by Matt Hilton
Buntz laughed, and the crowd grew vocal again, encouraging their champion to smash Ramm into the earth.
They moved in trading blows, kicks, punches, and once a headbutt from Buntz that left Ramm reeling. He had to rally with a flurry of punches to keep the giant from pulverizing him. He finished with a kick to Buntz’s stomach, and a right cross to the jaw that sounded like a mallet striking a coconut.
Both combatants danced away from each other. Ramm shook his right hand, and saw Buntz take note.
Buntz came at him again. This time his jab was followed by an uppercut that deliberately fell short, just as he powered in an overhand left. The punch struck Ramm on his forehead, almost breaking his neck as the kinetic force drove down towards his shoulders. Sparks popped behind Ramm’s eyelids, but in reaction he flicked out his right boot and caught the giant’s leading knee. Buntz stumbled, and Ramm forced himself to use the pain to power his return strike. His right elbow slammed into the giant’s gut, the point driving in deep. Ramm immediately pivoted a half-turn and used the same elbow in a rising strike to Buntz’s jaw. Ordinarily the combination of moves would have stopped a normal man. But Ramm was forced to reassess his earlier opinion of Buntz. He was a hard trained warrior, but he was also a brute. Buntz barely registered the jaw breaking strike as he pounded his fists into Ramm’s body, both punches lifting him off his feet. Ramm went down.
Buntz didn’t allow any respite. He swung a kick into Ramm’s gut, and Ramm was forced a full yard across the dirt.
The crowd cheered wildly.
Ramm shook his head as he came up off the floor. He stood with his legs splayed, body slightly forward as he fought the crippling pain in his belly. He could barely breathe, let alone fight.
Or that’s the image he portrayed.
As Buntz came forward, Ramm sprang in the air, cocking his right arm behind his ear. As he hit the apex of his leap and began his descent, he whipped down with his bent elbow, and its point found the bridge of Buntz’s nose. The cartilage collapsed and blood flowed over the big man’s top lip.
Ramm landed on his feet to the side of the giant, forcing Buntz to turn towards him. There was a glaze over the man’s eyes, but Ramm trusted that Buntz’s recovery time was ever bit as freakish as his build. The giant blinked a couple of times.
‘First blood,’ Ramm said.
‘I drink blood for breakfast,’ replied Buntz. ‘And eat the hearts of men for lunch.’
‘And no doubt you suck the marrow from their bones for dinner.’
‘No usually I have fried chicken with biscuits and gravy.’
The giant laughed, and despite himself Ramm kind of liked the guy’s sense of humour. Still, it wouldn’t stop him hurting the giant to save his own skin. Buntz reached for him and Ramm leaned aside, snapping in a sidekick at Buntz’s knee.
Buntz braced his leg against the impact, but Ramm had been faking. He re-chambered his knee, changed its trajectory and slammed his boot into the man’s throat. As he dropped back to his feet Ramm powered in two rapid elbow strikes to Buntz’s ribs. That should have dropped him.
It didn’t.
Buntz enveloped Ramm with both arms and hauled him skyward. Ramm felt weightless as the giant heaved him overhead and held him suspended in the air. The experience lasted only as long as it took for Buntz to hurl him through space. The only thing that saved Ramm a crushing landing on the hard earth was that he landed in among the crowd of bystanders. He tumbled down and momentarily lay stunned. A couple of those in the crowd weren’t mindful of where they placed their feet and Ramm was stood on more than once while he blinked up into the angry faces of those he’d had the temerity to land on.
Aching all over, Ramm crawled onto his hands and knees. He craned up to see Buntz storming towards him, his feet nimbly skipping as he made to punt Ramm in the air like a football. Ramm reared back on his knees and Buntz’s foot missed him by inches. Ramm, who’d been saving his right fist, clenched his knuckles tight, his index finger protruding from the others and struck the collection of nerves on Buntz’s outer thigh. It would take more than that to give the giant a Charley Horse, but Ramm wasn’t finished. As Buntz fought for balance, to come at him from the front, Ramm swung an uppercut into the juncture of his thighs. Buntz groaned. Even giants weren’t immune to a punch in the balls. But he wasn’t finished either. He hammered down at Ramm, and it was as if two telephone poles had landed on Ramm’s shoulders. He was sure that the compression had concertinaed his ribs and that they were on the stress point of shattering. Time he halted the ongoing punishment before he was no use to man or beast, let alone Shelly Cannon.
Ramm dropped to one side, propped himself on his left palm and jacked his legs off the floor. He hooked the toe of his left boot around Buntz’s right ankle, his right boot heel jamming the man’s knee. As gravity pulled gainst him, he scissored his feet and Buntz’s lower leg buckled, the cartilage popping loose, the anterior cruciate ligament almost twanging like a plucked guitar. Buntz roared in agony and fell face down in the dirt. Ramm knew the big guy wouldn’t stay down. Neither did he wish to hurt the big guy too badly, but he axed his right heel in the air and brought it down between the giant’s shoulders. Buntz did an impression of a starfish.
‘Stay down,’ Ramm commanded. ‘Or the next kick’s to the nape of your neck.’
Buntz lay there stunned.
Ramm clawed himself up off the floor.
The Bishop was once again sitting in his throne on the back of the pickup.
‘Have I proved myself worthy enough to join the gang?’ Ramm asked.
The Bishop stared at him, eyes as emotionless as tarnished steel in their perusal. Then a faint smile played across his lips.
He rose up, and his arms went skyward. This time he did offer benediction. ‘Welcome, brother. My home is now your home. As long as you obey the rules you are allowed freedom to roam the communal areas and to share in our mutual bounty.’
Ramm wouldn’t be sharing in any of the proclaimed bounty. He liked women, but he’d never forced himself on any woman and wasn’t about to do so now. Plus, he wasn’t too good at obeying the rules.
By morning he’d found Shelly Cannon where she’d been all but locked in with the other sex slaves. But before he could release her, The Bishop’s men had discovered him sneaking through the harem – a crime punishable by death in The Bishop’s world. The manhunt had begun.
Well, the chase was over and now Ramm was back.
Now…
The Bishop’s compound was a reclaimed military base, defunct since the fall of the Berlin Wall. Many of the buildings, the mess halls and the barracks still existed, though faded now and in need of some restoration. They were arranged around a parade ground, and on the extreme right were the hangars and sheds that once housed helicopters, jeeps and other military transporters and weapons. The fighting arena was at the centre of the parade ground, as it was at the centre of the way of life here. Right now it was deserted. The only people Ramm could see were a couple of sentries over by the hangars, but they were totally unaware of his presence. He’d no idea where The Bishop was, but he doubted he’d joined the search for Ramm when he’d fled the compound during the night.
Ramm had to get across the camp, and into one of the hangars currently guarded by the two sentries. The particular one he sought concealed an entrance to a tunnel in the earth, at the end of which he’d discovered the harem where the women were imprisoned. Shelly Cannon might have joined The Bishop’s band through her own choice, but she hadn’t banked on being put to work as a pleasure slave. He’d already confirmed that she was ready to go home, but had been forced to leave her behind when he was discovered by a patrol. The guy had got off a radio message to his pals before Ramm had killed the one who witnessed him speaking with Shelly, but no names had been mentioned. Ramm was confident that no one was aware of whom he’d come looking for. But he worried that The Bishop had moved all of the women out of precaution, should Ramm escape the manhunt and bring
others back with him. The guards could have been set outside the hangar as a ruse, to make things look like they still had something to hide inside. Or The Bishop trusted that his dogs would bring down Ramm and bringing back other rescuers would no longer be an issue. There was lots of “what ifs” to consider, but they would only waste time. Ramm’s tiny window of opportunity was shortening. Once others discovered the dead men at the farm, they might conclude that Ramm had doubled back and hotfoot it back here.
He didn’t head directly across the parade ground. He used the buildings at its edge as cover, moving from structure to structure and staying in the shadows cast by the dawning sun. It took him a little over three minutes to make it to the far side, but at least he’d done so undetected. He hunkered down against a pile of rubble, evidence of a once collapsed shelter. From his waistband he took out the cleaver he’d liberated from the knifeman back at the farm. It was a cumbersome weapon, but he wasn’t complaining. He weighed it for balance in his palm, as he judged the distance to the first of the two sentries. Then he was up and sprinting at them.
Within twenty feet of the nearest guard he let loose the cleaver in an over arm throw. It somersaulted three times and sank deep into the man’s breastbone as he turned to the sound of running feet. The cleaver did what it promised and the man fell backwards, letting out a howl of agony. Ramm vaulted over him, powering in a jumping front kick to the second sentry. His kick forced the man back, and he made only a spirited but wholly ineffectual swipe with his baton at Ramm’s head. Ramm caught the man’s outstretched arm, ducked beneath it and locked it in an unnatural position alongside his body. An extra inch of twist would snap the man’s wrist and elbow.
‘Where are the women?’ Ramm demanded as he gave the tortured arm a subtle twist. ‘Are they still inside.’
The captured guard danced on his toes, trying to alleviate the pressure. ‘Aah, eeh, aaah!’
‘Where are they?’ Ramm asked again.
‘They’re still down in the tunnel,’ the man yelped.
‘Who else is down there?’
‘The Bi…Bishop!’
‘Good,’ Ramm said, and completed the Koppojutsu twist. The man’s arm splintered. He shrieked in pain. Ramm released the broken limb, but only so that he could slam a palm up under the man’s jaw to shut him up. The man fell, unconscious on the ground. Ramm looked at the man with the cleaver in his breastbone. The cleaver hadn’t sunk in far enough to kill, but the man was out of the fight. He was in ferocious pain, but Ramm had no pity for him. He yanked out the blade, and then used its flat edge to whack the man’s skull, putting him to sleep.
Holding the cleaver in his left hand, Ramm entered the hangar. The structure was large enough to hold upward of four helicopters, with space for a truck or two. It was empty now and it rang hollowly to his footsteps. Catwalks ran the length of the building on both sides, and Ramm visually checked them for observers. No one. At the far end was an observation deck with what amounted to a control room. It was in darkness, but he was happy that there was nobody watching him from the high aerie. Beneath the observation platform was a cuboid structure, fronted by double steel doors. It was the entrance to a tunnel that led to a bomb shelter buried beneath the very concrete over which he strode.
Going down in the tunnel was tantamount to walking into a trap.
But Ramm went in nonetheless.
The Bishop greeted him. He was sitting on his relocated throne. At his feet was Shelly Cannon. She’d been stripped down to her undergarments. Her sleek hair hung over her shoulders, a thick lock of hair across her features. When she looked up at Ramm, he saw it was with little recognition. She was doped.
‘Ah, the second best fighter in camp,’ The Bishop said with faux joviality. ‘I knew you would return.’
Beyond their leader a group of men came forward, numbering around twenty. They were holding cudgels and knives. Ramm could see no sign of Hector Buntz, for which he was thankful. He didn’t fear Buntz, he had proven he was more than the giant’s equal, but then Buntz plus the group of armed men would have been beyond even Ramm’s considerable skill.
The Bishop stood from his chair. Shelly pawed at his shins, as if she relied on his presence to steady her. Ramm noted that The Bishop didn’t come forward.
‘Only second best?’ Ramm asked. ‘Tell you what, Bishop. Prove you’re the better man. If not, let me take Shelly and leave. There’ll be no more trouble from me.’
‘I’d love to accept your challenge, but alas.’ The Bishop didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t have to. He hitched up a leg of his trousers and Ramm caught the glint of metal. The reason that ballistic weaponry was banned from his compound was because The Bishop had good cause to hate them. He teetered where he stood, unable to balance well on his recently adapted prosthetic leg. Little more than five years ago Sgt Roy Bishop had been on patrol in Helmand Province when a traitorous Afghan soldier had turned his weapon on him, cutting his legs out from beneath him before The Bishop could return fire. The medics had saved his life, but were unable to save his shattered right leg. Amputation had been his only recourse. Ordinarily Ramm respected veterans, particularly those that had suffered for their country. But he’d lost all respect for The Bishop when he’d learned how the doomsday prepper was building a post-apocalyptic future on a promise of extreme violence and the subjugation of women as breeding or pleasure stock. The man was trash.
‘So let the girl go,’ Ramm said. ‘The way you’ve forced her to lay at your feet, it’s obvious you know who I’m here for.’
‘I’d a feeling that Adrian Cannon would send some champion to rescue her. When I heard you’d been spotted skulking around in the harem I guessed what you were up to. I also guessed that once you’d lost the hunting party sent after you, then you’d be back.’
‘Very astute of you, Bishop. If you’re such a wise man, then you should realise it will be easier for everyone if you just let Shelly go.’
The Bishop sat again. He did so in order to hook a finger under Shelly’s chin and lift her head. ‘I can’t do that. Shelly has no desire to leave. Do you my sweet?’
Shelly’s eyes rolled. She made a mewling noise.
‘See?’ asked The Bishop.
‘I see a girl whose will has been taken away from her, the way your leg was stolen from you. I’m warning you, Bishop. Let me take Shelly – and the other women prisoners – and I’ll let you live. Refuse, and the fact you’re half crippled won’t stop me ripping you a new asshole.’
The Bishop opened his mouth wide and laughed at the ceiling.
‘You think I’m bluffing?’
‘You are only one man. Yes, you’re a skilled fighter, but you are no match for all of my men.’
‘I haven’t got started yet,’ Ramm said. ‘That little charade I put on yesterday? I didn’t even get past first gear.’
‘I never met a blowhard yet who was half the man he professed to be!’
‘That’s like the pot calling the kettle,’ Ramm countered.
‘No one I’ve heard of is the equal of almost two dozen armed men.’
‘Then you’ve never heard of the Battering Ramm.’ Ramm quickly stripped out of the leather jacket he’d taken from one of the dead men at the farm. He stood not in the dirty singlet and jeans of yesterday, but in his nanocomposite anti-ballistic/stab suit. ‘While you were setting up this trap, didn’t you wonder what was taking me so long to get back here? On my first arrival in camp I couldn’t enter wearing my armour so I arranged my flight out of here last night. After finishing off your hunting party I was able to ride to a prearranged meeting place where Shelly’s daddy was waiting for me. He’d had the presence of mind to bring my equipment to me.’ Ramm dropped the cleaver. ‘Oh, plus these.’
From behind his back Ramm drew a twin set of automatic pistols given to him by a grateful Israeli Mossad agent who owed him his life, and more importantly the lives of his children. Ramm aimed the Jericho 941 Uzi Eagles beyond The Bishop. While the crowd of armed
men muttered and cursed, The Bishop’s face reddened.
‘I forbid the use of firearms here!’ he roared.
‘I forbid the use of women as sex slaves,’ said Ramm. ‘I think my cause trumps yours.’
The Bishop screamed at his men. ‘Get him! Tear him to pieces. He can’t shoot you all!’
He was right. Not even Ramm could shoot twenty men in the space it took them to charge forward. But he managed to get half of them, and that suited him fine. His guns sang a duet of death and destruction in the tunnel. Bodies jerked and spun and fell while others pushed past the dying. Some of the more hopeful fighters hurled their weapons at Ramm. Cudgels rebounded from his NAS suit and the tips of blades were turned away. Ramm didn’t wait for the surge of bodies to overwhelm him. He dropped his empty guns, dipped a hand to each ankle holster and came up with a punch-dagger in each fist, then swept in to meet the remaining fighters. To engage one at a time would be his death: while fighting one, the others could drag him down and pound him to death. Ramm kept moving, dipping in and out, swerving away, jumping and dropping, counterattacking constantly, and each time his blades found a throat or gut or extended wrist. Blood danced around him as though he was a dervish wind skimming a crimson pond.
He took a few strikes to his body, but his suit fended off the blows. A knife tip took a slither of skin from above his right eyebrow, which brought a grimace from Ramm, but also a renewed intensity to his attack. He cut and punched, and men fell all around him.
Finally only two men remained standing.
Ramm faced a lithe fighter whose arms were decorated with prison tattoos. The man held his blade close to his body, angled down from his fist. From his stance he knew a thing or two about knife fighting. Ramm quirked his bleeding eyebrow at the man. ‘It’s one thing shivving a guy in the showers, quite another facing a trained killer. You sure you still want to do this?’
The man licked his lips, weighing his chances. His gaze went to the twin push-daggers protruding from Ramm’s fists. They dripped gore. In comparison his knife was shiny new. ‘Fuck this, man! I only joined this outfit on the promise of some easy pussy!’ he said, dropping his blade and scurrying off down the tunnel. Ramm grunted in disapproval.