Shadow Fray

by Bradley Lloyd

Hale was falling.

  Gravity forced him forward and down, his arms slipping as his head got closer to the floor. In an instant the kid had Hale’s left leg, grabbing him above the knee. Hale tried to use his other leg to hook around the kid’s neck and force a different hold, but he didn’t have the correct position. His body was collapsing, curling in. Only mere seconds, and all advantage was lost.

  Now mostly on top of him, the kid wrapped his arms around him, folding Hale’s bent body inward. The pressure in his chest and pain in his ribs made it difficult to breathe. The kid tried to get a better grip, pushing Hale upside down along the slick marble surface inch by inch.

  His foot was by the kid’s neck, and that was his best shot for an escape. He managed to hook his other leg to the opposite side of the kid’s body, bracing his foot against the kid’s torso. With his legs in a scissor position, Hale twisted his body around, using his core, straining with the effort. The kid’s grip faltered. Creating space for himself, Hale was able to swiftly unscissor his legs, sliding into a better position where he quickly wrapped his legs around his opponent’s waist. Now he had the Visitor in his guard, had some control. Better, even if he was still on the bottom.

  The kid was crouched over now, Hale’s gravity pulling him down so that he had to put both hands on the marble to keep himself from falling forward. Quickly, Hale shot his hands upward, grabbing the kid’s arms and forcing them up into the air. Hale let the kid struggle for a moment as he tightened his grip. It felt painstakingly gradual but only took seconds. Hale inched his left leg up toward the kid’s neck until he was able to reach his right arm over and grab that ankle. Now he had the kid around the shoulders, arms, and neck.

  This left one hand free to grab that Mother. Fucking. Glove.

  With a furious yell, Hale reached up, unclasping the glove strap and removing the glove. He flung the glove back among the pews where it would be difficult to find, his yell echoing off the stained glass and marble.

  It happened so smoothly. The kid hadn’t tried to make a fist, or Hale wouldn’t have been able to rip the glove off so easily. The kid had left his hand open. On purpose?

  His position now too high on the kid, Hale released him, scuttling backward none too gracefully, his boots squeaking on the marble from all the sweat and blood.

  Ready to bounce back onto his feet once clear, Hale saw the kid wasn’t getting up very quickly. That’s fine. Good. Hale could use a breather. The kid could stay on the ground for a second, give or take thirty. Longer would be fine too.

  Hale took his bearings and scooted back slowly, taking his time until he was on one side of the aisle and the kid was on the other, both of them now just outside the deeper darkness of the chancel, away from the pews.

  With about ten feet between them, he and the kid both rose slowly to standing. Their heavy breathing was impossibly loud in the empty caverns of the Basilica.

  He looked the kid right in the eyes as they panted like animals. The fear he’d seen earlier was gone. Staring, he saw in the kid’s unwavering gaze that the real battle for dominance was about to begin.

  Enough of this rolling around. He spat on the floor, his fury rising. He lifted his shirt to look at the bleeding on his side and ribs. Twelve wounds, individual punctures and gashes indiscernible through the blood.

  Hale growled, “Kid, you got me fucked up.”

  Hale strode forward quickly before the kid could recover, feinting with his left as he closed, bobbing his head, then another tentative left before preparing to drive hard with his right where the kid was already hurt.

  Lightning fast the kid pounded forward with his left arm, using anticipation and his longer arms to glide under Hale’s punch, slamming into his ear.

  Damn good striker. Hale was driven backward, his head snapping to the side, but already the kid’s right fist was bearing down. Hale put up a block, but the kid managed to power inside, smashing into Hale’s jaw.

  His face felt like it was coming apart.

  The momentum of his own head was killing him, snapping from left to right as the kid landed two additional punches.

  Each punch seemed to have an echo, a sound he could feel first inside his head before he heard it on the outside. He was stumbling backward. Off-balance. Unable to throw an effective block. Head pounding.

  Two more punches landed.

  Then two more.

  The next thing Hale knew he was on the ground, on his back, the kid closing quickly.

  Fear. Pain. Hale wasn’t used to these feelings, not in a Fray.

  The emotions gave him an uncommon surge of adrenaline. He kicked out, more in desperation than anything. His foot connected with the kid’s shin, causing him to stumble, giving Hale one extra second to get his feet under him.

  In the span of two heartbeats, he sprang up, his vision blurry. Backing away. Dizzy. The kid had driven him to the side of the church, and Hale was now retreating down the candlelit wall.

  Black Jim was retreating.

  Wet blood ran down his face and over his swelling lips.

  He was really off his game. Good thing he had more than one game. He just hadn’t had to use it in a while.

  He started moving forward, closing the distance. He mustered up a hard strike on the right, but his real motivation was to completely swallow up the distance between him and the kid as the punch was blocked. He kept moving forward, directly into his opponent.

  As Hale pushed him backward, the kid grabbed him, and they were back to the clinch—body against body, skin on skin. He could feel the black grease from his face and hair rubbing off onto the kid’s chest, mingling with their sweat and blood.

  Hale was stronger. Smaller. Slicker. Slippery. If he had to fight like a snake to win, he would.

  As they battled for position, the kid thrust his knee up, aiming for Hale’s groin. Hale stepped back and clear but maintained contact, keeping the kid in his grasp, staying close. He closed the distance, and the kid tried again, but this time Hale stepped to the side of the knee, using it as an opening to swing behind the kid, keeping his arms around the kid’s waist.

  Now he had the kid from behind, clasping his hands together, squeezing, pressing their bodies close. The kid struggled to break the hold, but Hale jerked back, lifting him and driving forward with his hips. Once more the Visitor tried to free himself, but Hale jerked back again, each time tightening his grip further and closing his arms around the Visitor like a boa constrictor.

  Time for the takedown.

  With his feet centered and a solid grip, Hale picked the kid up entirely off the ground, clearing him by at least a foot. At the same time, Hale twisted his body toward the pews to his left, driving the kid into the wood. The kid went down, his head cracking against the wooden edge. The sound rang through the church like a bell.

  The kid got his feet under him quickly, but Hale still had him from behind. Trying to retreat, the kid used his strength to power between the pews back toward the center aisle. Hale’s grip loosened in the close quarters as arms, elbows, and legs bumped against the pews on either side.

  The kid seized the moment to turn to face Hale, backing up as Hale lost his grip completely.

  Shit.

  Hale jumped to the side, landing on the pew bench with both feet. He sprang off his left foot, swinging his right around. He was fully airborne for only a brief moment before the top of his foot sank into the kid’s neck, the airy sound very similar to landing a punch on a bag.

  The kid went flying to Hale’s left. Hale heard the pew crashing but didn’t see it, as he himself was off-balance and falling, landing on the right pew bench more or less on his back, cracking his own head in the process.

  Despite the white flash of pain on the back of his head, Hale knew this fight was over. A kick like that to the side of the neck could interrupt the flow of blood to the brain, rendering someone unconscious or worse.

  He breathed in, sitting up to spot the kid. Several pews were down. He’d managed to get a littl
e church destruction in after all. Bonus.

  But then he saw the kid moving. Twisting. Heard him retching. Damn. Kid was tough.

  Hale didn’t feel up to bounding over the pew just now, but that was okay. The victory was close. He could feel it.

  He got to his feet as the kid did the same. Hale walked around the pew as the kid stumbled toward the center aisle, Hale following. He was in no rush. Now free of the pews, the kid backed down the aisle, his back toward the chancel. He kept backing up until he was inside the moonlight under the dome, where Hale had begun the night.

  The kid had a nasty cut and goose egg forming at the edge of his mask toward his temple. He looked like he was struggling to breathe. He eyed Hale, but his gaze was not as sharp as before. Still determined, though.

  The kid put his arms up in a ready stance. Hale obliged and moved toward him, taking the offensive.

  They traded punches and blocks for some time, neither of them as strong as they used to be. Hale was having difficulty landing any power shots, and the kid just wouldn’t go down.

  His arms began to feel like jelly, his head pounding with his pulse, the pressure building behind his eyes. Hale was moving in slow motion, punching through cotton.

  This couldn’t go on. It was time to make a different move.

  Hale kept up the dance a little longer, waiting for the kid to bob down, waiting for him to drop his taller body into a low enough crouch for him to deliver the final blow.

  And then he saw his opening as the kid bent his knees and brought himself down to Hale’s level.

  Once more Hale flew forward, leg extended, aiming again for a kick to the neck.

  But the Visitor was more alert than he seemed. He was ready for it. Had planned for it.

  The kid sidestepped the kick and dove into Hale before he could rebalance, knocking him onto his back.

  With amazing speed the kid was on him, driving punch after punch into his face. A ground and pound. Dimly, Hale could feel the cut of the kid’s knuckles from that naked right fist—bone on bone, no barrier but for the thinnest layers of skin.

  Hale sputtered. Blackness was closing in. Amidst the punching frenzy, Hale finally managed to flip over onto his stomach. The kid dropped into a rear choke hold around Hale’s neck. But Hale was expecting this. He was able to get one final breath.

  He struggled to get free but to no avail. So this is what losing felt like. It had been a long time. His struggles became weaker, the darkness more complete. He was losing consciousness. No—his eyes were closed. But he didn’t have much longer. Only one chance left.

  He ceased struggling completely.

  Without resistance the kid’s grip tightened around him like a vise.

  Hale tried to count but got his seconds mixed up with his rapidly pounding heart before he remembered to say banana.

  One banana.

  Two banana.

  Three banana….

  If he had to fight like a snake to win, he would.

  At ten banana the kid’s grip loosened.

  Hale’s lungs were ready to explode. He forced himself not to gasp. He tried to breathe through his nose, but there was too much blood. He let air slide between his teeth and tried not to vomit.

  The kid promptly fell on top of him. Hale, crushed, had a moment of panic. He forced quiet, slow, painful breaths. On top of him, the kid was probably just exhausted. Could be he wasn’t able to get on his feet yet.

  The kid stretched out, his face in Hale’s hair. Hale could feel him gasping against his neck. The weight was strangely comfortable—except for the stinging pressure in his bruised ribs and the throbbing in his face.

  Suddenly the Visitor’s hot breath was on his cheek.

  Was the kid going to kiss him? No—just checking to make sure Hale was breathing. How fucking nice of the guy. Hale made sure to let an audible whistle escape.

  Still the kid lay on top of him. Minutes must have passed. Finally he felt the kid get up, the heavy weight lifting.

  Hale sensed one of the kid’s feet step between his own, toward his ankles. This was his chance.

  Hale snapped around, his legs spinning and bringing the unsuspecting kid down. Hard.

  Hale pounced over, never really getting off the ground, but he was quick enough. He slammed the back of the kid’s head into the marble floor, then drove a snapping right punch into his face for good measure, the kid’s head once again rebounding off the marble.

  He sat gasping over the Visitor’s limp form for a few seconds, shaking out his stinging hand. Punch of his motherfucking life. Had to be out cold. Hale moved to the side, out of any damageable range.

  He grabbed the kid’s legs and dragged him toward the front of the church. Next he spun him around and lifted him from behind. From the looseness of the kid’s body, Hale was pretty positive he was unconscious, but he was still cautious.

  He propped the kid against the altar under the ivory Jesus. He slapped his cheek a few times and could see that he was breathing.

  Finally, Hale stepped to the side. He turned to face the church. He surveyed the ghosts of the congregation, knowing his real audience was watching behind the cameras. Those viewers, millions of them, were his church and his congregation.

  He raised his hands as though for benediction and said in a loud voice mimicking his father’s brimstone sermons: “Opponents. If any of you ever bring a weapon to one of my Frays, to any of my Arenas, I swear to fucking God I will kill you.”

  He turned and spat on the kid, then strode down the center aisle. He kicked an angel in the face on the way out. He heard it crash behind him but didn’t turn back to see what he’d broken.

  Chapter 12

  WAKING WAS like trying to crawl through a thousand heavy mattresses. Justin couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make it through the crushing weight.

  And then he threw up and was forced out of the blackness into what little light was in the church.

  The fight. What happened? But it was over. Thank God, it was over.

  He spit. Tried to take a deep breath. What hurt? Everything, but it was like all his body parts existed in their own separate space and none of them were connected with each other. He couldn’t get a read on anything except the awful taste of acid and iron.

  Couldn’t think.

  His pulse pounded in his head like a hammer. That was what hurt most of all—his head.

  It was hard to see with so much blood in his eyes. He wiped the vomit and blood from his face, feeling flashes of pain as he ran his hands over his mask and skin.

  His mouth was sticky and vile. He spit again. Blood. He needed water.

  Looking up, he could see Black Jim’s hulk of a handler removing the last of the cameras. He couldn’t have been out too long.

  He couldn’t remember clearly if he won or lost. Considering he was the one struggling to remain conscious, he supposed he lost. But at least it was over. He almost smiled in relief.

  He wanted to curl up. Not move. But the need for water drove him unsteadily to his feet. He wobbled, nearly losing his legs until he braced himself on the first of the pews. If only the floor would stop shifting.

  He could see Scarecrow’s blurry figure at the end of the aisle, standing in the doorway of the church. Arms crossed. Not moving a muscle to help him.

  He moved up the aisle from pew to pew, bracing and pausing at every opportunity.

  Then a steadying arm fell around him, and someone was helping to support all the extra weight he seemed to be carrying. Confused but too grateful to care, Justin took several stumbling steps with the assistance. Gradually the church stopped rocking, and he turned a stiff neck to glance to his side. Black Jim’s handler. The man had a simple black mask covering his eyes. Funny, Justin hadn’t noticed that before.

  “You’ll be all right, kid,” the large man said.

  Justin tried to point to the stone angel, but his arm was so heavy. “Water,” he said weakly.

  The man helped him to the water, transferring Just
in’s weight onto the remaining stone angel. It was more delicate than it looked and not fixed to the floor, but sturdy enough. He didn’t remember breaking the other one. God, what had happened?

  Justin palmed water into his mouth and splashed it over his face. His jaw and temple ached with a singing pain, and even in the scant light, he could see the water in the font run red. He put his damaged jaw against the cool marble of the angel’s face and closed his eyes.

  He became dimly aware of low, angry voices a few yards away. Scarecrow and Black Jim’s handler were having an argument. Maybe he was too far gone to grasp it, but the exchange seemed odd. There were rules about this stuff—not removing your masks, not speaking to the opponent. His own mask felt terribly constraining, like the casing on a sausage. It needed to come off.

  “You losing piece of shit.” Justin opened his eyes. Scarecrow, of course. Black Jim’s handler was nowhere to be seen. “If you weren’t half-dead already….”

  What? Then what? No words came out, but Justin didn’t care anymore. Not at all.

  Scarecrow got in his face. “What do you say I cut your throat like the last one?”

  Justin managed a sound of some sort, but he could barely keep his eyes open.

  “You didn’t follow the fucking instructions!” Scarecrow bellowed.

  “I tried,” Justin said weakly.

  “Tried. You tried.” Scarecrow’s words were a sneer. Fine, let him sneer. Justin didn’t remember everything, but he knew he put up a good fight. Hadn’t he been winning? Even with the glove, he put on a decent enough show. No one watching could prove a damn thing.

  He saw Scarecrow kick at him but had no energy to stop it. At once, Justin was falling backward, the angel toppling over with him, by some miracle not crushing his legs as it crashed on the floor. The world spun for a moment, but he’d managed to land mostly on his ass. The holy water splashed cool against his skin, soaking into his clothes, further mixing with his blood.

  That brown mask loomed over him as Justin looked up. He looked away because he wasn’t afraid of Scarecrow anymore. This bully was pathetic.