The Tournament Trilogy

by B. B. Griffith

  “Bleeding again, Tom?” the nurse asked.

  “How many times have you come here?” asked Ellie.

  “A few,” Tom said, peering at her.

  “Is all that from last night? From the sparring?”

  “Mostly from the tree branch I ran into,” Tom muttered, looking away. “I don’t know what that insane man expects, running around a forest at night,” he huffed. Ellie eyed him skeptically. The nurse tut-tutted, and Tom took the ice pack and the aspirin she proffered while she led him to sit on the other bed. The pack pressed to his face, and with the nurse applying a seal strip, Tom kept talking.

  “I think he hates me.”

  Ellie put her finger to her lips and ticked her head in the direction of the nurse.

  “Her? She’s cool. I mean, I think she is.” Tom eyed the nurse, who showed no sign of hearing them. “She was ready for me when I first came in. Told me I need to watch for those branches before I even told her about the tree. If you catch my drift.”

  Ellie was too tired to care much anymore, and she lay back on the bed, gazing at the ceiling through her eyelashes.

  “I’m serious,” Tom continued. “He has it out for me. I’ve never been really hit like that before. When I could see straight again, I caught him smiling. Malicious. He’s never like that with you or Cy.”

  “He’s plenty short with me.”

  “Not like with me. And you know it.”

  Ellie said nothing, lost in thought.

  “Well something’s not right with him,” Tom said, throwing back the pills and taking a swig of water. “I look like an idiot. People talk about me. They cringe when they see me, then they laugh when they think I’m out of earshot.”

  “Boo fucking hoo.”

  “I don’t need this from you, too. Just go back to stonewalling me. It’ll be better for everybody. All because of some stupid party. I already told you I didn’t know about you then. Who you were.”

  Ellie opened her eyes and gazed fully upon him.

  “You just don’t get it, do you? I’m so sorry, Tom,” she said, her voice dripping, “that you can’t wait on the sidelines to see how this one turns out. You’ve got nobody here to tell you what the path of least resistance is so you’ve got to figure something out for yourself for once in your life.”

  “How this one turns out? I’ll tell you right now how it’s gonna turn out, captain.” He pointed at his welted eye. “This times a hundred, but on the inside of our bodies, after the other teams destroy us.”

  Holding the bridge of his nose with one hand and the icepack to his face with the other, he stood to face her. “You’re still walking around in a daze, Ellie, afraid you might wake up and go back to who you were. But when we took those shots we sealed the deal. All right? It’s time to wake up. Cy Bell has his mind on something else, he’s holding back, and I’m getting the shit beat out of me for no good reason. And Max... he shook his head, trailing off as he moved to the door. He plopped the ice pack on the table and paused, turning back to face her.

  “If we get led to the slaughter, in the end it’s on your head. Not his, or mine, or Cy’s. Yours. That’s what being a captain is all about.”

  He walked out of the door. Only after Tom was well down the hall did Ellie close her eyes and sag into the bed, but this time the peaceful, half-sleep haze was nowhere to be found. Eventually she rose, shouldered her bag, and left.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THEY HAD TO WALK for nearly three hours before a rickety truck finally pulled over for them. It was almost dark and the snow was blowing sideways. With no cap of his own, and still needing to cover his busted temple, Frank was forced to cut the sleeve off his shirt, knot it at the cuff and wear it around his head. It hung down to his shoulder like a poor man’s stocking cap. Frank cursed the storm the entire time they walked, and Lock tried to get his satellite phone working again for the better part of an hour before giving up and trudging along in glum silence. They cut a pitiful sight: two men wandering down a darkening highway like lost pets. The truck that finally stopped had no covered chassis, just a rusted flatbed crisscrossed with thick straps, so they rode up in the cab. It was meant for two, not three, and especially not when one of the three was Frank Youngsmith, but the driver didn’t mind.

  The driver thumped his chest and said “Daniil” by way of introduction, then chuckled and rattled on in Russian, even though Lock gestured that neither he nor Frank understood a word. Daniil seemed content to talk regardless, and did so off and on for the entire ride. Both he and the cab reeked of stale cigarette smoke and gasoline. Every now and again Lock, sandwiched in the middle, caught whiffs of liquor. He figured that the man was either lonely or crazy or drunk, or probably all three. Either way, he seemed to know the drive and was heading the only way they could go, so the two of them let him ramble and focused on not passing out or getting sick.

  A little over an hour later the road merged with the M10 just north of Moscow, and Lock kept his eyes out for a hotel. When he saw a comparatively well-lit building in the distance with a blinking sign next to it that read Turist A1 he crossed his fingers and tapped Daniil on the back, pointing. Daniil shrugged mid-sentence and pulled right over on the M10, just past the exit.

  Lock sifted through his pockets for cash, but Daniil laughed again and crossed his arms defiantly before ushering them out of the door with hearty back slaps. They waved awkwardly as he pulled into traffic again, causing a minor backup as his truck rattled its way back to cruising speed.

  “Well,” Frank said, smelling the arm of his coat, “that wasn’t so bad. All things considered.”

  “Come on,” Lock sighed, trudging up the shoulder of the exit ramp. Frank walked up beside him until a car came barreling off the M10 and nearly clipped his arm. Then he fell in line behind.

  “It is a hotel!” Frank shouted, as they reached the Turist A1.

  “Of course it’s a hotel,” Lock said, but his eyes fell upon a small marketplace across the block, more of a convenience store than anything.

  “Great idea,” Frank was saying. “I think we could both use some beauty sleep, slow things down for a bit, you know? Take stock.”

  “Nobody is sleeping. We had our down time.”

  “In the ditch, or in the flammable truck?”

  “Both.”

  “Okaaaay... there is a pretty big difference between ‘knocked unconscious’ and ‘sleeping peacefully’—”

  “Whatever it is we’re here to see, I’m not missing it because I was asleep at the... at the Turist A1. First, we’re going to that store over there and praying that they have some sort of first aid kit. Then we’re checking in to the hotel, you’re taking a shower, no... scratch that. I’m taking a shower first, then you’re taking a shower, then we patch ourselves up, and then we’re going right back into the heart of Moscow.”

  “Not to the rally, though, right?” Frank laughed nervously.

  “We’re not running up to the mansion again, but we need to see what there is to see.”

  “We don’t even know what day it is. The rally could be gone and done with.”

  “It’s been a day and a half at most. We’d be dead, frozen in the ditch, if we’d been there longer than six hours.”

  “It’s, like, midnight, Lock—”

  “Fine, you sleep. Do whatever you want.”

  Frank paused as Lock walked towards the market. A few seconds later he scampered up beside him again.

  “Eh, I don’t want to sleep anyway. Been having some bad dreams.”

  Looking straight ahead, Lock suppressed a small smile. “Then let’s start by getting you a new hat. You look ridiculous.”

  ————

  In the time they were away the crowd spilled over from the main rally into smaller pockets of revelry like puddles all across the city. People came and went, sluicing through the streets, stopping here and there. The crowd in front of the mansion, while still considerable, had shrunk as people gathered in other areas. L
ock managed to corral a British photographer on assignment from the BBC, who told them that the entire weekend had been designated as a national holiday. He said he’d taken off as soon as news of the rally broke at the London desk, and he’d arrived just that morning along with a wave of other journalists.

  “Seems like half the city is partying,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. They’re in front of the national museum now and the Olympic stadium too. I heard a crowd is growing in Red Square, even. That’s where I’m headed.”

  “Have they come out of the mansion? Has anyone made any more appearances?”

  “I saw some shoddy mobile phone footage of two men being escorted inside yesterday. They must have done something, because the crowd wasn’t too happy with them. They never came out, as far as anyone knows.”

  Frank looked at the ground, glad to be wearing a heavy black knitted cap that he’d taken down just past his eyebrows.

  “We heard about that.”

  “Then, just about an hour ago, three people walked down the line and one of them opened up the gate with his own key.”

  Frank looked up again.

  “Three men?” Lock asked.

  “They wore heavy coats and hats and sunglasses, but you could tell one was a woman, then two men behind her. She walked up to the place like she owned it. Threw open the gate and stepped right inside. Then another torch above the archway burst into flame, it’s been burning steadily ever since.”

  “Torch?”

  “There are two of them now. Check it out. I’ve got to catch the scene at Red Square. This is historic stuff, this.” He adjusted the strap of his camera and repositioned its fat telephoto lens under his arm before loping off.

  Once again, they set off towards the mansion. This time they stuck to the outlying crowds, falling in with large groups and shifting their way across the streets and parks.

  “Three people, eh?” Frank murmured.

  “It can’t be.”

  “Another team paying a visit? England?”

  “Only two teams in the Tournament have women as captains. The Irish and the Italians.”

  They were in full view of the front façade of the mansion now. The crowd was still strong, but not as feverish as before. Several tents had been erected in the park, and groups of people sat on folding chairs jammed into the snow, talking and laughing. Some were grilling, some were drinking. A clear cordon still ran down the middle, but people crossed continuously on their way about the city center.

  “It’s a giant tailgate party,” Frank said.

  “Just stay back and away from that aisle. They have to know we’re here, but no need to push it. Let ‘em think we’ve learned our lesson.”

  The two men stepped back and out of the lights, settling against the ice-cold brick of a nearby electrical building that hummed steadily. Two flames burned brightly in the distance atop a massive, gothic archway that signaled the entrance to the mansion’s main portico. The gray brick was charred black around them.

  “Those are old gas lamps. There’s a row of them above the archway. They had one burning when Brander took us through,” recalled Lock.

  “And now two.”

  “Two flames for two teams.”

  Frank squinted. “How many lamps do they have up there?”

  Lock couldn’t answer because just then a swell of noise rolled towards them back from where they’d come. The crowd around them perked up like a herd on the plains. Lock stepped deeper into the shadow of the building just in case, pressing Frank back with him. Then, the photographer they’d just spoken with came running past and paused a few feet from them, positioning himself. He let loose a flashing volley towards a mob of people that had just turned the corner.

  Now the entire park knew something was coming and pressed towards the new arrivals, swarming past Frank and Lock, but the two had the brick at their backs, and a good vantage from the stepped recess on which they stood. They didn’t move.

  At the head of the commotion walked three Asian men in blood red jackets. They walked at a comfortable pace and nobody impeded them, or even came within an arm’s length. The path cleared from before them as if they were surrounded by a glass ball. The camera flashes burned them white and reflected off of them, but none of them reacted. They had eyes only for the building.

  “Oh no,” Lock whispered.

  “Who are they?”

  “Japan.”

  The three members of Team Red arrived at the front gate, whereupon their captain, Takuro Obata, produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it. It swung open and an almost supernatural quiet descended upon the park as the three men moved onto the portico and then inside.

  Shortly thereafter a third gas lamp erupted above the archway before settling itself in a steady, flickering flame. The crowd exploded with cheers.

  “That makes three,” Frank said, wincing as he was jostled.

  “There will be others. This is what we were supposed to see. This is what he wanted everyone to know.”

  “So what. Is he throwing a party?”

  “No, Frank. He’s building an army.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  WHERE CENTRAL AVENUE WRAPS around to hit Interstate 25 to the west of Cheyenne, there is a small city park called Manitoba Park. On the south side of the park, a barbeque restaurant has stood for nearly fifty years. Through booms and busts, blizzard and drought, Manitoba Jack’s Smokehouse has served barbequed meat. Its iconic chimney stack is stained black from a steady, billowing stream of smoke that rips out of one of the oldest ovens in the west. On breezy days, the smell of spices and char permeates the entire park. Manitoba Jack’s claim to fame is that their stove is so old it’s been grandfathered in to the city health code and is immune to yearly inspection. Manitoba Jack, the fourth in a long line of Manitoba smoke men, will wink and say that their secret is the eight decades worth of smoke built up inside.

  The oven claims half of the restaurant, which is about the size of a gas station. They have a counter with an old push button register, a small, standing-only bar, and three tables. People don’t often linger inside. It’s hot, cramped, and reeks like a campfire, so when a young man walked through the doors and settled himself in the corner of the standing bar without ordering food, he got some looks.

  It didn’t help that it looked as though the man had walked himself up from the bottom of a lake of fire. His hair curled and waved, shiny with grease. He was thin and gaunt, swimming in the heavy hooded coat he wore over a simple white t-shirt. His face, although pale, was flushed at the cheeks, and his eyes were a primed green. He squeezed a tarnished brass lighter in his left hand incessantly while he watched the old, yellowed clock above the counter tick away the minutes.

  3:45. 3:46.

  Old Manitoba Jack smiled at the customers, took their orders, shot the slip down the line, then checked the corner where the stranger stood, keeping a wary eye on him from under a stained baseball cap. The man had been here every day, three days running. At first Jack thought he was homeless and was coming in for a little warmth, perhaps a rib tip or two; Jack had been known to help the drifters during hard times. His suspicions were almost confirmed when he spoke; the man’s accent was so strange Jack had to have him repeat his order three times before he understood that all he wanted was a pint of beer. But then he’d absently paid for the beer with a crisp one hundred dollar bill, taken the change, and moved off to his spot in the corner.

  He drank the beer quickly and ordered another, and another, all while watching the clock and squeezing his lighter. He muttered to himself as well, lips barely moving. Jack could tell he made the other customers nervous. Hell, he made Jack nervous. If he ever even appeared drunk, Jack was ready to give him the boot, but the stranger never even so much as burped.

  3:50. 3:51. He picked up his nearly empty glass and studied it, flicking an eye over to Jack and popping his eyebrows. Jack ambled over to him.

  “Another?”

  Ian held up his h
and for pause. He angled an ear towards the fogged window to his right and slightly cocked his head. He glanced back up at the clock and squeezed his lighter. Then he rubbed a bit of the window clean with his elbow and peered out at the winter afternoon, as if the park around them was hiding something.

  3:59. Four pm.

  Ian sighed. He nodded and passed his glass over. He pocketed his lighter.

  “Might as well have one more,” he said.

  “You, ah, waiting for someone, can I ask?”

  Ian nodded, his eyes distant.

  “And they haven’t been coming in these past three days?”

  “Oh, they’re not coming here. And you’re blessed for it. I’m just waiting for them here.” His voice lilted, as if he was steadying himself on ice while he spoke.

  Jack mulled that one over while topping off the beer. Ian went back to scanning the fogged glass. As he took a long sip, Jack looked out the window after him: only bare trees and dirty snow.

  “Well if they aren’t coming here, where are they coming?”

  “Not sure. I’ve got an idea though. I get... ideas.” He looked Jack directly in the eye and it became clear to Jack that it would be best if he found a way to remove this man.

  “So, how will you know when they’re here, then?” Jack asked, thinking he might be able to convince the addled man that the time had come.

  Ian looked into the swirling bubbles of his beer and shut his eyes and Jack saw how puffed and red they were about the rims. Either he’d had done a lot of crying, or he was a user. And he didn’t sound like he’d been crying.

  “It’s a sort of strange settling. Like a fog you can’t see. And then everything seems amplified and splintered, but you can’t source any of it. Then something will happen. Something you pass over every day, but not this time. Like maybe a whole mess of people will suddenly become quiet for just a tick, or you’ll make perfect eye contact with a complete stranger, or maybe your ear will start ringing for no reason. Then you’ll know he’s here. And then it’ll be too late.”