Devil's Pocket

by John Dixon

  He concentrated on his breathing, picturing his opponent and running through his game plan again. Nail him once, out of the gates, just to test him, but then back off and move, play it safe, see what he had. Adapt. This wasn’t about rounds. You couldn’t win a decision. You had to stop the guy. Knock him out or make him tap.

  Using the chip, he’d rewound his memory of the weigh-in scuffle dozens of times, studying Fighter 13’s height and reach and habits, and, as was always the case when he looped a memory, he recognized things he hadn’t noticed in the original moment. Chapped lips and ashy skin, signs of dehydration, proof that Fighter 13 had struggled to make weight. Good. Carl would take any edge he could get, knowing that fights between experts usually came down to the accumulation of small advantages.

  “Soon as the bell rings,” Tex said, “kick him in the hey-now. Show him who’s boss.”

  “You’re crazy, man,” Davis said. “Low blows are against the rules.”

  “You want to play fair or win?” Tex said. “They won’t DQ him for one foul. These guys love blood. Nail him hard and—”

  The doors banged open again, filling the locker room with another blast of loud music and canned applause, and Romeo jogged in, smiling. He had a small cut high on the forehead, near the hairline, but looked otherwise unhurt. There was blood on his fist and feet.

  Not his, Carl reasoned. The other guy’s. Good for Romeo.

  “Fighter 19,” the voice called from atop the ramp, and they started for the door, Tex in front, like a bulldog on a leash, then Carl, then Agbeko, still rubbing his shoulders and talking to him, the words lost to the music and swelling applause, and Davis at the end, carrying the med kit and corner man’s bucket.

  “Bueno suerte,” Romeo said as they passed, and he and Carl bumped fists.

  Carl rolled his head on his shoulders, telling himself, I’m a tiger.

  The doors opened for them, and a man in a black suit waved them forward. Kruger appeared, his signature smile slightly wider as he joined them. Music and loud cheering boomed from speakers, filling the arena. The music wasn’t rock or rap, like you usually heard at fights, but some kind of hard classical music with thundering drums and crashing cymbals.

  Distractedly, he noticed Juliet on the track nearby, her warm-up jacket splattered in blood. Her big brown eyes stared from her pale face, then looked quickly away.

  Must be in shock, he thought, after cornering her boyfriend’s fight.

  He thought there was something strangely familiar about the girl—not her face, but her posture and the way she moved—but then he was past her, and the music dimmed as the coldly beautiful face of the woman who’d greeted them filled the massive television screen, saying, “Fighting out of the red corner, representing Phoenix Island, Fighter 19.” She sounded less like a boxing announcer and more like some stuffy tour guide, perfect enunciation and no emotion.

  Another burst of music and applause roared from the speakers, and Kruger led them across the track and stopped them at the edge of the bridge.

  “Check it out, boss,” Tex said, nudging Carl and pointing to the big screen. “You’re famous.”

  It was weird, looking up and seeing his own face on the massive screen . . . the type of entrance reserved for big-time pros. Most amateurs fought in dusty, ill-attended venues packed with folding chairs, and entered to a boom box blasting hip-hop or “Welcome to the Jungle” as assorted aunts and uncles clapped and shouted.

  Then his image was gone, replaced by the woman, who said, “Fighting out of the blue corner, representing the United States of America, Fighter 13.”

  “She don’t sound too excited,” Tex said.

  Kruger’s chin lifted a bit higher. “She is consummately professional.”

  Music and applause returned, and the face of Carl’s loudmouthed opponent filled the screen, glistening with sweat and grease, the eyes hard. So great was the size and resolution of the screen that Carl could make out the whiskers on his opponent’s unshaven chin, the scarring over his eyes, the bead of sweat hanging from the tip of his flattened nose.

  Kruger motioned them forward onto the bridge, the black glass of which pulsed to life with the amazing trick of special effects that Carl had first noticed during the lightweight bouts. Every time their feet struck the bridge, what looked like bolts of purple lightning flashed and forked along its dark span.

  In front of him, Tex shouted something, but the words were lost to the booming music and false applause.

  Carl glanced up at the bleachers, where teams huddled apart from one another. Some applauded. Others merely watched, waiting.

  Agbeko’s big hands propelled him forward.

  And there it was—the old ring-walk tension—and he grinned as excitement and dread chilled his core. Something in him shifted then, an old cog turning once more into position, and suddenly this place, with all its spectacle and strangeness, its light show and canned laughter, no longer mattered.

  All that mattered now was the fight.

  He threw a short combination, and then they were across the bridge, hurrying up the steps of the elevated octagon and into the cone of bright light shining down from a light suspended overhead. Kruger opened the door, and they stepped into the cage just as the opposing team entered the other side.

  The mat felt damp to Carl’s bare feet. At least they’d mopped the blood.

  Fighter 13 glared across the ring, looking very tall, with arms as long as bullwhips. He had rehydrated since the weigh-ins, putting on twenty, maybe twenty-five pounds overnight, and his muscles looked like they had been inflated by a pump. The short guy with gold teeth was shouting something, but Carl paid no attention and stared back at Fighter 13 with no expression on his face, waiting for the referee to call both teams to the center of the ring.

  The music and fake applause stopped abruptly, and the voice of the woman said, “Ladies and gentlemen”—and for the first time, her voice did sound excited—“a great honor has been bestowed upon us. All rise and show your respect.”

  “Oh,” Kruger said, sounding surprised. “My.”

  Looking up, Carl saw men and women in purple robes, their upper faces hidden behind golden masks, sitting in the opera box high above. Seated on the throne atop the highest dais was the bearded man who had spoken to Carl in the middle of the night.

  “The Few have entered the Cauldron,” the woman said. This was the first time they had appeared in the arena. “Let us honor the Few.”

  “Everyone bow,” Kruger said.

  Carl stayed standing as people all over the arena bowed toward the opera box. The Few watched from on high.

  Let’s go, Carl thought, and threw a flurry of punches in the air. Time to fight.

  Then the moment was over and the referee’s voice boomed across the arena. “Fighters,” he said, and Carl walked to the center of the ring, with his team all around him, until he stood toe-to-toe with Fighter 13. “You were given your instructions in the locker rooms,” the referee said. “No eye gouging; no biting; no strikes to the groin.”

  Fighter 13 leaned in, going for the stare-down, like so many other fighters had in the past. Carl just stared dead ahead at the lean, muscular torso and the Thug Life tattoo scrawled there. Truth in advertising. A thug like this guy would take Carl’s lack of eye contact as fear, as weakness. Good. Let him think that; let him be aggressive. Then, once Carl hurt him, he’d show him his eyes. He knew from past experience that the eyes, timed correctly, could be powerful weapons. Hard stares before the fight meant nothing. When Carl used his eyes, it meant everything.

  The ref said, “Stop when I say stop; break when I say break; fight when I say fight. Three-minute rounds until one of you submits or can no longer continue. Any questions?”

  Carl shook his head, and the ref sent them to their corners.

  “He is very tall,” Agbeko said, visibly nervous. “You must get inside his guard.”

  Carl nodded.

  “Knock this punk out,” Tex said, grinn
ing. “I want to go upstairs and order a pizza.”

  “Seconds out,” the ref called, signaling that it was time for the seconds to leave the cage.

  Turning to Davis, Carl said, “Mouthpiece.”

  Davis looked sick with worry. That surprised Carl. Davis, the triple murderer, who despised Carl so much he wouldn’t even look him in the eyes, nervous for the fight? The tall medic shoved in the mouthpiece and started out of the ring, followed by Tex.

  Agbeko hugged Carl. “Work his body. Chop down the tall tree.”

  Both cage doors shut, leaving only Carl, the ref, and Fighter 13 in the octagon.

  Take your time, Carl told himself. Figure him out; time him. Watch your D. Then, remembering how quickly rage had engulfed him at the weigh-in, he thought, And whatever you do, keep the beast in its cage.

  Across the ring, Fighter 13 hopped up and down, snarling and banging his fists together. All of this meant nothing. The guy would stick and move, using his height and reach advantages. Eventually, Carl would stalk him, cut off the ring, and get inside that long reach.

  The bell rang.

  Excitement whooped in Carl’s chest, and he shuffled forward, his fists hard with leather.

  Surprisingly, Fighter 13 charged.

  To Carl, the world slowed. His mind, working with blazing speed, had time to see Fighter 13’s snarl, had time to watch the long lead leg stomping outward, and even had time to feel surprise. The guy was coming straight at him, giving up his height and reach to rock and shock. Carl stepped outside the kick and drove a power jab into the Thug Life tattoo.

  Carl felt ribs break. Fighter 13 hit the canvas, where he curled into a ball, howling.

  Carl waited for the ref to count, then remembered . . . there would be no count.

  “Fight on!” the ref said.

  Fight on? The guy was curled in a fetal position.

  Carl leaned over him. “Tap or I kick you in the ribs.”

  Fighter 13 opened one hateful eye, saw Carl meant it, and tapped the mat.

  The ref waved his arms. “Fight’s over.”

  Canned applause roared.

  The door clanged open, and Tex and Agbeko rushed into the ring, shouting. The huge African embraced Carl, lifting him from his feet. Over his shoulder, Carl saw the Few leaving the arena, disappearing through the purple curtains at the rear of their opera box. Last to leave was the bearded man, who gave Carl the slightest of bows and exited.

  Fighter 13’s team helped him up, and he limped off, hugging his broken ribs.

  The ref raised Carl’s fist in the air, and the television woman announced calmly, “The referee calls a stop to this bout in eleven seconds of the first round, a new tournament record. Fighter 19 is the winner.”

  Mock applause erupted. Overhead, the screen replayed Carl’s knockout blow.

  “One punch, my brother,” Agbeko said, “and you scored a knockout in record time.”

  “Record time, my butt,” Tex said, beaming. “I won without even throwing a punch.”

  TWELVE

  DESPITE THE RECORD SPEED of his victory, Carl had just enough time for a quick shower and a quicker lunch before heading back downstairs to help Agbeko prep for his fight.

  Now, after forty-five grueling minutes, the heavyweight’s fight was finally over. Carl was hoarse from shouting.

  “Should’ve stopped it,” Davis said again. During the fight, he had impressed Carl with his skill and composure, but ultimately, even the best cut man in history couldn’t have stopped the bleeding.

  For eleven nightmare rounds, the Hungarian fighter had run a stick-and-move clinic on Agbeko, nailing him with leg kicks and blistering jabs and straight rights, tending the gap and never pausing long enough for the Phoenix Forcer to counter. When he staggered Agbeko in the opening minute of the twelfth round, the Hungarian made his first—and final—mistake, squaring with the wobbling Phoenix Forcer and pounding away with a barrage of crushing blows meant to end the fight. He never saw Agbeko’s hook.

  “You worry about your job, and let me worry about mine,” Carl said, keeping his voice low and talking out of the side of his mouth as the announcer did her thing.

  “Patch him up, right?” Davis said. “That way you can fight your dog again?”

  “Enough,” Carl said. “We’ll finish this later.” He knew it was a mistake, letting Davis question his command even this much, let alone scheduling a follow-up discussion about something that clearly fell under Carl’s sphere of leadership, but truth be told, Davis was right. He should have stopped it, shouldn’t have let Agbeko take that awful beating.

  At the center of the ring, the referee raised Agbeko’s hand. The hulking fighter swayed back and forth as if buffeted by the applause roaring from the speakers. His bloodied head hung forward like he was nodding off to sleep.

  They helped the dazed fighter down the octagon stairs. Kruger joined them, telling Agbeko he’d fought very bravely.

  Agbeko didn’t seem to hear the compliment.

  “We can’t let him go to sleep,” Carl told Davis. “He might have a concussion.”

  The medic pressed another towel to the battered fighter’s face. “Worry about your job, let me worry about mine.” He dropped the bloody towel into the bucket and scowled at Carl. “Last towel, boss man. What now?”

  “Let’s get him back to the locker room,” Carl said. “Tex, lead the way.”

  With music and false applause blaring, Team Phoenix Force crossed the black bridge, purple lightning crackling at their feet. Carl stayed in the back, with his hands on Agbeko’s sweaty shoulders. He didn’t want his friend to stumble off the bridge.

  By the time they reached the track, the Russian team had already topped the ramp and stood beneath the red bunting, ready to start the next bout. At their center towered Fighter 32. The red triangle tattoo shone brightly on his pale flesh. Beneath the bony ridge of his low brow, his dark eyes flicked toward Agbeko and then, seeing nothing of consequence, focused once more with burning purpose on the octagon. He banged his huge fists together.

  Confidence, Carl thought. Real confidence. And then, the truth: Agbeko wouldn’t stand a chance against him, even before what just happened.

  “Step aside,” Tex said to no one in particular. “Winner coming through.”

  Winner, Carl thought. If that was winning . . .

  Kruger stopped them just before the ramp. “One moment, please.”

  “Not now, Kruger,” Carl said. “I have to get my fighter into the locker room.”

  Kruger frowned. “This will only take a moment, sir.”

  “He’s bleeding,” Davis said.

  “Not a problem,” Kruger said. “I’ll have someone mop it up.”

  Davis scowled. “That’s not the point. We—”

  The music stopped, and the coldly beautiful announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for another unexpected honor . . . the Few have returned.”

  Kruger stood at attention, chin held high, and his bright blue eyes twinkled up at the robed quintet in the opera box as if beholding the face of God.

  Carl didn’t bow with everyone else. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, bringing the opera box into tighter focus. The bearded guy, smiling, leaned from his throne and put a hand on the shoulder of the masked, blond-haired woman below him. She half turned as he spoke, and the man seated beside her threw back his head with rich laughter.

  Cracking jokes while we bleed, Carl thought.

  To this point in the tournament, the Few had attended only one fight—his—but he wasn’t surprised to see them returning now. Fighter 32 wasn’t just huge. His reputation made him the main attraction.

  “Fighting out of the red corner, representing Russia,” the announcer said, “Fighter 32.” Standing at the edge of the bridge, the Russian raised his cesti high overhead.

  “Fighting out of the blue corner, representing Zurkistan,” the announcer said, “Fighter 47.”

  Fighter 32 had at least a foot on Z-Force’s weird h
eavyweight, far longer arms, and supreme confidence. Good night, Fighter 47, Carl thought. Sleep well.

  Private conversation and lightheartedness had ended in the opera box. The Few stared down intensely—not, to Carl’s surprise, at the Russian champion . . . but at Fighter 47.

  “Let’s go,” Davis said impatiently, and Carl realized with a wave of embarrassment that he’d hyper-focused again—it had been happening from time to time since he’d received the chip—and had been ignoring his swaying friend. He nodded to the medic and pushed his fighter gently forward without waiting for Kruger’s permission.

  In the locker room, Agbeko straddled a bench, and Davis went to work on the worst cut, which frowned like a red mouth over one eye.

  Other teams watched, whispering among themselves.

  “Hold your head still,” Davis told Agbeko, who’d started that slow nodding again. “Gotta stop the bleeding.” He packed gauze tubes into the wound and applied pressure with his thumbs.

  Carl watched, feeling helpless. “How’s the cut?”

  Davis shot him a look of disbelief. “Man, are you serious? How’s the cut?”

  “Can you handle it?”

  Davis shrugged, then grimaced as he pulled away the packing and a fresh stream of blood flowed out. “I’ll do what I can. He needs stitches. Lots of them.”

  Carl watched, thinking, How would anyone survive this tournament?

  Pointing to the med kit, Davis told Tex, “Hand me that salve. Nah, not that. The yellow one, the coagulant.”

  Tex cursed, pawing through the supplies. Carl joined in, happy for something to do but not seeing the clotter.

  “Ei,” someone said, and Carl looked up to see one of the cool Brazilian jujitsu guys pulling a yellow canister from their kit. “Este?”

  Davis nodded. “That’s it, baby. Thank you.” He clapped his bloody hands, and the Brazilian guy tossed the salve.

  Carl nodded. Good guys. Good fighters, too: 2–0, so far.

  Out in the arena, the volcano erupted with applause.

  “The Red Triangle strikes again,” someone said across the room. “First-round knockout.”