Encender (The Enertia Trials Book 2)
Page 4
Aside from the fact that their eyes were closed, the signs of sleep or unconsciousness ended. The individual’s bodies writhed and squirmed in the liquid. Tendons in their necks tensed beneath the skin, popping out in strained canyons.
She kept her eyes forward, focusing on finding the pod she needed to check on. When Carmen reached the right one, she looked up to monitor the progress. She pressed the pad adjacent to the pod and a small projected hologram of the individual hovered in the air. Carmen expanded the image, looking closely at the brain and double-checking the mapping she’d just uploaded to the system. It seemed like everything was running smoothly on a neurological basis. She reconstructed the hologram again and then focused on the physical properties of the change.
The skeletal frame was finishing reconstruction.
A hard thud on the pod surface made Carmen jump and her eyes darted to the young woman. The subject was contorted. It was the writhing leg that had bumped against the pod glass. Carmen’s pulse took a moment to slow down again and she went back to the projection to double check the rest of the data before hurriedly rushing through the rest of the information and closing the file. When she finished, she looked once more at the individual and watched. Her stomach flipped within her gut. The woman’s eyes were scopic, rolling around. Although she knew it was impossible, Carmen could have sworn the woman looked at her with a focused plea.
She’d been down here too long.
The chemicals were making her nausea escalate. Carmen turned, and left.
―RANSLEY―
My hand stretches and clenches. The joints have been tight over the last few days from the last couple fights here in San Martin. It’s normal for that to happen as the muscles and bones start to heal up. I wish the healing process moved along a little faster. Having a semi-mended body versus a fully whole and functioning body would mean the difference between a full stomach or a pinching grumble in the recesses of my belly. I know Estevan is housing a world of fear, and it makes me worry. Fear is something I used to think he never felt.
The last couple of weeks have been hard on both of us. When he came home last week with only enough flour for one of us for two weeks—if we stretched it—I could see a furious burning in his face. He didn’t talk much about it. I didn’t understand the desperation of the situation until he said Los Ángeles.
Now that day’s finally here, and as much as I want to prove myself, face the best fighters, and patear some culo. . . I don’t feel ready for any of it. Leaving this limbo-like home. Entering the Argolla. I’m weak enough to admit I’m afraid.
I wiggle my hand around again, attempting to loosen the tight muscles and reach for my fifty-pound pack on the ground. There have been a couple times within the last two years where I’ve been lucky enough to find a couple extra pairs of clothing that fit me quite nicely. Including a simple sundress I save for special occasions. Actually, that’s a lie. I’ve only worn it once. It was for my birthday last year. It was the only gift I got. It was used, old, and a tad small. Yellow with a delicately elaborate red floral pattern over the bottom of the skirt on the right side. It was the nicest thing Estevan had ever found me. Even if I hated wearing it—the sensation of wind blowing around my privates and not being able to move freely is too . . . disturbing. But that day, I had. I did it for him.
My pack not only held my clothing, but three handguns and one power gun, ammunition, and other necessities. Estevan’s pack, which was already in the back of the small truck, had our blankets, his clothing, training equipment, and survival gear.
“Are we set, Perdida?”
“Sí.” I rest my elbows on the edge of the truck and look at him from across the truck’s bed. He’s tired and worn and it shows. He’s had hardly anything to eat these last three days, yet he still tries to give me a smile beneath the arch of his mustache.
“Bueno. Let’s get moving.” He yanks open the driver’s door. It creaks on its hinges when he pulls it open. He slams it with an echoed clang.
For a moment, I hesitate.
For so long I’ve begged Estevan to take me to Los Ángeles to fight. The dream of winning more than a lousy three hundred pesos, eating enough fatty meats at night to fill my stomach ‘til I can’t move, taking down a man three times my size and having my name revered in the Argolla has thrilled me for so long. But now, the reality of everything is crushing me. Maybe if I were in peak condition I would be ready for this. It’s not that I’m afraid. I couldn’t feel more passion burning inside me than if I had a fire eating away at my heart.
I’m overwhelmed. The unknown pricks at my mind like a needle.
Los Ángeles is where fighters go for glory. It’s also where most of them go to die. For every fifty fighters that enter, four . . . maybe five on a lucky streak survive to win. Though I’ve always been confident—will I do it again? Will my powers give me away? This is what scares me. It’s not that I might die. I’d choose to expose myself before that happened out of sheer survival mode. But, exposing myself won’t just put me at risk. It’ll put Estevan in the crosshairs too.
“Ransley!” Estevan bellows from the cab. The sound of his voice breaks my thoughts and makes me jump. Overhead a lone hawk flies in a gliding circle and I realize I’ve been staring at it. I pull my eyes away. Putting this off won’t get us anywhere.
I push myself away from the truck, hurry to pull open the door, and jump in.
The broken heater in the truck whistles with the biting wind blowing through it and I tuck my hands into the thick wool gloves I have.
I close my eyes for a period, shutting everything out. I’ve never loved this place, but I may never see it again. I’m leaving behind limbo and entering the pits of hell. The flavor of fearful desire is thick and saturates my taste buds.
―
The headlights of the truck lick the dark road ahead of us while it rumbles down the main road of Los Ángeles. The streets look completely dead. Had Estevan not prepared me, I’d believe this city is deserted. Those who know this place understand the truth. This place is far from deserted. They’re all here.
The Argolla. The ring. The shackle.
Ring fights last well past five in the morning I’ve heard. Liquor burns through gamblers, fighters’ bodies pile at the end of the excitement, and then they all disappear ‘til noon the next day. Now, it’s a matter of finding a structurally safe apartment and the location of the Argolla.
Not a single light glimmers from a home or building. I roll down my window to listen for sounds. The air smells like sewage and rot. Like week-old fish and ammonia. Lovely. I cover my nose and mouth with my elbow to keep from heaving.
I can hear it in the distance. I guess the ring is about a mile to the north. The sounds must be explosive for me to hear them at this distance.
Estevan takes a quick turn down a street and immediately stops outside a broken-down string of linked apartments. “We’re here,” he says gruffly. He jerks the truck into park and gets out. The door’s screeching echoes down the walls of street buildings.
“Where’s ‘here’?” I ask, getting out.
Estevan takes a deep breath and drops the gate on the truck. “I grew up here, Perdida. This is my home.”
The hand-painted shutters on the windows hang by rusty hinges. At least, the few that are left. I can tell that even fifty years ago, it didn’t look habitable. Now, it’s more of a rats’ nest. Concrete’s chipped off the walls in giant slabs and crumbled into pieces on the ground. The door’s kicked in, dirt and broken items inch out of the home like vomit, and it’s obvious not a soul is inside.
“At least not a living one,” I whisper to myself.
I follow Estevan in through the doorway, kicking aside beer cans, and a few animal carcasses—rats, birds, snakes. The dust-mixed stench is overwhelming. I lift my elbow to my face again, blocking the smell. Estevan kicks violently at one of the remnants of the apartment—a broken chair with its armrest dangling from the side. It’s too dark to see what’s still
here, but the moonlight glows through the windows enough to show a single sunken mattress, a wood crate, and a broken kitchenette. There’s one door, and when I duck my head in, I find it’s a shared bathroom with the apartment next to us.
“Set your pack on the mattress,” Estevan growls. He knocks an armful of old cigarette butts and debris off the counter and into the sink. “We’re going to the ring.”
I drop my pack over on the mattress and a cloud of dust billows up like a mushroom cloud. Squeaking and chirping from rats within the mattress make my heart jump up into my throat. The rodents burst out from the holes and the springs. Immediately, I pull the pack off and kick my feet around at them, trying to get away.
Estevan swears and runs his hand over his mustache. “Sorry,” he sighs with frustration, “Ransley. Go ahead and put it here on the counter. We’ll make the home up tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We’re spending the night at the ring. You’re going to observe. Watch. Train by observation so you know what you’re going to be fighting. If you don’t know your enemy, you won’t know yourself. You understand?”
“Papá, you haven’t slept all night.”
“But you have.”
The look in his eyes tells me he’s finished discussing it. No matter how much I fight him, he’ll never bend . . . and his control will not waiver. He’s never lost his temper with me, even when I was a kid, but I’ve seen it. I know when enough is enough.
“Of course.”
Estevan staggers around the counter with fatigue and sets his hand on my shoulder, leading me out of the apartment. I go to get in the truck when he stops me. “No. We’re walking.” He walks to the hood and opens it. When he’s taken the spark plugs out, he puts them in his jacket and slams the hood shut. “We take that truck to the ring and it’ll be gone in two seconds. Leaving it here will give us a better chance of keeping it.”
The whole way to the ring, we rehearse tactics. Mentally, he prepares me. Questioning me over and over. At times I feel like I can’t talk because the smell of the city is so overpowering. I wonder if the losing fighters are all conglomerating in the same place and rotting in the streets.
The closer we get, the louder the jeering and calling is, the sounds of feet thumping pound like a heartbeat in the center of the city. Glowing lights shine over the small buildings and through the high-rises that are falling apart. Estevan pulls an old baseball cap off the street, beats it against his pants and hands it to me. “Put this on,” he says to me in his gravelly voice.
Without questioning, I slip it over my short hair, and flip the cap backwards, ignoring the damp clamminess of the cloth. We start to pass people in the streets; mostly men carrying full-size bottles of concocted spirits, or passed out in wrecked vehicle shells.
I’ve never been to a circus before. But if I had to imagine one—this would be the picture. Roaring, bells, whistles, loud thumping music shakes the ground, and a single voice booms over the crowd.
“SEPULVEDA’S DOWN!” the voice yells over the loudspeaker. The chanting of the crowd takes over, drowning out anything else he says.
“Mátalo! Kill him, kill him, kill him!”
Estevan and I push through the crowds gathered in the center of the city park. A torn canopy sits overhead, blocking us from the view of the moon and stars. Tilted bleachers circle the entire ring, fitting nearly a thousand people in the seats, I would guess. The seats are bent at the ends and I wonder how they’re still standing. I smell excrement, and turn my head. A man next to me grunts while spurting a stream of urine onto the ground. I jump back and follow Estevan over to the bleachers, trying to find a seat.
“There!” he yells at me and points about fifty feet away. Up at the top is a small section that looks like it may break off. He holds his bandaged hands in a cup, preparing to hoist me up. There’s no way I’m stepping into his broken hands, and I shake my head. I motion to him that I’ll walk around. Estevan grabs at my arm and clearly tells me “no,” his lips over enunciating and his head shaking.
Annoyed by his stubbornness, I do what he says. I place my foot in his hand and press off the ground with incredible force at the same moment he lifts. I turn around, ignoring the looks from those around me, and reach down for Estevan. I clasp him at his wrist and elbow, praying my ribs can hold together, and with one hard yank I pull him up. My body wants to rip apart. Bones grinding, muscles tearing. I gasp and come too close to dropping him. Estevan uses the rungs of the bleachers to climb with his feet the rest of the way.
The crowd calls, hisses, and pounds the bleachers with their feet and I spin around to see what’s happened. One of the fighters is faltering badly. At least one of his legs, maybe both, are broken. He can’t get up from the dust, and out of his left shin, something sharp is pressing into his skin.
A giant laceration spurts blood across his back and I can only assume the other fighter has a shard of glass on him. The fighter with broken legs pushes himself to his feet. With difficulty, he rolls his shoulders forward and uses his arms to block his opponent. He moves to the left, circling him. The stronger man has a chinstrap beard, hastily groomed on his face (with possibly the same glass he’s got hidden in his hand) and he moves forward, his shoulder dislocated. Chinstrap swings his arm back. Even with the crowd calling and the music thumping, I hear it pop back into place. He growls and curses. With one swift move forward, Chinstrap lands a foot in Brokenleg’s ribcage.
Brokenleg collapses to the ground. I can see his face. It’s smashed and bloodied. He can scarcely see out of his eyes because of the reddened tissue swallowing his sockets, filling with dark purple blood pockets. My breath catches in my throat. The stronger fighter leans down and grabs the man’s head.
Screams, cheers, and horns blow all around me. People on their feet block the entire view until I feel a hand on my arm. I spin around to see Estevan pulling me further up the bleachers. I turn around and run in front of him, pushing others aside so I can get a better look.
The fight is over. The man’s neck was broken with one swift twist, I think. I swallow and my heart thumps heavily within my chest. In just a few days, I’ll be out there, showing exactly what I’ve been taught to do my entire life.
The announcer, short with a face resembling a potato, wastes no time kicking the body out from underneath the rope. Three other men pull it out of sight. The announcer then sneers and grips the large voice amplifier sitting in his right hand. He pulls it up to his wide face and raises a fist in the air.
“COMPLETE VICTORY! MARTINEZ IS THE WINNER!” The crowd erupts in cheers.
“ARE YOU ALL READY FOR ROUND ELEVEN?!”
The crowd screams in approval. A woman next to me with missing teeth grabs the hair of a man in front of her and wiggles his head violently back and forth, struggling to make hers the loudest voice in the arena.
“ALL THE WAY FROM THE NORTH! OUR NEXT FIGHTER TRAVELED FROM THE ARIZONA WRECKAGE TO MEET HIS FUTURE. WILL HE FIND DEATH?”
Blasts of roars echo around me.
“OR WILL WE HAVE A NEW VICTOR?! MARTINEZ VEEERRRRSUS . . . ROYDON! PLACE YOUR BETS! PLACE YOUR BETS!”
Down below, a man who couldn’t be much older than myself, climbs into the ring and pulls his shirt off. Muscle carves over the entire structure of his torso, detailed with deep scars and jagged injuries healed over with rough tissue. Scars layered over old scars. He isn’t new to this. His light brown hair falls to his shoulders and he pulls it up into a chaotic bun to keep it from his face. What an idiot. He’s stupid for keeping it long. I shaved mine off at the age of thirteen. Long hair gives your opponent something to grab. Like a handle—easily turning your head into a hammer.
He doesn’t come close to matching Martinez in size. This fight will end incredibly soon, with the new fighter ripped in two pieces strung across the ground. Martinez’s, or Chinstrap’s, fists clench. He leans over the taut rope around the ring. His head jerks forward, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground.
Martinez continues to growl. He shakes the rope and pops the joints in his neck.
“REMEMBER, FIGHTERS, NO WEAPONS, AND NO RULES.” The announcer smirks, showing a set of blackened teeth.
Yeah, right.
The whistle blows.
Martinez turns and I watch him closely. Already, I can see a short left step. His knee must have been blown out once upon a time because he moves like a cheap mechanized knee replacement is housed in his leg. With one solid blow to the inside, it would give out. I’m surprised no one has tried it yet. If you know what you’re looking for, it’s blatantly obvious.
Roydon, the smaller fighter, seems to have noticed the same thing I have. Then I see why no one has been able to succeed in destroying the knee. Martinez’s hands fly out in a blur and land a double hit to Roydon’s jaw. His head jerks like a bobble head and he spins around, hitting on the ground with a thud.
I was right. This won’t last long.
Martinez reaches down to grab Roydon’s head like he did with the last fighter. I feel a little deflated, realizing it’s already over. But the crowd bursts to the tops of bleacher seats with curses and screams when Roydon’s arm wraps around Martinez’s leg. With the other fist, he punches directly into Martinez’s side. It’s not enough to destroy the knee, but it’s damaged. Martinez fumbles forward, struggling to get balance on his leg.