty for the hunters. It’s probably not enough incentive to get them to take me. Most people don’t need more security. They need a new income stream, and I can’t be that for anyone but the Hyperion. Ever.”
“Why would you want to leave the Hyperion?”
“I don’t know, but if I did, I couldn’t. And if you sign up to fight for them or the Hive, yeah, you get a bigger piece of the pie, but you also give up a lot of freedom. I don’t want you to take that as lightly as I did. I want you to be smart about it.”
The door to the Arena snaps open. Chapman saunters in, his big black boots thudding hard on the cement floor. A few years ago, you wouldn’t have been able to hear his footfalls over the chatter or the raucous laughter that was always in the air on fight night. But tonight, in this thinned out crowd, you could hear a pin drop.
“We’ll talk about it later, okay,” Kevin tells Ryan quietly.
His brother nods slowly. Kevin’s words have struck a chord because they’re ones he’s never said before. It’s a new truth for Ryan to chew on. “Yeah. Okay.”
We watch Kevin walk slowly, almost reluctantly, down the steps. He looks tired but strong, the muscles in his back and shoulders moving under his threadbare T-shirt. It’s his favorite; dark gray with an old band logo on the front. One I never heard of out in the woods. Kevin has told me a hundred times I should listen to their music – ‘Simple Man is my anthem, T!’ – but music is hard to come by these days. We have an old record player that was in the theater when we took it over, but the selection of vinyl that survived the plague is pretty limited. It looks like Lynyrd Skynyrd is either so popular it was snapped up before we got to it or they suck so bad they’ve been fractured on the floor with the hundreds of other records that litter every shop we check. Either way, they’re a joy Kevin gave up a long time ag
o, along with a warm bed, Pop Tarts, and his parents.
“Women! Men! Warriors!” Chapman chants from the center of the Arena. He throws his arms up over his head, trying to raise the room onto their feet the way it used to do for Vin. It doesn’t happen. Everyone stays seated, only half of us paying attention. “Welcome to the Arena! You have five minutes left to place your bets on tonight’s events. We have Dennis Pike, Chris Eleven, and the reigning champion of the Arena, Kevin Hyperion!”
This the room reacts to. Kevin and his smiling face, golden from the sun and the light of his personality. He’s still a celebrity here, no matter how dead things are. The women stop to clap for him. Men sit forward in their seats, eager to watch him work. To learn from him.
Chapman’s face is sour as he looks at the object of everyone’s affection, but his voice is booming and excited. “We have a surprise for everyone tonight. A few new fighters to introduce to you, so keep your eyes peeled and your money ready. Last minute bets will be allowed when our special guests enter the Arena.”
A stir goes through the room. This has never happened before. Fighters are always announced at the start of the night, and there are never surprises. Every gang has their go-to guys who are trained for this. The idea of untested fighters entering the ring for the first time sends a jolt of adrenaline through my veins.
I look at Ryan sternly, accusation in my eyes.
He immediately shakes his head. “It’s not me. I swear to God.”
I read him slowly before I decide he’s being honest. I find Kevin across the room, across the rising commotion Chapman’s announcement has stirred, and I shake my head at him. His shoulders loosen with relief.
“Pike!” Chapman barks. “You’re in! Let’s go.”
A guy from the far corner of the room saunters toward the Arena, taking his time. He refuses to take orders from anyone because that’s the Pikes for you; defiant and angry. Now more than ever. Their numbers were thinned a few years ago after the mess they made with the Stable girl here at the Hive. Vin made the initial cut when he killed the man responsible, but over the years Marlow has taken a little more off the top. He keeps them guessing, keeps them weak, and it’s only made them angrier.
If he thinks he’s bringing a dog to heel, Marlow isn’t as smart as everyone says he is. Eventually that dog is going to bite.
The Pike steps up to the rusted mesh door on the cage. I can see his face through the blur of wire; sharp and angular. Surprisingly pale, like he’s sick or stayed inside too long. Black tattoos burst out against his white skin, rising up his neck in a coiling pattern that looks like a noose. The grim line of his thin lips cuts across his face with razor sharp precision. He won’t be the showman Kevin is, that’s obvious. He won’t put on a performance to dazzle the crowd or to entertain. He’ll fight like I do, the way you’re not supposed to in the Arena.
He’ll fight to kill.
“Did you bet on this round?” Ryan asks me.
“There was no point.”
“He’s a sure thing, like Kevin, huh?”
“He seems to be.”
Ryan tsks unhappily. “We’re making less money every month. Kevin isn’t earning like he used to.”
“No,” I agree matter-of-fact. “He’s not.”
“We need to figure something else out.”
“We’re doing fine.”
“We could be doing better than ‘fine’.”
“Don’t fish. I won’t side with you.”
“You’re gonna side with Kevin,” he replies sharply. “I know.”
“I’m not siding with anyone. I’m staying out of it.”
“How can you? This is about the good of the gang.”
“This is about you and your brother. The gang is alright. You guys aren’t.”
Ryan looks at me over his shoulder, his brow pinched. “We’re good.”
“No, you’re not,” I disagree. “You’re picking away at each other like dogs.”
“I thought you were staying out of it.”
“I am. That’s why I can see it so clearly. I’m on the outside.”
The door to the cage opens with an angry scream that tears through the room.
Ryan ignores it. “What do you think is wrong with us?”
“What do you think is wrong?”
The Pike steps into the ring. The door shouts shut behind him.
“I think Kevin’s overprotective,” Ryan tells me.
“Yes.”
“So… you’re agreeing with me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re on my side.”
“No.” I look down at him patiently. “If you’re right, I’ll agree with you. It doesn’t mean I’ll gang up on Kevin with you, because if I asked him what he thinks is wrong, do you know what he’d tell me?”
“That I’m just a kid, even though I’m not.”
“He’d say he’s trying to protect you because he loves you and you’re all he has left in the world. He’d say you’re his family. He’d say he’s terrified of losing you, to death or to another gang. And before you ask, yeah, he knows this offer to fight for the Hive isn’t the first one you’ve gotten. Other gangs are courting you. They want you to fight for them and pull in the kind of money your brother brings into the Hyperion.”
Ryan licks his lips nervously. “How do you guys know about that?”
“You told Bray. Bray told everyone.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Either keep your secrets to yourself or get quieter friends.”
Ryan is silent for a long time, the wheels in his mind turning meticulous and calm. He’s a lot like his brother that way. Pensive and careful. They’re both brave. Both daring. Charismatic in the most unnerving way. In another life, they could have been televangelists or snake oil salesmen, talking you out of house and home so you’ll buy into what they’re selling. With a smile, they could raise an army. Raze an empire.
I’d be afraid of them if I didn’t trust them like I do.
Finally, Ryan says, “He’s just worried about the gangs. He knows I’m not gonna die.”
“We’re all going to die. It’s just a matter of when. For you, Kevin would prefer it was later rather than sooner.”
He grips his hands together tightly, his frustration manifesting in his fists. “I’ve gotta be in charge of my own life eventually.”
“Every man does,” I agree amicably.
“So when is it my turn?”
“Go tell Chapman you want to fight for the Hive tonight.”
His hands loosen in surprise. “What?”
“Right now. Get down there and tell Chapman you want in. He can use the fresh meat. He’ll give you a slot right here and now.”
“No, I can’t. I…”
“Why not? Who’s stopping you? Not me. Not your brother.”
“Yeah, he would. He’d kill me if I signed up.”
“Metaphorically, sure, but in reality he isn’t physically stopping you. No one is. So go sign up.”
He hesitates, his body motionless but for the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders with each erratic breath. “I can’t,” he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Why not?”
“Because…”
I give him over a minute to finish that thought. In that time, the back door to the Arena opens wide, two Risen shambling in. The smell fills the room almost immediately; sickly sweet and festering. I’m used to their skin sloughing off the bone. I’ve grown accustomed to their opaque eyes and black blood oozing like tar on a hot, summer sidewalk. But what I can’t stomach to this day is that smell. It rolls my stomach violently, rising bile to the back of my throat.
It reminds me of living in the woods on the coast. There were nights when I fell asleep to the rich scent of pine needles and damp moss only to be awakened by my gag reflex engaging from the disgustingly sweet smell of their rotted flesh. Or maybe I heard them first, their feet struggling over downed logs and loose arms of briar that snagged at t
heir already shredded clothing. No matter what woke me, their smell or their sound, I spent a lot of mornings in a panic on the coast by myself. Some mornings I still wake up that way. There’s no reason, no threat. Just me and my mind and the memory of always feeling afraid.
For me, fear is a guest who forever overstays his welcome.
The Pike goes on his toes, ready to fight. He waits for them to come to him. He gives them every chance to grab him before spinning out of their hold, launching onto the back of one and snapping her head around like a doll. She goes limp under him, dropping him to his feet that straddle her motionless corpse.
“I hate watching him fight,” Ryan says suddenly.
“The Pike?” I ask, though I know that’s not who he’s talking about.
“No. Kevin.” He runs his hand along the back of his neck, his fingertips blanching under the pressure. “It scares me every time.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Ryan chuckles. “Whatever. Nothing scares you.”
“Death does.”
“But you said we’re all gonna die. Like it’s no big deal.”
“It’s the only deal that matters. It’s the one thing that binds us all together, regardless of race or age or intelligence.” The Pike swipes the leg on the second Risen, putting it on its back. “No matter who you are or what you do,” He raises his foot high over the dead, “it will find you.” He smashes his heel down on the Risen’s face, crushing the skull. Spilling black blood and gray tissue on the dirty floor. “Whether you’re ready or not.”
Chapman swings open the door to the Arena, letting the Pike free. The guy’s breathing is labored, his face shining with sweat from his fast yet furious fight. The crowd applauds him dimly, unimpressed. They’re lukewarm to him and his win.
“This is what I want, Trent,” Ryan tells me staunchly, his voice strained with desire. With need. “I want to fight for someone.”
“Fight for yourself. Stay freelance.”
“They won’t let me much longer. I have to make a decision, but no matter what, I’m going to fight for somebody. I’m the same as Kevin; it’s what I’m good at. It’s all I think about.”
“You should find something else to think about.” My eyes find the stains on the Arena floor. The blood that was once both living and dead. “You need something else to need.”