37
Zoey throws a glance over one shoulder, making sure the area in front of the little building is still clear.
The woman hasn’t been inside for more than a minute, so she’s fairly confident she hasn’t left out the back, especially since the dim light is still burning inside. She raises her fist to knock again, but the door swings inward and then she is looking at the woman’s pale face. The woman opens her mouth to say something but stops, eyes widening as Zoey tilts her head back enough for the light to fall on her features inside the hood.
They stare at one another.
And the recognition heightens to a point where Zoey nearly says a name that slips away almost as quickly as it comes.
Zoey pushes past her and shuts the door, the woman still dumbstruck. She looks around the room, confirming they’re alone before drawing the hood back.
The woman’s hand comes up to her mouth and it’s only then that Zoey notices the steady stream of blood running from her left wrist, crimson soaking through the fabric of her shirtsleeve.
“You’re bleeding,” Zoey says, nodding toward her arm. The woman looks down dazedly, and wipes at the flow coming from a slit above her wrist. Zoey spots a long towel hanging from a hook and grabs it, wrapping it around the woman’s forearm. She watches the blood seep through the towel and cinches it tightly, aware of the woman’s eyes boring into her.
When the bleeding slows enough that she’s sure the woman won’t faint, Zoey finally meets her gaze.
There is a feral quality to the woman that she recognized in her own features after escaping from the ARC, a lean wildness that speaks of horrors survived. As she studies her, the familiarity washes over Zoey once again, and this time her eyes catch on something that takes her breath away, the realization powerful enough to weaken her legs.
Above the woman’s right eyebrow is a white line of scar in the shape of an L tipped on its side.
“Rita,” Zoey manages to say, and the effect on the woman is immediate. Her lower lip trembles and she takes a step back.
“What did you say?” she whispers.
Zoey swallows. “You’re Rita’s mother. You’re Nell.”
The other woman blinks and begins to shake her head. “You’re not real. I’m dead. I’m dead on the floor.” She looks down at her arm to the towel tied there. “I’m dead.”
“No you’re not. I’m here. And you’re Rita’s mother.”
“She’s dead.”
“She’s alive.”
Nell closes her eyes, tears escaping from their corners as she leans against the nearest wall and slowly slides down it. Zoey kneels beside her. “She has red hair and green eyes and she looks just like you.”
“Stop. Stop it,” Nell moans. “Don’t say that. I don’t have a daughter, she was taken. She’s dead.”
“She’s alive. She’s my friend,” Zoey says, putting a hand on Nell’s shoulder. “And she remembers you.”
Nell tips forward, quietly sobbing into her hands. Slowly she brings her tear-stained face up to look at Zoey. “You’re real.”
“Yes.”
“You’re telling the truth.”
“Yes.”
“Because I’ll kill you if you aren’t.”
“I believe you.”
Nell watches her for another long moment. “Who are you?”
“My name is Zoey. I was kept in the same place Rita was. But we’re free now. And I need your help.”
“My help.” Nell gazes down at the floor between her splayed legs. “Help.”
“Yes and I don’t have much time. Two people are being held here. The woman that was brought in yesterday and one of the men who’s going to fight for her tonight. I have to find a way to get them out.”
Nell issues a muffled laugh and tugs at the towel around her wrist. “Get them out. It’s impossible.”
“There has to be a way. You know this place, how it works. Please.” The men’s voices outside rise in volume and a short cheer erupts before the din returns to normal.
“They took her. Took her from me and brought me here. And I tried.” Nell brings her glassy eyes up to Zoey’s. “Tried to escape but they always caught me. And then Robbie came and we planned for years. Robbie’s dead now. He’s gone.”
Zoey leans in closer and puts a hand gently on the older woman’s face. “But your daughter isn’t. Help me save my friends and I’ll bring you to her.”
Nell’s eyelids flutter and Zoey thinks she’s going to pass out, either from blood loss or shock. But the other woman steadies after a second and licks her lips. “When they’re bringing them all to the coliseum. That’s the only chance. They lead the men in first, then the Prestons take their seats with the youngest woman.”
Zoey’s mind whirs.
Such a short span of time. The distance between the cells and the coliseum is less than a minute’s walk. How? How to get Merrill and Chelsea free at the same time and then make it outside the fences?
“There has to be another way. How long until the competition starts?”
A deep sound, unlike anything Zoey’s ever heard before, begins to build somewhere to the east. It climbs in volume until she can feel it in her chest, vibrating her heart against her rib cage. The call ends as abruptly as it started, its vacancy filled by hundreds of men’s voices screaming at the top of their lungs.
“Now,” Nell says.
38
Zoey leaps to her feet and whips the hood up, glancing at the darkened windows.
The bass sound comes again but it can’t override the fevered howls. She moves to the closest window and peers out, careful to keep her face hidden in shadow.
The crowd floats past the mess area in the direction of the coliseum, and in the center an open space is cordoned off by a dozen guards. Four men walk single file there, a thick chain binding them to one another.
Merrill is the third in line, hands tied together before him. The two men in front of him are shorter and leaner, and compared to him they look scrawny. But then her eyes are drawn to the man behind Merrill and the slight hope building inside her crumbles.
The last man is a giant.
He stands at least a foot taller than Merrill and his shoulders protrude from a sleeveless jacket in two round balls of muscle. Even from the distance she can see the massive thickness of his legs as well as the size of his hands, which flex into fists almost as large as her head. A cheer erupts from the crowd as the giant hoists his arms above his head and grins a mostly toothless smile.
“Oh no.”
“There’s nothing you can do now,” Nell says, rising to her feet. “They’ll be inside the coliseum in a few seconds and there won’t be any way to get them out once it’s begun.” Zoey steps away from the window and draws her pistol. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to shoot the owners of the trade when they walk past me. Maybe I can cause a big enough disturbance so Merrill and Chelsea can get away.”
“The men. They’ll tear you apart. And your friends won’t escape.”
Zoey wavers, part of her already out the door, pushing through the crowd and finding the perfect position. But the other part is there in the dim room with Rita’s mother, logic overriding the building panic and rage at her helplessness.
She lowers the gun and tucks it away.
“If he wins they’ll be free,” Nell says. Zoey puts her hand on the doorknob and hesitates, looking back over one shoulder.
“If that happens we’ll come back for you. We’ll get you to Rita.”
“And if not?”
But she barely hears Nell’s question as she pushes through the door and into the night air.
The throngs of men are rapidly disappearing into the coliseum when she reaches the entrance. Merrill is already inside, swallowed by the structure’s walls. To her right a convoy of guards surrounds the two people who beheaded the man the night before. They walk with the same gloating dignity of the powerful, and behind them, hands shackled together and wearing a flowing dress of red, is Chelsea.
Despite the horror that rises within Zoey, she can’t help but notice how beautiful Chelsea looks. Her hair has been washed and styled, her lips glow crimson, and her pale skin seems to shine in the harsh overhead light.
A foul-smelling man passes within inches of Zoey and she shifts slightly to avoid brushing against him. When she turns back, she catches only a glimpse of Chelsea’s dress disappearing into the coliseum. An earsplitting cheer comes from inside the walls a moment later and she curses, hurrying into the nearest blanket of shadow. She makes her way around the side of the coliseum until she reaches the place she witnessed the execution from and slides between the support beams. Above, hundreds of feet stomp and pound, filtering a thin haze of dust down on her. She shimmies forward as far as she can and peers out through a shifting sea of legs.
Merrill and the other three men stand in the center of the open ring. A table rests to their right, its top littered with weapons of every shape and size. Zoey spots the sharpened bits of axes, glittering swords, and heavy hammers. Directly across the coliseum is a long, enclosed wooden box raised halfway up the rows of seats. Inside sit the Prestons and below them Chelsea in plain view of the entire crowd. Even with the distance Zoey can see the shining tear tracks that streak Chelsea’s face as she stares at Merrill below.
Zoey draws her pistol.
She will wait, and if it appears that Merrill isn’t going to win a fight, she’ll shoot the other man. There is no way she’s going to sit by and watch him die. Consequences be damned.
Presto Preston stands and raises both hands. Gradually the rumble of voices falls into a low undercurrent. “Gentlemen and the two ladies who are present!” he yells, gesturing at his wife as well as Chelsea. “Thank you for coming! Tonight we have entertainment of epic proportions. The four brave men you see before you have paid their dues and stepped forward for the right to claim the hand of the beauty you are witness to now.” Preston motions to Chelsea again and the crowd’s voices rise as one. Several lewd statements are screamed within the cacophony and Zoey grits her teeth. Preston makes his calming gesture and the calls quiet. “Each of the combatants have put their life on the line, have come to terms with death for the chance to claim this woman. Their sacrifice amazes me to no end. Anyone willing to die for her has our blessing when he walks out with his prize.”
Preston falls silent and gazes around the coliseum. “Within the right of the Tournament, the winner will not be followed nor harassed once it is over. He will be allowed safe passage and this woman will be rightfully his until their dying day.” Preston presses his palms together before yanking them apart again. A flash of light and a loud boom erupts from between his hands, resounding throughout the coliseum. “Let the Tournament begin!”
The entire structure shudders with the mass’s yells. Two guards approach the four men and one holds a fist out. The first man draws something away from the guard’s hand. He smiles and holds it up as the crowd cheers. The next man follows suit, shaking his head in disgust as the guard continues on to Merrill.
Merrill reaches out and retrieves what the guard offers. He nods once and raises his arm in the air to combined screams of approval and bellowed curses.
Zoey’s breath hitches in her chest. The hope of at least one of the men being eliminated before Merrill had to fight evaporates. She watches as the second man and the giant are led to the edge of the arena and placed inside a smaller version of the box the Prestons and Chelsea occupy. The remaining guard motions to the table full of weapons and the first man steps forward, hefting a huge hammer into the air to a round of cheering. Merrill approaches the table and examines it, eyes tracing from one end to the next. She fights down the urge to crawl through one of the gaps and run to him. They could fight, side by side, and die together at the very least. But she knows that isn’t what he would want.
After a pause of deliberation Merrill grasps a long-bladed knife from the table, studying its edge for a beat before stepping away. The weapon looks insignificant when compared with the other man’s hammer, and raucous laughter explodes in the coliseum as the table is hauled outside the large ring and Merrill and the other man are left standing in its center.
“Gentlemen!” Preston says from the box. “There are no rules. May the best man win!”
Merrill’s opponent grins, hefting the large hammer, and begins to circle. Merrill remains where he is, pivoting slowly to keep the other man in front of him. A chant of “Billson” rises from the stands.
Zoey adjusts her position, steadying the handgun, tracking Billson with the sights. He feints toward Merrill suddenly, jabbing at him with the hammer, and Merrill flinches. More laughter erupts from the stands. Chelsea leans against the box’s rim, hands clasped before her in the shackles, mouth open in a soundless sob.
Billson circles.
Merrill follows him.
Zoey aims, finger tightening on the trigger.
Billson feints again to Merrill’s right before charging straight at him, hammer raised over one shoulder.
He swings the heavy steel in a bone-crushing arc aimed directly at Merrill’s skull.
Merrill moves.
He shifts hard to the left, tipping his head and shoulders away from the hammer as it whistles past him, throwing Billson off balance.
In one motion Merrill steps behind the other man and brings the arm holding the knife up and back.
The long blade sinks deep into the base of Billson’s skull.
Merrill yanks the knife free and the hammer drops from Billson’s hands as blood spews from his open mouth. He tries to take a step but drops to the ground in a heap and doesn’t move again.
Utter silence floods the coliseum.
Elation flows through Zoey in a warm wave and it’s all she can do not to cry out Merrill’s name. She watches as Chelsea covers her mouth with both hands and sinks back into her chair with relief.
Slowly a grumble of voices returns to the arena, the men’s boots scratching and clunking overhead. Two guards enter the coliseum and drag Billson’s limp body away while a third approaches the holding area containing the remaining combatants. Zoey stares as the giant reaches out and plucks a straw from the guard’s proffered fist. Anger creases his face and he sits back in his seat as the smaller man stands and enters the arena to renewed cheers.
Merrill steps well out of the other man’s path as he makes his way to the table of weapons. Zoey can’t be sure but she thinks she catches a look of trepidation in his eyes as he selects an axe and turns it over once before facing Merrill. The crowd’s volume rises again, the smell of fresh blood now permeating the air, fueling the lust for carnage that is almost a physical presence. Zoey moves to the left around a supporting column to get a better view and glances over her shoulder.
Two guards stand a dozen yards behind her, their shadows thrown by the overhead lights almost reaching to where she crouches. They are talking loudly to be heard over the sound of the arena, a cigarette passing from one to the other and back again. They stand with their backs partially to her, but if they were to turn and look down, they would surely see her.
Preston begins yelling something again but she doesn’t hear what he says, her focus completely on the guards. Smoke plumes out of their mouths and one of them laughs, slapping the other on the shoulder. Zoey sinks in on herself, wedging back farther beneath the coliseum’s struts.
The crowd roars and now it is impossible to keep her eyes on the guards. She turns her head.
The man with the axe circles Merrill much like Billson did, but there is a careful calculation in his movements. He steps forward and back, testing the distance while keeping the wicked bit of the axe before him. Merrill bends his knees, knife-arm held out to the side, blade dripping crimson onto the ground.
Something hits Zoey’s back and she freezes, sure the next sound she’ll hear will be the gunshot that propelled the bullet into her.
But there is only the sweet smell of tobacco. She glances at the guards, who are ambling away, still deep in conversation. At her feet the stub of cigarette they flicked toward her glows briefly before winking out.
She faces the arena again just as the man with the axe lunges forward, swinging the weapon at Merrill’s waist.
Merrill leaps back as the blade whistles past and resets himself, his knife slashing out with a quick glint of steel.
A long gash opens up in the other man’s coat across his chest, a hint of red seeping through immediately. He backpedals, catching himself before he falls, and begins to circle Merrill again, one hand pressed to the wound.
Merrill’s eyes shine with concentration as he follows the man’s movements, waiting several seconds before springing forward. The knife flashes as he stabs downward at the man’s chest, but it is blocked as the axe handle comes up and cracks hard across his jaw.
Zoey’s heart stops as the knife pinwheels away through the air.
Merrill staggers back and shakes his head, the other man walking forward. Zoey raises the gun, sighting down the barrel, finger tightening on the trigger, but Merrill steps in front of her, blocking the shot.
The axe rises and comes down, missing Merrill by inches. He counters with an elbow to the man’s head and tries to wrench the weapon from his grasp but loses his balance as the other man shoves him hard in the chest.
Merrill trips and falls, his back kicking up dust as he rolls to his side.
The man is instantly upon him, raising the axe over his head, and Zoey aims, knowing everything will come to an end within seconds.
But Merrill’s leg lashes out, catching the other man in the knee. He falls to the ground, axe flipping away, but in less than a second is atop Merrill, raining down punches.
Merrill blocks them and grasps him by the coat, digging his fingers into the wound across his chest. The man screams and the crowd’s cries intensify.
With a quick movement, Merrill pivots his hips and tosses the man to his side, scrambling toward the knife lying several feet away.
His opponent latches onto the axe.
Zoey leans forward, one hand gripping the rail in front of her, willing Merrill to move faster, to get to the blade and end his opponent before he can rise.
Merrill snags the knife and rolls over just as the man swivels on his knees and brings the axe up and then down in a brutal, sweeping blow.
The weapon buries itself in Merrill’s leg, biting through his pants and into the ground.
Zoey’s scream is lost in the men’s thunderous exclamation. Her stomach clenches painfully as tears cloud her vision. She fires at the man, the gun’s report nearly soundless beneath the noise.
The shot goes wide, kicking up dust in the center of the circle.
The arena is all movement, sound beyond reckoning.
The man, still on his knees, yanks the axe free, yelling his triumph as he rears back for a killing blow.
Zoey aims again, willing her arms to remain steady.
Squeezes the trigger.
But in the split-second pause that stretches into infinity, Merrill raises his injured leg off the ground and drives it toward the man’s face, metal glimmering through his pant leg as he thrusts the ragged shaft of his artificial limb through the man’s left eye.
Zoey stares, dumbstruck, while he jitters, pinned in the air by the jagged aluminum jutting from the end of Merrill’s leg.
The axe slips from his hands and falls harmlessly in the dirt.