Madness Rules - 04 (18 page)

They circled each other for a moment, each looking for an opening. When Captain Ford didn’t see one, he took a chance and swung a wide haymaker. Tanner saw it coming, leaned back, and watched the fist sail by a good six inches in front of his nose. The blow had so much power behind it that the momentum sent Ford stumbling to his left. Before he could recover, Tanner stepped forward and hit him with a quick left hook to the back of his head. Instead of the usual hollow spongy feel of the mastoid, he struck something hard and metal. What would normally have left a man lying in a puddle of his own piss did little more than bruise Tanner’s knuckles.

Captain Ford wheeled around, clocking Tanner high on the cheek with his own hook. Tanner felt his eye begin to water, and he took a step back. Ford immediately advanced, firing a rapid series of jabs and crosses, none of them particularly powerful, but several landing. The more times Ford hit him, the madder Tanner got. There was no way in hell he was going to let some deranged captain keep him from getting back to Samantha.

“Die! Die! Die!” Ford shouted, his fists flying in a relentless barrage.

He sliced in with an uppercut, hoping to catch Tanner under the chin. Rather than retreat, Tanner closed the gap and pulled the captain’s head down against his chest. Captain Ford struggled to push off, but the harder he pushed, the harder Tanner pulled him in. It became a contest of strength and body mass, and that was not one that the captain could hope to win. He resorted to flailing from the side, desperately trying to land a blow that might soften Tanner’s grip. But that was like beating on a pyramid, hoping to turn it to sand.

The audience watched in hushed fascination as Tanner literally squeezed the life out of Captain Ford, finally snapping his vertebrae between the atlas and axis. When he heard the unmistakable
snick
of the man’s neck break, Tanner let Ford drop to the ground. The man stared up at the sky, mouthing something quietly. With the loss of control of the phrenic nerve, he would die of cardiac arrest or asphyxiation within the next couple of minutes.

The captain’s two brothers charged into the arena, revenge burning in their eyes. Before either of them could reach Tanner, two short bursts of automatic gunfire rang out, peppering the men’s chests with neat bloody holes. They both fell dead mere feet from their brother.

Tanner looked over and saw Commando with his rifle raised. His face was completely expressionless, like he was an unmanned drone being controlled out of Langley. It took the crowd only seconds to react with threats and shouts for justice. Oddly, their anger seemed directed only at Tanner. He was the outsider responsible for the loss of their beloved hero.

Tanner raised his hands protectively and began to back up, unsure whether the situation was about to spiral out of control.

Snaps rushed in and grabbed him by the sleeve of his shirt.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s give everyone time to cool down.” He motioned to the announcer that they were going back to the gazebo.

The announcer held up five fingers indicating that they had five minutes.

When Tanner finally left the arena, it didn’t take long for the crowd to get on with settling bets and discussing what the third fight might look like.

Tanner leaned against a vending machine, drinking a fresh bottle of water and lightly rubbing his cheek. There would be bruising, but he’d had worse.

“You’re screwed,” Snaps said, hustling back over to him.

“How so?”

“I just heard they set you up with the Russian. Not only that, it’s going to be with weapons, which is another way of saying it’s a fight to the death. Like I said, you’re screwed.”

“I take it you’re not betting on me this go-around.”

Snaps shook his head. “I’d love to have that kind of payoff, but they’ll stack the deck against you. No way you’ll walk away from it. You’re—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’m screwed.”

“Sorry.”

“Tell me about the Russian. How does he fight?”

“He’s a bull that charges straight at you and never lets up.”

“Is he fast?”

“More strong than fast.”

“Does he mind getting hit?”

“Not a bit. I’ve seen him let other fighters hit him just to mock them.”

“Like Rocky.”

“Who?”

Tanner shook his head. “Never mind. What you’re telling me is that he’s a tank. Slow but strong, willing to take it on the chin when needed.”

“That about sums it up.” Snaps turned to head back to the arena. “Oh yeah,” he added, pausing to look back at Tanner, “I almost forgot. He’s got a bad eye.”

Tanner stood five feet away from the man others considered so fearsome that he had simply become known as “the Russian.” He stood about as tall as Tanner but was leaner and more cut. He wore a pair of tactical fatigue pants and combat boots, and had pulled off his shirt to reveal an elaborate set of tattoos running along the entire left side of his body. What was most disturbing about him, however, was the quiet loathing in his eyes.

Tanner was fairly sure that he hadn’t slept with the Russian’s sister on some previous occasion, so he saw no cause for such hatred. For men like Captain Ford, fearsome expressions were part of the bravado, merely used to bolster one’s ego and perhaps shake an opponent’s resolve. This was not the case with the Russian. He was exactly what he proclaimed to be—a killer.

As he had done before, the announcer quickly explained the rudimentary rules and then sent them to their respective sides of the arena for their weapons. When Tanner got back to his side, Snaps was already there waiting for him. The boy looked like someone had kicked him in the gut.

“What is it?”

“I’m sorry, Mister. This sucks.” He held out a stubby screwdriver, the flat blade no more than two inches in length.

“What’s that?”

“It’s your weapon.”

Tanner looked across the arena. The Russian was hefting a large wood axe onto his shoulder.

“Like I said,” repeated Snaps, “you’re screwed.”

Tanner reached out and took the screwdriver. He looked around the arena and saw people pointing and laughing. The joke was on him. Ha, ha, very funny.

The Russian pumped the axe up into the air with his right hand and raised the other to energize the crowd. They roared with excitement. He was their finisher, the man who would set things right by killing the outsider.

Rather than meet the Russian in the middle of the arena, Tanner began circling along the outer edge. If Snaps was right, the Russian couldn’t see well out of his left eye. Tanner figured that as long as he kept moving in that direction, he could stay in the man’s blind spot.

He stepped around large metal wheels and hopped over an axle as he worked to make the fight less one-sided. A man with an axe needed distance with which to swing it. That meant good footing and open space. Trip him up on a few old train parts, and that axe might prove more dangerous to the lumberjack than the intended victim. And despite its fearsome appearance, Tanner knew that a full-sized axe was not the ideal weapon for hand-to-hand combat. Its length was fixed, and it was heavily weighted at one end, making it difficult to swing quickly. He guessed that nine times out of ten, a right-handed person would swing the weapon from right to left, usually downward at roughly a forty-five-degree angle. All he had to do was make sure he wasn’t in the way when it came down.

Surrounded by old train parts, Tanner motioned for the Russian to come and get him. He was, after all, the guy holding the axe.

The Russian spread his feet apart and slowly advanced.

Tanner waited, moving only enough to keep the Russian from getting a firm bead on him.

When the Russian closed to within about ten feet, he tossed the axe from his right hand to his left and then back again. He choked up on the handle and swung the blade in a lazy figure eight.

Tanner kept moving in a large circle to his right, waiting for the Russian to make a mistake. Not able to fully watch the minefield he was traversing, Tanner tripped over a large metal rod poking up through the dirt. And when he did, the Russian made his move,  forward and swinging the axe down from right to left.

Tanner spun away, and the axe came down into the dirt, barely missing his thigh. He started to lunge toward the Russian, but the man immediately jerked the axe up between them. Tanner stepped back and looked around for options. The train debris was only delaying the inevitable. Eventually, the heavy blade would find muscle, and that would be that.

The only way to have a fighting chance was to get in close. The best way to do that, he decided, was with a sudden redirection of energy. It was a simple principle of Judo. First, convince the opponent of movement in one direction. And then, when he was most vulnerable, move in the opposite direction. It relied on the fact that it took time for the brain to process changes as well as for the body to overcome momentum.

Tanner retreated toward the antique steam engine, pretending to glance over his shoulder as if to make sure of where he was headed. The Russian picked up the pace, trying to get to him before he could find cover. Tanner allowed him to get closer, confident that the man wouldn’t swing the axe while on the move. Then, as the Russian leaned forward, taking longer and longer steps, Tanner did the unexpected. He changed direction, leaped over the debris, and charged his enemy.

The Russian stopped and instinctively brought the axe back to chop. But there just wasn’t time for him to make the decision, plant his feet, and ready the axe before Tanner was on him. He hit the Russian with his full body weight, barreling the man back and robbing him of the footing necessary to swing the axe. Tanner continued to drive forward, never allowing a gap to open between them.

The Russian stumbled over a large spring and fell onto his back. Tanner followed him to the ground, stabbing the screwdriver into the side of the big man’s neck. The blow was solid, and the two-inch tip went all the way in. Unfortunately, it missed the carotid artery as well as the windpipe, instead punching a bloody hole in the thick meat of his neck.

The Russian immediately shoved the axe up between them, hoping to use the blade as a mini guillotine. Tanner released the screwdriver, which remained firmly planted in the man’s neck, and grabbed the handle of the axe. As strong as Tanner was, he was no match for the Russian. He watched as the heavy blade slowly inched toward his face.

If Tanner released the handle, he was dead. He knew that. He also had no way to head butt or otherwise injure the man below him. A memory of a similar struggle came to him. It was during a high school wrestling match, some forty years earlier. He had been disqualified for his action, but it had worked nonetheless.

Tanner coughed up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it into the Russian’s face.

The man’s reaction was much the same as the high school wrestler’s had been, pulling one arm back to wipe the disgusting mess from his face. And when he did, Tanner jerked the axe away and jumped to his feet.

The Russian immediately rolled onto his stomach and scrambled to put distance between them. Tanner raised the heavy blade high into the air and swung it down with all his might. The axe caught the Russian directly between his shoulder blades with a wet
thunk
. He screamed, pushed up a few inches, and then collapsed, nose first, into the dirt.

Tanner put one foot on the Russian’s body and worked the bloody axe free. He held it ready, looking down at the Russian like Paul Bunyan inspecting a felled tree. Blood and chips of bone spilled out from the deep wound in the man’s back. Tanner couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead, but it didn’t really matter. He sure as hell wasn’t getting back up.

He turned back to the crowd, which had fallen silent. Their finisher was finished. Tanner held the axe at the ready. If anyone should decide to take the matter into their own hands, he had an answer for them.

None did. Instead a few people started clapping, and it quickly grew into thunderous shouts.
Tanner! Tanner! Tanner!

Tanner dropped the axe and walked over to Commando.

The guard said nothing, offering only the faintest nod of approval.

The elderly doctor stepped from the small bedroom and quietly closed the door behind him.

“Well?” asked Tanner, his heart pounding.

“She’s got a serious streptococcal infection.”

“In English, Doc.”

“She has strep throat.”

“Strep throat? You sure? She didn’t say anything about her throat hurting.”

The doctor shrugged. “It can hit people differently. I gave her a penicillin shot. That should take care of it, but take these with you just in case.” He handed Tanner a bottle of large pills. “If the fever comes back, give her two a day for ten days. Don’t skip a dose, and don’t stop early.”

Tanner nodded. He had heard the same instructions a dozen times, but this was the first time he intended to follow through with them.

“A few months ago,” said the doctor, “sicknesses like these were little more than an inconvenience. Now, with the lack of antibiotics, they can be life threatening. It’s a good thing you were able to negotiate my services.”