Feuds

by Avery Hastings

  Another set of arms came down and pinned Cole to the ground, but not before Cole got in another good kick. “Forgot this guy’s a cage fighter,” one of the cops grunted. Then Cole was on the ground, his face pressed firmly against dirt, his arms twisted firmly behind him. Cole winced against the pain as the cop pulled back his arms and cuffed him. The cop hauled him to his feet, twisting his arms hard in the process.

  “You’re under arrest,” he said, “on charges of unlawful fraternization with a Prior.”

  Cole hung his head, allowing himself to be led to the cop car. His heart sank; there was no way out now, not even a way to get a message to Davis. Her life depended on them finding some way to counteract the illness. He couldn’t rot in some prison and hope she’d be okay on her own. He racked his brain for some solution, some way out. There was nothing, only desperation and devastation where there had once been the greatest happiness he’d ever felt.

  * * *

  The detention center was cold and gray, a makeshift facility that looked cobbled out of cinder blocks. Cole thought that it had probably once been a hospital—the cells weren’t cells at all but little individual rooms, all in a row, with locked metal doors. The cops hadn’t talked on the way over and they didn’t talk now—just shoved him into one of the rooms so hard that he stumbled and fell. He struggled to stand with his arms tied behind him, and he heard laughter through the door; he turned and saw the pudgy face of one of the cops frozen in a wide grin. Jeering. Exhausted, Cole sat on a cot in the corner; it represented the only furnishings in the room. It was cold, and he could feel the metal springs through the thin mat that covered it. He couldn’t see any of the other inmates, only a heavy stone door with a small window that faced another stone wall.

  An hour—or maybe two—passed. Cole couldn’t tell; his thoughts were racing in circles. Everything came back to the fact that the tabloids showed his face with Davis’s. There was no way out of the situation. It didn’t matter anymore that the only reason any of this had happened was because he wanted something better for his family—a happier life, away from the losing battle they were all fighting to survive. If he hadn’t fallen for Davis, it might all have worked out. But it was impossible to think back to a time when he hadn’t cared about her. None of it was her fault; he’d brought it on her. The thought of Davis suffering, possibly in pain—it made Cole rise to his feet, pace the room. He couldn’t sit still and do nothing while she was in danger. He had to make things right. She’d been so scared when he saw her last. Her eyes, wide and bright with panic; her hands, trembling. Her mouth, her lips …

  Finally the door cracked open, and a gruff voice ordered Cole to follow. He was led into a room only slightly larger than the one with the cot and instructed to sit down. He sat, and the cop sat across from him.

  “You’re being released on bail,” the cop informed him. Cole straightened, his mind racing.

  “But who—”

  “Don’t interrupt,” the cop ordered, obviously irritated. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, shuffling through some paperwork on the desk. “It’s important that you know that you’re restricted to the Slants. Under no circumstances can you leave the Slants until your case has been closed.” Cole struggled to his feet, his legs weak with adrenaline. Had his family collected money from the others in the Slants? But even with the help of friends, how had they come up with enough, and so fast? He felt sick, imagining what they’d probably gone through to get him out, how much they had to have put on the line.

  “Sign here,” the cop said, thrusting a piece of paper at him along with a pen. “I guess I’ll have to uncuff you first.” Cole’s blood boiled. The cop was enjoying every second of this, and he was making no attempt to hide it. He strode over to Cole and unlocked the cuffs roughly, yanking Cole’s shoulders hard in the process. His arms would be in bad shape for the FEUDS—if the FEUDS were even a possibility for him now. The thought hit him with such urgency that he nearly lost his balance. The cop glanced up at him, noticing him falter. Cole fought to appear calm, in control. He’d figure it out—there was always a way. He shook out his wrists and massaged his shoulders, glancing over the release form.

  “I don’t have all day,” the cop informed him. “Sign it and leave, or get yourself back to the cell.” Cole skimmed the text, which seemed pretty standard—it stated that he’d be staying in the Slants until the trial was concluded, and that any attempts to leave would result in immediate arrest. He signed.

  The cop opened the door and gestured with his head for Cole to get lost.

  A man in a suit awaited him in the lobby. One of Parson Abel’s nameless, faceless staffers. The guy chomped down on some gum, or maybe candy, and held the door open for Cole.

  There was a sleek black car waiting. Cole slid inside and faced Parson Abel. Very few Priors let their hair go gray, Cole had noted, but Parson’s was so silver it was practically metallic.

  “Got yourself into some trouble, huh, kid?” Parson grinned, and his prominent jaw showcased a crowning cleft at his chin.

  “Have you heard anything about Davis?” It was the first thing Cole could think to say, and his urgency was clear. Parson laughed, and Cole tried hard not to show his embarrassment. He’d laid all his cards on the table for Parson to exploit.

  “She really got under your skin, didn’t she?” he wanted to know. “Well, your little ‘girlfriend,’” he said, using air quotes around the word, “turned you in. Betcha didn’t know that, did you?”

  “No.” Cole reeled. It wasn’t possible. “You’re lying,” he said, but Parson only laughed again.

  “Yeah? I don’t think so, buddy. Better just shake it off. Women are trouble every time.” He clapped Cole on the shoulder, laughing, and Cole jerked away from his touch, which only amused Parson further. Cole felt sick inside. So she’d betrayed him. She could have kicked him, punched him, inflicted any bodily harm. Nothing physical could compare to the pain of her giving up on them. His mind reeled. He couldn’t focus.

  All he could do was glare at Parson Abel, refusing to speak. His skin crawled at the sight of his shiny forehead, his enhanced skin tone, his lab-rat lips. Parson Abel was broad, but not muscular. Powerful seeming, but it was just a carefully cultivated aura, Cole knew. Parson did not have the frame of an athlete.

  “Shake off that anger, son,” Parson said. “It’s time to get back to training. I’m taking you straight to the Swings.”

  “And if I don’t want to fight for you anymore?” Cole challenged.

  “Oh,” said Parson, raising his eyebrows. “You must be confused. I wasn’t asking for your preferences, Cole. I’ve got a lot of money riding on this thing. You’re fighting for me whether you want to or not.”

  Cole turned from him, staring out the window. He was trapped. He felt it all throughout his body. His head throbbed and he wanted to scream.

  A hint of gold glimmered from inside Parson’s suit, and as Parson leaned back, his jacket moved to reveal the gold-handled knife he always wore in his shirt pocket.

  For an instant, Cole fantasized about grabbing that knife. He could easily swipe it from Parson’s pocket. In less than one minute, Parson could be dead. Cole’s body tensed, and he felt his hands begging to inch closer across the seat. Parson Abel didn’t stand a chance against him; he knew it. Those broad shoulders and strong jaw hid a weak character and physique. Cole read him as a coward a mile away.

  But then he realized: when it came down to it, without Davis, what did it matter? There was nothing left in Columbus for him if Davis was no longer a part of his future.

  He’d win the fight. He’d get his family out of there, get out of town. He’d try to find a way to live a life without Davis, somewhere where everything around him didn’t remind him of her. For now, he’d do the only thing he really knew how to do. He’d fight.

  * * *

  Cole could barely recognize downtown Columbus from the air as he made his way to the FEUDS in Parson’s helicopter. “Protecting my investment
,” Parson had told him with a clap to his back, and although Cole had felt dirty—had cringed from the contact—the ride itself was taking his breath away. Cole was alone in the helicopter, as Parson himself had stayed back, instructing the pilot to deliver Cole to the FEUDS. It was smart, too; the violence was everywhere. Priors and Gens swarmed the streets. Cole might not have been able to fight his way through the masses of people to the FEUDS otherwise. The city spread out below him, beautiful despite the turmoil. The towers in the downtown segment rose above masses of rioters. He couldn’t identify even an inch of extra space in the streets beneath him. The rioters looked like tiny dots from his vantage point, but they were clustered so tightly that the streets themselves were almost completely obscured.

  As they drew closer to the landing pad, Cole could see Prior cops struggling to maintain control of the crowd. He squinted: from the variations in uniforms—some green, some an unfamiliar dark blue—it seemed like reinforcements had been called in from outside Columbus. They wore militia-grade guns and Cole suspected they had any number of other advanced weaponry on them: tear gas, paralytics, grenade launchers, digital revolvers. The Gens, Cole knew, had nothing that could compete with that. If the Prior cops decided to fire on the crowd, hundreds could die in a matter of minutes. He didn’t understand why anyone would even want to come see him fight Noah when people were killing each other in the streets. But that was ridiculous; he knew it the second he thought it. They wanted to come see him fight, because they wanted to see him die. The thought sent panic spiraling through Cole’s limbs, and he was glad they hadn’t touched down yet, glad he still had a minute to himself.

  Getting to the FEUDS would have been suicide without Parson’s helicopter. I’m lucky not to die before the fight, he thought grimly. Parson Abel had promised not to let anything happen to him, and so far he’d made good on the promise. But what would happen after the fights were finished?

  It would be hard for him to muster the energy to fight when every breath in light of Davis’s betrayal was painful. He couldn’t believe she’d turned him in. He literally couldn’t comprehend it, not after everything they’d been through. Hadn’t he shown her how much he cared? How could she take that and throw it all away? He wouldn’t think about it—he couldn’t. It would ruin him.

  The helicopter touched down on top of a building directly across the street from the FEUDS, and when he approached, the crowds parted to let him in. They recognized him. It’d be impossible not to—he was shirtless, wearing a mouth guard along with low-slung shorts and taped wrists. With the sweat and filthy sheen of that afternoon still coating his body, he knew he looked menacing. Parson’s guards ushered him roughly to a back office, standing guard outside the door while he shadowboxed.

  He climbed into the cage to the sound of taunts and cheers. He moved in place, bouncing from one foot to the next, playing to the crowd. Cole couldn’t help it; despite the brutality of the fights, he loved it. He loved knowing what his body could do if he let it. He loved that no-holds-barred sensation. And now, after everything that had happened with Davis, he was extra angry. Extra hungry to expel those emotions. Noah was already there, stretching and warming up. The cage door slammed behind him, and Cole heard its automatic lock click into place. There was no time for him to warm up. The clock was already marking down each second until the start, the crowd chanting along with it. Adrenaline coursed through him; all his nerves were on fire. His heart pounded in his ears.

  Three. Two. One.

  A burst of smoke, released for effect, filled the room. It clouded Cole’s vision. Noah reacted more easily, going in for a punch. His fist connected just beneath Cole’s rib cage, knocking him back a few steps. Cole bounced on the balls of his feet, landing a solid punch of his own to Noah’s jaw. It knocked him on his back for a second. And then another smoke screen clouded his vision, complete with the thrumming of some kind of hypno-beat, designed to get the crowd wild.

  And they were going wild. He could hear them screaming, feel their body heat from where they pressed up against the cage, wanting to be as close to the fighters as possible. As the smoke began to clear, he saw a glint of light in the cage. Then it disappeared. He squinted through the screen, blindly punching in order to keep Noah at bay until he could see well enough to place his jabs accurately.

  “You’re dead either way you look at it,” Noah grunted between jabs. Cole didn’t bother answering. Noah was trying to get in his head. It was obvious. “You’ll die here or you’ll rot in jail.”

  Cole hesitated. How did Noah know he’d just come from prison? The hesitation was enough to allow Noah to push him against the sides of the cage. “Guess your girlfriend didn’t like it when she saw photos of you kissing that Prior slut,” he growled, his face next to Cole’s ear. His arm was positioned against Cole’s windpipe, nearly cutting off his access to oxygen. “Maybe I’m actually doing you a little favor.”

  Something inside Cole clicked. Something wasn’t right. Noah’s words sank in.

  Davis hadn’t set him up. Michelle had! For an instant, his heart stopped. It was as if someone had hit pause for a millisecond. Then his vision cleared, and he was filled with an intense rush of adrenaline fueled by the need to see Davis, to find her and clear everything up as soon as possible. The adrenaline was enough for him to dislodge Noah’s arm from his throat. He gained a little bit of leverage and managed to upset Noah’s balance just slightly, regaining his own offensive stance, but it was too late.

  He felt a sharp slash against his forearm, and the pain that followed was enough to make him gasp. The smoke cleared and he saw it: a gold knife, slim but razor-sharp, clutched in Noah’s sweaty palm. Cole lifted his eyes to Noah’s face. Noah’s own eyes were wild and desperate. He thought back to the stories about Noah’s prison time. Noah wasn’t just fighting streetwise or dirty. He was fighting to kill.

  The gold handle of the knife was etched with a familiar-looking crest. Cole’s memories flashed through his head: there was the knife, glinting in the pocket of a sports jacket. There was the knife, every time Parson Abel tapped out his cigar and reached for his wallet in order to withdraw Cole’s prize money. The same etched logo: a star above a scorpion. The same exact knife.

  I’ve got a lot of money riding on this fight. Cole heard the words echoing in his brain, ricocheting around the sides of his skull. Parson had a lot of money riding on the fight. But not on Cole’s victory. Not after the last fight, anyway. On this one, Cole realized in horror, Parson had money riding on the underdog. Cole forgot about everything as the truth of it sank in. All he could see were Parson Abel’s beady eyes, his trademark cigar, his dimpled chin, and the way he was probably salivating with greed at that very moment. Everything faded—except the truth, now crystal clear.

  He forgot about Noah, until Noah kneed him in the chest, sending him flying backward.

  And then he was back in it.

  Everyone was on their feet, going crazy with bloodlust. No one seemed to care that there was an illegal weapon in the cage. Cole leaped to his feet, barely avoiding a kick to the skull. He still had speed on his side, but he had to get the knife out of there.

  He drew on his own knowledge of martial arts, vestiges of the research he’d done on Noah’s fighting techniques, to land a karate chop to Noah’s wrist, and then a second blow in the same place. The knife clattered to the floor of the cage. Cole and Noah rolled over each other punching wherever they could connect as they both scrambled for the weapon. Cole landed a right hook to Noah’s temple, stunning him. Noah was on his back, and Cole used two or three seconds to roll atop him, pinning him. Noah struggled under his weight. He was still strong, still fighting. The knife was on the floor between Noah’s head and his massive shoulders. Cole knew he had to get it, even if he didn’t use it. He couldn’t fight if Noah had it. He’d die.

  Using all of his strength to hold Noah down, Cole leaned over and bit down on the knife handle, hard, just as Noah pushed Cole upward and over, shoving him bac
kward. Cole held on to him, and they were both falling together, Cole on his back and Noah, having lost his balance, falling toward Cole. They both realized the same thing at the same time, but by the time they did, it was too late.

  Cole had maintained his grip on the knife between his teeth. Noah was hurtling toward Cole’s chest, powerless against the weight and velocity of his own body. Cole registered the panic in Noah’s eyes just as the tip of the knife plunged into Noah’s neck. It punctured and moved deeper as Noah’s weight fell on it, its hilt sliding backward into Cole’s throat at the same time. Noah let out a choked gurgle, blood pouring from his wound. Cole shoved Noah off him as hard as he could, releasing the knife from his mouth. His throat and teeth ached. His mind felt numb. Noah rolled to the ground, his eyes wide and lifeless, while Cole spit Noah’s blood onto the floor.

  The crowd went wild.

  Noah.

  Noah was dead.

  Cole lurched to the side and vomited. They were long, hacking heaves that wouldn’t stop. His sickness was the deep and searing kind, born of self-loathing. He hadn’t meant to kill Noah. He hadn’t meant for that to come of it. He had won, but the floor had fallen out from under him. The door to the cage clicked open, and three shirtless men entered the small enclosure to remove Noah’s body. Cole dragged his gaze to the crowd. An eerie silence had fallen in the minute he’d taken to recover. Cole felt a sense of horror welling up from the pit of his stomach. What had he done? What would happen to him now?

  But as he focused on the individual faces of the audience—the Gen girls in their bikinis, the Prior businessmen in their elevated seats—he realized they weren’t looking at him, or the mess on the cage floor. No one was. Instead, their eyes were trained on the glass-enclosed loges where the major FEUDS donors sat. Cole could just make out the forms of several policemen surrounding the center loge. Then he saw Parson’s form rising from his seat. Fury and relief and confusion overcame Cole in a rush as he saw Parson extend his hands, saw the Prior policemen clamp handcuffs over his wrists.