The Collective (4 page)

“Ok, Reap.” The goon replied, still unsure. Abel had a
calmness about him that made the gang members hesitate. Guns raised with
fingers on the trigger, they could not figure out why this man was unafraid. 

“No. I want Reaper to handle me.” Abel said sharply. “Or
does he just deal with women?”

“What!” Reaper yelled as he turned around clearly
aggravated by the interruption and Abel realized his full size. He was hunched
over the woman making his build deceiving. Bare chest exposed in his open
jacket, Abel saw the zigzag of scares. He was no stranger to a fight and had
the wounds to prove it. Stepping forward, Reaper sucked his teeth as he spoke.
“You must not be from around here. This is none of your concern. Go on now
before you get hurt.”

Abel opened his mouth to retort in a similar sarcastic
manner, but the words left him as he caught the eyes of the woman he had come
to protect. She looked at him with a teary smile. It was Keera. They had grown
up together, chasing game and learning the realities of their life in Gravope.
Abel was witness to her transformation from a tomboy to the beautiful woman
before him. According to her father, they had left the village in pursuit of a
better life. It was rumored her father had acquired work at the Water Facility.
If someone died, occasionally a person of little means could be in the right
place at the right time to receive an offer. How did she end up here? Abel
thought. This town was worse than Gravope by far.

“Abel?” Keera asked puzzled, unsure why he was in Bourdain.
Abel could tell she was glad to see him regardless.

“Oh, look at this boys. They’re sweethearts. Ain’t that
romantic.” Reaper laughed seeing the fear in Keera’s eyes and the determination
in Abels’. “Hopefully there’ll be something left when I’m done. Kill him.”

Before his henchmen could react, Abel reached in his vest
and threw two concealed knives. The first lodged in one of the thug’s throat.
He dropped the machine gun, clutching his neck while his eyes rolled to back of
his head. Choking on blood he fell to one knee. The other gang member stared at
the knife stuck in his arm at the shoulder. Abel’s throw had missed its mark
and his opponent was enraged. Grunting through the pain, the biker brought the
gun barrel up to fire. They wrestled as Abel attempted to rip the gun from him,
but Abel was caught with a blow to the face from his foe’s free arm. Staggered,
Abel was surprised by the brute’s speed. Abel was being strangled from behind
and lifted off the ground. He jerked downward using his weight to toss the
biker over his shoulder. Abel lifted his foot high in the air and his boot left
a permanent mark across his enemy’s face. He spun in a crouched position to
face Reaper just as the shot from Reaper’s gun rang out over his head. Diving
to catch Reaper under the arm, they tumbled to the ground. The leader was
beneath him but far from being subdued. Suddenly, Abel felt his chest burn as
the knife slashed across his chest. He jumped back holding his torn vest, blood
sprinkled his hand. Thank goodness for the vest, he thought, or the damage may
have been severe. Reaper was on his feet, blade in hand ready to charge.

“Looks like you got some of your blood on my knife.” Reaper
gave a sinister laugh. “I hope you got more to spare.”

He crouched back to leap at Abel. Pulling the 9mm from the
small of his back, Abel fired two shots striking him in the arm and leg. The
gang leader crumpled to the ground. Abel walked over and pressed the gun
against Reaper’s head. The gang leader was sprawled out on the ground, eyes
closed waiting to hear the trigger squeezed. Abel flexed his finger.

“No. Please.” Keera intervened, grabbing Abel’s arm.
“There’s been enough bloodshed.”

Abel kicked Reaper, rolling him on his stomach and moved
back to pick up his weapons.  In the fray, Abel had forgotten about Keera and
why he was fighting. She moved closer to him.

“You’re injured.” She said as she rubbed her hand across
Abel’s chest.

Abel looked down at his vest and wiped off the drops of
blood. “It’s nothing.” He lifted his head and locked eyes with Keera. “Are you
alright?”

There was a long silence between them. They stared at each
other lost for words. Keera never realized how capable Abel was. Recalling
their playtime together she knew he was quick, but where did he learn to fight?
She surveyed the bodies around her. The leader was already dragging himself to
his bike. He wanted no more trouble. Keera kneeled down to pick up the bag she
carried. It was full of Xonox water. This was the treasure the gang was after.
Had Keera’s father procured a job at the Water Facility after all? Abel could
not believe how she had grown. It was hard to take his eyes off her. This was
not the tomboy he remembered.

Keera began to recount the events that lead to their
meeting. “I was heading to the shop when those thugs attacked me. Normally I
come with my father but....he’s been unavailable.”

Her eyes trailed off and Abel sensed something was wrong.
Taking her hand in his, he comforted her. “You’re safe now.”

Suddenly, Isnor walked up. “Wow! Didn’t know you had it in
you. I may have a way for you to get home after all.”

The moment between Abel and Keera was gone. Isnor patted
Abel on the back beaming over the fallen gang.  Keera shyly unclasped his hand.
Abel was slightly annoyed. “What are you talking about?”

Isnor was oblivious to the broken mood as he spoke
excitedly. “The Tournament. Every so often Warden, as he’s known, holds a
battle royal for sport. But he’s also looking to recruit new talent. The winner
receives a small crate of Xonox water.”

“Warden?” Abel repeated the odd sounding name.

Keera chimed in as if she was reading Abel’s mind. “He’s a
powerful man. People pay to enter his home to watch the tournament. This is how
he’s garnered favors, information, water and more importantly strong recruits.
His army of mercenaries is the only force keeping this town from being overrun
by the gangs.” She pointed to the ruffians strewn about the ground. 

Abel was starting to get the full picture. With the
winnings from the tournament, he could buy the supplies he needed to get home
and to reach Xonox. Maybe Warden could turn out to be an ally.  Abel had fought
many times growing up, but never for sport. His skills were honed through
hunting and the protection of his family. Loun had warned against showing off
or exploiting what he was taught. But what was the alternative? Sit back and
wait for a ride home.  Hope that everything would be fine when he arrived? He
decided to take action. Maybe this tournament was the tune-up he needed for the
battles ahead. Abel was convinced. “I need supplies and he seems to have
them...” His voice trailed off thinking about what had occurred in the last few
days.

Isnor misinterpreted the pause in Abel’s voice. “Don’t
worry, nobody’s ever died in the tournament. Although they have been severely
beaten.” Isnor hung his head and grimaced at the thought. “One guy swallowed
his front teeth and another’s eyes shut to the point, they were just slits.” He
demonstrated squinting his eyes. “And another. Oh let me tell you...”

“Please! My goodness.” Keera scrunched her face in disgust
at the graphic details.

Realizing he had gotten carried away, Isnor piped down. He
really enjoyed the spectacle.  The gambling and drinking was almost as fun as
watching the gladiators. This was the first person he knew who thought of
entering. “Sorry kid.  I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

Abel waved off the apology, instead focusing on the task at
hand. “That’s the plan then. Take me to your leader.”

CHAPTER 5

WARDEN

The journey to the Warden’s domain was by foot. A three
mile hike to the edge of town.  Isnor insisted on going as a pseudo
representative. Keera was also in tow. Curiosity had gotten the best of her.
She heard stories, but never thought she would experience Warden’s sanctuary.
It was not known to be a place for lone travelers. But she could think of no
safer place than by Abel’s side. The town stretched into Warden’s territory
seamlessly. There were no markers to designate his property, just a transition
from woods and dirt to pavement. Warden’s home was an abandoned warehouse used
for shipping goods in times long ago. Stepping out of the woods, the warehouse
was impressive in its sheer mass. Small, ramshackled homes and tattered tents
surrounded the foreground. The area was alive with activity with an open air
market quality.  People on the lot talked, laughed and traded as small children
ran around. It was almost surreal to Abel, an oasis amidst the madness, people
living so carefree only three miles outside of Bourdain. Why didn’t everyone
live here? Abel thought. Obviously Warden was well protected.  Making their way
through the crowd they reached the entry to the warehouse, more aptly described
as a fortress. Warden’s army were vigilantly patrolling the rooftop, rifles in
hand. Their clothes were not uniformed, but a red emblem was emblazoned on the
shoulder or chest of their jackets; A capital ‘W’ with arrows pointing upward
on the ends and middle. As Abel tried to decipher the symbol an armed guard
stepped in front of him blocking the warehouse door. 

“State your purpose!” The guard sneered. His tone was
abrupt and broke the easiness of the marketplace. 

Abel returned his words in kind. “We’re here to see
Warden.”

“Not today.” The guard focused his attention on the market.
“Try back tomorrow!”

Abel’s eyes turned fire red, he was livid. He did not
travel this far to be told to turn back.  The thought of bull rushing the guard
crossed his mind, but he feared for his companions’ safety. What a waste of
time, he thought. There had to be another way to get what he needed and he had
time to figure it out.

“Forget it. Let’s go.” Abel spoke with disdain.

“Hold on.” Isnor stepped forward. He placed his hands up
near his face, approaching the guard slowly. “I am Isnor Profik a trader from
Bourdain. This man is here to enter the tournament. We request to see the
honorable Warden, scourge of the plains!”

“The tournament?” A gray-tooth smile spread across the
guard’s face as he looked Abel from head to toe. The doubt on his face was
evident. “Why didn’t you say that first and save me the trouble.” The massive
man moved to the side to allow passage. The group stepped through the doorway
into the warehouse.

It was a city within a city. This was the inner circle of
Warden’s regime. The perimeter was lined with small living quarters, while
above guards patrolled on a metal catwalk. There was a low buzz of activity
throughout the building; an atmosphere in direct contrast with the hustle and
bustle outside the doors. People had an air about them. They were superior to
the denizens outside. Abel’s group could feel the cold eyes on them as they
made their way through the main entry. A sense of security had not quelled
their apprehension towards strangers. Just as the situation was growing
unbearable, a woman appeared with one guard at her rear. 

“Greetings.” Her manner was polite and easy. “Are you here
to enter the tournament?”

The air tensed; clearly the wrong answer would spell
trouble and a swift end to Abel’s journey. Every patron in earshot froze in
anticipation of the response. Arms were cocked over their weapons. Abel
surveyed the hostility of his environment and decided to play this situation
less aggressive. “Yes. I am Abel and these are my friends Keera and Isnor.
Might the Warden be available to entertain an aspiring fighter?”

The woman smiled at his response. It was textbook on how to
get an audience with the Warden. She was happy for Abel. Many had died on the
very spot he stood trying to portray toughness. The introduction was not the
time for garish words. Save the ruggedness for the arena.  The woman motioned
her left hand high in the air with palm turned forward, signifying a greeting.
But the group knew the gesture was much more. Guards lowered their weapons and
the taut air drifted away. Those gathered around turned back to their business.
For the first time Abel noticed that all the inhabitants were armored and bore
the ‘W’ insignia. Warden was more than a modern day mob boss. Reaching him
consisted of many layers and verbal intricacies. His success in the wasteland
was predicated on the loyalty around him. 

“Please. Follow me.” She waved her hand beckoning for them
to accompany her.

She
turned her slim body gracefully, her head was covered except for the long,
brown, knotted ponytail flowing down her back. Her movements were that of a
hostess at a fine restaurant, belying the danger of the lair. The warehouse was
a winding maze of structures, which narrowed and expanded the interior street.
The configuration of the dwellings was deliberate, a way to halt intruders from
reaching the heart of the habitat. Keera looked around wide eyed.

“This is incredible. I never thought there would be so many
people here, so well-armed,                    looking decently fed.” She was
clearly in awe of the volume of people and orderliness. It was commonplace for
the Water Facilities to be pristine and sparkle with a cleanliness to which
many were not accustomed, but here among the less fortunate. How did this man create
a seemingly idyllic palace on the edge of nothingness? 

Isnor shared her sentiment. “I’ve been here a few times for
the tournament, but that was total chaos. I thought it was always like that.
This environment is far more stressful.”

“Don’t worry old man.” Abel quipped. “Stay close to me in
case there’s trouble.”

“It’s not my neck you should be worried about.” Isnor
responded gruffly.

Abel smirked, he knew Isnor would not take kindly to the
comment. While Keera was expressing her naivety, he needed Isnor to be stout
and aware. Who knows what would come of their meeting with Warden. When Isnor
mentioned a tournament, Abel never imagined anything of this magnitude. He
thought he would be wrestling on a cardboard box in the street. It was best not
to show his concern.

The maze broke into an opening revealing a large half
circle covered in sand with ascending benches around it. Blood, from previous
bouts, stained the area. A maintenance crew smoothed out the sand in
preparation for the next day. There were no trophies or plaques heralding the
past winners. Just a desolate ring, emitting the bitter losses of the fallen
and the triumphs of those that survived. Abel began to feel the weight of his
decision. This was no sparring match. It was a fight for survival. Pondering
the physical combat ahead and speaking to no one in particular, Abel said.
“What’s the prize for winning this thing again?”

“I have no idea.” Keera surveyed the barren arena. “But I
hope it’s worth it.”

“I told you. A case of water. Enough to buy passage to
Gravope and trade for better weapons.” Isnor reminded them. The group stopped
and absorbed the distant battles of the arena, envisioning what lay ahead.

“Please. Come. Warden is waiting.” The hostess called to
the group.

“Yeah, I bet he is.” Abel whispered to himself.

Keera leaned closer. “What?”

“Nothing, just getting my head ready.” Abel responded.

“More than your head I hope.” The merchant added.

Walking past the arena they approached an opening large
enough to drive a car through.   There was a deliberate separation of public
and private. This was Warden’s inner sanctum. A few guards hung around the
entrance smoking something with an unfamiliar smell. Cigarettes were far and
few between. The guards paid little attention to them. They were led by the
woman so they were safe. On the other side of the portal was another world.
Women moved with purpose as young children scurried around. Abel noticed there
were few women near the entry. Now he saw where the families dwelled, protected
within the inner walls. All the women in this area had their heads covered
signifying alliance to Warden. It was a primitive scene, almost tribal. The men
hunted and protected the children, women and their leader. The children were
simply the key to their future. Maybe if nurtured correctly they could be the
key to turn the tides of injustice. At first glance, the women here were
carrying out domestic tasks. More importantly they were symbols of lost beauty
and simplicity cherished in this society. Who could question Warden’s methods? 
Here was a thriving kingdom in a place where there should only be depravity.

Isnor let out a whistle. “I’m impressed.”

       Keera
frowned at the scene. “I’m not.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Abel interjected. “We’re here for the
water. Not a social experiment.”

“Easy for you to say. Just don’t ask me to cover my hair
and get you a drink.” Keera looked at Abel unsettled.

“Calm down. I’m sure it’s by choice.” He assured.

Isnor disagreed. “I don’t know...”

Their escort rounded the corner into a large room with a
long dining table. Seven people sat at the table, one stood off in the far
corner.  As they entered all eyes were upon them. Hostility instantly flared up
in all but the man at the head of the table. He wore a robe of all white
looking more akin to a prophet than the leader of an army. A smile widened on
his face and his eyes flashed with danger.

“Excuse me sir.” The woman bowed her head slightly as she
spoke. “May I introduce a new tournament contestant, Abel.” Rising to his feet,
the robed man stood with his hands clasped. “Thank you Isabel. You have done
well, you are excused.”

She curtsied as she exited. “Warden.”

Arms spread with a large smile and boisterous voice; his
attire did not fit his tone. The robe adorning him was befitting a church
leader, not the tournament host before them. Warden walked towards the group.
“Welcome, welcome my friends. Your name again?”

Abel touched his chest first, and then introduced the
group. “Abel. This is Keera to my right and Isnor to my left. We have traveled
from Bourdain for your tournament.”

“Very good. Keera, Isnor you do not fight, but please honor
me by sitting and having a                     drink.” Warden said with a
toothy smile.

Keera and Isnor apprehensively approached the table amidst
false grins. Though Warden seemed genuine his comrades were not as trusting. As
they took their seats a different woman brought out two cups filled with a
brown liquid. From the smell it appeared that Warden dabbled with his own
concoction. Isnor pounded his chest as he gulped down the drink. Wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand, he raised his glass to the table. The men
began to relax. Keera leaned forward and took a whiff, a small sip, coughed and
sat back in her chair, eyes focused on Abel and Warden. Shaking Abel’s hand
like a diplomat, one hand over the other, Warden sized him up.  “You’re from
Bourdain. I’ve never seen you. I know most of the young men there.”

“No. My family is from Gravope.” Abel said flatly still
trying to figure out his host.

“Gravope.” Now Warden was confused. “Word of my tournament
has traveled that far. I’m at a loss.”

“Sorry, not to mislead you.” Abel continued. “But I never
heard of you until yesterday.”

Stepping
back and unclasping Abel’s hand, Warden had tired of the pleasantries.

“Well...What brings you?”  With a low tone spelling
trouble, Warden appeared ready to strike if the answer did not suit him. He
respected Abel’s bravery to seek him out the day before the event. But his
brashness may get him killed before he began. Abel sensed the change in the
room.

“My parents were killed by Xonox, I was knocked out and
dropped in Bourdain two days                   ago.” He explained. “I want to
use the tournament winnings to take revenge against Xonox.”

A low chuckle emanated from the table at the thought of
Abel going against the Xonox Empire with an old stumpy man and a young frail
looking woman. Warden’s face was blank. He admired the sternness in Abel’s
voice. A man on a path of revenge was a man with focused anger. Maybe Abel could
be a benefit to him. “You want to fight Xonox? You have to win the tournament
first. And I assure you, it’s no cakewalk. Men come from all walks to compete.
What makes you think you have what it takes?”

Isnor spoke for Abel. “I saw him disable two of Reaper’s
gang and give Reaper a pretty good beating too.”

Before the words left his mouth Isnor knew he had spoken
out of turn. Disapproving stares met his gaze from around the table. Warden
quickly glanced at Isnor then back at Abel. “The gangs use numbers to
overwhelm. They lack skills. Goll test him!”

Before Abel could figure out which person was Goll, he was
tackled from behind. The man landed on top of Abel and punched him across the
face. Abel spat blood onto the concrete floor. Goll was tall with a solid
build, wearing a vest over his bare chest. He reared back for another attack.
Shifting his body to divert Goll’s second blow, Abel caught his arm between his
legs. Spinning around, he arm-barred the attacker to the ground. The men at the
table cheered. Even Isnor smiled at the spectacle, while Keera cringed, fearful
of the outcome. Abel rocked back putting more pressure on his opponent’s arm.
The strain was evident as Goll grunted to break free, but he would not submit.
Would he have to break his arm to prove his worth?  Abel straightened himself
ready to hear the cracking of bone. His robed host stopped the show.  “Good.
Good.”