He’s probably planning to tackle me to the ground, where he hopes to rip my clothes off before anyone else figures out I’m here.
If he takes me down, his plan might work.
I tense, ready to move, clutching the pen in my fist, but he hasn’t noticed my weapon. All he’s noticed is that I have body parts he hasn’t seen in months. Maybe longer.
Inches before impact, I flatten myself against the metal wall. The inmate stomps right past me, and I lunge after him. By the time he manages to stop and turn, I’m already swinging.
I bury my pen in his throat, then jerk the weapon loose immediately. While he clutches at the wound, mouth hanging open in near-silent shock, I swing one more time—and bury it in his left eye.
His other eye widens. Then he collapses in a heap of rotten teeth and over-developed limbs, blinking up at the sky and gurgling while blood pours from both wounds.
I stare at the ground while he twitches and gasps, trying to process what I’ve just done, along with the fact that I’m going to have to do it over and over. I feel no guilt over his impending death. I did what I had to do, and I’ve had weeks on the prison transport to prepare myself psychologically for that inevitability.
This is kill-or-be-killed.
Yet I can’t make myself watch the life drain from his body.
When he goes still in my peripheral vision, I kneel next to him, doing my best to avoid the mess.
My fingers slip in blood when I try to wrench my weapon free from his ruined eye socket, so I have to tug the hem of his shirt up and use it like a potholder, for a better grip. The wet, sucking sound the pen makes as it pulls free is revolting, so I try to scour it from my memory as I clean the pen on the dead man’s shirt.
One down. Approximately one hundred still to go.
And suddenly, despite my bravado, I have to tamp down a bolt of panic so strong that my heart literally stops beating for a second.
I can’t do this.
That’s not self-doubt. I know what I’m capable of, and I’m more than willing to work. To train. But the numbers here are beyond overwhelming. The men have nothing to lose. And most of them are going to want a piece of me before I die.
And the disturbing truth is that I have no way of knowing the violence and violation will end along with my heartbeat.
Suck it up, Wolfe.
My brother’s voice is crystal clear in my head. Get moving before you lose your chance. Before a crowd gathers.
I grip my pen in my right hand and hike my backpack strap higher on my left shoulder, then I move cautiously, quietly toward the doorway into the prison, listening for footsteps. Voices. Violence.
I hear all of that, but none of it sounds very close.
To the west, the sun has started to set, casting my shadow on the metal wall to my right. If I can get to an empty cell before they auto-lock, I can shut myself in, at least until morning. That’ll give me all night to rest and work on a plan for the daytime.
But what if I can’t find an empty cell? Or, what if some asshole forces his way in before the locks engage?
Kill him, my brother’s voice says.
And if you can’t kill him, submit. Deescalate. Don’t provoke. That voice—the voice of reason—is my own. I can’t risk getting hurt overnight, because I need to be able to defend myself tomorrow. And anyway, one man is far better than a hundred men. I can handle one man.
Unless he’s psychotic.
At the doorway, I take one more deep breath, steeling my spine. Calming my nerves. Then I step into a dark, grimy hallway littered with food wrappers, torn water pouches, and other assorted debris. I pause at the end of the hall, staring into an empty, open atrium where the last of the daylight shines through several large skylights high overhead. Well out of reach.
Across from the hallway where I’m still hidden, I see two open doors, one leading into a tiled bathroom, the other into a cafeteria where tables and stools appear to be bolted to the floor.
To my right, a double set of exterior doors stands open, revealing an expanse of cracked concrete, where dozens of men are lifting weights or sitting on benches. Or on the ground. A few are gathered in small groups, but for the most part, they seem to be loners. Which is no surprise, considering that they’ll eventually be forced to kill one another in the arena.
With any luck, their reluctance to work together will benefit me.
To my left, the atrium ends in four dark hallways that branch off in different directions: the cellblock “fingers” I saw from the shuttle.
Down one of them, I see dozens and dozens of cells, made of concrete and old-fashioned but sturdy metal bars. There are a few men standing in open cell doorways, but none of them have noticed me yet, nor have the men in the yard.
My pulse racing, I head toward the cellblocks as quietly as I can in my standard issue sneakers, stepping over more debris, including a ripped-up backpack, a broken pill bottle, and what appears to be a bloody shoelace. To the left, I pass several small rooms that were probably once offices, but now sport neither doors nor furniture.
I’m only halfway through the lobby when my shoe crunches into something on the floor. I freeze, hoping no one heard. But then a man appears in the doorway of the last office. He frowns, then squints, as if he can’t trust his own vision in the deepening shadows. Then his eyes widen. He glances around to see if anyone else has noticed me and, like the dead guy I left in front of the gate, he approaches without drawing any attention. Though I know his silence is self-serving, it’s also doing me a big favor.
Unlike the first inmate I confronted, this man is surefooted and quiet, which means he has better control over his body than the last guy did. And better reflexes, no doubt.
I stop walking, but I stand my ground, despite the fierce pounding of my heart. Never reveal fear to your opponent, my brother’s voice advises, loud and clear in my head. The battleground is as much mental as it is physical, and that advantage can’t be taken back, once it’s yielded.
The inmate holds one finger up to his lips in a shushing gesture. Then the motherfucker actually winks at me. As if my presence is some special secret we’re sharing.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” he whispers as he steps forward, immediately pressing me against the wall. Deep in the thickening shadows. Very soon, inmates will pour in from the yard to claim a cell for the night, and whether he’s done with me or not, they’ll all want a turn if they catch us.
The noise from any fight I put up will only accelerate that timeline.
He glances through the double doors, toward the yard, then tugs me into the office he’s just emerged from, apparently unconcerned that I’m not answering his question. “We’re going to hang out here for a few minutes. Then we’re going to lock ourselves into a cell, safe and sound.” He steps closer, and I’m pinned between his thick, hard frame and the concrete wall.
“What then?” I whisper, looking up at him with what I hope is an innocent, helpless expression.
“Then you’re going to express your gratitude.” He slides one hand beneath the hem of my shirt, and I grit my teeth while he lifts my left breast, squeezing it through my bra. A groan rumbles from his throat, and he grows hard against my stomach. “I don’t know how the hell you got here, but you must have the worst luck…”
He removes his hand from my bra and his fingers skim down my belly, then slip beneath the drawstring waist of my pants.
“Wait.” I thought I could do it. And if he can really lock me away for the night, I should probably leap at that offer. But… “Not here. Please. Take me someplace…secure.”
“It’s too early. Gotta wait until right before they engage the locks, or someone might have time to snatch you.”
“Fine, but just wait. Please. I don’t want to…” I grasp at his wrist, trying to pull his hand out of my pants, but he curls his fingers tightly around my pubic hair, and I gasp from the unexpected pain.
His other hand slides into the hair at the back of
my skull, and he pulls so hard and fast that my head jerks to the side. “You’ll do what I want, whenever I want it, or I will beat the shit out of you and take it myself,” he growls into my ear. “Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” I swing the pen up and plunge it into his neck. I’m pretty sure that now qualifies as my signature move.
“Motherfucker!” he shouts, letting go of my head to grasp at the pen, and I know immediately that it didn’t go in deep enough. His neck is too thick. The angle was all wrong. Rather than killing him, I’ve just thoroughly pissed him off.
His other hand slips from my pants and grabs my throat, holding me against the wall in a grip just tight enough to restrict my breath.
“Ungrateful bitch!” he whispers as he pulls the pen from his neck, but it’s too late. The men in the yard heard him. They don’t know who he’s cursing at, but they will any second. “Fuck,” he snaps when he hears footsteps coming. “You are going to pay for that.”
Still holding me by the neck, he pushes me out of the empty office, backward, angling me toward the cellblock on the far left. I claw at his hand as I stumble along, trying to get a good grip on at least one finger, so I can bend it backward. But his hold is too tight, and he doesn’t seem to feel my efforts. Though I’m sure I’ll pay for every scratch mark, if he gets me into his cell.
I should have just let him grope me. I would have wound up in the same position I’m in now, only he might not be planning to hurt me, or in possession of my only weapon.
“Please,” I croak, struggling to put one foot behind the other fast enough to keep from falling. Praying I don’t trip on anything. Over his shoulder, I can see that the atrium is full of men now. Dozens of them. Panic burns in my gut. “I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Hell yeah, you will. But the ship has sailed on nice and gentle, little girl. I’m gonna break you in half.”
Fuck.
“Ray!” a voice shouts from behind him, and I look over his shoulder again to see that the man at the front of the crowd has reached the end of the rapidly darkening atrium. “What the fuck? Is that a woman?”
My captor—Ray—groans, and my heart races so fast my vision starts to swim. This is not the position I wanted to be in when they all found out about me.
Ray pushes me past several open cells. “Almost there.”
A loud, low-pitched tone echoes through the building, followed by clang after metallic clang. I don’t realize what I’m hearing until I see a cell door slam shut over Ray’s shoulder. The sun has gone down. The locks have been engaged. But I have no chance of finding an empty cell now.
“Ray!” another man shouts. “Share the wealth!”
“Fuck off!” Ray yells without turning, and his sour breath blows hair back from my face. “You can fight over her tomorrow. Tonight’s mine.”
“Please,” I croak. “Please…” I don’t think he knows that his fist is steadily tightening around my throat. “I can’t—”
Something clenches around my right arm and pulls me off my feet. A strangled sound rips free from my throat as I fly through the air. I hit the concrete wall with a thud that knocks all the breath from my lungs, then I collapse to the floor, gasping. Bruised. Shocked.
Another metallic clang echoes all around me, and when I look up, struggling to draw the world back into focus, I realize I’m in a cell. I’m locked in a cell. But the man standing on this side of the bars with his back to me isn’t Ray.
Ray is outside the cell, his face cherry red, blood dribbling down the side of his neck from the puncture wound. It may not be immediately fatal, but it’s deeper than I thought at first. Unless he has antibiotics and a first aid kit, he may actually have a problem.
But I’ve been taken from Ray and locked in with another inmate. Looks like I have a problem too…
3
GRAHAM
Near dusk, I’m in the yard, using the last good leg press machine, when I hear the engine approach. Shuttles only come on non-fight days for one reason.
New fighters.
No one else seems to have noticed yet, so I get up and relinquish the press to Hardy, who’s been bouncing on the balls of his feet for the past fifteen minutes, hoping to get in one more set before sundown. Before lockdown.
“Widen your feet,” I say as he sinks into the inclined chair. His form has been piss-poor all week, because a few days ago, he won his third fight. Which means that, though last week he was among the most experienced fighters in tier two, this week he’ll be among the least experienced in tier three. That would make most men nervous.
But most men don’t show it like Hardy.
If he doesn’t get his head in the game, someone’s going to pick him off before he even makes it back into the arena.
I shouldn’t give a shit. And I don’t, really. It’s just that Hardy’s not a bad guy, and it’s nice to have someone around who isn’t looking to put a knife in my back. But then, if he can’t defend himself, that isn’t worth much.
I leave him to the machine and head across the cracked and crumbling pavement, taking note of who’s still out and about. By my count, there are about a dozen more men than cells in the bullpen, though that count changes nearly daily, as fresh prisoners arrive and worn out inmates die. Sometimes the new guys don’t understand that they don’t have the rank yet to claim a bed.
I don’t want to fight for my cell, but I will if I have to.
I wipe my brow on the old, threadbare shirt I use as a towel, then I stuff it into my pack and head into the building and through the atrium. A bunch of the doors are missing, but even the ones that still work are usually open, because it’s fucking hot on Rhodon during the day, and any breeze we can funnel through this place is a blessing.
When I got here, the first thing I noticed was the pervasive body odor, and though I’ve been here too long to really notice it now, I’m sure it’s still there. And that I’m contributing to it.
My favorite cell is halfway down A block, on the left. The mattress is still in decent shape, at least for a prison mattress, the sink and toilet still work, and there’s a five-inch horizontal slit of a window at the top of one wall. You can’t see anything through it, other than a slice of sky, but the breeze is nice most nights, and when it rains, I can feel a bit of cold splatter on my face, if I stand in just the right place.
That’s the closest thing to “refreshing” that the bullpen has to offer.
My cell is unoccupied, so I dig an actual washcloth from my pack. At the sink, I pull off my shirt and wet the rag—there’s only cold, no matter which knob you use—then I wipe myself down. Most of the showers in the bathroom off the atrium still work, but there’s no time to use one before lockdown.
Finished, I rinse out my rag, then hang it over the edge of the sink to dry. I’m digging through my pack for a cleanish spare shirt when I hear someone shout from down the hall.
“Ray! What the fuck? Is that a woman?”
I drop my pack and cross my cell into the doorway, where I see Ray Gibson pushing someone backward down the hall.
Not just someone. A woman. An honest-to-god woman, with hips swelling from a small waist, and a head full of long, dark curls. That’s all I can make out in the shadows, with the sun damn near down already, but this is real. Somehow, there’s a woman in the bullpen, and Ray is driving her right toward me.
The lockdown tone plays across the building, and the echo of closing cell doors rings from all four cell blocks.
“Share the wealth!” someone shouts from farther down the hall, and over Ray’s shoulder, I see the mob coming. They want the woman.
Of course they want the woman. Every straight man in the zone will want the woman. They’ll fight over her. Hell, they may riot. What the hell was the warden thinking?
“Fuck off!” Ray yells, still pushing his prize toward me. Or rather, toward his favorite cell, one down from mine, and across the aisle. “You can fight over her tomorrow. Tonight’s mine.”
I could stay out of it. I should stay out of it. But I can’t let Ray lock her into his cell and rape her all night. I can’t watch that happen. Not again.
“Please…” the woman whispers. Only she’s not really whispering. That’s all the volume she can manage, because Ray has her by the throat, squeezing the life out of her, and a second later, I see why. Blood is steadily pouring from a puncture wound in his neck. The left side of his shirt is already soaked from it, but he doesn’t seem to realize how bad the wound actually is.
“Please…” she says again, and now I can see part of her profile, half-covered by a mass of brown curls. She’s terrified. She’s in pain. She doesn’t belong here.
She doesn’t belong to Raymond fucking Gibson.
I’m not even fully aware of my plan until my hand wraps around her arm. I pull as hard as I can, wrenching her from his grip, and when she crashes into the far wall of my cell, I realize I pulled too hard.
Ray stares at me, blinking. Confused, for the span of a heartbeat. He doesn’t seem to realize what just went wrong for him. It may be the blood loss.
I grab the bars of my cell door and start to slide it home, as the mob pounds toward us from down the hall, and just before the door closes, I realize Ray is clutching something. Something bloody.
I snatch it from him, then slam the door shut. Whether it’s the loss of his weapon or the clang of the door closing that wakes him up, his gaze suddenly snaps to my face, as I study the bloody ink pen in my hand.
“Anderson, open the fucking door,” he growls, glaring at me through eyes that have taken on a glassy look. His neck is still bleeding, and some noxious mixture of panic and rage emanates from him like a foul body odor. Which he also has.
“You know I can’t do that.” During lockdown—a misnomer at best—closed cell doors can’t be reopened. “She’s stuck here until dawn. You might as well go get some sleep and dream up inventive ways to kill me.”
Champion Page 3