Strike (5 page)

A Retro guard stood outside of the door. When he saw me he gestured to a row of Porta-potties. He knew exactly why I had come out, because many other prisoners were doing the same thing. I passed several who were either coming or going from the facilities.

I found an empty stall, went inside to do my business, and got out before the putrid smell made me gag. After walking a few steps back toward the barracks, I stopped to take in the surroundings.

It seemed like we were in a prisoner-of-war camp right out of the history books, complete with wooden huts, armed guards, and high light-towers. The one thing I didn’t see was any kind of fence surrounding the place. Perhaps the miles of dry, empty desert that surrounded us were fence enough.

Out of nowhere, the sound of a car horn tore through the quiet night. Moments later two jeeps came screaming into a large clearing between the barracks. Both drivers were laying on their horns.

Two Retro guards standing near the potties looked to each other and smiled knowingly.

This wasn’t a normal occurrence. Something was definitely up.

The prisoners who were already outside made their way toward the clearing. Others wandered out from the various barracks to see what the commotion was.

The two jeeps rattled into the clearing and started chasing each other in a circle while kicking up dust into the cool, desert night. After multiple laps they stopped and faced each other about twenty yards apart. Each had their headlights shining on the other.

By now a circle of prisoners had gathered, forming a ring around the two vehicles. The guards lay back, keeping a watchful eye on them, poised and ready for trouble.

I pushed my way forward through the crowd until I had a good view of the dueling jeeps.

A soldier got out of one, strode forward, and stood in the beams from the two sets of headlights.

It was Major Bova.

I hoped he wasn’t there to play another warped game of Please.

He stood with his hands on his hips and slowly turned to survey the crowd that circled him.

The jeeps killed their engines.

The prisoners were dead silent.

“I hate this,” a guy next to me whispered.

“What’s going on?” I whispered back.

The guy didn’t answer, he just stared at Bova.

“Good evening!” Bova exclaimed. “I trust you all had a productive day.”

Silence.

“Yes, I’m sure you did. Before you retire to a well-earned rest, I’d like to provide you with some light entertainment. You know how much emphasis I put on the importance of running a safe, orderly camp. We don’t have many rules here and you are expected to obey them without question.”

Yeah, right. The Retros didn’t have many rules, but the rules they
did
have meant we lived like dogs . . . while working like silent slaves.

“Unfortunately,” he continued. “There are those who choose not to accept our system. That is why we are gathered here for tonight’s entertainment.”

It looked as though another example was about to be made. Bova was like a sadistic ringmaster in a circus of horrors. He strode around the inside of the circle with his arms raised, loving the attention. Besides the hundred or so prisoners who stood circling the jeeps, there were thousands of others who watched from inside their barracks, peering out through the small windows.

“Earlier today, two young men foolishly tried to leave us. To escape. The desert is a cruel and punishing place where they would surely have died from exposure. The way I see it, by preventing their departure we actually saved their lives. They will be allowed to thank me afterward.”

He smiled, brushed his hair from his eyes, and added, “At least one of them will.”

A pair of guards emerged from each jeep. Each pair held a prisoner between them. The prisoners struggled to get away but the guards were too strong. They dragged the orange-clad victims into the beams of the headlights.

“I am a forgiving man,” Bova continued. “I will let this lapse of judgment go unpunished . . . for one of them.”

The guy next to me sighed and turned to walk away.

“Wait, what’s going to happen?” I whispered.

“I’ve seen this sick game before, I don’t need to see it again,” he said and trudged back to his barracks.

“One will be forgiven!” Bova declared. “The other will die. We’ll leave it up to them to decide who deserves to live.”

The guards shoved the two prisoners down into the dirt.

The overhead floodlights went out. The only light on the field came from the headlights of the two jeeps. I realized with horror that this had been staged for full dramatic effect. Bova stood between the two prisoners who lay in the dirt.

“One will sleep well tonight,” he declared. “One will die . . . at the hand of the other.”

“No,” I whispered to nobody in particular. “They’re going to fight to the death?”

Bova raised his arms and said, “The rules of this game are simple. Whichever of you deserves to live . . . will. Good luck!”

Bova backed out of the light.

The circle of prisoners watching this horrible spectacle was deathly silent. All I could hear was the steady, labored breathing of the two fighters.

They looked to each other and slowly, cautiously, got to their feet.

I finally got a good look at their faces.

It felt like a punch to the gut.

One of the fighters . . . was Kent Berringer.

K
ent stood a few inches taller than his opponent. His beach-blond hair had started to darken and grow longer since we’d left Pemberwick Island, a reminder of how long it had been since we left home. Seeing him was a relief, not only because he had lived through the crash, but because it meant there was a chance that my mother and Tori had survived as well.

I actually felt a surge of hope for the first time since I had woken up in this nightmare of a camp.

Kent Beringer was alive.

At least for the moment.

He was a strong athlete. I knew that from playing football with him at Arbortown High. He was a few years older than me, a senior, though thinking of life in terms of high school years felt so strange to me now. He was a rich kid—there’s no other way to put it. But as privileged as he was, he was also tough. And fast. If he wasn’t too terrified to move, he’d have a chance.

The other guy was short but stocky, as if he’d spent a little too much time lifting weights. Or countless shovelfulls of dirt. He looked as though he had the advantage in strength, but Kent knew how to move.

The question was, did Kent also know how to kill?

The two faced each other, tentatively.

Kent looked scared and I didn’t blame him.

His foe seemed more focused as he stared back, sizing up the guy he would have to kill in order to survive.

“The short guy’s done this before,” a guy next to me whispered. “The blond kid doesn’t stand a chance.”

The two stood there for a solid thirty seconds, like two gunslingers waiting for the other to twitch.

I wanted to jump in and help Kent but that would probably mean suicide for both of us. I doubted that Bova’s rules covered fan interference.

The crowd of prisoners watched with silent anticipation.

Major Bova stepped up onto the hood of the jeep to my left.

“Was I wrong?” he bellowed. “Perhaps neither of you deserves to live.”

That was all the encouragement the dark-haired guy needed. He let out a low growl that came from somewhere deep and primal . . . and charged for Kent.

Kent put up his fists as if getting ready to box. It was probably the only way he knew how to fight.

He was in way over his head.

The guy was nearly on him when Kent took a swing. He actually caught the guy in the side of the head, but he might as well have hit him with a pillow for all the good it did. The guy blasted right into him, stuck his head into Kent’s chest and knocked him back off of his feet. Kent hit the ground hard, flat on his back, grunting from the impact.

The guy went right for his throat. He wrapped his hands around Kent’s neck and started to squeeze.

Kent’s adrenaline must have finally kicked in because he grabbed the guy’s hands, but rather than pry them off, he kicked his legs up and back, flipping the guy over his head. The dark-haired prisoner hadn’t expected that and landed on his back.

“Bravo!” Bova shouted, clapping his hands with delight.

The Retro guards cheered and whistled like it was some MMA event, not a battle to the death. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had put bets down on who they thought would walk away alive.

None of the prisoner spectators reacted. They seemed as horrified at the scene as I was . . . or maybe they were also imagining what it would be like if they were the ones who had to fight for their lives.

Kent was now fully into the fight. He flipped over and jumped to his feet faster than his opponent, who was still struggling to catch his breath. I’d seen Kent hit ball carriers on the football field. He was fearless and fast. I willed him to drive into this guy and take him down like he did so many running backs. He charged at the squat guy and hit him just as he was standing up and turning around. The guy didn’t have time to brace himself. Kent got low and drove his shoulder into his chest. I heard the man grunt at the moment of impact.

Kent kept driving his legs, pushing the guy backward until he hit the grill of the jeep to my right. There was a sickening thud and another sharp groan of pain when his body made contact.

The guards in the jeep didn’t so much as flinch. They’d seen fights like this before.

Kent leaned back, pulled his opponent up by the front of his coveralls with one hand, and nailed him with a punch that snapped the guy’s head to the side.

That woke his opponent up. He threw a punch at Kent, but held back before connecting. It was a fake.

Kent threw up an unnecessary block. That gave the guy the opening he needed to deliver the real blow. He used his foot to sweep out Kent’s legs and sent my friend crashing to the sand. The guy looked as though he had some martial arts training. Before Kent hit the ground, he was already throwing controlled kicks to his head and chest.

Kent landed flat on his stomach and threw his arms up to try to ward off the vicious blows. It was no use; he was losing. In desperation, he crawled for the jeep he was lying next to and scrambled underneath, while being continually kicked.

“Please! No hiding!” Bova called out, taunting.

Kent wasn’t hiding. He didn’t stop under the jeep but kept crawling until he came out the other side.

His opponent rounded the jeep to try to get there before Kent could stand up.

Too late. Kent leapt up, grabbed the hood of the jeep and launched himself feet first at the attacker. His timing was perfect. He caught the guy in the gut with both heels, sending him tumbling backward while pinwheeling his arms in a desperate attempt to stay on his feet. He failed and hit the ground, again.

I expected and hoped that Kent would take advantage and jump on the guy, but he was exhausted. After getting kicked multiple times, he couldn’t catch his breath. He had to hold onto the side of the jeep to keep from falling over as he gasped for air.

His opponent wasn’t in any better shape. He lay flat on his back with his chest heaving.

Both of them were exhausted and probably badly injured.

“Good show!” Bova exclaimed. “I think we’re all ready for round two!”

It was as if he expected the crowd to roar back their approval.

For the record, they didn’t.

“We don’t have to do this,” Kent’s opponent called to him, sucking wind.

I was surprised to hear him say anything to Kent, let alone something that showed defiance to Bova.

“They’re just using us to threaten everybody else,” he added.

I looked to Bova.

The commander stood on top of the other jeep with his arms folded across his chest. He seemed intrigued by this new development.

The guards hadn’t moved, though they kept stealing glances at Bova, expecting him to do something.

The circle of prisoners pulled in a bit tighter, as if drawn to the drama that was playing out.

“Yeah, so?” Kent called out between pained breaths.

“We’re all going to die here,” the guy called back. “I don’t want to do it for their entertainment. I’d rather make a stand.”

Kent glanced up to the guards who stood over him in the jeep.

They didn’t budge.

He looked over to Bova.

Bova gave him a shrug as if to say, “Don’t look at me. This is your fight.”

I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t want either of these guys to kill the other. But if they refused to fight, would Bova kill them both? After what I’d seen him do to the prisoner who tried to steal water, I didn’t doubt it.

Though there were hundreds of people watching the drama, it was so deathly quiet in that clearing that I could hear the heavy breathing from both fighters.

Kent did a slow scan of the circle of prisoners who were all staring at him. He was looking for help. Or at least some sign that he wasn’t in this alone.

He didn’t get any.

The dark-haired guy slowly pulled himself to his feet.

“What do you say?” he called out. “Are we going to die with dignity? Or for their entertainment?”

Kent took a deep breath, let go of the jeep, and stood up tall.

“Alright,” he called out. “I’m done.” He backed away from the jeep while looking up at the guards who loomed above him. “This is bull. If we’re going to die, you’ve got to kill us. We’re not going to put on a show for you.”

A concerned murmur went through the crowd. Nobody called out or cheered. It was more a muted sigh of relief, but it was the first sign of life I’d seen from the prisoners. It proved that they hadn’t given up yet, and it gave me a small hint of hope.

I couldn’t have been any more proud of my friend. I dreaded to think of what might happen to him because of his stand, but he had shown something I’d never seen from him before.

Courage.

Kent turned his back on the guards and walked slowly toward the crowd, limping. He was hurt but didn’t let that stop his show of defiance.

The dark-haired guy walked toward the jeep.

I expected Bova to shout out a warning to them, but none came. He watched them both with a cautious yet amused eye.

The short prisoner made it to the jeep. He stopped there and then, with one quick and surprising move, he reached inside and pulled out a dark piece of metal that looked like a heavy crowbar or a piece of pipe.

Before the guards could react, the guy took off running . . . after Kent.

Kent was still turned away from him. He had no idea.

The people in the crowd barely had time to react. A few people called out, “Look out!” and “No!”

Too late.

The guy jumped Kent and swung the bar around his neck. The two fell to the ground as the guy jammed his knee into Kent’s back for leverage while pulling the bar back against his throat.

I reacted without thinking.

I jumped from the crowd and ran for them.

Kent grabbed at the bar, desperate to relieve the lethal pressure. It was futile. The guy was about to crush his windpipe. He had seconds to live . . . unless I could get to him first.

The guy’s back was to me, which gave me an extra few seconds. When I got to within a few yards I threw myself at him, nailing his back with my shoulder. If it hurt me, I didn’t feel it. I was too charged up to care. The guy grunted and went limp for a brief moment, just long enough for him to drop the metal pipe and release Kent.

He tensed back up quickly and the fight was now between the two of us. We rolled in a jumble of arms and legs, each thrashing to get away from the other.

I saw the pipe on the ground and stretched for it.

The other guy went for it too.

I got it first. I swept it off the ground and swung it in his direction with everything I had. I caught him square on the side of the head and he dropped instantly. Either I had knocked him out cold, or he didn’t want to fight any more, because he lay there in the sand without moving. I waited a few seconds to make sure he wasn’t pulling another cowardly fake, but he didn’t budge. He was truly done.

Looking around I saw Kent lying on his back a few feet away. I crawled over to him, but kept hold of the pipe . . . just in case.

Kent was on his stomach. I grabbed his shoulder, ready to roll him over, but hesitated out of fear for what I might see. Was he dead? How long did it take to crush somebody’s windpipe?

I steeled myself and pulled him over to see that his eyes were open . . . and searching. He was dazed, but alive.

“It’s me,” I said. “Fight’s over.”

It took a few seconds for Kent to focus on me. There was a moment of confusion in his eyes as if he thought he was seeing a ghost. A moment later, he smiled.

“Rook!” he said with a raspy whisper. “Who won?”

“I’d call it a draw,” Bova said.

I spun quickly to see the commander strolling toward us, followed by two of his guards. He was in no hurry. We weren’t going anywhere. He now carried a black baton gun.

“This didn’t play out anything like I expected,” Bova said, half to us and half to the crowd. “Though I can’t say I’m disappointed. Such drama! An even fight. A bold show of defiance that turned out to be a cowardly betrayal, and of course, a selfless act to save a life. Bravo!”

The idea that he had enjoyed this horror as if it were a show put on for his amusement turned my stomach. I thought about taking a swing at him with the pipe but realized he would shoot me before I got close enough to do any damage.

“What is your number?” he asked me. “You can speak. Please.”

“You tell me,” I said and turned my back to him.

Bova stopped walking suddenly, as if I had slapped him. He stared at me with those sparkling eyes. I tensed up, expecting him to raise his weapon and blast me into oblivion.

Instead, he laughed.

“I remember you, Zero Three One One,” he said, almost jovially. “You were there to enjoy my little game earlier. Quite the busy day for such a young lad. I trust you will remember it for a good long time.”

Bova stepped away and addressed the circle of anxious prisoners.

“I trust you will
all
remember this for a good long time,” he announced. “In spite of the dramatic turn of events, punishment must still be given.”

Kent’s opponent sat up slowly, shaking himself back to clarity.

“We gathered here to determine which of these escapees deserved to live,” Bova continued. “That has not changed. If not for the interference of this young man, the tall one would most certainly be dead.”

Bova strolled toward the dark-haired prisoner and held out his hand.

“Please,” Bova said with a smile.

The guy tentatively took Bova’s hand and was helped to his feet.

Bova stepped away and addressed the crowd.

“This prisoner saw that the fight was very much in doubt and made a tactical decision, hoping it would turn the tide in his favor.”

Bova strolled up to Kent and me. I felt Kent tense up, preparing for the worst.

“He deceived the tall one into making a grand, rebellious gesture that would demonstrate the disdain he felt toward his captors . . . and lower his defenses. It was a clever ploy, for his treachery almost won him the fight.”

The dark-haired prisoner actually smiled as he soaked up the praise.

Bova walked back to him and stood staring him square in the eye.