Rage (27 page)

And yet the worst part had been the hesitation before each blow landed.

Then two of the Enforcers started playing a game with his head, punching at it like it was a boxing bag, first to one side—followed by screams at him to get up—and then another smash to the opposite side.

Over and over.

He lost count of the number of times Cross had signaled them to stop so he could repeat his question.

Then, getting no answer to that, other questions.

Where is your base?

Who are the other leaders?

What equipment have you gathered that may prove dangerous to us?

Then more lashes to the back, more blood, more savage punches to the head that sent Marshall twisting to the floor, curling in on himself, his face smacking down hard on the metal.

It went on and on and on …

“Pull him up. To his feet.”

Marshall could barely stand. His head throbbed from the blows, while his brain now dreaded more savage lashes to the back.

“All right. As I said, Marshall, I can be patient. Today was to show you just that. But tomorrow—Colonel, if you would—”

Casey walked over to the table and brought back a fistful of shiny metal objects.

“There you go, Captain. You see them? Each can have a different purpose. Some are narrow and sharp, others are broad and unfortunately dull. There are so many ways they can be used to produce pain. As you know, we learned some tricks from those we fought—back in the day. And here,
now
, we are no longer afraid to use them.”

Marshall tilted his head at the objects. Looking at what Casey held in his hand, like so many lethal lollipops, was nearly enough to make him groan.

Today had been nothing.

“I will give you twenty-four hours. To remember things. To recall. And,” he said, pointing at the tray of torture, “to think on what we have here for you. And know this—it doesn’t stop there. When your body gets—what would be the word—
acclimatized
to the pain of metal on skin, we will move on to other things. In the end, you will talk. You will
beg
to talk.”

Cross started to walk away. Marshall saw a door in the corner of the room open.

“Think on it, Captain. No need for it. No need for any of this.”

Cross, followed by Casey, disappeared from the room, and the Enforcers holding him up dragged him in the other direction.

And as they did, Marshall thought …

How long can I hold out?

More importantly:
Did it matter?

Because he knew one thing: if the study of dictatorships and
prison and torture told us anything, it was that sooner or later, God, everyone talks.

And with his feet dragging on the floor as they pulled him away, Marshall tried to find something in his mind that resembled hope.

For now, he found nothing.

“
Y
ou wait here until Mr. Stiles is ready to see you.”

The man talking to Raine had a headset on and held a clipboard tightly, as though it contained the secrets of the universe.

Somehow, Raine doubted it.

The man spoke into the mic of the headset.

“Yes, yes, he’s here, Mr. Stiles. He looks …” The scrawny man looked at Raine. “He looks set. No, sir. I will.” Putting a hand over the mic, he said, “Mr. Stiles—”

“Is ready to see me?”

The man nodded.

“Lead on.”

The assistant led Raine into a room lit by the glow of TVs all showing the same thing: a frozen shot of the words
MUTANT BASH.
In front of all these screens, people sat at control desks.

Sally had already told Raine that there was only one network. This was it, and Stiles ran its most popular show …

Where people battled mutants in an arena each week for money and for their lives.

Raine took in all the faces, finally settling on one that was familiar—he recognized it from the billboards he had seen around town. Stiles sat behind one of the control desks, at a good vantage point for all the monitors. He tapped one of the people sitting at the dials and whispered something as Raine came closer.

Like he’s pointedly trying to act busy before he talks to me.

And what a guy.

Easily the fattest human Raine had met in this world. Layers of excess blubbery skin around his neck. And yet Stiles sat with his legs crossed as though he was on a throne and not a director’s chair.

Raine stood there, scrawny assistant with a clipboard by his side.

When Raine looked away, the assistant rolled his eyes and gave him a nod indicating that he should give his full attention to Mr. Stiles.

The things one has to do just to stay alive.

Though Sally said this wasn’t the wisest step in that direction. She had offered to set him up, get him a vehicle of some kind to escape to a settlement where they might not worry about newcomers.

He simply asked: “Does such a place exist?”

And she had no answer.

Finally, Stiles turned to him and he got to see the man’s face, looking oddly inflated, with buggy eyes ready to pop out of his fat head. The man’s fingers looked way too stubby to operate the controls.

“Greetings, Mr. Raine; J.K. Stiles.”

For once Raine was happy that handshakes had gone the way of the dinosaurs and fast-food outlets.

Stiles pursed his lips as if that mouth wasn’t happy without something to chew or suck on.

“New to Wellspring, I hear?”

“Yeah.”

“Quite the show last night. Some race. Lot of unhappy people with that outcome, I can tell you.”

Stiles began laughing, a deep, phlegmy sound that looked to end with the blubbery bear of a man rolling onto the floor, dead.

“Want to explain your show to me? This Mutant Bash …”

Stiles became suddenly intense, his eyes gleaming. “Oh, eager, are we? Well, this, right here, is where … the magic happens.”

Christ.

“Not just the cameras, but all the surprises in the Bash are controlled from here. We like to keep the show fresh. Give the viewers something new, something that they haven’t seen every week.”

“Well, they haven’t seen me.”

Stiles let his smile fade. “Yes, but they’ve seen a lot of nobodies from nowhere walk into our studio arena before. And while they love newbies, they also love—” He cleared his throat, its product swallowed. “—seeing when they don’t walk out.”

“People like it when the mutants win?”

“Ohhh, no, Mr. Raine, no.
Nobody
likes mutants. Everybody wants to see the muties get theirs, and good. But not all at once, you see. They want”—he turned one of his paws into a fist and banged it down into the open palm of his other hand—“drama. Suspense.
Story
, Mr. Raine, story! Good over evil, human over beast. And you don’t get that without our side—the humans, the normal—taking some hits.”

Stiles’s use of the word “normal,” especially to include himself, seemed wildly misplaced.

Raine ached from the race. His body was still bruised and banged. He had felt the nanotrites kick in as soon as he lay down, and was nearly healed by morning, the dark purple bruises themselves all but faded. Yet there was still lingering pain.

Stiles leaned forward.

“From what I hear, you don’t have much choice. About being here.”

“That might explain my lack of enthusiasm.”

Stiles looked at him, the producer’s face now lapsed into a sneer. He wants to say something really nasty, Raine thought. But he’s holding back.

For now.

The nastiness, Raine guessed, would come in the arena later.

Which brought another, more chilling thought:
This man might have the power to kill me.

And then—

I better find out just what the hell I am getting myself into here …

“Want to explain to me what I will be doing?”

Stiles nodded, his scowl in place.

“Sure, why not? You’re gonna be a star, Raine—at least for a night. Might as well show you how it all works.”

Stiles had indicated a seat next to him, and then gestured to the largest monitor in the studio.

“What I’m going to do is show you some clips from a past Bash. A greatest hits, if you will. Just a taste …”

A porky index finger came down and the screen unfroze, and now Raine saw the arena, not much larger than a hockey rink.

Aerial cameras panned the area, showing boxlike structures painted with colors and giant numbers. Round beach balls the size of small trucks sat in one corner.

A playpen for a giant baby.

Then a cut—someone in the arena, holding something like a curved sword in one hand and club in the other.

“You can select up to two weapons of your choice from our stock. No projectile weapons, of course. See, that gives you an advantage already. Each mutant gets only one weapon.”

This made Stiles begin laughing again.

The man in the arena went up to the nearest box. He smashed at the sides, hitting the numbers dead center.

“You see that—what he’s doing there?—
that’s
important. Each bash has a hidden message. It’s a puzzle. You can’t just go in, run to the other side, and get out. You have to figure out the
puzzle
, and do something. This guy—well he had a number puzzle. The audience loves it. They play along at home.”

“But without the mutants? I thought—”

Another cut, and now the same guy was encircled by four mutants who moved around him counterclockwise.

“The better you do with the puzzle, the more muties get released. Or is it the worse you do?” The fat man giggled. “I can never remember.”

But Raine was now focused on the guy in the arena. The muties had him spinning, turning, trying to keep his eyes on the tightening chain of mutants.

“Always one against a bunch?”

“No. You never know. I mean I do. But not the basher. Sometimes there is team play. But this one here is a newbie. He has to get through alone. Not experienced mutants, though. A new batch. He should have done—”

A cut. And one mutant had charged and smashed the guy on the back of his head.

Didn’t knock him down.

Raine heard a cheer.

“—better.”

“You got an audience in there?”

“Oh, yes, that’s part of the excitement. A live studio audience. VIPs. Tell you, it’s hard to get a seat to the live show. ’Course, you’ll have the best seat in the house.”

The guy in the arena spun and stabbed at an attacking mutant—exactly the wrong move, as now the other three had a clear shot at him.

More blows from a mutant behind him, and the guy went to his knees.

Raine wanted to look away.

“And you don’t stop it? I mean, the guy lost.”

Stiles shook his head. “And deprive our faithful viewers?”

Sick world, Raine thought. What exactly made it this sick?

“Besides, Mr. Raine, you see … when they witness what happens to that poor fellow, they now want
payback
!”

Stiles had raised his voice.

“They wait for the next bashers to enter, for the rest of the story, so the mutants will get what they deserve, live and in color!”

Raine now had the thought that maybe running to some other settlement, no matter where, might be the better option.

But then again, he had faced mutants. He had certainly killed them before.

He had a chance here. That is, if Stiles didn’t rig the show against him.

Stiles killed the monitor.

“Okay, a few last details … then you can get ready, Mr. Raine.”

•  •  •

Somehow Stiles had been able to get his mammoth body out of its chair and walk over to what turned out to be a model of the arena.

He waved a hand over the open, empty space.

“You won’t know what’s in there until you get in. Once you enter the arena, we give you the puzzle and you will have to figure out what to do. Shouldn’t be too hard for someone smart like you to figure out.”

“And when I’ve solved it?”

“
If
you solve it—and you can fight past the mutants and head to what we call ‘home’ ”—he pointed at one end of the arena, where a door stood in the middle of the wall—“then you walk behind the outside walls and emerge in our studio for the post-Bash interview. Done by me, of course.”

Raine leaned forward. It wasn’t far from one end to the other. So that wasn’t the challenge.

“Do I have to
kill
all the mutants in the arena before I go through?”

Stiles shook his head. “No. Once you have shown us the solution to the puzzle inside the arena, you are free to go ‘home.’ If you can get there.”

Raine nodded.

There were things this bastard wasn’t telling him, he was sure of it.

Stiles’s nasty grin and piggy eyes did nothing to dispel that thought. “Nearly showtime, Mr. Raine; you best get ready …”

And suddenly the assistant was there, clipboard in hand, ready to lead him away.

R
aine looked at the table of weapons.

The selection didn’t seem to matter, not when you had an array of clunky clubs and homemade bladed weapons. He picked up the longest blade he could find, more of a pike with a sharpened tip and not much of an edge. For a club—he gave each one a heft. He wanted something light that could be whipped around easily. He found one that felt right.

“I’ll take these two.”

The assistant wrote down something on the clipboard.

“You gotta take a jacket.”

The assistant pointed to a rack with jackets, all bright colors.

“They all have tonight’s sponsor on them: SuperStim.”

“I have to wear one?”

“Yes. It’s in your—” He flipped through some pages. “—your contract. Somewhere.”

“I didn’t sign one,” Raine said. “Late addition to the program.”

The assistant misunderstood, the dialogue exceeding his intellect.

“No, you will be on first. You are the
first
Bash.”

“Which means—I guess—that I’m not expected to get out alive?”