He Runs (Part One) (13 page)

'Just trying to be inventive, lad!'

'That it is,' says Man. 

A loud crack and the squelching sound of innards hitting a hard surface forces Man to turn his attention to the arena. The thin man stands victorious, his garden fork red, each prong skewered through guts like a kebab.

'Excellent show!' says Mick as he rises to his feet and claps. Soon a booming applause engulfs the arena and the victor is dragged away, ready to face another opponent. No time to relish in his bittersweet victory. Mick sits down and the clapping abates. 'Next one, next one,' he utters in a hurried time. 'I can’t see too well, lad. I hope he didn’t rip the liver from that one. It’s my favourite cut. Thrown together with onions and a splash of ale.’

‘My mother used to make that,’ says Man, his voice sighing in a nostalgic riff.

‘Bet it was better quality than these bloody weaklings! Now then, lad, are you going to do us all a favour and get in that bloody arena? Bit of fun for the fans, like. Nothing too serious. Just a bit of a
dust
up. We haven't seen you in action since day one. Of course the lads have, when you’ve been sparring with them. They enjoy it, relish the challenge of trying to take you down. They all tell me. They can’t wait to take you on a proper hunt. For proper meat!'

Man shakes his head from side to side, glancing over at Kevin and relishing the thought of splitting his skull in two.

'Not today,' he says. 'I'm still not back to full health.'

'That's because you're eating fucking cheese and rabbit food. Come to the dark side, my friend. Eat man flesh. It’s no crime against fucking nature or God or anything like that. God spoke to me, lad. He told me that this is fucking nature’s way. Always has been. The meek are consumed by the strong. Kill or be killed. Live or die. Eat with us, lad, and you'll have powers you wouldn't have even dreamed of!' 

'No.'

Mick looks at him, a snarl forming in his throat, an outburst ready to explode at Man's sturdy defiance. Luckily for Man, it dissipates quickly.

'Okay, son. But you'll come around. Sooner or later, they all do.'

'Rose didn't,' says Man, the words escaping before his brain can shut his mouth. 

'Don't trouble yourself with the business of whores, lad!' 

'What?' The rage, the black, seething mass that resides in Man's chest begins to bubble. He knows that his next words should be chosen very, very carefully but a recklessness seizes him. 

'Don't tell me you didn't know,' states Mick, nonchalantly. 'We've all had a go, lad. I bet you have, too!' 

Before Man can respond Kevin begins to laugh, his rasping breath cutting through Man's defences; his sloping, inbred eyes widening with the pleasure of causing pain. 

'I've changed my mind,' says Man. 'I'll fight today.' 

'Good lad!' says Mick loudly. 'How many of them do you want? Three? Four?'

'I have no interest in fighting invalids, Mick. I want that cunt!' Man's arm points straight at Kevin. He looks down at his arm, sees the white scars; they’ve healed nicely. He'll not be adding one today. Dogs don’t count, no matter how loyal they are.

'Really?’ says Mick, ‘That could be interesting.' 

Kevin leans over, his face a crooked, smiling mess of scars, tales of battles won messily. 

'I'll fight the fucker!' says Kevin. 

'It’s settled then. But not to the death, eh? I need the both of you.' 

'Whatever you want, Mick,' spits Kevin. 

Man looks over, wild eyed and feeling gloriously violent, the adrenaline soaring through his veins like specialised fuel, ready to enhance his performance. Their eyes meet again and Man knows that one of them will not survive the contest. It is not in Kevin’s nature to go easy. He’s a killer, not an entertainer.

Mick stands up while the vanguard remain seated. His thick, plangent voice is fitting of an orator. He ruffles his clothes slightly, a visible sign of his giddiness. 

'LISTEN HERE!' he booms. 'WE HAVE A NEW CONTEST! OUR MYSTERIOUS GUEST, THE MAN KNOWN ONLY AS…”MAN”, VERSUS KEVIN THE KILLER! A FIST FIGHT…DUSTERS ONLY! GO ON THEN, CHEER THEM ON YA PACK OF BASTARDS!' 

A seemingly forced cheer erupts from the crowd and the two stick-thin fighters in the arena look on, their faces filled with relief. 

'Kevin,' says Mick as he sits down, 'kill them two before you have at it. It'll warm you up.'

'No problem, sir,' says Kevin.

Kevin stands up, unsheathes a kukri knife from a brown and faded leather holder that hangs at his side. The curved blade glimmers in the sun, rays of light firing off with each swing of steel. He walks at full pace towards the two combatants who stand frozen, unsure of what to do, where to run. Without warning the tall, gangly man holding the garden fork falls victim to a fatal bout of courage, rushes with all of his speed towards Kevin, who stops, his arms outstretched to the sides, the blade of the kukri shimmering beautifully. The rushing man lunges at Kevin, a dedicated thrust of his alternative trident, but his target pirouettes to the side, brings the kukri down hard and fast with natural power. The blade slices though the man's neck at a diagonal angle, severing tendons and ligaments and veins. The life rushes out of him as he falls, the kukri embedded four inches into his neck. 

Kevin turns, his instinct telling him to watch for the other man. He still stands in the same spot, his weapon lying on the floor, face contorted into a picture of fear, his raggedy brown pants dark with piss. He turns and runs, as fast as he can, a final effort at freedom. Kevin laughs, reaches into his pocket and retrieves a small, handle-less knife. He holds it out, the tip following its target from side to side. A quick flash of silver, the well-trained movement of arm joints and the man drops, the small blade embedded in the base of his skull. An instant kill, the spinal cord destroyed. 

The crowd explodes in a roar of applause as Kevin removes his kukri with a bloody heave. Some more of the vanguard join him on the field, start dragging the bodies over hardened soil, leaving bloody red smears for the earth to drink in.

'Make sure I get that fuckin' knife back!' says Kevin to one of his men. 'It's my favourite knife!' 

The thug nods and carries on with the body removal. 

Mick's clapping hands abate and he looks at Man, a black glimmer of evil in his soulless eyes. 

'It's your turn, son. Give 'em a good show, eh?' 

Man nods, stands up and weaves through the seated goons to a chorus of boos and insults. He smiles, looking around at the idiots who would all but shit themselves if they ever stood before him. He's faced much, much worse. 

He looks through the crowd, spots a flowing head of red hair, the only one like it in the village, and the pale, beautiful skin that sits beneath it. 

'She said she wasn't coming!' he whispers to himself, and remembers how Mick called her a whore and then how Kevin laughed. 

A shot of lightning bursts through his brain and reality quickly disappears, dissolving into a black universe that consumes him. A flash of light and then he sees Rose in a dark room, chained and naked and bent over a table. Kevin stands behind her, trousers round his ankles, his scarred face illuminated with the joy of the orgasm to come. Man can smell the room, the muskiness of mould, soon to be invaded by the smell of fear and sweat. His hands tighten, gripping nothing in particular. 

As the World races back to him he finds himself standing in front of Kevin and instinctually a hand reaches for his crescent-moon blade. He stops it, rests his hands on his hips, opening up his chest and rotating the shoulder joints; the only warm up he has time for. 

A gormless, meaty thug comes at them from the side, explains that he's to be the referee for the bout. He asks them both to hand over any blades they have. They oblige, throwing their blades on the floor and he hands each of them a pair of brass knuckles. He waxes lyrical on the rules but Man knows them already. DONT. KILL. KEVIN. Even if it’s the only thing he really wants to do. 

He slips the brass knuckles over the bony ones, enjoys the coldness of metal on his skin. He's used them once before. They're good. They work. 

The referee brings them together, leans in and speaks:

'Don't really hurt each other! Give them a show. A few jabs, nothing heavy. Brass breaks skin and bone. Now, break!'

Man knows exactly what they do, the pleasure of such violence forcing his grim expression into a rebellious smile. He turns after four paces, looks at Kevin, topless now, his muscularity defying an unflattering amount of body hair. His eyes are wide and red, feral. He hits himself in the face twice with armoured hands, splits the skin of his upper lip. The blood trickles onto his chest and he rubs it in, shouts something that Man chooses not to hear. 

Silence has entered into Man's world, the calm before the bloody storm, the temporary paralysis of the adrenal gland; it's been nearly a month since his last confrontation. That’s a long time. Too long. He looks up at the sky and prays to nothing in particular that he hasn't got rusty. 

'FIGHT!' screams the referee, and Kevin moves in, fists held high, protecting the chin. 

Man mimics his foe, holds his hands out, fingers stretched through brass, chin forced into his chest. 

Blood hungry eyes meet under a burning summer sun, the hatred of two souls, two beasts that sit at the high end of the food chain; competition, the natural kind, the way things were done before society forced the Western world into a democracy where wits outpaced violence. Since then, everything has changed, as if the Earth's centrifugal energy has been reversed leaving remnants of a time long-gone in a place that has drastically devolved. 

Kevin lunges in, throws a clumsy right hook. Man sees it, bobs his head backwards with a lazy kind of grace. It's all in the shoulders, that's what they taught him. Arms move from the shoulders, the shoulders move because of the brain. Watch the shoulders, you see the punches. 

Kevin follows up with two left jabs, a diversion for the overhand right that follows. It grazes Man's chin as he slips it, nothing but a wakening blow. As Kevin’s fist sails past his face, Man can smell the metallic tang of brass, breathes it in and savours it. He steps to Kevin's side, lands a stinging left hook behind the ear, splitting the skin like cling film. Redness drips from Kevin's head, adds to the drying black smears on his chest and he turns, angered at the blow, throwing punches wildly, arms spinning like windmills, his mouth open wide revealing a set of blackened whites. 

Man backtracks, stays just out of his attacker's reach. The heat, the blazing sun does its job and quickly tires Kevin. Man smiles as he watches muscles and tendons slow down, lactic acid blowing through fibres like a tsunami. One lunge too many and Kevin is off balance, head leaning forward, chin away from the safety of his chest. 

Instinct kicks in, rolls Man's shoulder back and upwards, a glimmer of golden brass flying straight to the sun. 

The uppercut hits Kevin's chin with the force of a car crash, his eyes roll back and his arm reaches out for someone to break his fall.

********************

Kevin's jaw has turned to jelly under the weight of brass, Man's face a red spotted tale of a brutal mauling. The crowd is ecstatic, gleeful at the sight of such a merciless enforcer being beaten to within an inch of his life. 

In the distance Man can hear Mick's cries and cannot tell if they are good or bad. Either way, his job is done. He looks through the crowd, the vision in his bad eye enhanced with adrenalin; he finds the voluminous red head, searches her face for signs of approval. There is none. Only one of disgust followed by a look of disappointment. Man lowers his head and turns away from her, slips the brass from his left hand and wipes his face, smearing the droplets into a blood mask, a tribal costume. 

He hears a distinct voice, the growl of the callous, bloated leader. 

'DANNY! GET BACK, DANNY! IT'S NOT YOUR FIGHT!'

Man looks up, sees a figure rushing towards him. He sees a skinny man with a shaved head and neatly kept moustache that borders on pubescent. He is topless, his muscles lean and skin tight. He does not know what to make of it until he sees the silvery glimmer of a crescent moon in his right hand. A quick glance shows Man the referee, stirring on the floor about twenty yards away. Beaten and bloodied. The rushing figure has stolen Man’s blade. 

Man drops his stance, low and limber, arms out stretched for measuring the distance. He's braced for it, ready to chance himself against the unforgiving cruelty of the blade. 

The figure charges, arm kept low, ready to swing up in a maniacal arc, aimed straight at Man's throat. 

Man knows just what to do, how to stop the blade getting anywhere near him. 

The figure attacks just as Man anticipated, the crescent blade arcing in a sideways angle, aimed at his carotid artery. Man meets him in the middle, the brass armoured knuckles mimicking the arc of the karambit. A clash of steel and brass, the power of battle hardened muscle forcing the knife out of the attacker’s hand. Man does not let him recover; he pounces on him, drags him to the floor and rolls through dried dirt. Man sees his chance, mounts the figure, knees slamming straight up into his victim’s armpits. The figure bucks to escape but his attempts are futile.