Five was angry now; those punches had stung him. He switched his stance to protect his bruised ribs, stepped in with a jab-cross that bounced off my forearms, and then tried to tie my head up in a Muay Thai clinch.
Yep. Definitely a kickboxer.
I slipped out of it, narrowly avoiding a knee aimed at my forehead. The momentum of the knee strike left him slightly off balance, and I took the opportunity to snap off two quick punches that rocked his head back, and step in for a takedown.
My arms wrapped around his lower back, pinning one of his arms in place. My right foot came down behind his ankle and I pushed my forehead into his chest, pulling hard against his back. He tried to balance by stepping backward, but only succeeded in tripping over the foot I had planted behind him. Right then, I knew I had the fight won. If Five had possessed an ounce of grappling skill, he would have been able to step out of that takedown. It was a simple technique—Day One stuff for any grappler. This guy wasn’t a grappler.
I landed on top, still pinning one of his arms. Shifting my weight, I came up on one knee, posted my head against Five’s shoulder, and brought my other knee up into his groin. He shouted in agony and curled up, pushing at my leg with his free hand to keep me from kneeing him again. I used the distraction to climb up into the full mount, centered my weight on his chest, and started throwing punches at his face.
Just as I had hoped, Five crossed his arms over his face and rolled over beneath me, giving up his back. I wasn’t hitting him very hard—I didn’t want to hurt him any worse than I already had—but it was enough to make him instinctively turn away. Just as I’d done in so many sparring matches on the Grinder, I hooked his legs, flattened him out, and slipped a forearm over his throat. With the choke locked in, I counted slowly backwards from ten. By the time I was done, Five had gone limp.
I released the choke, stood up, and faced Lucian. He met my gaze and stared back, a smile curling up one side of his mouth. It didn’t touch his eyes. Slowly, he began to clap.
“Another winner!” Tommy shouted.
The noise was deafening at that point. The troops crowded around the circle and heaved at one another to get closer to the action. Kasikov and a few other senior troops had to shove the mob back at gunpoint to keep them from spilling over into the circle. Once they had restored some semblance of order, Lucian stood and held up his hands, shouting for everyone’s attention.
“We’ve got three candidates left. Tommy, what do you think we should do?”
The fat man took a swig of whiskey and wiped his mouth. “Fuck it. Battle Royale!”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
Tommy motioned for the other two remaining fighters to step into the circle. We all realized what was coming at the same time and searched each other’s eyes.
I could tell the other two were afraid of me. Five had been a more competent fighter than either one of them, and I had beaten him in less than a minute. They looked at each other and exchanged a slight nod.
Fuck.
Honestly, I didn’t blame them. It’s what I would have done; deal with the worst threat first, then settle things between the two of them.
“Three men enter, one man leaves. Get it on!” Tommy stepped out of the circle, and the crowd went wild.
The other two fighters split up, coming at me from either direction. I needed to take one of them out quickly, and then handle the other one at my leisure. Four hadn’t looked as strong as One in his fight, so I decided to deal with him first.
When confronted with multiple opponents, if you have nowhere to run, the best strategy is to simply go at the fuckers head-on and beat them with sheer aggression. Four was being tentative, waiting for One to make the first move.
I charged.
It took me two steps the cover the distance. I leapt at him with a flying knee that I knew wasn’t going to land. Just as I had expected him to, he leapt to the right to get out of the way. As soon as my feet touched the ground, I hopped sideways, turned, and launched a spinning hook kick at the side of his neck. My heel made contact with a meaty thud, and Four toppled over like a felled tree. His head bounced off the concrete with a sickening crack. He didn’t move.
A collective “OHHHH!!!” resounded through the warehouse as Four hit the ground. I spun to face One, and found him charging. He dropped his weight and rammed a shoulder into my waist, driving me to the ground. I went with the takedown and pulled him into my full-guard.
The guard is a tricky position. To the uninformed, it looks like the fighter on top has the advantage. But in truth, the fighter on bottom is the one in control, assuming he knows what he’s doing.
One clearly had no experience fighting from this position, and began throwing wild punches at my head. I caught an arm, opened up my guard, and transitioned into a textbook triangle choke. One of my legs cut off the blood supply to his brain on one side of his neck, while pressure from his own shoulder did the job on the other side. I reached up and pulled down on his head to increase the force of the choke. Again, I counted slowly backwards from ten, and again, by the time I was done, he was out.
I released him and let him slump to the ground. The gathered troops were stomping and howling like madmen. Even Lucian was on his feet, pumping his fists in the air.
“Number three! Number three is the winner!” Tommy shouted, as if it weren’t obvious.
Most of the troops were elated by the spectacle, but a few looked dejected. They must have bet against me.
Not a good idea, that.
Kasikov was standing at the edge of the circle with a satisfied smile on his face. The bookie in front of him ripped a piece of paper from his notepad and handed it to the big Russian. He looked at it and nodded, then started shouting taunts at the grim-faced men he had wagered against.
Lucian got up from his chair and shouted for silence. “All right, men. Playtime is over for today. Tommy, make sure everyone settles up their bets. Crew leaders, get your men back on duty. If you’re off duty, I don’t give a fuck what you do as long as you stay the hell out of my way. Kasikov, grab some bodies and get these maggots back to work. You,” he pointed a finger at me, “you stay here.”
I walked to the edge of the circle and waited. The Legion troops slowly dispersed as Kasikov led the remaining prisoners back to the tunnel entrance. Number Four, the slave I had knocked unconscious, still lay on the floor with a pool of blood expanding under his head. A cold feeling began to grow in my stomach.
“Hey, maggot. Wake the fuck up.” One of Kasikov’s men kicked the downed slave. He didn’t move. I walked over and knelt down beside him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the guard demanded.
“Checking his vitals.” I pulled up on one of his shoulders and put a couple of fingers against his throat. There was a pulse, but it was unsteady, erratic. Not good. I pulled one eyelid open and checked his pupils in the dim light.
“How’s he doing? He fuckin’ dead, or what?”
“He’s still alive, but he’s in bad shape. He needs a doctor.”
The guard turned around. “Hey Kas, whadya want me to do with this guy?”
“What is wrong with him?” the Russian said, walking over.
Calling to mind everything I had learned from Allison about brain injuries, I felt the area where his skull had struck the concrete. A large hematoma had formed, and he was bleeding from a laceration as long as my thumb. I pressed on the skull around the hematoma and felt it give a little.
“He’s hurt bad,” I said. “Skull fracture, cerebral contusion, hemorrhaging, and probably cranial herniation. If he doesn’t see a doctor soon, he’s going to die.”
The guard looked at me, then at Kasikov. “You know what the fuck he’s talking about?”
Kas ignored him, and rose up on his toes to see over the crowd. “Klauberg! Where is being Klauberg?”
“Over here,” a voice shouted to my right. “What do you want?”
I turned and saw a short, portly
man with a balding head, a graying beard, and a pair of close-set, pig-like eyes emerge from the chaos. He wandered over and looked down at the unconscious slave.
“Oh, right.” He knelt down, pushed me out of the way, and performed the same checks I had just done.
“Nope. Sorry. He’s fucked.” The little man stood up to walk away.
“Wait,” I said. He turned to look at me, his brow furrowed over his cruel little eyes. I said, “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t you do something for him?”
He squared off with me and put his pudgy hands on his hips. “What am I gonna do, maggot? I’d need an emergency room, a neurologist, and a trained medical staff to save this piece of shit. Do you see anything around here like that? No? Didn’t fucking think so.” With that, he turned and walked away.
“Jenkins, Wilson. Get rid of this corpse,” Kasikov said, gesturing to two of his men. “Be making sure to dump his body far away. I am not wanting to smell it the next time I am on watch.”
The two men elbowed me out of their way as the grabbed the slave by his ankles and began dragging him away. I stared on helplessly, feeling the coldness in my stomach spread up to my face. My throat constricted, my eyes stung, and for a few moments, it was hard to breathe.
“Do not be worrying about him.” Kasikov clapped me on the shoulder. “You have done well, my friend. Soon, I am thinking you will be one of us.”
I looked at him, but he had already turned away. As he and his men led the prisoners back to the tunnels, the ones I had beaten cast hateful, envious glances at me. The two I had choked out didn’t look the worse for wear, but Six was in obvious agony with his broken nose, and shattered teeth. He sobbed quietly as he was led away, blood dripping down his face.
“Kasikov.” I called out. He stopped and turned to look at me.
“What about their clothes?”
He glanced at them. “Da. You are being right. Go on, maggots. Get your clothes.”
Some of the venom left their gazes as they picked up their belongings. I looked each of them in the eye and made a silent promise.
Somehow, some way, I’m going to get you out of here.
Chapter 21
Of Monsters and Men
A tunnel connected the warehouse to a smaller building nearby that had once been the distribution company’s administrative offices.
Several of Lucian’s men led me there after putting me back in irons. Lucian himself stayed behind to hold a meeting with his senior staff, and sent his brother to see to my interrogation. We emerged from the tunnel into a basement filled with rusting, long-disused machinery. Elevator equipment, a few banks of servers, HVAC units, water pumps—all useless now.
The guards led me up a flight of stairs to the main floor where long ranks of empty cubicles sat dusty and forgotten. I tried to imagine the place as it must have been before the Outbreak. People sitting in those cubicles, staring at computer screens, occasionally gazing out the windows and wishing they were at home, or at the beach, or out with their families, or doing pretty much anything except sitting there under fluorescent lights with a bunch of other people just as miserable as they were. I wasn’t sure which was more depressing, the past or the present.
We walked through the building until we came to a large corner office farthest from the main entrance. The computers and other devices had been taken out and lay in a pile a few feet from the doorway. In their place was a large wooden desk, a few chairs, and several boxes of files and office supplies. Pens, printer paper, file folders, clips, staples. All neatly organized.
The guards had me sit down in one of the chairs. Aiken took a seat behind the desk and ordered the guards to wait outside. When they had closed the door, he picked up a manila folder and a pen.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Logan Morrison.”
He wrote the name on the folder, and then glanced up at me. “From here on out you will address me as ‘sir.’ Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
He picked up a piece of paper and set it on the desk in front of him. “Where are you from, Morrison?”
“Tyler, Texas, sir.”
He scribbled it down in flowing, easily legible handwriting. “Date of birth?”
I told him.
“Did you graduate from high school?”
“Yes, sir.”
“College?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you study?”
“Texas A&M, sir.”
“What did you major in?”
“Business and English, sir.”
“Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“A place called First Strike Martial Arts, sir. My dad was a huge MMA fan. He had me start training there when I was eleven. I kept at it until I left for college.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“Roland, sir.”
“His full name.”
“Roland Albert Morrison, sir.”
“Mother’s name?”
The questions kept coming, one after another. A droning, mind-numbing litany. Morrow had warned me about this. Warned me about what he was going to do. Grayson had been selected to join the Legion the same way I had—by fighting and beating other slaves. Afterward, he had been dragged away and questioned for more than two hours by the very man sitting across from me. Aiken looked exactly as Morrow had described. Tall, strongly built, squarish features. Salt-and-pepper hair, neatly trimmed beard, and cold, lifeless eyes.
The purpose of the questions was not so that he could get to know me—he didn’t give a rat’s ass about me. As far as he was concerned, I was just another expendable piece of meat to be used and disposed of at his discretion. The purpose of the questions, rather, was to try to trip me up. To get me to reveal dishonesty. To root out any deception.
To make sure I was who I said I was.
The first round of questions took about half an hour. Then he started in again, same questions, different order. Then he wanted to know more about my family. My favorite subjects in school. Pets that I had owned. What cars I had driven, girls I had dated, movies I liked.
Where had I traveled to? What was my favorite flavor of ice cream? Had I ever been in a car wreck? Had I ever been injured? Had major surgery? Ever been in trouble with the law? Ever got a speeding ticket? Endlessly, the questions came.
It was good that I had drilled for this with Steve. This Aiken guy was thorough. If I had come here unprepared, he would have gotten me. As it was, I had to give the conversation my full focus to remember everything I was supposed to say. If I screwed up, if I left a single thread dangling, Aiken would seize it, pull it, and my whole story would come unraveled.
After more than two hours, I was mentally exhausted. Aiken, however, seemed to have enjoyed the exercise. When it came to mental endurance, I was a sprinter, and this guy was a triathlete. Satisfied that I wasn’t bullshitting him, he called the guards back in and ordered them to escort me outside. They had me sit down on the floor while one of them kept a rifle trained on my head.
Aiken took his time before leaving his office. I imagined he was looking over his notes, trying to find any discrepancies in my story. If he found anything, I was going to be tortured without mercy until I told them the truth. I did a few silent breathing exercises to calm my nerves, emptied my mind of fearful thoughts, and resolved that I would not let them put me to the question. If it came to it, I would fight like a madman until they killed me, and make damned sure I took a few of them along for the ride. Death was far preferable to giving up information that could get my loved ones killed.
Finally, after what felt like forever, Aiken emerged and ordered his men to escort me back to the warehouse. Once there, they had me sit on the floor and wait while Aiken went over to talk to his brother. I kept my head down and feigned disinterest.
“You’re out of here next week, right?” one of the guards said, keeping his voice low.
&
nbsp; The man beside him whispered, “Yeah, man. Back to Haven. I can’t wait; I haven’t seen my son in a month.”
I almost snapped my head up, but managed to stop myself. I felt like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water on my head.
“I’m fuckin’ jealous, man. I got another two weeks before I rotate back. You mind checking in on Marcy and the girls for me? Make sure they’re doin’ okay?”
“No problem.”
Lucian stood up from his desk and began walking in our direction. The guards went abruptly silent. Their leader snagged a chair, spun it around, and sat down facing me with his arms draped across the back.
“I have good news, and I have bad news. Which do you want first? You have my permission to speak.”
Stay calm. Breathe. “It’s been a while since I had any good news, sir.”
He grinned. “You passed the first test. Aiken thinks you’re on the level. Which is good, because if he didn’t, I’d have my men string you up with fishhooks. As for the bad news, I’m afraid we can’t accept your application at this time.”
He saw my confusion and held up a hand. “Not that I don’t think you would make a good soldier. You obviously know how to fight. It’s just that right now, I need workers more than I need soldiers. I’ve got big things planned in the next few weeks, but before that happens, those tunnels need to be finished. The more hands I have digging, the sooner things can happen. So for the time being, I need you in the mines. Don’t worry though, I’ll make sure they double your rations and tell the guards to take it easy on you. But don’t forget,” he pointed a finger at me, “the rules still apply. You do what you’re told, when you’re told, and you don’t talk to the other prisoners. We don’t want them getting any crazy ideas. It’d be bad for their health.”
He stood up and motioned to the guards. “Take him back down and pass along my orders. Make sure he’s treated right. As for you, Morrison, once the tunnels are complete, we’ll see about getting you on a salvage crew. How’s that sound?”
“That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard in years, sir.”
Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within Page 26