Derrick stepped into the street so they were side by side. “Love what they’ve done with the neighborhood.”
Gabe turned to him. “I thought you just moved here.”
Derrick shook his head, his fine blond hair brushing his shoulders. “Grandparents. Mom and Dad used to bring me down every Sunday. Now it’s just me and my Gram. She’s happy to have company.”
Gabe didn’t ask what happened to Derrick’s parents, wasn’t in the mood to hear a story like his aunt Maria’s. But he finally understood why Derrick said he recognized him.
The next block down, they came to where the library had been before the Controllers converted it into a parking lot for their heavy equipment. Gabe’s house was just around the corner. He said, “Hey, man, you mind waiting here?”
Derrick took a whiff of his armpit. “Come on, I want to meet your mom. Older women love me.”
“Very funny. No, she’s already going to freak over the whole Transport deal.”
“Whatever. But if she doesn’t want to let you out, just tell her I’ll protect you.” Derrick flexed his bicep.
Gabe shoved him. Derrick didn’t budge. “Go for it.” Derrick dropped the ball, stopped it with his foot. “Punch for punch, chest or gut.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’ll even let you go first. Come on.” A single bead of sweat dripped down his neck, soaked into the tank top. “You can ask it,” Derrick said. “I know you want to.”
Gabe looked around to see if anyone was within hearing range, where the closest camera could be. “I gotta go.”
“I know everyone’s talking about the rumor, what happened at my old school. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard it.”
Gabe softly said, “You really do that to him?”
“He called me a faggot so I was justified. The judge didn’t even trip, said I did the right thing.”
Gabe was glad Derrick skipped the details. He didn’t want to know if those things were true. “Look, I really have to go.”
“You’re coming back, right?”
“Yeah, but it might be a few minutes.”
Derrick dribbled the ball between his legs. “I’ll be waiting.”
Gabe headed up to his porch, looked over the top of his house. The skies, usually gray, had gotten worse since the Blocks sprouted up.
Gabe’s mom was already at the door, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wasn’t more than five feet two, but you could hear that voice a half-mile away. “What in the hell are you doing?” she said. “You scared me to death.”
“Relax, Mom.” Gabe patted her shoulder when he entered the house. “I wanted to walk.”
“I called you five times since I got the message from the Transport. You pick up when I call, do you hear me?”
Gabe kept walking, headed toward his room. “My screen was off because of class. I didn’t turn it back on.”
“Hey! I’m talking to you.”
At his bedroom entrance, Gabe stopped, turned to face her. “Mom, five calls in five minutes? Really? Think you might be overreacting?”
“No, I don’t!”
Gabe went into his room, threw his bag on his bed, slipped off his shirt. “It’s fine, Mom. Not a big deal. I’m going to play basketball, just wanted to warm up with the walk.”
“With who? A boy?”
Gabe heard the fear in her voice, but didn’t look at her. He put on his Vex-Stretch t-shirt. It sucked in the small ring of fat around his waist. He said, “It’s just a guy from school.”
“Well, who is it? You know our rule.”
Gabe unbuckled his pants. “Do you mind?”
She turned away but didn’t leave. “So who is it?”
Gabe shook off his pants, took the pink card out of his envelope and placed it on his dresser, next to a black plastic bag of magazines. He pulled on his shorts and said, “A friend. Derrick, he just transferred.”
She was looking right at him. “You’re not going anywhere until we meet him.”
“The sun’s going down in two hours. We’re just going to play a few games of 21.” Gabe snatched the plastic bag, threw it and the girly magazines into the trash.
“Don’t be like that. I know it can be embarrassing to buy those. Nothing to be ashamed about.”
He pushed past her. “I don’t need them.”
His mom shushed him, followed him into the living room and nodded at the wall screen. She kept her back to it and mouthed, “Don’t even joke.”
Gabe smiled and said, “I’ll be back before dark.” He hated the screen, but it served a purpose. All she did was sit in front of it and watch the news, while someone watched her.
“I didn’t say you could go. I want to meet this boy.”
He headed for the door. “Maybe after the game.”
“Did you take your pills?”
“Of course, Mom. Now I have to go.”
“You’re already on your second warning. Next time—”
“I know! Stop, okay? I’ll be back.” One more violation meant The Program. Gabe didn’t need to be reminded of what that meant. He’d been hearing stories since he was a little boy.
Derrick was waiting at the corner. He stopped dribbling, took a crumpled black mask from his back pocket and slipped it over his mouth. “You got one?”
Gabe searched the light posts for a camera. “You can’t hide your face.”
“Dude, relax, we’re not protesting anything. I’m protecting my lungs. And we’re just going to play a game.”
Gabe wasn’t so sure that was true. “I don’t have one.”
Derrick reached back into his pocket, pulled out another mask. He tossed it over.
The mask was just as crumpled as the other one, but this one was grayish-white. Gabe said, “You’ve been sitting on it all day?”
Derrick started down the street and called over his shoulder. “Yep.”
Gabe slipped it on, smelled cheap cologne and something sour. It was weirdly intoxicating.
Derrick slowed down so they were back side-by-side, a slow dribble that blended in with each step. “So your mom trip on you? You seem kind of pissed.”
Gabe bit the inside of his cheek, then lunged for the ball. Derrick crossed it over to his other hand.
Derrick said, “You guys losing the house?”
“Not yet, it’s not in foreclosure. I hear them talk all the time, though, how much they’re behind, how much they’ve been offered. But my dad won’t take it, says it’s not enough.”
Derrick said, “What about heading for the Hills, working for one of the families?”
“My dad would never move into a Block. He’d die first.”
Derrick turned down a dark road. Gabe hadn’t been on it in a very long time. “I thought we were headed to the Rec Zone?”
“That place is crawling with Controllers.”
Harrow Park was just down the hill. It’d fallen into disrepair. Thick brush crept onto the paths. Dying branches hung over the rusty playground. Strands of ivy covered the fences around the courts, turning them into secluded caves. A few men hung around the baseball dugout, another two by the bathrooms. Gabe thought about bleach attacks, he asked about criminals.
“Stop worrying. I told you, I’ll protect you.”
“We shouldn’t be down here.” The men were all fit, muscles showing under tight shirts, but no one seemed to be here for sports.
Derrick opened a small gate and slipped onto the basketball court. The sun filtered through the ivy. It was private, but not as dark as Gabe had imagined. The sky was still bright and gray above.
“We try to keep it clean,” Derrick said.
Gabe noticed a condom wrapper in the corner.
“Full court or half?” Derrick asked and took off his shirt.
“We only have until dark.”
“That only gives me an hour or so to kick your ass.” Derrick chucked the ball. The sharp sting of it slapped against Gabe’s palms. Derrick’s bright blue eyes pierced through him.
He crouched down defensively. Gabe dribbled, angled his body to block Derrick from the ball. He tried to move right. Derrick cut him off, forced him left, Gabe’s weakest hand. Derrick whispered, “Come on, faggot.”
The words seared through Gabe’s mind. He dribbled faster.
“You can’t beat me, faggot.”
“Shut up.”
“Why, faggot?”
All it took was a rumor to get you put into The Program, and Gabe already had two warnings. Anyone could be listening: undercover cops, Controller camp kids, snitches sent in as lures. Maybe that’s what Derrick was? Gabe glanced up, expected to see a closed-circuit camera in the sky or hidden in the ivy.
Derrick whispered again. “Faggot.”
Gabe picked up his dribble. Derrick smacked the ball out of his hands, pinned Gabe against the fence, slowly pulled down Gabe’s mask.
Derrick said, “What about me? You think I’m a faggot?”
Gabe wanted to run or throw a punch. Why weren’t his pills kicking in? Derrick’s face was so close to his.
Gabe’s voice trembled when he said, “Please.”
Derrick took off his own mask, leaned in, the cologne and sweat so strong. Their lips pressed. Gabe closed his eyes. All the dreams, the fantasies he’d blocked out coming true. He opened his mouth, kissed back, rough but gentle and frightened.
A man shouted, “Shit! Controllers!”
Gabe pulled away, his lips still burning.
Derrick peered through the ivy. “Oh no.”
Gabe rushed next to him. Four patrol cars. Two men being tackled next to the bathrooms.
A young Controller stepped onto the court. He had a perfectly plastered part in his blond hair, his jaw clenching like he’d been waiting all morning to crack someone’s skull. “Well, what the fuck do we have here?”
Derrick stepped in front of Gabe. “We’re just playing basketball.”
“Yeah, right.” The Controller ignored his electro prod, went straight for his plasma baton, the blue pulsing current flowing up and down the wand.
Derrick threw up his hands. “Hey, man, we don’t want any trouble. We’re just playing a game.”
The Controller’s fingers tightened around the handle. Derrick clenched his fists. Gabe knew what was going to happen, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t reach out to pull him back. Derrick lowered his shoulder and charged at the Controller, who raised the plasma baton. Derrick beat the blow and tackled the Controller. They rolled over and over until Gabe heard the crackling of burning flesh, the Controller’s scream. Derrick pressed the blue pulse to the man’s neck. Gabe closed his eyes, the sizzle echoing in his ears.
“Go!” Derrick said to Gabe.
Gabe couldn’t look away from the gaping black ditch in the Controller’s throat. “W-what did you do?”
“You have to go!”
Gabe saw the open gate, another squad car pulling up. He still couldn’t move. Derrick ran over, shoved the mask back onto Gabe’s face.
“You don’t have a choice. You won’t survive The Program.”
Gabe stood frozen, kept whispering, “No.”
Derrick grabbed him by the arm, yanked him towards the gate, shoved him onto the path. Another Controller was barreling down the hill. Derrick squeezed the plasma baton. “Go!” he screamed, then ran for the Controller. Gabe watched for a second, turned, then angled away from a screaming man with two Controllers kicking him in the gut and face. There was nothing between Gabe and the trees. His face was hidden. There was nothing left to do but run.
UNLOCKING THE CAGE
PROLOGUE
January 10, 1999
Sunday’s my only day off. No bodyguarding, no bouncing. No running, sparring, or hitting the heavy bag. I’m recovering from a late night, stretched out on the floor of my sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment, killing creatures on PlayStation.
My cell phone rings in the kitchen, but I’m not expecting any calls, almost don’t get it. The phone’s beside the oatmeal and protein powder, just about the only food in the place. I don’t recognize the number, but answer anyway.
The guy says he’s the promoter of Neutral Grounds, a Southern California organization where lots of local no-holds-barred fighters cut their teeth. On the last card, I’d managed to squeak by with a win, fortunate not to get matched against Ricco Rodriguez or Tito Ortiz. I ask what I can do for him.
“You got anything going on today?”
Not much besides killing a few thousand orcs and looting treasure chests. I say, “Nothing until tonight.”
“Want to do me a huge favor, make some money?”
I don’t care about the favor, but could definitely use the cash. “Doing what?”
“How’d you like to fight? I could really use you.”
I laugh. “Sorry, I’m afraid I can’t. I gave it up.”
“But you’ve been training.”
He’d talked to someone, probably my old coach. “I haven’t rolled in like two months, only been boxing.” I tell him, “Turning pro soon.”
“That’s great,” he says, sounding way too happy. “You’re in great shape then. Come on. I gotta guy from out of town who needs an opponent. He wants a shot at your belt.”
This was the first I’d heard of a belt. “I promised my boxing coach I wouldn’t fight in the cage again.”
“Why’s he got to know? Come on. It’s two hundred bucks, three if you win.”
I don’t want him thinking I’m chicken, but I can’t take the fight. “I’ve got a date at seven,” I say, leaving out that I also swore to my girlfriend that I was done with the cage.
“Doors open at five. I’ll put you on first. You’ll be fine.”
I look about my sorry apartment searching for an excuse. Suddenly I’m not so sure I want one. I know it’s lame, but I say, “I don’t have a cup.”
“Not a problem, I’ll have one for you. Just get down here soon as you can.”
He’d have an answer for everything. It was either yes or no. I’m smart enough to know it’d be dumb to take the fight. I’m stupid enough to say, “Alright. I’ll be there.”
Well, my day just got way more interesting. I fix a little food and gather my stuff, throw a pair of jeans and a button-down into my gym bag since I’ll have to go straight to the date.
In the car, I blast Slayer so I can’t think and jump on the freeway. I don’t call my friends or brothers even though I suppose it’d be nice to have a corner. I don’t call my boxing coach to tell him I’m breaking his rule. I don’t call my girlfriend to tell her I’m breaking hers too. Odds are she’ll figure it out when she sees me.
I don’t care about my body, but hope my face doesn’t get all messed up. That had happened 5 months ago when I fought Bobby Hoffman at Extreme Challenge 20 in Iowa. The first 11 minutes of the fight were fine, but the last 50 seconds hadn’t been fun, hammerfist after hammerfist straight to the face, making it so everyone on that plane knew I got my ass kicked. My mom cried when she saw me.
But it didn’t really hurt. Bruises fade and a broken nose is no big deal. But that’s not how I should be thinking. I have to stay positive. I got lucky and won my last two fights, barely took any punishment. Maybe this guy wouldn’t be any good. Maybe the boxing had improved my striking. Shit, maybe I could actually win.
The parking lot is already getting full. This building looks far better than the dirty chop shop they’d thrown a cage inside for the last event. I’m not sure if the fight is legal, but that’s not a real concern. Truth is I wish the cops would show up and shut it down, that they’d hurry up and do it in the next half hour.
Inside the warehouse I find the promoter, throw on the cup and a pair of tight shorts. Just as he promised, I’d be up first in 20 minutes.
All the other fighters are with friends or teammates. I find a quiet corner and start to stretch. I don’t see any heavyweights around. Maybe my guy won’t show.
I’m new to No Holds Barred (NHB), with five fights in my one year of train
ing, and I’ve never been first on a card. Usually I’m one of the last, sitting in the back and watching guys come back bloodied and broken. Not today. I’ve got 15 minutes.
The static stretching isn’t exactly warming me up, so I do a dozen up-downs. I’m shocked how winded I get. Not good.
The team I’d been with for my last three fights has guys on the card. Most of them are cool with me and understand why I gave up NHB for boxing. My ex-coach wasn’t happy with my decision but doesn’t mention it when he walks over. To show there’s no bad blood he even offers to work my corner, tells my old teammates to warm me up.
Holy shit, I’m in trouble. What should have been easy drills just wiped me out. My former teammates ask if I’ve been training at all, if I’m ready.
I never should’ve answered the phone, shouldn’t have taken the fight. But I did, so none of that matters. I’ve got 10 minutes to calm my heart rate and get my head straight.
My buddy points out a big guy shooting double-leg takedowns. He’s easily just as big and strong as I am, so there goes any advantage I might’ve had. He’s wearing wrestling shoes. His shadowboxing’s better than mine. Goddamn it.
I tell the guys I’m warm enough and walk to the water fountain. I grab a drink, tell myself to stop being a little bitch. It’s just a fight, no different from what could happen any night at work. But those guys usually are drunk and not trained athletes.
They call us to the cage. I wonder what kind of advice I’ll get from my corner. I feel like a complete coward when I tell him, “I don’t give a shit about this fight. Throw in that towel if I’m getting my ass kicked. I’m not even supposed to be here.”
He says sure thing, but I know how much to trust him. I get in the cage and try to look tough, like I belong in there. The Rocky music in the background isn’t helping.
The announcer says Tim Lajcik is undefeated, an All-American wrestler, but my hearing’s all fuzzy. All I know is he looks solid as hell. And determined. He’s staring right through me.
The cage door clangs shut. The lock slides into place.
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