Raze & Reap (10 page)

But … But…?

“Kisa!” Serge's voice cut through my panic. Suddenly appearing before me, his arms instantly scooped me off the floor. “What the hell?” he spat out before carrying me back to the car, placing me in the backseat. “Shit!”

He asked me several times what was wrong, but I didn't know what to say, what to believe … My mind kept replaying what I had just witnessed.

Brown eyes … rich chocolate-brown eyes, the left iris smudged with a flash of blue … the same color of my eyes.

“Kisa!” Serge called from the driver's seat as he fired up the car. “What happened? Were you harmed?”

I shook my head in response to his increasingly frantic questions, all the time gripping my seatbelt with fisted, trembling hands.

“Fuck! Then what?” Serge pushed. “Where did the man go? Why are you crying? Shaking?”

I met Serge's eyes with my vacant stare, still too busy replaying the scene in my head to really
see
him. It couldn't be Luka … It was impossible … He was dead …

My heart exploded like a cannon. Serge slammed his heavy fist down on the steering wheel and threatened, “Kisa! You tell me what's wrong or I'm telling your father that you took money from the gym and handed it out on the street to a homeless man like it was fucking Christmas!”

Silence filled the Lincoln. I took a deep breath, wrapped my arms around my waist, and I whispered, “I … I think I've just seen a ghost…”

 

8

818

“So are you ready to kill or are you ready to be killed?”

As I sat on the bench in the back room, the cries of hundreds of men shouting their bets beyond the door made my hands shake with nerves. 362 sat in front of me, smiling with a shit-eating grin as he wrapped his hand in a well-soiled white sports bandage.

This guy had been on my ass since I'd arrived a month ago. He was three years older than me, one of the best fighters in his division here at the Gulag, yet he immediately saw me as a threat. Three years his junior, I still matched his size. For a few weeks, the warden took me to a gym, made me train in fight techniques, telling me I would have my first match soon. Every day, I would wake, train, eat, and sleep. I had a routine, but my dreams were plagued with the boy I'd seen in the ring. The one with the dead look in his eyes, his opponent's guts on the canvas. I knew it would be me soon, forced to kill or be killed.

362 stared me down waiting for my answer.

“I'm going to kill whoever the fuck gets in that ring with me,” I promised. 362's smile just grew wider at my pissed-off tone. I focused my attention on the white tiled floor, psyching myself up for all that I'd worked for. My legs bounced as the noise from the cage grew louder, and I knew the current fight was coming to a close. My skin was twitching from the shot I'd been getting everyday. My muscles were growing, aching all the time. I was sweating constantly and I was agitated twenty-four-seven, the littlest thing pissing me off.

“You'll become addicted, you know,” 362 said, and my eyes slammed to his, fiery rage racing through my veins. His long black hair ran down his back, and he jerked his chin in the direction of the door that led to the cage. “Out there, all the men betting on your strength, on your will to survive. You'll become addicted. You'll live for the kill … live to see the life force drain from your opponents' eyes. In that cage we're both Gods and monsters.”

My mouth tightened and all my muscles tensed. “Never,” I spat back, my voice sounding deeper, rougher.

362 simply laughed.

“This is your first fight. You have no idea how it's going to feel,” he taunted.

Fists clenching, I said flatly, “I'm going to do what I need to do to get out of here. That's it. I'm not like you. I won't like it.”

362 jumped to his feet and approached me. I stood, the concrete cold beneath my feet, and we met face to face. I was Russian; some Georgian piece of shit wasn't going to best me.

“Not like me?” 362 quizzed. I clenched my jaw and glared into his fucking dead eyes. He smirked, then stepped farther forward until his feet touched mine. “You're gonna end up exactly like me. You're gonna die inside. You're gonna spill so much blood that it's all you'll see. At first, you'll hate it, but with each kill, you're gonna need it more and more, like some fucking drug. You're gonna change. Who you are now will no longer exist. You'll forget who you were. You'll forget anyone you ever loved.” 362's lip hooked into a dry smirk, but then his face went blank. “I've been here years.” His head tilted forward until his mouth was at my ear, but I held my ground. “And I have no fucking idea who I was before I was brought to this hell. And in time, neither will you.”

My breath came in hard pants, but then 362 moved back. Before I'd even seen him raise an arm, he ploughed his fist into my stomach, my legs buckling as I fell to the ground.

“Enjoy your first fight … I've seen your opponent. You shouldn't die tonight, as long as you keep your eyes alert and you don't pussy out.”

Spit landed on my cheek as I lifted myself off the ground and stumbled onto my feet. A sudden boom of raucous cheering erupted from the cage. My heart began to race. The gun in the basement sounded.

The current fight had ended.

One fighter had died.

The other now knew what it was like to kill.

And it was now my turn.

Footsteps sounded down the hallway outside, bolts unlatched, and the steel door flew open, a guard appearing before me.

“Out,” he ordered.

Glancing to the back booth in the locker room, I caught sight of 362 practicing with a sai, his bladed choice of weapon. The thin blade twirled around his fingers as he watched me pass, his face betraying no emotion.

The guard smirked as I strode toward him and held out my hand for him to cuff. My stomach tensed as he looked at me; my skin crawled in disgust.

Once my wrists were bound, the guard dragged me into the dank hallway, pulling me down a set of steep stairs until the door opened and I entered the mob of men surrounding the cage.

My breathing echoed in my ears as I approached the octagonal metal cage where the Gulag's warden waited. Some posts around the outside of the cage were manned by guards taking the spectators' money.

The guard at my back pushed me forward. Then he undid my handcuffs. The warden gripped me by the neck and threw me toward a table full of weapons.

“Chose,” he demanded.

Nervously, I looked at what was on offer: blades, axes, sai, chains … and at the end, a bladed pair of silver knuckledusters.

“Choose!” The warden sneered. “We don't have all fucking day!”

Reaching forward, I grabbed hold of the spiked knuckledusters, sliding them onto my damp hands, the feeling of steel against my skin so strange.

The guard behind gripped my arm and, turning me around to face the crowd, pointed to the number they'd tattooed on my chest—818. Dozens of eyes focused on me, and money began to change hands.

The guard made me stand for ages, like an animal on show. I surveyed the unfamiliar faces of the crowd, heart thundering in my chest, palms sweating, and the fear of imminent death almost paralyzing my legs. A firing gun sounded and, abruptly, the guard shoved me up some steps and into the claustrophobic octagon. A boy about my age clutched an axe; he was being pushed into the octagon from the opposite side.

My eyes were glued to his. He was about my height, but he was thinner. He too wore only black shorts, the number 591 tattooed across his chest.

As he stumbled into the cage, piss ran down his legs. I could see by the shaking of an axe in his right hand that he was terrified.

The cage doors slammed shut. The warden stood outside and banged on the cage wall, the sound sounding like thunder. “Only one of you comes out alive. No fucking around. No rounds. No breaks. Just kill.”

My eyes widened as I took in his words, but I knew this was what I was here for. I had to kill this boy in order to survive.

The boy looked across at me; by the way he stood, I knew he couldn't fight. But my papa had taught me from a young age how to take care of myself. I knew how to fight. I knew how to inflict pain … I knew how to kill.

A gun sounded, and the joint erupted. Men were hammering the cage like hungry animals; they shouted things I couldn't make out.

The warden bellowed for the fight to begin and adrenaline filled my muscles. My opponent stood frozen on the spot, his eyes roving the sick crowd in fear.

My pulse beat fast, the dull thumping deafening in my ears, drowning out the roar of the spectators.

“Move!” the warden screamed. He'd lost his shit. Our two guards stood at the doors behind us, rifles aimed straight at our heads. Self-preservation took hold; I moved to the center of the ring, my opponent receiving a hit on the head by his guard. The boy stumbled forward, crashing into my chest. The volume of the crowd dramatically rose as our bodies collided. Taking advantage of my stronger stance, I punched out my right hand and hit the boy square on his jaw. Blood showered the boy's face. Dazed, the boy fell back, hitting the floor. Seeing my chance, I straddled his waist and struck him again on the face. Surprise registered on the boy's face as blow after blow rained down on him. Teeth tumbled to the ground and his flesh tore under the spiked edges of my knuckledusters.

“Please…” the boy whispered, his quiet voice sounding like a foghorn in the middle of the insanity beyond the cage, “Don't kill me … I don't want to die … I'm scared…”

My gut twisted upon hearing his plea and my shoulders sagged. I was exhausted and out of breath. Glancing around the dimly lit dingy room, my eyes drank in the howling, bloodthirsty crowd, and my stomach recoiled in disgust. Grown men. Grown men cheering for kids to shred each other, to tear each other to death.

Wiping a bead of sweat from my brow with the back of my bandaged hand, I rolled off the whimpering 591 and staggered to my feet. The guards raised their guns at my movement. I hit the cage's metal mesh, which groaned as if it were in pain.

“What are you doing, boy?” one of the guards asked. Everything seemed to slow down, my pulse throbbing too slow.

The warden circled the cage until his angry face was inches from mine on the other side of the metal. “Get back and finish him!”

Nausea built in my throat as I looked at my guard's hard face. He had to be in his fifties and he was built like a tank. The barrel of his gun was aimed squarely at my forehead. “You have five seconds to get back over there and kill that pussy, or I'll shoot you both.”

I heard a similar threat being issued from the opposite side of the cage. Hearing a loud scream, I turned just in time to see 591 charging at me with his axe raised high. Though shocked at this move, I dodged out of the way and dove to the ground—just in time to see 591 crash into the metal of the cage, axe slamming hard against the steel links.

He whipped around to confront me, eyes crazed, the whiteness of gritted teeth shining through his bloodied mouth. 591 panted like a rabid animal. I knew then what had to be done.

My fight response kicked in, sending a surge of energy through my whole body. As 591 charged me, I dropped and wrapped a leg around his calf. 591 lost his balance. As he fell to the ground, without pause, I jumped on his back. I raised my knuckledusters, spiked blades pointing down, and with a fast punch and a deafening roar, lodged the blades into the bottom of his skull. Immediately, 591's body slackened beneath me.

A gun fired and the crowd roared as blood began gushing from 591's wound onto the concrete floor. Shocked, I couldn't move. Staring down, I saw that my bladed weapon was still embedded in his skull. I pulled the blades out, and vomit spilled from my mouth as chunks of bone and flesh came away with them.

A hand roughly gripped my neck, hauling me to my feet. A heavily booted foot pushed 591; his corpse rolled over. 591's lifeless eyes stared up at me, tearing at my guilty heart. I'd killed. I'd taken a person's life.

Staggering forward aided by a push on my back, I was once again dragged through the crowd of men, this time exchanging cash. My guard flung me on the floor of the locker room at the back of the basement.

The steel door creaked when slammed shut. I worked on taking long, deep breaths as I struggled with the pit of pain in my stomach. A pair of bare feet came into view. When I looked up, 362 towered over me, stretching his muscles and gripping his favored sai with both hands.

“Block it out,” he ordered.

Reluctantly, I raised my head and sat back on my heels, closing my eyes at the sight of blood spattered on my skin. When I opened them again, 362's attention was fixed on the steel door, but he threw a glance my way and added, “You have to block out the kill. Block out anything that stops you from surviving.”

I shook my head slowly, clenched my fists, and retched when a piece of bone fell from the knuckleduster and clattered to the ground.

“Block it all out. Survive. Take the beatings. Take the shots. Take the torture, the electric shocks to make you forget your past. Let them turn you. Let them fuck with your head. Let them turn you into a monster. Let them turn you feral.” 362 paused and added, “And anything else the guards want to throw your way when they enter your cell in the middle of the night. That's the only way to make it through the Gulag. The only way to stay alive.”