The Survivalist: Madness Rules Part 19

By the time darkness arrived, the entire landing was packed with people-easily two hundred, ranging from teenagers seeking a thrill to old men seeking a buck. The weather was warm enough that many of the spectators had pulled off their s.h.i.+rts, including some of the women. They danced around, screaming and shouting like punks at a college rave, only instead of DJs and dancing, they were looking forward to violence in its rawest form.

Commando had stayed on as well. Whether it was to watch the fights or keep an eye on Tanner, he wouldn't say.

A thick-necked man, who probably competed himself, walked to the center of the arena with a slip of paper in his hand.

"All right, listen up!" he shouted. "We have a special event to start off this evening's festivities. To my right is Tanner, a first-time fighter determined to be the only combatant to ever win three consecutive bouts."

The crowd came alive, the jeers and boos far outnumbering the cheers.

"He stands at six-foot-four and weighs," he looked over at Tanner, "let's call it two-hundred-and-forty pounds. His first fight will be against Gerard, a master of savate." The announcer gestured toward a tall, lanky man with long brown hair and a pointed goatee. He wore a pair of tight-fitting stretch pants and a white t-s.h.i.+rt. "Gerard's record is eleven wins and two losses. The odds are currently..." he looked over at a man who held four fingers in the air, "four to one in favor of Gerard. I invite you to place your bets. The fight will begin shortly."

Tanner watched as people sized him up like he was a head of cattle being put on the auction block. Based on what they knew, any smart man would surely bet against him. A few who liked to play longshots might give him a go, but surely not risking much. Rather than bring supplies with them, people exchanged simple promissory notes. Tanner could only a.s.sume that the Merchant and his organization helped to ensure that deadbeats were properly punished.

Gerard moved into the arena, jumping up and down and pumping his arms to get the crowd to feed off his energy.

They did. Pretty soon, many began shouting, "Gerard! Gerard! Gerard!"

While everyone was looking at Gerard, Snaps hurried over to Tanner.

"Watch his kicks. He likes to go for the knees."

Tanner nodded his thanks.

Snaps patted him on the back.

"Just so you know, I got a little something riding on you."

Before Tanner could reply, the announcer called the two fighters to the center of the arena. When both were standing in front of each other, the announcer leaned in.

"There are no time limits and no breaks. You fight until someone is down for good. Questions?"

Gerard suddenly lunged forward and shouted in Tanner's face. His eyes were laced with thick red veins, likely the result of some kind of amphetamine. Tanner felt his blood pressure rise, but he made no move to push the man back. It was the oldest trick in the book to get in a cheap shot at the expense of an agitated opponent. Seeing that he couldn't goad Tanner into doing something stupid, Gerard stepped back and gave him a toothy smile.

The announcer told the two fighters to return to their sides of the arena. Once they had, he retreated and motioned for the fight to begin.

Tanner knew what to expect even before Gerard charged forward. The kickboxer was wired on something, and the drugs filled him with energy just busting to get out. That would likely prove to be both an advantage and a disadvantage. Gerard would be fast and strong, but also careless and operating with less than perfect form. And despite the man's expertise in savate, being a good sixty pounds lighter would be difficult to overcome.

They closed to within a few steps.

Gerard leaped at him with a quick jab. There was little behind it, and Tanner batted it away. Without pausing, Gerard whipped a roundhouse kick to the outside of his thigh. It was quick and powerful and slapped his leg with enough force to rupture blood vessels.

Instinctively, Tanner dropped the point of his elbow directly onto the man's ankle. There was a m.u.f.fled crunching sound as bone met bone. Gerard hopped back a few steps, testing to see whether he could put weight on the injured foot.

Tanner advanced, giving him no time to recover.

Gerard fired three quick punches, a jab, cross, and then an uppercut. All three hit Tanner in the face, and all three hurt, but none stopped his advance. He grabbed Gerard's hair and pulled the man's face down into a powerful knee strike. The blow broke Gerard's nose and probably would have ended the fight had he not managed to grab Tanner's back leg.

He jerked up, trying to upend Tanner like a mountain giant trying to uproot a tree. Tanner sprawled backward, driving the man down into the dirt beneath him. Gerard rolled away and scrambled back to his feet, wiping the blood from his face.

Tanner slowly stood back up and stared at him. The energy in the man's eyes had turned to panic.

"Walk away," he mouthed.

Gerard looked around. People were shouting for him to fight, waving their fists with anger. Bets were on the line, and he was supposed to be the surefire winner. The fear in his eyes slowly subsided, replaced by uncontrolled rage. He started toward Tanner, ignoring the pain of his injured ankle and the fresh trickle of blood dripping off his goatee.

When he got close enough, he leaned away and kicked his heel toward Tanner's s.h.i.+n. It was a vicious kick, unique to savate, designed to break an opponent's leg. To be effective, however, it relied on the proper angle as well as leverage-neither of which Tanner allowed him to have. As soon as Gerard's foot left the ground, Tanner shuffled forward and swung an elbow to the side of the man's head. The blow was short but driven by all of his upper body ma.s.s as well as the twist of his hips.

Gerard's head spun sideways as his jaw dislocated and blood sprayed from his mouth. He was already on his way to the ground when Tanner caught him with a short cross from the other direction. Gerard landed flat on his back, his head c.o.c.ked up at an odd angle, blood oozing out from his nose and mouth. Had it been personal, Tanner would have put a boot to him, but as it was, he simply stepped back to see if the man had any fight left in him.

He didn't.

Snaps hustled in and squatted down next to the fallen man. He made a quick gesture to indicate that he was alive. Two beefy men moved in and dragged Gerard out by his arms. When the arena was clear, the announcer returned to stand in the center.

"The first fight goes to Tanner!" he shouted. The crowd was too busy settling bets to really pay much attention to him. He turned to Tanner. "You've got five minutes before the next fight."

Tanner nodded and walked over to his side of the arena. His thigh hurt, and he ma.s.saged it, hoping to reduce any chance of cramping.

Snaps hurried over.

"Here," he said, handing him a bottle of lukewarm water.

"Thanks." Tanner tipped the bottle up and didn't turn it back down until it was empty. The fight hadn't really taken much out of him, but it had been a long day. He let out a deep belch.

"I knew you were a fighter," Snaps said with an admiring smile.

"You get your payout?"

"Four fold, even." He looked around as if wanting to make sure no one was listening. "I got word on the next fight."

"Who's it going to be?"

Snaps nodded toward a barrel-chested man sitting on a folding lawn chair. Two other men were talking to him. All three had their eyes set on Tanner.

"That's Captain Ford. The way I hear it, he used to be the star quarterback before going off to fight in the war. Came back with a chest full of medals and something not quite right in his head. He was awaiting trial for murdering his wife when the pox hit. His two brothers let him out of jail, and no one's cared enough to try to put him back in."

Tanner recalled his own fortuitous escape from prison.

"He's only fought a handful of times," continued Snaps, "but he fights like he's fighting for his life. He won't go down easy."

"Good to know."

"I'm going to let everything ride on you. The odds are three to one. That'd be big for me. Real big."

"You do what you want. It won't make any difference how hard I fight."

"I know that," Snaps said, looking down. "I just wanted you to know that I'm with you. We're in this together, right?"

Tanner set his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Sure we are, kid."

By the time the announcer finished his second round of introductions, the crowd was starting to get wound back up. Captain Ford was a town favorite, a war hero who had beaten the unfair justice system. He had only fought six times in the arena but had yet to lose a single bout. He had also killed two of his opponents by repeatedly stomping on their throats, which further endeared him to those who enjoyed the more bloodthirsty compet.i.tions.

As the announcer finished reminding them of the rules, Captain Ford stepped forward and smiled, showing off a couple of gold crowns. He was nearly a full head shorter than Tanner but as stout as a pit bull.

"Have you heard about me?"

"Some kind of war hero, right?"

"That's right. I spent two years over there. And believe me, I killed a lot of men. A lot."

"Good for you."

"They say I have PTSD."

"You sure it's not PMS?" Tanner said, grinning.

Captain Ford's face and neck burned a bright red.

"I'm gonna kill you for that. Do you understand what I'm saying? This is the last day of your miserable life."

Tanner stared into the man's eyes and saw only hatred. Hatred for his wife. Hatred for his country. But most of all, hatred for himself.

"You do what you need to, Captain, and I'll do the same."

"I can see this one's going to be fun," the announcer said, shaking his head.

They retreated to opposite corners, each man never taking his eyes off the other. The announcer shouted from the sideline for the fight to begin.

If Snaps was to be believed, Captain Ford was a ruthless murderer. Even if that tidbit had been intentionally planted to give him reason to fight, it didn't change the fact that the captain was suffering from some kind of post-traumatic lunacy. That meant he was dangerous, not knock-your-teeth-out dangerous, but stomp-your-brains-out kind of dangerous. Tanner would have to be careful.

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 p.i.s.s 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 h.e.l.l 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 ma.s.s, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.h.i.+rt.

"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. .h.i.t 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 s.h.i.+rt 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?"