Devil's Pocket

by John Dixon

  A simple, brutal design.

  The woman’s voice said, “The cesti provide wrist support and knuckle protection while still allowing sufficient hand flexibility for grappling.”

  And they turn our fists into sledgehammers, Carl thought. Cold went through him. There was no cushion beneath the leather. Punches would be devastating. The rawhide would open cuts.

  The woman returned to the screen. “From here, your stewards will provide a brief tour of the facility and escort you to your rooms, allowing you to make yourselves more comfortable prior to this evening’s weigh-ins. The tournament will begin tomorrow. Again, we thank you most graciously for your participation in this year’s Funeral Games and applaud your courage and fortitude. We do hope that you enjoy our hospitality and encourage you to call upon your personal steward for any needs that arise.”

  The TV died, and the lights came on.

  People are going to get hurt here, Carl thought, and suddenly very real to him was the whirlpool of violence into which he was about to descend. People are going to die here.

  Then a thought wrapped in leather struck him hard: Stark had known. He had known the rules and conditions.

  Why are you so surprised? he asked himself, and instantly responded, I’m not.

  A chill rippled through him like one of Stark’s dark chuckles.

  Carl had to fight, had to win—but with these merciless rules, the rage-beast clamoring inside him, and his knuckles encased in leather, how could he win without killing?

  EIGHT

  KRUGER PRESSED THE LAST BUTTON not marked with a red X, and the elevator started its silent climb toward the fifth level.

  During the tour, they had explored the arena, the locker rooms, multiple training facilities, and a sauna area. They had skirted a kitchen, where the good smells of cooking food had almost driven Carl insane, and visited an infirmary where Tex told Kruger to book space for his opponents and where Davis finally perked up, scanning the first-aid supplies with bright eyes, his fingers passing over tools and tubes and bottles like the fingers of a pianist warming up on a grand piano. For an instant, Carl thought a smile was going to break onto the eternally grim face, but then Davis had turned and nodded, satisfied if not necessarily pleased.

  Carl was impressed. Not just by the facility, which was absolutely amazing, like a five-star hotel combined with a cutting-edge sports and entertainment complex, but also by their tour guide. With his perfect suit and manners, Kruger could have been a butler for the queen of England. How had he ended up here?

  Even as Kruger pointed out occasional doors marked in red X’s, explaining that these were strictly off-limits, he managed to sound both authoritative and apologetic. No entrance, no exceptions, and sorry very much . . .

  The elevator dinged, its doors opened, and Kruger gestured for the team to exit.

  “The residential level,” the silver-haired steward said. He led them down a curving hallway carpeted in crimson and painted cool blue. Beside each door stood a small table adorned with an arrangement of fresh-cut flowers. Their sweet floral scent suffused the air.

  Somewhere around the next bend, others approached, speaking loudly in . . . what? Spanish? Not Spanish, but something similar. . . .

  The other team appeared, three smiley guys who looked like triplets, save for their remarkable differences in size, all of them ruggedly handsome with bronze skin, thick necks and rounded shoulders, dark hair shaved close, and the cauliflower ears of experienced wrestlers. Seeing Carl and the others, they smiled, all three of them at once, and Carl couldn’t help but smile and nod, and they nodded back and were gone. Grapplers of some type. Probably jujitsu guys. Maybe Brazilian. Good guys, good energy, confident and strong, not mixing up the fights with the moments in between. A rare type here, a rare type in the world. Most people couldn’t fight without hatred.

  Carl hoped he wouldn’t draw their middleweight. In boxing, you could fight anyone, even a friend, and it was okay. Here, though, with the cesti? He hated the idea of shattering those friendly smiles.

  “Fighter 19,” Kruger said, and Carl realized they were stopping.

  “Yes?”

  Their steward pointed toward a glass square mounted beside the door. A red light glowed at the center of the glass. “Press your right thumb into the identification pad, please.”

  Carl did.

  The red light turned green, something clicked faintly, and the door slid smoothly open, disappearing into a pocket in the wall.

  “The door will recognize any of your thumbprints,” Kruger said, inviting them inside with a sweep of his well-tailored arm. “Gentlemen, welcome to your quarters.”

  Carl stepped into the foyer. “Whoa.”

  Agbeko stood beside him. “This is magnificent.”

  Tex cursed appreciatively, and even Davis emitted a low whistle.

  The room was like a ritzy Las Vegas suite out of the movies, with bright paint and framed artwork and high ceilings and columns instead of walls. To the left, the foyer flowed into a large carpeted area with soft-looking couches and recliners facing a huge television. Farther back, a chandelier lit a dining area next to a fancy kitchen complete with a stainless-steel refrigerator and a soda machine.

  Kruger led them into the carpeted space. “This should be a very relaxing area for you.” He entered the semicircle of couches and recliners and pressed a section of wall beneath the massive television screen. A panel slid aside, revealing racks of electronics. “Entertainment central. Thousands of recorded shows and movies, music from around the world, and multiple gaming systems.”

  “Wonderful,” Agbeko said.

  “Once the tournament begins,” Kruger said, “matches will stream on the lower channels, should you care to enjoy your victories or scout your opponents.”

  Scouting the competition would be crucial, Carl knew—and not just to study his own opponents. He needed to coach Agbeko and Tex as best he could. Neither would win against top-caliber opponents, but there were considerations beyond winning and losing. He would do what he could to help them protect themselves.

  “Now, please follow me,” Kruger said, “and I will show you to your rooms.”

  “We get our own rooms?” Davis asked, that almost-smile coming onto his face again.

  “Of course,” Kruger said, “each with a private bathroom, as well.”

  Agbeko beamed like a two-hundred-seventy-pound ten-year-old on Christmas morning.

  Upon each of the four doors set into the back wall was a white oval plaque etched in red. “Sir,” Kruger said to Carl, and gestured to the ID pad beside the door marked F19.

  Carl pressed his thumb against the pad, and the door whisked aside.

  “This is your room, Fighter 19,” Kruger said, waving Carl forward. “It’s only proper that you should enter first.”

  Carl’s feet sunk into the plush red carpet. At a glance, he took in the minifridge, a shelf crammed with books, and a television mounted to the wall. A large bed draped in a black comforter dominated the room. At its center burned the bright red likeness of a bird engulfed in flame.

  Agbeko laughed joyously. “The phoenix!”

  Yeah . . . great, Carl thought, but outwardly he pretended to share Agbeko’s pride and excitement.

  “Your wardrobe is similarly customized,” Kruger said. He pressed a recessed wall button, and a panel slid aside, revealing a closet filled with black-and-red clothing, each article emblazoned with a burning phoenix and stitched with a red 19.

  The Phoenix Island theme continued throughout his private quarters. Black shower curtain, black towels, black drapes covering the room’s lone window . . . each with a red phoenix at its center.

  Kruger opened a nightstand drawer, withdrew a small box with a green button, and handed it to Carl. “Should you need anything at any time, night or day, press this button, and we will accommodate you immediately.”

  “Press that bad boy right now,” Tex said. “Order me a couple of blondes and a bottle of Wild
Turkey.”

  Carl pulled aside the room’s only curtain, revealing a window through which he spied yet another amazing sight: the vast arena of the volcano.

  Craning his neck, he could see the balconies and the red track, the black bridge and the octagon at the center of the emptiness that tumbled away to the subterranean lake far below.

  “Wow,” he said, and meant it.

  “Indeed,” Kruger said, and the boys crowded around Carl, trying to see. A moment later, their steward called them back into the main suite.

  He led them into the kitchen, where Tex ogled the soda machine. “Got any quarters, Kruger? I’ll pay you back, soon as I win the ten mil.”

  The steward offered his subtle butler’s smile. “Everything here is free to you, sir, compliments of the Few.”

  “Sweet!” Tex said, and slapped the Coke button. With a muffled thumping, a red can tumbled into view. Tex scooped it up with a hoot, and everyone froze as he popped the top with a familiar shuick-hiss.

  Carl could all but taste the cold, sweet soda. How long had it been? Months, a year . . .

  Tex leaned back and chugged.

  Kruger laid a hand gently on the boy’s forearm. “Sir, might I suggest you first verify your weight?”

  Tex pulled the can away. “Huh?”

  The steward said, “From here, I will take you to the official weigh-in. As team lightweight, you will need to weigh no more than one hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “Oh,” Tex said, and smirked. “No problem, Kruger, my good man.”

  “Yeah,” Carl said. “Don’t get DQ’d over a soda.”

  Tex waved dismissively, said, “You worry too much,” and lifted the can again to his lips.

  “No,” Agbeko said, and grabbed the soda away. “You must have self-control.”

  Here we go, Carl thought, expecting a punch, a kick, something—but Tex just spread his hands in disbelief as Agbeko dumped the rest of the soda into his own mouth, crushed the empty can, and tossed it into the sink.

  “What about self-control?” Tex said.

  Agbeko grinned. “Heavyweights do not fear the scale.”

  Tex released a monstrous belch, Agbeko roared one back at him, and everyone laughed—even Davis, who said, “Neither do medics,” and stepped around the hulking African to slap the Sprite button.

  Kruger’s smile widened a touch. Then he led them into the dining room, where stood a table set for four. “After the weigh-ins,” the steward said, picking up a stack of laminated menus from a side table and handing one to each boy, “you will have dinner.”

  “Sounds good,” Tex said. “I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my mouth’s on strike.”

  Carl couldn’t believe the menu. Page after page of amazing choices. In the “American Favorites” section alone, he saw pizza, french fries, onion rings, hot dogs, chili dogs, and at least a dozen types of hamburgers.

  His stomach roared. Since the chip, he’d lived in a state of constant hunger, and over the last few days, he’d been cutting weight, not wanting to take any chances or play the fool’s game of losing the last few pounds the day of weigh-ins. He’d fight a pack of pigs for a bacon cheeseburger.

  Still, despite the many choices, he didn’t see his favorite food.

  Davis, who’d been sipping his soda loudly, paused to ask, “We can order anything?”

  “You may order anything you like,” Kruger said, his smile there and gone, brief and formal as a bow or curtsey.

  “How about booze?” Tex asked.

  “Of course, sir,” Kruger said.

  “Got any weed?” Davis asked.

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” Kruger said, “but we do not.”

  “Gin?”

  “Of course, sir. The bar is well stocked.”

  “Well, in that case,” Tex said, “I sure could use some rum to go with this Coke.”

  “No,” Carl said, picturing Tex and Davis drunk, broken things everywhere, blood on the carpet, security dropping Tex with Tasers, the team lightweight and medic eliminated before the tournament even started. “No alcohol.”

  “Look, chief,” Tex said, turning toward him. “I get that you’re the Eagle Scout, but I don’t need a den mother, all right?”

  “Tell you what,” Carl said, remembering Stark’s advice to listen to troops and maintain order without crushing all hope . . . no matter how absurd their desires might seem. “We win this tournament, we’ll party. Whatever you want, okay? But for now, we’re sticking with food.”

  Tex rolled his eyes, and Davis shook his head.

  “If Carl says no alcohol, there will be no alcohol,” Agbeko said, but his eyes looked distant, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded wistful. “Though I hope one day to again taste banana beer.”

  Kruger offered a small frown. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. The bar isn’t quite that fully stocked.”

  “Banana beer?” Tex squawked, and burst into wild laughter.

  “Oh, it is very good,” Agbeko said. “We drank it when we were boys. The men drank so much, their eyes turned yellow.”

  “That would have been their livers shutting down,” Kruger said. Then he smiled, saying, “I must confess that banana beer was a guilty pleasure during my youth.”

  “Where’d you find the stuff?” Tex asked. “You never did say where it is you hail from.”

  “No, I haven’t,” Kruger said. “As to the beer, Africa, mostly. Rwanda. Rhodesia. Liberia. The Democratic Republic of the Congo.”

  “That is my country,” Agbeko said, slapping the table, a wide grin on his face . . . but then the smile fell away. “What were you doing in the DRC, Mr. Kruger?”

  Kruger hesitated for a second, neither smiling nor frowning. “I was a journalist.”

  Agbeko looked at him doubtfully.

  Kruger glanced at his watch. “Ah, but the night flees before our conversation. If you select your dinners, I will place the order, and your food will be waiting for you after the weigh-ins.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Davis said. “I want a pepperoni pizza.”

  “I will have the steak,” Agbeko said, announcing it like someone might declare political candidacy.

  “Order two if you like,” Kruger said, and this time his smile lingered longer. “Or even three . . . as heavyweights needn’t fear the scale.”

  Agbeko thumped one of his huge fists on the table. “This is wonderful!”

  Carl had to agree. Tacos, pizza, spaghetti with meatballs. If only . . . “Wish they had cheesesteaks. That would be wonderful.”

  “Our chefs are of the highest caliber, and I assure you that their larders are most impressively supplied,” Kruger said. “A cheesesteak will be no trouble at all.”

  “Awesome,” Carl said, and had to swallow at the thought.

  Tex poked the menu. “Foy grass? What the heck is foy grass?”

  Carl looked where Tex was pointing: Foie gras, complemented with figs and wild mushrooms in a honey-balsamic-port reduction.

  “Foie gras,” Kruger said, pronouncing it fwa gra, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

  “Never heard of it,” Tex said. “Got any squirrel?”

  NINE

  “THIS IS WHERE WE PART WAYS,” Kruger said, pressing his thumb into the ID pad of a door marked with a large red X. “Certain you have your bearings?”

  “Yes,” Carl said. “Thanks.”

  Tex jerked his thumb toward the door. “Thought those were off-limits.”

  “Privileges of employment,” Kruger said. “Gentlemen.” He gave a bow and disappeared.

  “I’d like to get in there and have a look around,” Tex said. He pressed his thumb into the pad, but the light stayed red.

  “Forget it,” Carl said. He’d had enough mysteries on Phoenix Island. Here, he wanted to fight, win, and leave . . . and eat a bunch of cheesesteaks. His stomach growled at the thought.

  Tex threw a flurry of punches as they walked down the hall. “Let’s hurry up and get this over with, boys. G
et back to the room before old Stretch drinks all the soda.”

  Davis had stayed behind. No need for the medic to weigh in.

  Heavyweights, on the other hand, had to. They had no upward weight limit, but the Few wanted all fighter weights on record.

  Agbeko said, “Our steward was not always a concierge.”

  Carl looked at him. “He said he was a journalist.”

  Agbeko’s shook his head. “The only white men I ever saw in the DRC were missionaries or mercenaries . . . and missionaries did not drink banana beer.”

  “A mercenary, then,” Carl said, “like a Phoenix Forcer.”

  “No,” Agbeko said, looking grim. “Not like us at all.”

  “Shoot,” Tex said, “I don’t care if he was a nun. Guy offers me a six-pack, he’s okay in my book. You know what I’m saying?” He hit Agbeko’s big shoulder with a playful jab.

  “Be cool,” Carl said.

  Tex snorted dismissively and bopped along, swinging his shoulders and nodding his head as if to music.

  “Control yourself in here,” Carl told him.

  Tex cocked his head and raised one brow. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re hyped up.”

  “We’re here to fight, ain’t we?”

  Unless you screw this up and get disqualified, Carl thought, but what he said was, “Yeah, we are. Tomorrow. No earlier. You see Z-Force, just turn the other way.”

  Tex made a face. To Agbeko, he said, “You ever see somebody worry like this guy?”

  Agbeko put a big hand on Tex’s shoulder. “Carl is right. We must avoid conflict now. We fight for the honor of Phoenix Island.”

  “Never heard of the place,” Tex said, then jerked. “Ow—easy there, Hercules. You squeeze me like that again, I might not be able to fight.”

  They turned the corner to see teams disappearing into a room. From within came a muddled burble of voices and a crisp whap-whap sound.

  “Stick together and ignore trash talk,” Carl said. “Save it for the octagon, all right?”