JOURNAL ENTRY #36

 

More than likely this will be my last journal entry.

How weird is that?

 

* * * *

 

In a few hours, I’ll be heading up Kanan-Dume toward the trade.

Brandon planned on bringing Rhys onto the Point and doing it here. But—at our previous meeting at the junction—before I could object, Connor stepped up beside me and demanded that we make the switch up on Kanan-Dume instead.

“We’ll do it at the first tunnel,” he told Brandon. “You’ll have the Valley side. We’ll control the beach side. The switch needs to be in the center of the tunnel.”

Brandon turned to look at me, raising his eyebrows for confirmation.

“You heard him,” I nodded. “That’s the plan.”

It actually wasn’t—but, sometimes, you just have to trust.

In this case, it was Connor—and his crazy, geek-brain.

“Okay,” said Brandon, pulling back on his horse’s reins to turn him around. “Two days…at noon…first tunnel. Be there or be square.”

“We’ll have guys on our side,” warned Connor, quickly. “We’ll be putting them up on the hill right away, so don’t even bother setting up any traps.”

“Take a deep breath, Connie,” grinned Brandon. “Why would I even need a trap? I’m getting what I want and—frankly—the tunnel’s a good idea. It’ll be more secure and you guys have way too itchy trigger fingers, right, Ethan?”

And he spurred on his horse, straight toward Ethan, who fell backward, right onto his butt. Wester immediately rushed forward, raising his gun. Luckily, Kieran reached out and pushed it back down before Wester could actually pull the trigger.

A moment later—and Brandon was galloping down Dume Drive.

Mateo followed after, laughing uproariously as he trotted away.

Brent, however, took his time turning his horse around. As he did, he reached down to tighten his stirrup. For a short moment—hidden from the others—he caught my eye. “Look for the stars,” he told me, quietly.

And he opened up his right hand slightly.

There—in the webbed skin between his fourth finger and his pinkie was a tiny, tattooed star.

Then he, too…was gone.

 

* * * *

 

When you think of it, Connor really did come up with a brilliant plan.

Because of where the tunnel is located on Kanan-Dume Road—leading down to a switchback—it’s difficult for either side to set a trap. We can have our guys in the hills on our side, while Brandon’s guys are on the hills on the other side. With the tunnel heading downward, into a curve that travels right between the two sets of hills, we’ll be able to see each other, yet still have the canyon for protection between us.

That will really only leave one weak point.

The tunnel itself.

 

* * * *

 

As soon as Brandon left the Point with Brent and Mateo, I sent a surveillance team up onto Kanan-Dume to secure the trade location. I was worried that our guys might encounter the Crazies along the way, but Brandon either didn’t have anyone down that far, or they had already been withdrawn.

An hour later—our side of the tunnel was under our control.

Pauly’s been in charge of the team up on Kanan-Dume ever since. He’s been reporting back regularly and it looks like everything is going according to Connor’s plan.

The Crazies have set up in the hills on the other side of the tunnel. While they haven’t made any move toward our side, Pauly says that they are definitely digging in. From his estimate, it looks like Brandon has a good ten to fifteen guys on his side.

We’ve got thirteen guys up there right now. In a few hours, we’ll have double that—not including the trading party.

 

* * * *

 

Connor, meanwhile, has been up and down Kanan-Dume a half dozen times in the last two days. He’s been helping Pauly to organize the team up there. According to Connor, by shifting the guys around to specific spots all along the hills, we can cover one hundred percent of the area around the tunnel. He’s shown me a plan that he drew—all angles and mathematical equations.

It’s a good plan—but Connor forgot to include one thing.

The human equation; people simply don’t follow the right angles.

And that worries me.

 

* * * *

 

Yesterday afternoon—in the conference room—I told Connor that I didn’t want him to go up the canyon with the trading party this morning. When I did, he immediately crossed his arms, got this determined look on his face, and told me that he’s still going to come. “You probably think this sounds stupid but, sometimes, I can see what somebody is going to do before it happens,” he told me. “So, I should be there—just cause of that.”

“Jacob might not think that sounds stupid,” smirked Kieran, from his seat at the end of the table, “but I certainly do.”

Connor frowned at him. “I don’t mean, like I’m psychic or anything like that. It’s just that sometimes I can put little signs together and figure things out. Like when a guy starts angling his body and his right hand begins to twitch, sometimes I know that he’s going to fake with his left hand. Then, when you look in that direction, he’s going to punch you out with his right fist.”

“That’s nothing special,” sniffed Kieran. “That’s just common sense. Everyone fakes with their left before they hit you with their right. Dad taught me and Jacob that when we were little.”

“But it’s more than that,” insisted Connor. “The Crazies have guys all along the hills on the other side of the tunnel. If I can see them all, I might be able to figure out what their next step is from how they’re moving. It’s kind of like watching all the dancers in a show and knowing what their next dance steps are going to be before they do them.”

“They’re Crazies,” said Kieran. “Who cares what they’re dancing.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Connor sighed, becoming frustrated. “You’re not getting it!”

I held up my hand, silencing both of them. “Connor, you can come. But I want you up on the hills with the surveillance team. You’re not going in the tunnel with me and Kieran.”

“But…”

“But nothing. You’ll be able to see everybody better up high, anyway.”

“That’s true,” he conceded. “But I’ll have to figure out a code system with Pauly and his guys in case something is about to go down. Maybe we can use flags to let everybody know what’s happening.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said. “Why don’t you go work on it and let me have a moment with Kieran to talk over some things?”

 

* * * *

 

“There’s no way Pauly is going to learn a flag system in the next couple of hours,” said Kieran, once Connor had left the room.

“Probably not,” I agreed. “But it’s still a good idea.”

“Connor’s full of them,” Kieran murmured. “Or full of it.”

“Are you jealous, little brother?”

“Not even,” he frowned.

“Good,” I nodded. “Because you and Connor need to be able to work together. For the good of the tribe.”

“Whatever,” grunted Kieran, leaning back in his chair, looking a little annoyed.

“Take a look at this,” I ordered, placing my right hand on the table between us. Using a pen, I drew a little star on the webbing between my fourth finger and my pinkie.

Kieran leaned forward and looked down at my hand. “You drew a star. What of it?”

“That kid—Brent. He’s got one just like it between his fingers.”

“So what?”

I pulled my hand back. “I think it’s a sign. Like the numbers on the backs are slaves and the ‘A’s’ in the circles are Crazies and the thunderbolts around the ‘A’s’ are the leaders.”

My brother looked totally confused. I spit on my finger, rubbing away the little star. “Just before he rode off, Brent showed me the star between his fingers. Remember, when he bent down to fix his stirrup?”

Kieran nodded.

“Well, he wasn’t fixing anything. He was showing me the tattoo. And he said something to me.”

“What did he say?”

“Look for the stars.”

“That’s so random,” Kieran murmured.

“And he said ‘stars’—as in plural.”

“So—you think that Brent meant there’re more guys with stars on their hands?”

“I think that’s exactly what he meant,” I nodded. “And I think that what he was really telling me, is that there’s a group of guys in the Crazies who aren’t nutso like Brandon and Mateo. I think that he’s trying to let me know who I can trust.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” said Kieran. “If these Star-guys don’t want to be Crazies, then why don’t they just leave?”

“But it does make sense,” I argued. “Think about it. We Locals have a pretty good life here down on Point Dume. So, why did we risk everything to free the slaves at the Fire Camp? And why did you and Pauly do the same thing up at Tapia? For that fact, why are we still looking for the third slave camp now?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” said Kieran. “Just because we have it good doesn’t mean that we should let other tribes keep slaves.”

“Well, maybe it’s the same way for these guys,” I suggested. “Their tribe is full of young impressionable guys like Damien and Goran, right? Maybe these ‘Stars’ are trying to figure out a way to take over the tribe and rescue those kids and the slaves—only they’re doing it from the inside.”

Kieran thought about this for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe that Brent guy is just setting you—us—up to think that. Like another one of Brandon’s plans to infiltrate our tribe.”

“It’s certainly possible,” I agreed. “Which is why I think you should keep the Stars secret for the moment. Other than me, you’re the only one who knows. I suggest that—when you think the time is right—you let Connor and Josh into the secret. When you’ll let the rest of our guys know…well, that will be up to you. But, keep these Star guys in mind when you’re dealing with the Crazies, because they might just be your way in to infiltrate their tribe.”

“What do you mean—my way?”

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a set of keys. Placing them on the conference table, I slid them across to Kieran.

“What’s this?” he asked, suspicious.

“Keys to the mansion, the doors in the wall, and the garages. There’re some other buildings on there—supplies, our old house, that sort of thing. You’ll be able to figure it out.”

He didn’t touch the keys—just left them sitting in front of him. “Why are you giving them to me?”

I just gave him a look.

“You’re coming back,” he growled, becoming angry. “So, I don’t want them.”

“Bro, you’re going to need them,” I said. “Because you’re going to be in charge.”

He looked shocked. “I don’t want to be in charge. I suck at leading.”

“That’s not true,” I told him. “I saw you lead on the fire line. And you and Pauly rescued all those guys from Tapia. Maybe you don’t realize that you’re a leader, but the rest of us do. Besides, it won’t just be you. Until everything gets sorted out, I think it’ll be better if there’s a team.”

“Who else do you have in mind?”

“Porter and Josh.”

Kieran thought about it, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “that would work. But, only until you come back. Because you are coming back.”

Probably not.

“Of course, I am,” I agreed. “We just need to get Rhys back first, though. Which brings me to something else that I need to talk to you about—what will happen to Rhys at the trade. It’s not going to be enough to just get him back from Brandon. You’re going to have to find a way to keep him here when he sees me taking his place.”

“He’s going to go bonkers,” admitted Kieran.

“Which means that you have to be the one responsible for making him stay.”

“You want me to sit on him?” he grinned.

“If that’s what it takes.”

 

* * * *

 

By the end of our meeting, Kieran had given me his solemn promise to keep Rhys from following me. He then promised me that he also wouldn’t try and follow.

I believe that Kieran’s telling me the truth about Rhys.

I also believe that he’s lying about himself.

And that’s just one more thing that has me worried. If Kieran does do something stupid at the trade today—or even after—then there’s a good chance that he could get somebody killed.

 

* * * *

 

Meanwhile—the sun is rising.

I can see the beams hitting the tops of the waves. If I had been smart, I would have been out there now—taking one last ride along Zuma.

Guess it’s too late now.

There are footsteps out in the hallway.

I hear the whispering of guys—Kieran, Ian, Ethan. The others are probably there, too, wondering if I’m awake.

Sooner or later, one of them will get up the nerve to knock.

 

 

 

A LIFE FOR A LIFE

 

The tribe lined up, shoulder-to-shoulder, from the outer walls of the compound, all the way to the junction on Dume Drive. As I passed, guys reached out, touching me lightly on my shoulder or arm—whispering words of encouragement. A few of the younger guys were crying—which surprised me—long trails of tears that ran down their cheeks to fall to the ground.

 

* * * *

 

Ethan and Wester were also sobbing openly as they stood beside Porter at the junction. I dropped to my knees beside them, taking them both into my arms.

“Hey, little men,” I murmured.

“Please don’t go!” pleaded Ethan.

I moved back, holding them out, so that I could look into both of their eyes. Wester was trying to be brave, but Ethan was clearly scared.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I told Ethan. “Kieran and Porter and Josh will be taking care of you guys while I’m gone.”

“You’re coming back?” he asked, his voice wavering.

“I’m sure going to try.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart, little dude.”

Wester leaned in, whispering into my ear. “If they swing at you with a machete,” he said, quietly, “drop to the ground. Go under their legs and then run, run, run!”

I pulled back, astonished, looking into his very serious eyes.

“The nuns told us that,” he confided to me. “In Haiti…for when the bad men came.”

 

* * * *

 

I faced Porter, shaking his hand.

Earlier, I had forbidden him to accompany us on the trade. Although Porter hadn’t liked it, he had understood how important it was for the tribe to have at least one of their medical officers remain on the Point.

“I’d still like to go,” Porter said now.

“You’re too slow,” I teased. “You’ll probably want to stop and scavenge the houses for books along the way.”

“Be nice to have a bigger library.”

“Sheesh, Porter,” I sighed. “Always with the library! All right, dude—I promise. Second thing on the agenda when I get back, is to find a way to visit the Malibu Library.”

“Second thing?”

“Sorry, bro,” I said. “But freeing the slaves trumps Stephen King. Agreed?”

“It’s close,” grinned Porter. “But I guess you’re probably right. We get you and Rhys back, free the slaves…then go to the library.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

* * * *

 

Frank was not at all happy about the trade.

“Brandon can’t be trusted,” he cautioned. “He’ll break his word in some way. He always does.”

“Most likely,” I agreed. “But Connor has a good plan. We have to follow it through if we have any chance at all of saving Rhys.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asked.

“No, bro,” I answered. “Like you said. It’s time for you to step back from all this Crazy-stuff. Right now, you’ll be of more use to me here on the Point.”

“Probably a good idea,” he nodded. “Truth is, I’d most likely do something stupid if I saw Brandon again.”

“And we need clear heads on the trade, Frank.”

“Understood.”

He shook hands with me, clapping a hand on my shoulder at the same time. “You’re one of the good guys, Jacob.”

“You, too, Frank.”

 

* * * *

 

“You shaved off your afro,” I said, running my hand over the top of Andrei’s head. “I thought you were going to grow it longer.”

Andrei turned around, showing me the giant ‘L’—made of shaved hair—stretching from the top of his head, down to the nape of his neck. “It stands for the Locals!” he crowed, proudly. “Some of the other guys in the unit have done it, too.”

“Nice!” I grinned.

“I think it looks stupid,” sniffed Ian, beside him. “I’ll keep my hair, thank you very much.”

“Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m beautiful,” Andrei sang, irritating Ian even more.

Reaching out, I gave them both a good fist bump. “You guys make me proud,” I told them. “You’re in charge of Rhys’ unit until he gets back. While we’re up at the trade, you’ll be the ones protecting the Point…the last line of defense for the Locals and I’m counting on you.”

Andrei saluted me. “No Crazies allowed, sir.”

I looked at Ian.

“Just come home,” he said, quietly.

 

* * * *

 

There were twenty-one of us who headed up Kanan-Dume that morning.

Kieran, of course, was right by my side. Connor had gone up sometime during the night, and I had to assume that he was already in place with the rest of the guys along the hills.

Josh, meanwhile, had been left back at the compound. He and Porter would be in charge until Kieran returned to join them.

Pauly and Jonny also marched with us. They would be responsible for giving my armed guards any orders, since I would most likely be otherwise occupied.

Although Xavier had stayed behind to help Ian and Andrei with Rhys’ unit, Nate had insisted on being one of the ten volunteers who would come with us to act as a back-up.

“You went down that cliff on a block and tackle,” Nate told me, as we turned up Kanan-Dume. “You saved my life by doing something really stupid and dangerous. Did you really think that I wasn’t going to return the favor?”

“Thanks, Nate,” I responded. “That means a lot to me.”

“Dude, you’re our leader…our king.”

 

* * * *

 

They were already waiting by the time we reached the tunnel.

We could see them through the dark hole in the hillside, backlit from the sun shining in from the other side.

Brandon, Mateo—and Brent.

Although they had their horses, all three of them had dismounted and were sitting on a small rock wall to the side. Brandon was smoking and laughing hard at something that Mateo had just said.

Brent had what looked to be a bottle of beer in his hand. When he saw us approaching, he took a quick chug, stood up, and threw his bottle to one side. It smashed against the rock, the shattering of the glass echoing through the tunnel.

“I don’t see Rhys,” I said to Kieran, as we walked steadily closer.

“Neither do I. They must be holding him back, farther up the curve on their side.”

Looking up at the hills around us, I could see the tip of a head here and there, barely visible among the rocks. I wondered where Connor was but—no matter how hard I looked—I couldn’t see him.

 

* * * *

 

“Jonny, you and the guards need to stay here,” I ordered. “Nate, you take your guys and head back the way we came. Space your guys out like Connor wants. You’re guarding the return route. Only Kieran and Pauly will be going into the tunnel with me.”

There was a frenzy of movement as the guys raced to their positions. I waited until everyone had settled in before walking toward the mouth of the tunnel. Kieran and Pauly matched me step-for-step, one on either side.

“Nice day,” said Kieran pleasantly, as we walked. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

My hackles—already jangling—went on full-alert.

“You better not have something planned,” I warned him.

“I promised you, remember. My job is simply to get Rhys out of here alive.”

Although I felt a little better by his answer, there was something about his attitude that left me on edge.

 

* * * *

 

When we entered the tunnel, the dark enveloped us. It was cool inside, with only the slightest hint of a warm breeze coming down from the Valley.

At the far opening, Brandon threw down his cigarette, grinding it beneath a boot. Along with Mateo and Brent, he started walking toward us.

“Seriously, Kieran,” I whispered to my brother. “Don’t screw this up.”

“I have no plans,” he said, quietly. “Not a one.”

On the other side of me, Pauly suddenly chuckled.

My head immediately spun around to look at him, but he avoided my gaze. “Dammit, Pauly!” I hissed. “What the hell do you have planned?”

Unfortunately—there wasn’t time for him to respond.

The Crazies had arrived.

 

* * * *

 

The six of us stood in the center of the tunnel.

Nobody spoke.

I tried to catch Brent’s eyes, but he studiously avoided any contact, looking down at the ground and shifting dirt around with his boot.

“Jacob,” said Brandon, as way of a greeting.

“Where’s my brother?” I asked him.

At a nod from Brandon, Mateo let out a wolf whistle. It was answered immediately—two short, quick blasts from somewhere up in the hills on the Crazies’ side. Through the mouth of the tunnel, I suddenly saw two horses making their way along the road toward us. Because of the distance, their riders were difficult to make out, but I was certain that the smaller of the two was Rhys.

After a few minutes, they stopped at the mouth to the tunnel and the taller of the riders immediately jumped off of his horse, tying it up next to Brandon’s. Then, he reached over to the other rider, pulling him off his horse with brute force.

As the second rider fell toward the ground, I saw that it was, indeed—Rhys.

 

* * * *

 

“Rules are simple,” said Brandon. “Kid will come in. He’ll go one way—Jacob will come with us the other way. Anyone gets in the way gets shot…deal?”

I nodded. “Deal.”

He turned around and waved to the Crazy outside of the tunnel. The kid waved back, then pushed at Rhys, aiming him forward.

 

* * * *

 

Perhaps, if Rhys hadn’t started running, things would have been different.

But he did.

And—as he ran forward and Brandon’s attention turned toward him—Pauly pulled out a knife and lunged for Brandon. He moved quickly, his thrust lightning-fast.

Brandon, however—was quicker.

His armed whipped out, sliding along the inside of Pauly’s attacking arm. With a quick jerk, he snaked it around, twisting at the same time.

There was a massive crack and Pauly’s arm shattered.

The knife dropped to the ground and Brandon leaned in, using his own forward momentum to flip Pauly up and over his shoulder. Pauly slammed into the ground and laid there—unmoving.

I rushed forward, intending to help Pauly, but Brandon spun around. Moving faster than I would have thought possible, he was suddenly behind me—one arm around my throat, the other holding my head in place.

He had me immobile—in a chokehold.

“Call off your puppies,” he whispered threateningly into my ear. “Or I’ll break your neck and then kill Rhys!”

Before me, Kieran had dropped to his knees to help a writhing Pauly. He turned now, his gun aimed up at Brandon. Meanwhile, both Brent and Mateo had their weapons trained on us—although nobody was firing—yet.

The real danger were my armed guards, though. They were racing into the tunnel’s mouth from our side, guns drawn, prepared for battle.

“Stop…go back!” I yelled. “Jonny, get everybody out now!!”

Slowly—very slowly—Jonny and the guards backed out of the tunnel.

“Good,” said Brandon, still maintaining his chokehold on my throat. “Now, Kieran…your turn.”

“Do what he says,” I coughed, twisting in Brandon’s arms. “Put your gun away.”

Kieran didn’t move.

“You’ve always gotta’ be the hard-ass,” sighed Brandon, tightening his hold on me. “Three seconds, Kieran. Look at Rhys and make your decision, because he’ll take the fall first. One—two—”

Brandon never made it to three.

As soon as Kieran looked up and saw Rhys—with a knife to his throat—being pulled back out of the tunnel by the Crazy he’d arrived with, Kieran immediately dropped his weapon onto the ground.

“That’s my Kiki,” said Brandon.

“Now let me go,” I coughed, struggling to catch my breath.

Slowly, Brandon lowered his arm. The pressure around my throat disappeared and I took in a deep, pain-filled gasp of air.

“Give us Rhys,” I demanded, somewhat hoarsely.

Brandon turned to Brent. “Get the kid,” he ordered him. “And this time, let’s not have any problems.”

Brent nodded, then turned and raced toward the far end of the tunnel where Rhys was still being held. Meanwhile, Brandon turned back toward us. He smirked down at Pauly, who was holding onto his broken arm and glaring up at him.

“Bet that hurts,” Brandon chuckled.

“You didn’t have to break his arm,” I snarled.

“Pretty sure I did,” maintained Brandon. “Besides, it’s a good object lesson. And Kieran, I’m going to count on you to get that lesson to your boys. If anyone follows us up Kanan-Dume—and I mean if I see even the suggestion of a body moving through the bush—Jacob is getting hurt. First infraction—big brother gets a broken arm. Second infraction—there goes his nose. Third infraction, I start really getting angry—Jacob’s teeth will be pulled out, one-by-one. And trust me—you really don’t want to know what will happen on the fourth infraction.”

“I get the idea,” growled Kieran.

“Good,” nodded Brandon. “Because let’s face it, Kiki. If Jacob’s going into the Arena, he is definitely going to want all his body parts in good shape and totally functional.”

“We won’t come after him,” said Kieran. “You have my word.”

“What about you, eager-beaver?” Brandon asked Pauly. “Do I have your word, too? You still feeling a little vengeful or did I cut you down to size sufficiently?”

Pauly said nothing—just glared up at him.

 

* * * *

 

Rhys looked weak and there was a yellowing bruise on the side of his head. It was difficult to know if he had been harmed beyond that, however, because there was duct tape over his mouth and his hands were tied behind his back.

Brent pushed him forward, straight into Kieran’s arms. Rhys immediately nudged his brother with his shoulder, wanting him to untie him. Kieran did nothing, looking at me, instead.

I shook my head slightly.

Rhys turned to me, his eyebrows raised in confusion.

“I’m sorry, Rhys,” I said.

Brandon grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me toward the far end of the tunnel. I stumbled, trying to turn back toward Rhys and Kieran—to let them know that I cared, that it was okay, that this was the right thing to do. In response, Brandon pushed me even harder—farther and farther away from my brothers.

“Remember what you promised, Kieran!” I yelled back. “Don’t you forget! Nobody follows me…nobody!”

Behind me, I could hear the muffled sounds of Rhys begging and pleading to be set free. I turned slightly, just enough to see that Kieran had Rhys on the ground. My younger brother was straining toward me, struggling with his bonds and the weight of his brother on his back.

“I love you, Rhys,” I called to him. “This isn’t your fault. No matter what—always remember that. This isn’t your fault!” If anything, Rhys struggled even harder. His face turned red under the duct tape; his movements became frantic.

“Kieran, hold onto him!” I yelled. “I love you guys. I love you both!”

“You just come back, Jacob!” Kieran yelled. “You dammit better come back!”

As I reached the mouth of the tunnel, I tried to turn around for one final look at my brothers. Brandon moved in front of me, however, hiding Rhys and Kieran from my sight. I could still hear Rhys’ muted yells, though—and it was a knife to my heart.

 

* * * *

 

At a signal from Brandon, Mateo came forward and looped one chain around my neck and another around my hands. He padlocked both of them closed, securing me against the possibility of escape.

“You Rikers have always annoyed the hell out of me, you know,” Brandon said. “I am so going to enjoy killing you.”

Meanwhile, Mateo handed the end of the chain to Brandon, who gave it a vicious yank.

 

* * * *

 

My chain was eventually attached to the saddle of Brandon’s horse. He rode steadily, pulling me along behind him. Mateo and Brent followed along on their own horses, talking and smoking cigarettes.

As we moved along Kanan-Dume, other Crazies moved in alongside us, coming out from behind bushes and rocks. Some were on horses—others simply walked or ran. They seemed to be in good spirits, laughing and joking, like they’d just won a great battle.

A few of the Crazies weren’t wearing shirts and, for the first time, I saw the ‘Lightning Bolt’ tattoo that Frank had mentioned. Whenever these particular Crazies would show up, we would immediately stop moving, so Brandon could speak with them privately—giving orders, confirming plans.

It looked like Frank had been right—the Lightning Bolts were the leaders.

 

* * * *

 

Not long after we had moved out of the tunnel, we passed by Betsy—still sitting at the side of the road. She was a blackened hulk now, an obvious victim of an intentionally set fire.

Brandon caught me looking sadly at it as we passed. “Guilty,” he smirked. “Sorry, but I just couldn’t resist.”

“Very mature,” I told him.

In response, he gave a vicious yank on my chain and I stumbled.

The Crazies around me burst into laughter. One guy—around 14-years old and sporting a black mohawk—kicked me in the butt, while an older African-American boy spit on me.

“Should burn his Local ass,” suggested Mateo, grinning. “Serve him barbequed for supper.”

“Leave him alone,” ordered Brandon. “I told you. Jacob’s going into the Arena.” He turned and grinned at me. “Unless you really want to join us for barbeque tonight…your choice.”

Ignoring him, I just continued walking forward, trying not to stumble. Behind me, a group of Crazies broke off and surrounded Betsy. As Brandon pulled me up Kanan-Dume and around the curve, the last thing I saw was my poor car being pushed across the road and over the side of the hill.

Moments later, I heard a massive thud from the ravine below.

“Very, very mature,” I muttered under my breath.

“Did you say something, slave?” asked Brandon.

I didn’t dignify him with an answer—just kept walking, instead.

 

* * * *

 

Kanan-Dume was hot and dusty—its tarmac cracking and heaving under a year’s neglect. There were weeds sprouting everywhere, some knee-high, others tossing out long vines that were threading their way across the road.

Here and there, small animals raced in front or behind us, no doubt startled out of their hiding places as we passed. Some of the Crazies took to shooting at the mice and rats for fun. Others laid bets on how many rabbits this guy or that one could kill for our supper.

At one point, we turned a corner and two ferrets ran along the side of the highway, twisting over each other, leaping and tumbling. There was a joy to their exertions—like little puppies out for a day’s play. When one guy raised his rifle to take aim, Brandon immediately pushed the barrel down.

“Leave them,” he ordered. “I like ferrets. They’re illegal to have in California, you know.”

“Why?” asked Brent. “What’s the problem with ferrets?”

Brandon shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows,” he said. “Probably some bureaucrat got bit and decided that everyone had to suffer because of it.”

One of the ferrets turned suddenly, racing across the road and down the hill on the other side. Within seconds, the other ferret had followed him, frog-leaping the whole way down into the ravine.

“Adults can be so stupid sometimes,” said Brent, watching the ferrets disappear into the bush below. “How do you think those ferrets got here anyway?”

“Someone probably had them as illegal pets,” said Brandon. “When everything went down, I’ll bet those little guys escaped. Now, they’re free—just like us.”

“Maybe we should catch one,” suggested Mateo. “Make it our pet.”

Brandon yanked on my chain, pulling me closer. “Don’t need a pet,” he told the others, running a hand through my hair. “Already got one.”

 

* * * *

 

A few miles up from the tunnel, we took our first break—huddling under some spindly fir trees, trying to stay out of the sun. Brent moved through the group of guys, passing out water bottles and power bars.

“You owe that kid,” Brandon told me, nodding toward Brent. “He’s the one who took care of your brother, kept the nuts away from him.”

“You include yourself in that?” I asked, sullenly.

“You bet,” laughed Brandon. “King Nut here, no doubt.”

Brent finished with the guys and came over to where Brandon and Mateo were sitting on a large rock. I was just below them—at chain’s length—sitting at the base, my back against the granite.

“You want he should have some?” Brent asked Brandon, holding up a bottle of water.

With his booted-foot, Brandon nudged my head. “Thirsty, slave?”

I reached my hand out and took the bottle from Brent. “Thank you.”

In response, Brent hawked up a loogie, sending it flying into the dust at my feet.

 

* * * *

 

Every once in a while—usually driving back from Zuma Beach—I would see people jogging up Kanan-Dume. They would be sweaty and red-faced, their arms and legs pumping away. I always wondered why they would make the effort when the wonders of the beach and the ocean were only minutes away.

Walking up Kanan-Dume that day—even with the Crazies—I finally began to see the attraction. The canyon was beautiful—all hills and valleys and mysterious curves that slowly opened up to reveal some amazing sights.

From startling rock formations to multi-million dollar mansions now being swallowed whole by twisting brambles, Kanan-Dume was alive in a way that I’d never seen it before. This was a canyon in change—adapting to a new world—a wild and feral thing.

 

* * * *

 

There...I heard it again!

A scritch-scratch in the bushes on the left side of the road.

And there—on the right side—were those bushes moving?

I tried not to look, to keep my gaze straight ahead. But, no matter how hard I tried, my eyes kept straying to either side of the road.

Left—scritch, right—scratch; in the bushes and behind the rocks. There definitely was someone there!

There had to be…they were following us.

My guys were coming!

So—how come none of the Crazies had realized it, yet?

 

* * * *

 

There were three tunnels on Kanan-Dume.

Perhaps, it was because of the heat—or maybe it was because I was just exhausted. But it was only when we entered the third and last one, did I finally realize that there was no one following us.

I was still hearing the noises, but it was obvious inside of that tunnel that it was the scritch-scratch of my imagination—or maybe my hope—trying desperately to create a rescue where there simply would be none.

Sadly—I was alone.

Except for the Crazies.

 

* * * *

 

We spent the night in a mansion high up on a hill, just off Kanan-Dume.

It was part of a vineyard—one of those white, brick wonders that are often rented out for ‘fabulous weddings’. My brothers and I had often witnessed helicopters arriving or taking off from its front yard as we drove by through the canyon below.

I had often wondered what the inside of the mansion would be like. In the back of my mind, I had even daydreamed of having my own wedding there.

How ironic that it would—instead—be my temporary prison.

 

* * * *

 

“You guys have really trashed this place,” I told them.

“So what?” Brandon shrugged. “There’s always another house waiting just over the next hill.”

The horses had been left outside, with three of the younger guys to feed, water, and bed them down for the night. From the hoots and hollers coming from the various rooms around me, the rest of the guys were figuring out their own sleeping arrangements.

Brandon, Mateo, Brent, and I, meanwhile, were seated at a large, mahogany dining room table. Before us, glass doors extended across the west wall, giving us an extraordinary view, all the way to the sun setting into the Pacific Ocean.

There was an intricate chandelier overhead, its crystal teardrops reflecting prisms of rainbow-light across the walls and along the hardwood floor. It hung over what would have been a beautiful room, except for the piles of garbage in the corners—food wrappings, dirty clothes, and lots and lots of empty wine bottles—many of which were shattered or leaking their final dregs.

“What a waste,” I muttered, shaking my head.

“This is where we kept the brat,” said Brandon, pouring a bottle of red wine into four crystal glasses. “In case you were curious.”

“Rhys was here?”

“His room was just above us,” said Brent—for the first time looking directly at me. “I was the only one who had the key.”

“Brent took good care of your boy,” said Brandon, handing a glass of wine to each of us.

“Thank you,” I said, truly grateful—for the news, not the wine.

“Whatever,” Brent snorted. “Just keeping the goods safe.”

Brandon burst into laughter, slapping Brent on the back. “Dude, you are too good for us!”

 

* * * *

 

Two young boys of about ten or eleven served us dinner that night. It was some sort of stew—probably venison. There were also mashed potatoes and boiled carrots. Dessert was a mixture of fruit and packaged cookies.

The four of us ate alone in the dining room. There were other Crazies nearby, armed and obviously on guard, but they left us alone for the most part. Where the rest of the tribe was eating, I had no idea.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked Brandon, when the dessert plates were finally removed. “You take me prisoner and then you feed me a meal like this.”

Mateo leaned back in his chair and let out a massive burp. “It was a very good stew,” he grunted, patting his belly.

One of the young boys came back into the room, bearing another bottle of wine. He opened it with some trouble, then handed it to Brandon.

“Just because you’re going into the Arena,” said Brandon, refilling the wineglasses, “doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t eat well.”

I placed my hand over my wineglass when Brandon brought the bottle close. He shrugged at my reticence to drink more, then sat down and filled his own glass even farther to the top. “Besides,” he continued. “It’s no fun taking on someone who can’t fight back. We tried that in the beginning and it was just a big bore.”

“Those sickies,” nodded Mateo. “Didn’t fight worth crap.”

“It was a slaughter,” added Brent, in a quiet voice.

“We learned our lesson after that,” said Brandon. “If the Arena is going to be a good show, you gotta’ have good fighters. So, we feed them well to keep the fight in them. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“Yeah,” I frowned. “So lucky.”

Moving quickly, Mateo lashed out. The side of his fist hit me in the head, just behind my ear. For a moment, everything went black and I heard ringing.

“Mateo, stop!”

My vision and hearing slowly cleared and I saw Brandon reaching across the table, gripping Mateo’s arm with a tight fist. He leaned in close, angry and snarling. “You touch him again,” Brandon warned, “and you’ll be the one going into the Arena. And this time I won’t hold back…get it?”

“Got it,” Mateo muttered, his head down.

As Brandon settled back into his chair, I chanced looking over at Brent. He was watching me carefully, his face empty of all expression.

 

* * * *

 

I spent the night in the mansion’s master suite, along with Brandon and Mateo. While the two of them snored drunkenly away in the large California King bed, I shifted and tossed, chained to a small couch next to the wall.

For part of the night, I worked on my chains, trying to unlock them or somehow free them from the iron filigreed-arm rests to which they had been attached. At one point, I looked up to see Brandon, sleepily watching me, his eyes half-closed.

“Good luck with that,” he murmured. Then, he closed his eyes completely and went back to sleep.

 

* * * *

 

I’m not certain when I finally gave up and fell asleep myself.

But I do know that I woke up to a foot pushing me off of the couch. My chains twisted around as I fell to the floor, winding up my arms, cutting off the circulation.

“Wakey-wakey!” It was Mateo, looming over me.

Just over his shoulder, meanwhile, I could see Brandon sitting up in the huge bed, arms up, stretching. “Cut him loose,” ordered Brandon, not even looking at me.

Mateo took his time, giving my chains an extra twist. But, eventually, he had me unlocked and, grabbing me by my arm, yanked me to my feet. “Piss now, breakfast after,” he told me. Then, he dragged me over to the bathroom just off of the master suite. As we approached, I winced from the smell of urine and feces that filled the air.

“Use the tub,” Mateo instructed. “Not like anyone’s going to take a bath in it.”

Behind me, Brandon wandered into the room and, unzipping, proceeded to urinate in the sink. Mateo watched him for a moment, then turned back to me. “Now, pendejo!”

I looked down at the tub. There was a good six inches of human excrement at the bottom—most of it dried and turning dark brown.

Slowly—hating this—I unzipped my pants.

 

* * * *

 

The same two boys who had served us dinner the night before, also brought us breakfast. They moved around us quietly, placing down bowls of oatmeal and slightly-burnt toast.

I wondered where the Crazies had gotten the bread. Did they—like the Locals—have an inspired baker in their midst?

While the chains on my wrists had been removed to make it easier for me to eat, the one around my neck remained. It was fastened to a leg of the table, looped around so that I had a small amount of give.

As I chewed on a piece of toast, I watched the smaller of the guys as he poured orange juice into our glasses. The kid seemed exhausted, his eyes ringed with fatigue. Mateo noticed my interest and, reaching out, placed his hand on the kid’s back, moving it slowly up and down.

Immediately, the boy froze—his eyes filling with dread.

“You like this little chickee?” Mateo asked me, grinning. “Maybe if you ask nice, you get a little extra with your breakfast, you know what I mean.”

“Don’t be disgusting,” I said.

Mateo grabbed the kid’s wrist, pulling him down and onto his lap. The other young boy came racing over, taking the orange juice from the first kid, before it was dropped or spilled.

“Don’t do this,” I pleaded. “Please.”

“But he be such a cute little chickee,” said Mateo, hugging the boy tightly and sniffing at his hair. “And I do like chicken…yum, yum.”

I looked around the table for help, but found none coming.

Brandon was sitting back in his chair, watching Mateo with amused interest. Meanwhile—although Brett looked tense and unhappy—he also didn’t appear likely to interfere.

“Maybe we go back upstairs,” Mateo whispered into the young boy’s ear. “What you say, muchacho?”

“Leave him alone!” I snapped. “He’s just a kid.”

Mateo suddenly spun the boy around on his knee, just enough so that he could lift up his shirt. There, on the kid’s back was the number ‘16’.

“This one’s no kid. This one’s property.” And Mateo reached out and grabbed the other boy, pulling him close as well. “This one’s property, too,” he said, licking the second boy’s arm. “Tasty property. Little salty, but I like it.”

Slowly, trying not to make it too obvious, I slid my hands under the table. Mateo was directly opposite me and I was planning on upending it, right into his lap. Before I could act, however, Brandon stood up and yawned. “You’re boring me, Mateo. Come on. Let’s get started. I want to get back home before supper.”

Mateo immediately pushed both boys away. I watched them stumble off, helping each other through the doorway.

Brandon, meanwhile, came over to attach the rest of my chains. “By the way, dumbass,” he murmured, so only I could hear. “That table has to weigh over two hundred pounds. You never would have moved it without leverage from that angle. No wonder you sucked in math class.”

 

* * * *

 

If anything, our second day on Kanan-Dume was even hotter than the first. The sun beat steadily down on our heads and we were all sweating as we slogged up the final hill that led up to the 101 Freeway.

“Man, I miss the snow when it’s like this,” grunted Brent. He was riding alongside Brandon, with Mateo on the opposite side. I was, of course, being pulled along by my chain—attached to the pommel on Brandon’s saddle.

“You can always go back to Oregon,” suggested Mateo.

Brandon’s horse suddenly let out a giant fart.

As everyone laughed, the horse’s tail went up and its anus started to widen. Immediately, I moved to the side, stumbling to get out of the way just as the horse let loose its first massive dropping.

“Having a good time back there?” chuckled Brandon.

“The best,” I muttered.

With a cluck and a slight kick to his horse, Brandon attempted to maneuver it back in front of me. I managed to sidestep, just long enough to keep myself from being dragged into the shower of feces.

 

* * * *

 

Halfway up the final hill before Agoura Hills, one of the Lightning Bolt Crazies came out from behind a house at the edge of the road. He was carrying a shotgun and wearing jeans and jackboots—but no shirt. His nose was pierced with what looked like a small bone and his blond hair had been shaved off on both sides of his skull, leaving two inches of growth from his forehead to the nape of his neck. Into this mohawk, he had threaded feathers and what looked to be the plastic head of a Barbie doll.

While the other Crazies continued on toward the 101 Freeway, Brandon hung back, talking to the Lightning Bolt. “Any action?” he asked the guy.

“Five guys, coming along Mulholland,” the Crazy told Brandon. “We need to set up guys along there, I think. Scoop up the ones coming up from over Topanga way.”

“Sounds good,” agreed Brandon. “You can set it up.”

The guy nodded, then turned to look at me. “This is the guy?”

“This is the guy,” Brandon acknowledged.

“Seems small.”

“He’s pretty tough on the football field,” said Brandon. “Wiry, quick.”

“Should make for a good Arena then.”

“That’s what we’re hoping.”

“You taking him on?”

Brandon nodded. “It’s been a long time coming.”

“I’ll head up for the show then,” said the guy. “Maybe even join in if you need some help.”

“When have I ever needed help?” bragged Brandon.

The two of them fist-bumped—laughing.

A moment later, Brandon yanked on my chain and we started walking again. Behind us, the Lightning Bolt returned to his house.

“Brandon,” I ventured, after a few steps. “Seriously, dude…what the hell are you doing? I mean, I’ve always known you were mean but—killing kids in the football field for sport. You have to see how insane that is.”

“Arena,” he corrected me.

“And Kieran and Pauly, they said that you’re…you’re eating...” I couldn’t even finish the sentence, I was so disgusted.

Meanwhile, Brandon grinned down at me, taking a finger and raising his lip so I could see his teeth. Like Kieran had described—they had been shaved into points.

“Ohmigod,” I whispered—horrified.

“Not God,” said Brandon, shaking his head. “You still don’t get it, Jacob. You just don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“That God abandoned us a long time ago. That we’re living in the other place now.”

“You think we’re in hell?”

“And you know what they say,” he smirked. “That it’s better to reign in hell as a prince than to serve as its slave.”

“That’s what you think you’re doing?” I asked. “You think you’re giving the devil his due?”

Brandon smiled. “Now, you’re getting it, Jacob!”

 

* * * *

 

“Think of him as a warning,” said Brandon.

We were looking up at a dead body—a boy of about fifteen, nailed to a cross—on the 101 overpass that led into Agoura Hills.

“See his left hand,” said Brandon, pointing. “The baby finger is missing.”

It was too disgusting for me to look; in all truth, I was having trouble keeping down my breakfast at that moment.

“Mateo!” barked Brandon.

Immediately, Mateo jumped off of his horse. He came over and grabbed my head, turning it so I was forced to look at the body.

The kid’s left hand was shriveled, beginning to turn brown. Where its baby finger should have been was simply a smear of dried blood.

“You know that kid I talked to down on the hill just now?” asked Brandon. “The one who wanted to know if you were going into the Arena.”

Mateo thankfully let go of my head, so that I could nod.

“Well, that’s where the finger bone went,” grinned Brandon. He reached up and touched the bottom of his nose. “A little piece of jewelry for catching the traitor. Dude tried to run off with some of our property…dumbass!”

I looked back up at the body—my eyes traveling across its sunken and discolored chest before following a blackening arm down to its right hand. The skin there was stretched and rotting, brittle across the knuckles. It was difficult to make out, but I thought that I could see a small star tattoo—between the fourth and pinkie finger.

I wanted to look to Brent for confirmation.

Wisely, I chose to look at the ground instead.

 

* * * *

 

“I burnt your house down.”

“So Kieran told me.”

“That little dick,” murmured Brandon. “I still can’t believe that he had the balls to come right up into Agoura Hills.”

“Then you don’t know my brother as well as you think you do.”

We were heading down Kanan Road, just passing by the Vons mall. As we neared the intersection at Thousand Oaks Boulevard, Brandon suddenly reined in his horse.

“Would you look at that?” he marveled, staring at an armored car in the parking lot. Its back door was open and a cart with metal boxes lay on its side in front of it.

“El Diablo,” whispered Mateo, crossing himself.

“See him, Jacob?” asked Brandon, pulling out his rifle and cocking it.

I looked over at the armored car, searching for a figure. “I don’t see anybody.”

“Not a person,” said Brandon, quietly, lining up for a shot. “Look on top of the armored car. See the cat there?”

Looking again, I finally saw it—a small black, white, and orange calico cat. It was sitting quietly on the roof of the chunky vehicle, sunning itself.

“Damn thing may have nine lives,” muttered Brandon, “but I’ve got it down at least two.”

Bang! He took the shot and missed.

Immediately, the cat jumped up, disappearing down the far side of the armored car with a leap.

“And there goes another life,” grinned Brandon, putting his rifle away. “Mark my words—that cat has a personal appointment with my frying pan. Sooner or later, I’m gonna’ get him.”

As we started walking again, Brent looked down at me from his saddle. The corners of his mouth were lifted, as if he was trying not to smile. “Brandon’s made it his personal mission to kill that cat,” he explained to me.

“Damned straight,” murmured Brandon.

“And Mateo thinks the cat is cursed,” continued Brent. “That it’s bad luck because no one has been able to kill it.”

Over on the other side of Brandon, Mateo crossed himself once more.

 

* * * *

 

I was eventually locked inside of a cage that had been placed in the center of the Agoura High School football field. My new home was just big enough to walk a few steps in either direction. The other two occupants of my cage were a pail in one corner for my ‘business’ and a single blanket for protection against the elements.

“It may seem warm during the day,” explained Brandon, “but it’s getting really cold at nights now that fall is here. You’ll need that blanket. And I’ll see about getting you a pillow.”

“Was that your doing?” I asked, pointing up the hill beside the school where the giant ‘A’ had been replaced with the ‘anarchist-A’.

“I was wondering if you’d notice that,” Brandon grinned. “A couple of our guys went up there and decided to get creative.”

“Looks stupid,” I said. “Like your guys are trying too hard.”

“Come here.” Brandon motioned me forward, closer to the cage’s bars. He was on the far side, with armed guards on either side of him.

“What do you want?” I asked, walking over.

Suddenly—his hands whipped inside of the cage, one on either side of my head. With a brutal quickness, he pulled my head forward, whacking it on the bars. I immediately saw stars, my forehead splitting open, blood spurting from the wound.

“Now, you look stupid,” crowed Brandon.

 

* * * *

 

They tattooed me a day later.

I was sitting on the ground, baking in the noonday sun—when they came for me. There were six of them, including Brandon. He waited quietly outside of the bars while the rest of the Crazies entered my cage.

Within moments, I was lying on my stomach—two guys holding down my arms, another two sitting on my legs. The fifth guy sat down on my back and waited patiently as Brandon entered with a bowl of ink and a piece of wood with needles sticking out of it.

“This is going to hurt like a mother,” he told me, handing the tattooing supplies to the guy on my back. “But don’t embarrass me and be a baby about it…okay, Jacob?”

I turned my head, struggling to keep it out of the dirt. “Don’t do it…don’t!”

“What number are we at?” Brandon asked the guy holding down my right arm.

“Seventy-two.”

“Nah,” said Brandon, shaking his head. “Let’s make this one special. Give him a zero, but put a line through it like they do in Europe. On a diagonal, so it’s kind of like our ‘A’.

“Cool,” said the guy on my back. “I can do that.”

As Brandon left, the four guys holding me tightened their grip. I struggled, trying to lift them off, but their combined weight was too much for me.

“If you move,” one of them whispered into my ear, “it’ll hurt a hell of a lot more. So, just man-up, dude. Take the pain in and enjoy it.”

Thwack!

The needles hit my back.

Thwack—thwack!

Over and over—sharp wasp-stings of pain.

I laid my head down on the ground, silently enduring the humiliation. No matter what, I decided—they would not hear me cry out.

Thwack—thwack—thwack!

 

* * * *

 

The next week was spent trying to protect myself—from the elements and from the Crazies, who liked to spit and throw clods of dirt at me as they walked by.

It was fiercely hot during the afternoon, and I took to tying my blanket between the bars, trying to create even the smallest block of shade. At night, the heat fled quickly, replaced by a bitter autumn cold that left me shaking; I would curl up in the blanket, making myself as small as possible to conserve my body warmth.

Rainy days were the worst, however. The ground beneath me became waterlogged, a frigid field of mud that sucked at my every step. If there was one good thing about rainy days, however, it was that—except for the ever-present armed guards—the Crazies stopped coming by to torment me.

For those few wet hours, I was left alone with my thoughts, my memories—and my dreams.

 

* * * *

 

Parents—brothers—Locals—Kaylee.

Their presence—if only in my mind—became my four cornerstones during my time in the cage—grounding me, keeping me sane. Whenever I felt alone or lost, they were there in my head. Their spirits protected me and spoke to me—a mystical quartet of hope and expectations.

My mother and father—their phantom voices, murmuring of love and pride.

My brothers—cajoling me not to let them down, to be the big brother they expected of me.

The Locals—calling me toward the Point and the tribe who needed me.

And Kaylee—as always—a sweet voice, only in my dreams.

 

* * * *

 

Brandon showed up one morning, just as I had finished using the ‘pail’. I turned around, zipping up my pants, only to find him standing there, just outside the bars, watching me.

“Enjoy the show?” I asked.

He didn’t say anything, just began walking around the cage—never once taking his eyes off of me. In the stands at the edge of the field, I could see Mateo sitting with Brent, watching us carefully. Meanwhile, the guards who usually were within close range of my cage, had retreated to a spot next to the fence.

Having made a full revolution of my small prison, Brandon finally stopped and faced me. In his right hand, he was carrying a curled whip, which he held up now. “Happy Birthday, Jacob.”

I moved so that I was directly in front of him, closing the distance between us. As I did, his guards started forward, pulling out their guns.

Brandon quickly turned around and waved them back. The guards stopped their advance, but they didn’t look happy about it.

“What’s the whip for?” I asked, not sure that I wanted to know the answer.

“What is any whip for?” said Brandon. “Whipping.”

I sighed. “That’s going to be my birthday present, isn’t it? Let me guess, seventeen whacks—one for each year…very original.”

Brandon frowned—as if I had just taken some of his fun away.

“I saw you last year,” he confessed, the look on his face somehow sly and almost feral. “At your birthday party.”

“I didn’t have a birthday party last year.”

“You did,” he insisted. “With your family. I saw you at that restaurant, Ladyface Alehouse.”

“That wasn’t a party—that was a family thing.”

“Exactly,” Brandon nodded. “But you didn’t see me, did you?”

I shook my head.

“Because you were too busy with your family,” Brandon continued. “But I saw you. Your dad and mom sat on one side of the table. And Kieran and Rhys sat on the other side. They put you at the head of the table, because you were the birthday boy.”

“You got a point, Brandon?”

He continued as if he hadn’t even heard me. “There were presents and cake and everyone in that section of the restaurant sang “Happy Birthday” to you.”

“It was a good night.”

“I was sitting up near the bar with Tray. We were on a date, nothing special, just out for some fries and a soda. But we watched you…all of you guys. And you were laughing and talking and it was all so easy for you.”

“What was easy, Brandon?”

“Being a family.”

I didn’t know what to say.

Brandon cocked his head, lifting the tip of the whip and touching his lips with it. “And then when you were leaving, your dad came around the table and hugged you.”

“He’s a hugger,” I admitted. “So’s my mom.”

Brandon looked down at his feet for a moment. His shoulders sagged, as if he was carrying a heavy weight. When his eyes rose up again, they seemed sad, almost confused. “My dad was a hugger, too,” he told me. “Just not like your dad.”

It took me a long moment before I realized what he was talking about. “Oh God, Brandon…I’m so sorry.”

“Some kids are lucky,” he shrugged. “Then, there are some kids like me and Peyton who aren’t so lucky. Her dad’s a hugger, too.”

“That’s how you knew,” I murmured. “About Peyton being abused.”

Brandon looked around quickly, checking to make sure that none of his guys were close enough to hear our conversation. He leaned in then, one hand on the cage door, the other smacking the whip against his leather pants.

“Nobody said anything about abuse,” he hissed. “We’re just unlucky, that’s all.”

“I’m still sorry,” I said, honestly. “Nobody deserves that…nobody.”

“Well,” he said, the sadness and confusion leaving his eyes. “Needless to say, things have changed. My old man died last year and yours disappeared this year. And guess what—that makes me lucky. You—not so much.”

And—he held up the whip.

 

* * * *

 

I took eighteen lashes to my back that afternoon—seventeen for my age and one, according to Brandon, for good luck. The pain was intense, unlike anything I had ever experienced before. It felt as if a hot iron was both scalding and ripping off my skin at the same time.

By the fifteenth lash, I was unconscious.

When I woke up again, I was lying back in my cage and Brent was bandaging up my bloodied back. “Lie still,” he ordered, when I started to struggle. “It doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches, which is good. But you’re definitely going to have to keep this bandaged if you want it to heal.”

There were guards in the cage with us, or I would have said something smart about why did I need to heal if I was heading into the Arena on Halloween.

Instead—I just laid my head on the ground and retreated into my shame and misery.

 

* * * *

 

For the next week and a half, my life settled into a predictable pattern.

After a night spent struggling against the cold, I would wake under my one, thin blanket to a breakfast tray of cereal, soy milk, and some kind of juice. Lunch would inevitably be a sandwich—canned meat, eggs, or a blend of vegetables.

My suppers, however—were a completely different matter.

When my plate arrived and there was fish or a piece of roast beef or chicken, I relaxed—because I could identify the meat being served. The stews worried me, though. If the Crazies really were eating human flesh, I wouldn’t put it past Brandon to try and trick me into eating some. So, unless I was one hundred percent certain of the meat in my bowl, I simply refused to eat the stew.

This would anger some of the guards—specifically a large, Asian kid named Han. He would hit me around my shoulders with a stick whenever it happened, never enough to really harm me—just enough to make it sting.

 

* * * *

 

The pummeling I took from Han—as well as my fear of the upcoming Arena—compelled me to start training. For hours, I would work out in my cage—squats, jumping jacks, pull-ups that tilted my head back against the bars above my head—anything I could think of to keep myself in shape and prepare myself for battle.

For the most part, I exercised at night, when the heat died and the guards took shelter in the stands. I practiced what few defensive and offensive moves I knew, wondering often what chance I would ultimately stand against Brandon and his brown belt in karate.

From the conversations I had overheard between the guards, I had come to understand that there were four basic rules to the Arena.

1. Rounds One and Two were two minutes long.

2. Only bare hands were allowed in Rounds One and Two.

3. Round Three was called ‘the kill’. Any weapons—no time limit—fight to the death.

4. The winner took all. That meant the loser’s possessions, their slaves—and their position in the tribe, if it was greater than the position that the winner had previously held.

Ironically, that meant that—if I beat Brandon on Halloween—I would not only not be a slave anymore—I would also be the leader of the Crazies.

Of course, the chances of that actually happening were beyond slim.

Still—I exercised—and I trained.

 

* * * *

 

There were always guards wandering around the football field—at least four, often more—stopping by my cage to peer in at me curiously, usually when I had to relieve myself. As the days went by, they tended to ignore me more and more, except when they had to deliver my food trays or change out my ‘pail’.

At times, small groups of Crazies would sightsee, circling my prison, calling me names or spitting—the younger ones giggling at my torment. The guards usually let them taunt me, drawing the line only when the kids got too close to my cage or attempted to draw blood with rocks or sticks.

There were ‘others’ who passed by my cage—usually on their way to someplace else. They moved with certainty—rushed, determined to get to their destination. Yet, I began to notice that these others would always lessen their step as they passed my prison, their eyes flicking sideways toward me—downcast, full of shame. I wondered if maybe these were the Stars that Brent had mentioned or simply kids who knew that what was happening was wrong.

 

* * * *

 

Although I was limited as to what I could see—being stuck in a cage and surrounded by football stands—I still was able to look upon the hills rising up above Agoura High, just beyond the far end of the field. It stung, seeing the ‘A’ that represented our school on those hills, turned now into an anarchist’s symbol.

We used to take such pride in that simple ‘A’—each class jockeying to paint it their own colors.

Now, it was a bright red—the color of blood.

I thought it looked evil—but I supposed that was the Crazies’ intent.

 

* * * *

 

One night—just as the sun was setting—I looked up at the ‘A’ on the hill and, for only a moment, I could have sworn that I saw a glint of metal.

As if someone was hiding behind the giant letter, perhaps looking down upon the football field through binoculars.

Like a fool, I gasped, and Han—who was in the process of placing a supper tray of suspicious stew inside of my cage—immediately spun around to see what had caught my attention. After a few moments of studying the hillside, however, he turned back around and placed the tray down on the ground, thrusting it forward roughly with his foot, so that the stew spilled over the edge of the bowl.

“It’s chicken, dumbass,” he growled.

“Sure it is,” I said, making no move toward it.

Han sighed, reaching toward a pair of leather gloves that he had tucked into his belt. For some reason, he liked to wear them when he hit me.

I sighed, knowing what was coming.

So, apparently, did two of the other guards. As Han put on his left glove, they started across the field toward us, recognizing that the ‘entertainment’ was about to start.

“You really should eat,” Han muttered, tugging at his glove. “It’ll make for a better Arena if you’re strong. And we need you to fight.”

“I’m touched by your concern.”

With a snort, Han shook out his right glove dramatically. As he did, his hand rose chest-high, the back of it toward me. His fingers were unnaturally splayed, just enough that—for the first time—I could see the tiny black star tattooed on the webbing between his fourth and pinkie fingers.

Surprised, I lifted my gaze to meet his eyes. His face remained blank, but his head dipped in the slightest of nods.

 

* * * *

 

“Face me,” Han hissed, his voice no louder than a whisper. “Take the hits and watch what I do. And remember the moves…remember the sequence!”

Behind him, the two guards had finally reached the cage. They closed the barred door behind us, staying on the outside to enjoy the show and cheer on Han.

“Show the bitch who’s boss! Do some damage to that pretty face!” yelled one.

“While you’re at it, Han…shove your foot up his stuck-up ass!” the other one added.

 

* * * *

 

Han came toward me, a long stick held high.

I had been hit by it many times by now and knew that the best way to defend myself was to curl into a ball, tucking my head and hands in—taking the blows with my shoulders.

This time, however, I faced Han squarely.

He held the stick in his right hand, threading it back and forth in front of me like a knight with a long sword marking a figure eight. The movement was mesmerizing—up until the moment he lunged forward, delivering three quick jabs to my mid-section.

I managed to fold over after the first one, reducing the force of the second and third blows.

“Head up!” Han said—so only I could hear.

Looking up, I stumbled backward as he suddenly leapt toward me.

His stick just grazed the ground and, with a turn of the wrist, he lifted it, slicing diagonally from my left hip up to my right shoulder. Whether it was luck or simply that Han was holding back, but the stick merely slid across my torso—inflicting no real damage.

Han wasn’t finished, though.

At the end of his upswing, Han turned his wrist once more, slicing the stick back and down. This time, it made full contact—from my right shoulder all the way down to the left side of my waist.

The pain was immediate, sucking the air from my lungs, leaving me reeling.

I bent over, struggling to recover from the force of the blow.

At the same time, Han took his left hand and—reaching around his body—pulled out another stick, this time from the right side of his belt. This stick was only about a foot long and a couple of inches thick.

But it still hurt—a lot.

Han slammed the stick forward—straight into my gut.

I went down, gasping, struggling to catch my breath.

Outside of the cage, meanwhile, the two guards pounded on the bars, totally entertained by my utter humiliation.

 

* * * *

 

I stayed on the ground—afraid that, if I stood up too quickly, I would pass out.

Han knelt down beside me and slowly pulled off his leather gloves, shoving them back into his waist belt. For the smallest of moments, the tattooed star between his fingers was exposed; it seemed so obvious now that I knew it was there.

How had I ever missed it before?

Oh yeah—I was too busy being beaten with a stick.

“Can you remember those moves—the sequence?” he asked, quietly. “A figure eight to three jabs to the middle, then left side up to right shoulder, then back down to the left side again. Then, comes the killing strike with the short sword. That’s important to remember—Brandon will have a second sword on him. A smaller one, in his belt.”

I was still having problems catching my breath, so I nodded instead.

Han turned around to look at the two guards outside of the cage. With the show over, they were retreating to the stands, pulling out a carton of cigarettes as they went.

Returning his attention to me, Han motioned to the food tray and the bowl of stew still waiting in a corner of the cage. “It really is chicken.”

“I believe you,” I muttered, slowly pushing myself into a sitting position. Everything hurt but, at least, I could talk again. “So, what was all that about anyway?”

“Besides the pleasure I got in beating you?”

I glared up at him, not amused.

Han slowly looked around again, his eyes traveling across the football field and over to the guards smoking in the stands. Finally—having assured himself that no one was close enough to hear—he turned back to me.

“One of our guys noticed that Brandon has a system that he follows before he makes his kill in the Arena,” he said, quietly. “So, if you want to have any chance of surviving, you’re going to have to beat him at his own game. That means—in the first two rounds—you’re just going to have to take the hits. We haven’t figured out any sequences there, so we think his fighting is random—probably because of all the karate he knows. You’ll get bloody, but he probably won’t kill you. Most likely he’ll just bat you around a little—like a cat toying with a mouse.”

“You’re assuming that I can’t defend myself,” I said, sullenly.

Han sniffed, amused. “The dude’s a fighting machine in the Arena. Hasn’t been beat, yet. But we think that will give you a chance, because it’s made him kind of over-confident. And it’s also made him predictable—at least in the third round. Because that’s where we found the sequence.”

“He’s got a set of moves,” I murmured, beginning to understand.

Han nodded. “But we’ve only seen it in the third round, so you have to last until then. Brandon will have a long sword and a smaller one that he’ll wear tucked into his belt. What I did to you just now with the sticks—that’s the only sequence, the only set of moves—that we’ve been able to identify so far that Brandon’s used every time in the third round. So, if there’s going to be an opportunity to take him out—that has to be it. You see those three jabs coming at you, know that he’ll follow with a diagonal slice up and then down. Your opening will come after that—when Brandon reaches for the smaller sword at his waist.”

“Because he’ll have his left side open.”

Han nodded. “And that’s your target.”

“So, I just have to make it to the third round and hope that Brandon hasn’t changed his routine…plus, remember all the moves and figure out a defense.”

“Well, I can help you with that,” grinned Han, holding up his stick. “But we should probably wait a few days for your next beating—until you’ve recovered from your boo-boos.”

“Great,” I groaned, gingerly touching my tender mid-section.

“Aw, it’ll be good for you to practice,” said Han. “Besides—I get a kick out of beating you up.”

“You really do, don’t you?” I said, frowning.

Han’s grin dropped from his face. He turned serious. “I don’t, actually,” he muttered, his voice lowering. “I hate it more than you’ll ever know. But this is the first chance we’ve had to get one of ours into the Arena against Brandon—our first chance to gain control of this nightmare of a tribe. If it means giving you a few whacks…well, sorry, bro.”

 

* * * *

 

Later that evening, while the football field descended into darkness, the sky above became alive as scores of meteorites arced across the heavens. I laid flat on my back, trying to ignore the bitter cold, and watched the show above me.

One-after-another, the little streaks of light fled toward the ocean—past stars and constellations whose names I didn’t know. Thinking of Porter, I suspected that he would have been able to tell me those names. I prayed that he was somewhere safe, down on the Point, looking up into the sky and enjoying the show as much as I was.

But—another part of me was worried.

The slight metallic reflection that I had seen that afternoon kept coming back to haunt me. I wondered if one or more of my guys might have entered Agoura Hills against my orders.

Had they taken up positions somewhere on the hill above me?

Were they—even now—looking down onto the field, planning a rescue?

 

* * * *

 

I was specifically worried about Kieran, Rhys, and Connor.

In truth, Pauly should have been at the top of my list. However—with Brandon having broken Pauly’s arm—it wouldn’t have made any sense for him to be on a mission. Realistically, Pauly would be back at the Point, arm in a cast—complaining loudly to anybody who would listen.

But, then again—it was Pauly.

Even with a cast, could I truly count on him to stay on the Point, away from any possible action? Like Ru had warned me—Pauly was his own animal—wild and barely civilized.

 

* * * *

 

My thoughts left Pauly, Kieran, Rhys, and the rest of my Point Dume family, turning in a different direction—toward Kaylee.

Although I wasn’t entirely certain, I thought that today was her seventeenth birthday. I knew that it was sometime in October—a few days after mine—and, lying on the ground, looking up at the heavens, I figured that this would be as good a day as any to celebrate it.

So, as a giant meteorite sailed across the sky, I took a moment to wish upon it—sending my girl the only present that I could.

 

Wherever you are, Kaylee—know that someone cares for you.

I pray that you remain safe and happy, that you never experience chains that bind you, bars that confine you. That you always be surrounded by people who love you and will stand beside you when evil rises.

Stay always strong, stay always righteous, stay always kind.

And—even though it won’t be with me (although it should have been)—may you find true happiness.

I wish you the best birthday ever.

Love, Jacob.

 

And then—I stopped thinking of Kaylee.

I put her memory away—tucked deep inside my consciousness, in a secret room next to the memories of my parents.

No more distractions.

It was time to move on.

To prepare for battle.

 

* * * *

 

Brandon showed up two nights before Halloween.

It was after supper, when the guards had retired to the stands to smoke cigarettes and talk among themselves. I was busy with my exercises, slowly pulling my body up, leaning my head back, so I could touch my chin to the bars overhead.

“It’s useless, you know,” said a quiet voice to my right.

I dropped to the ground, moving across my cage, in the direction of the voice. Almost immediately, a figure emerged from out of the dark—Brandon.

“You so sure you’re going to win?” I asked him.

He shrugged, nonchalant. “I never lose…I just don’t.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, stretching out my biceps. “You’ll forgive me if I try and change that winning streak of yours.”

Slowly, Brandon began to walk around the cage. I moved with him, keeping pace, a few feet away, on the other side of the bars.

“You know,” he murmured. “I turn eighteen on December 24th.”

“Christmas Eve,” I noted. “Dude, that sucks.”

“Tell me about it. Half the time the parental units wouldn’t even let me open any presents on my birthday. They’d tell me—just wait until tomorrow since we’re combining your present anyway—one big one for both days. Like they couldn’t even go to the trouble to give me a birthday present and a Christmas present.”

He turned round a corner of the cage. I matched his step, turning the corner on my side.

“Then, my dad,” continued Brandon, frowning, “like he always came into my room on my birthday. Every fricking time! Like the dude couldn’t give me a birthday present, so he was going to give me something ‘special’ instead.”

Brandon stopped and turned toward the bars, facing me. He grinned. “Jacob, you have no idea how happy I was when the little prick died.”

 

* * * *

 

“Are we really going to do this on Halloween?” I asked Brandon. “With you having only what, a month and a half until…sorry, bro…you disappear.”

Brandon grinned, tapping absentmindedly on one of the cage bars with his fingernail. “Funny, I was actually thinking about that today. How, when I’m gone, my tribe falls to Mateo.” He gave a little laugh. “Between me and you—that kid is nuts. Like, I mean, he is totally bonkers.”

“Because he believes in it, doesn’t he? The stuff about the devil and hell.”

Brandon nodded, his grin fading away. “It was the easiest way to control him,” he confessed. “Easiest way to control all of them…make the meanest ones disciples and give them a black prince to follow.”

“But you don’t believe it,” I said, hopefully. “Do you?”

Brandon’s grin returned. He stood up taller, his shoulders going back, his chin up in defiance. “Oh, but I do. With all of my heart—I absolutely believe that we’re in hell.”

He leaned in close then, his face squeezing up against the bars. “But here’s the really big secret,” he whispered. “I’ve always been in hell.”

 

 

 

HOW IT ALL ENDED

 

In three hundred and sixty-five days, my world had become irrevocably changed.

Once I had been just a normal teenage guy, worrying about my grades, the surf report, cars—and one particular girl.

Now I was a prisoner, held in a cage in the middle of my high school’s football field—cold, miserable, scared.

In a few hours, the sun would rise and my world would change once again.

It was finally Halloween.

Time to fight.

 

* * * *

 

The guards arrived first—twelve of them—adding to the four already guarding my cage. These ten were armed with spears and guns and they fanned out—facing the stands—a line of tattooed warriors to discourage the crowd from walking onto the football field.

I could hear chanting outside of the stadium, coming from the direction of Chumash Park. The voices were loud and strident, rising to a fevered pitch.

“Huh, huh, huh, HUH, HUH, HUH!”

Suddenly—there were gunshots!

And the chanting ended, mutating into a frenzied chorus of cheers.

 

* * * *

 

“It’s Brandon…they’re cheering for him.”

Brent was standing just outside the door to my cage. Han was a few feet away, making sure that the other guards didn’t come close enough to overhear.

“He’s in Chumash Park,” Brent explained. “It’s like a thing he does—greeting the troops before he goes into the Arena.”

I nodded. “Brandon used to do the same thing before football games, except then it was usually with the cheerleaders.”

“Kid is an attention-hound,” Brent acknowledged.

Outside of the stadium, except for one final gunshot, the revelry had died away.

“They’ll be coming in soon,” Han hissed at us. “Move it, Brent!”

Turning directly toward me, Brent placed his hands on the bars of the cage. “Listen close, Jacob,” he instructed. “You’ll be able to choose your own weapon for the third round. Everyone goes for the swords, but that will be a mistake. You have to go for the spears, instead—the one with the three green rings around the handle. That’s the only weapon that’s made entirely of metal. Everything else will break under Brandon’s sword and it’s one of the things that he will count on.”

“Metal spear—three green rings,” I repeated.

“And you remember the sequence?”

I threw a dirty look in Han’s direction. “Had enough practice.”

The gate at the far end of the field suddenly opened and the Crazies began to pour into the stadium.

Brent pushed himself away from the bars and turned to walk away. “Good luck, dude. I’m sorry we couldn’t have helped you more.”

 

* * * *

 

I had seen my share of Crazies before—but nothing like this.

There had to have been close to a hundred guys—from seven to seventeen—pushing their way into the stadium. They were laughing and joking, some of them drinking beer, others eating bags of chips, still others smoking cigarettes or joints.

Like the Lightning Bolt-kid that Brandon had talked to on our way into Agoura, many of the Crazies had small bones through their noses or even through their earlobes. Others wore feathers and ribbons woven into their hair; one guy even had a string of tiny cars that stuck out of his braids at all angles.

While most of the Crazies were dressed in jeans and t-shirts, a few were wearing only pants and boots—their exposed backs sporting their ‘anarchy-A’ tattoos, like a badge of honor.

Meanwhile, here and there, I noticed individual kids in the crowd wearing dresses, while their hair was adorned with ponytails and barrettes. There was make-up on faces of these particular guys—their lips bright red, their cheeks covered with inexpertly-applied rouge.

I tried not to think of ‘why’.

There were also slaves in the stands, easy to pick out from the chains around their necks. They seemed to sit quietly in their seats, next to guys whom I assumed were their ‘owners’.

I looked closely at each slave’s face—worried that it might belong to someone that I knew.

 

* * * *

 

And still the Crazies kept coming—one-after-another—pushing through the gates and up onto the stands. Although I hadn’t recognized any of the slaves, there were faces in the crowd that I did recognize—boys from Oak Park or Agoura High School, some of whom I had played football with, some against.

When my glance landed on a familiar face, inevitably it turned away, not wanting to meet my eyes. It made me wonder if these guys had joined up with Brandon willingly or been coerced somehow.

Or maybe they were even one of the ‘others’—the Stars.

 

* * * *

 

At one point, Brent walked by my cage, heading toward the stands. As he passed, he muttered three short, quick words. “On your left.”

I waited until he was gone, then slowly worked my eye line along the stands. There, to the left, at the building that housed the stadium’s bathrooms, I discovered a young kid, no more than 10-years if that. He was dragging out weapons, some as long as he was tall, lining them up against the side of a wall.

For a moment, our eyes met and—as they did—the kid’s foot moved slightly, knocking a six-foot spear toward the ground. He jumped for it quickly, catching it before it landed and replacing it in its spot against the wall.

As he did, I noticed the three green bands around the handle.

When I looked back at the kid, he had already moved off, heading behind the stands, presumably for another armful of weapons.

Had I just met another ‘Star’?

Would they really recruit someone that young?

 

* * * *

 

Suddenly—boom, boom, BOOM…boom, boom, BOOM!

 

* * * *

 

Guys were stamping their feet together, causing the whole stands to thunder and vibrate. As they did, their faces were turned to the left, watching the gate expectantly.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

The guards lining the edge of the field stood up straighter, their hands close to their weapons. One of them pulled out a long whip, flicking it around his head in time with the crowd.

...boom, boom, BOOM!

I looked around for Brent or Han, but saw neither. Off to the side, the young kid lining up the weapons was now arranging two sets of shoulder pads and football helmets.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

The slaves in the crowd kept their heads down, their shoulders hunched, trying to go unnoticed as they were jostled by the manic Crazies all around them.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

A young boy in a dress, with his red hair in pigtails, stood up on a bench and began dancing. He twerked in time to the beat, moving his butt up and down.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

Two Crazies in a back row began to fight among themselves—whether out of anger or excitement—punches and kicks that threatened to fling them backwards off of the stands.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

And then—suddenly—there was Mateo, striding onto the field, straight toward my cage. He stopped a few feet away, turning to face the crowd. With each ‘boom’, he punched the air.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

 

* * * *

 

Sometimes you just have to do something stupid, something that says…I’ve had it. It’s enough.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

The crowd was stomping, Mateo was punching the air; the world was turning itself upside down with mirthless glee and evil.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

Perhaps—we really were in hell.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

As the Crazies continued their loud and raucous screaming and banging, I walked as close to the edge of my cage as possible and unzipped my fly.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

A few of the kids in the front rows stopped their caterwauling, realizing that I was about to do the unthinkable.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

The others were completely oblivious—as was Mateo—wrapped up in their stomping and yelling.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

Taking careful aim, I shot a stream of piss out through the bars, following a trail along the grass and up onto Mateo’s back—aiming for that sweet spot right at the nape of his neck.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

 

* * * *

The stomping and cheering fell away.

For a moment—there was silence—punctuated here and there with gasps and quiet tittering. Then, a big guy in the front row burst out into uncontrollable laughter, shoving the kid next to him with one hand while pointing at Mateo with his other.

Soon—other guys began to laugh.

The twerking kid in the dress mimed peeing on the boys around him. Another guy took a final slug of his beer and then threw the can onto the field with a loud, “Hooyah!”

Other trash followed—bottles, apple cores, chip bags—all winging their way toward the center of the field.

Toward Mateo.

 

* * * *

 

He was seething.

I could see it in Mateo’s eyes as he slowly turned to face me. There was a single drop of urine on his cheek and he wiped at it, flinging it to the ground in disgust.

“Sorry, bud,” I said, calmly—tucking myself back in and zipping up. “Sometimes it just gets away from you, you know.”

With a roar, Mateo ran for the cage, his arms out. I stepped back—once, twice—just enough so that, when Mateo thrust his arms through the bars, they were inches away from my face.

“I’m gonna kill you, bitch!” His face was distorted with fury and rage, jammed up against the bars as he tried unsuccessfully to reach me.

I put my hand on my zipper once more. “Well, what do you know,” I grinned. “Squeezed it off a little too soon.”

Mateo leapt back immediately, tripping on his own feet. To the screeching amusement of the guys behind him, he went down, flat on his ass.

For a short moment, Mateo stared at the ground—as if it had personally betrayed him. Then he looked up, straight into my eyes—full of hate and vengeance. “I will eat your heart, pendejo!”

 

* * * *

 

It took a while for the guards to get everyone settled down.

Mateo, meanwhile, disappeared into the school, most likely to clean himself off. While he did, Brent and Han came to stand close to my cage, both of them shaking their head in amusement at my antics.

“I’d say that you’re going to get yourself killed doing stupid crap like that,” said Brent, “but—”

“I’m already in a cage, getting ready to fight to the death.”

“True that,” he acknowledged.

…boom, boom, boom!

The guys in the stands began to stomp again. The noise was loud—although not as deafening as before.

“You’ve got some fans, Local,” said Han, nodding up toward the back row. There, right at the top, was a group of six or seven guys—thrusting their fists into the air in direct counterpoint to the stomping-beat.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

Only their fists were directed at me.

“Are they Stars?” I asked, quietly. “Are they your guys?”

Brent shook his head. “Not, yet.”

 

* * * *

 

When Brandon finally entered the Arena—galloping in on his black horse—the guys in the stands burst into a mixture of applause and cheers. The redhead in the dress began to jump up and down, so annoying to the guys around him, that he was tugged off the bench and shoved to the ground.

Another guy—down in the front row—pulled out a gun and began to shoot it in the air in celebration. Immediately, two of the guards at the edge of the field raced over and confiscated the gun.

That caught my attention.

Interesting—the guys in the stands hadn’t been allowed to bring in their weapons.

Was that for their safety, mine—or Brandon’s?

 

* * * *

 

As he circled the football field, racing around the same track where we had once ran laps during P.E., Brandon held his long sword in one hand, the reins of his galloping horse in the other. He was wearing black leather pants tucked into motorcycle boots—both of which sported fringe and silver studs. On his arms—from wrists to elbows—Brandon had black leather bracelets and, around his neck, a gold metal band at least four inches in width had replaced his choker of bones.

Finishing his pre-victory lap, Brandon trotted toward the stands—pulling his horse up, in front of the cheering guys. He waited there, enjoying the attention for a moment, before finally holding his hands in the air for silence.

“Welcome to the Devil’s Playground!” he boomed. “Who’s up for some Arena?!”

And—the crowd went wild.

 

* * * *

 

My cage was directly behind him—in the center of the field—so that I couldn’t see much of Brandon’s face as he talked to the crowd. But I could see his bald head and the lightning bolt-‘A’ there.

That tattoo irritated me—a corruption of our high school’s symbol. I looked up onto the hill above the stadium to where the true ‘A’ stood and, once again, a glint caught my eye.

A reflection of light—coming from the barrel of a rifle, poking out from just behind the base of the left side of the letter.

I was certain this time.

Someone was up there!

 

* * * *

 

“Round one,” said Brandon, holding his index finger up. “Two minutes long, bare hands. What are the rules?”

“Live or die!” screamed the guys in the stand.

 

* * * *

 

As I stared up at the ‘A’, I watched the rifle barrel slowly withdraw, disappearing from my sight. For a moment, I wondered if I had simply imagined it. Then, suddenly, I caught another glint as the rifle barrel reappeared in a new position, this time on the right side of the ‘A’.

 

* * * *

 

“Round two…two minutes long, bare hands. What are the rules?”

“Live or die!”

 

* * * *

 

My heart was thudding in my chest.

If there was someone up on the hill, was it one of my guys or was it one of Brandon’s? And, if it was one of the Locals—were there others?

Trying not to appear obvious, my eyes started flicking—from one end of the Arena to the other. I was searching for anything—any sign of my guys—or my brothers.

Frankly—I was scared for their sake that I would find someone.

And I was scared for mine that I wouldn’t.

 

* * * *

 

“Round Three…no time limit, choose your own weapon. What are the rules?”

The shouting was deafening.

“LIVE OR DIE!!”

 

* * * *

 

Mateo came out onto the field from the direction of the school. He had changed clothes, wearing black jeans now and an Agoura High sweatshirt.

“Sheesh!” I said, as he stalked by. “Take a shower, dude. You smell like piss!”

Mateo slowed just enough to hawk a loogie in my direction. I stepped back quickly, so that it missed me by a couple of inches.

He continued on—studiously ignoring me—heading to where the weapons had been arranged. I watched as he picked up each piece, carefully going over it as if searching for flaws.

Meanwhile—Brandon continued to speak.

 

* * * *

 

“They call us crazy, insane. That what we’re doing is wrong.”

Much hooting and hollering from the crowd.

“That we should bow before their God and our country and be the good citizens, the good boys that our churches, our schools, and our parents demanded of us.”

The redhead climbed up onto the bench and began twerking. Once again, he was knocked back down.

“But guess what? Our parents are gone and so are our schools and our churches. So, we have no country and we have no God.”

A few guys in the crowd lowered their heads at the mention of God. One even surreptitiously crossed himself.

“We have only ourselves now. We are the schools…we are the churches…we are the parents.”

Brandon rose in his stirrups, climbing up to stand on the saddle, arms wide, sword held high in the air.

“This is our heaven…this is our hell. And we—we are its gods!”

 

* * * *

 

“You know, you’re a complete psycho,” I told Brandon, as he circled me on the football field. The round had just begun and he was taking his time, waiting for exactly the right moment to attack.

“Tell you what, Jacob,” he said. “No karate this round. Just to make it more of an even fight.”

“Works for me,” I shrugged.

And—Brandon lowered his head like a bull and came at me. He hit me dead center in my chest, knocking the wind out of me and laying me flat on the ground—all in one move.

The guys in the stand roared their approval, while I laid there gasping.

“Dude,” said Brandon, looking almost embarrassed as he reached his hand down to help me up. “You’re going to have to work harder than that if you want to give a good show.”

I slapped his hand away and pushed up from the ground, ignoring the throbbing in my chest. With a smirk, Brandon stepped back, allowing me to rise. “There you go, grandpa.”

In the middle of the stands, a group of Crazies began to chant. “Kill him…gut him…stomp, stomp, stomp!”

“They want me to step on your head…bash your brains out,” Brandon translated for me.

“Yeah, well…I’d rather you didn’t.”

I lowered my head and went for him—the same bull-move that he had used on me. Brandon stepped to the side easily and—although I didn’t miss entirely—I barely managed to graze him.

“Just like in football practice. Keep your shoulders back and down,” Brandon advised me. “You’ll have more control that way.”

“Shaddup.”

“Just trying to help,” he smirked.

Then he squatted, moving into ‘breakdown’ position and shuffling back and forth on his toes. “Get ready to juke, Rikes.”

I had only enough time to think one thing before Brandon exploded up, straight at me.

…oh crap…

 

* * * *

 

It wasn’t experience that caused me to turn around and use my back to absorb Brandon’s attack—it was full-on fear.

As his beefed-up arms snagged around me, I pushed back into his rip, pumping my legs hard to counter his forward motion. For a moment, we stalemated, his arms like pythons, reaching around my ribcage, trying to constrict my breathing.

Still, I continued to move my feet, heels hitting the ground hard, one-after-another.

At the same time, I whipped my head backward. There was an immediate clunk—the back of my head meeting up with Brandon’s forehead.

And, just like that—the balance of power shifted.

Suddenly, my pumping feet were gaining purchase; I was pushing us both backward. Brandon struggled with the movement, his motorcycle boots becoming a liability as he tripped over his own big feet.

We began to fall—going down on our backs.

If this had been football practice, I would have tried to twist my body away—so I wouldn’t land on Brandon and hurt him.

But this wasn’t football.

And it certainly wasn’t a practice.

 

* * * *

 

Somewhere, I heard the blare of a trumpet.

In the back of my mind—just before my whole body thumped down on top of Brandon’s—I remembered thinking that this must be the trumpet that Pauly and Kieran had reported hearing in the Arena.

There was an oomph from below me. I prayed that it was the sound of air being forced out of Brandon’s lungs by the back of my right elbow.

“Get off of him, bitch!”

 

* * * *

 

It surprised me to realize that it was Brent pulling me off of a struggling Brandon. He grabbed me by my arm, swinging me around—hard.

“Round’s over, asshole,” he hissed.

On the other side of us, Mateo leaned down to help Brandon up. “You okay, jefe.”

Brandon pushed Mateo’s hands away and got up on his own. He looked irritated and—from the way he was holding his ribs—maybe hurting a little.

I certainly hoped so.

 

* * * *

 

One of the guards brought out two bottles of water. He handed one to Brandon and then—at a nod from Brandon—gave the other one to me.

“Good show,” said the guard. “How long ‘til Round Two?”

“Five minutes,” answered Brandon, taking a long swig from his bottle, then dumping the rest over his bald head. “Tell the guys to smoke them if they’ve got them.” Then, he turned and walked off the field toward the school. As he passed me, Brandon didn’t say a word—didn’t even look in my direction.

Mateo quickly raced after him—the ever-obedient dog to his master.

 

* * * *

 

“If I had to guess,” said Brent, quietly, “I’d say that Brandon’s getting his ribs taped up. Looked like he took a hell of a hit when you slammed down on him. Did you hear how funny his breathing was?”

I shook my head. “Couldn’t hear anything over my own gasping?”

“You crack a rib?”

“I don’t think so. Just bruised, I think.”

“You going to be good for the second round?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Brent shook his head, looking down at the ground—ashamed.

I took the moment to peer up at the ‘A’ on the hill. Sure enough—the rifle barrel was still visible. And higher up—right at the top—I was certain that I saw movement, like a person moving down the slope, slowly, through the bushes.

Taking a drink of water, I used the bottle to hide my words from the guards and the Crazies in the stands. “Does Brandon have guys up in the hills?” I whispered. “Sentries, maybe?”

Immediately, Brent tensed. His eyes strayed up and to the left, taking in the hill at the end of the football field.

“Brent?”

It took a moment before he turned from the hill to look at me. He didn’t say a word—but his eyes were wide.

He had seen someone, too.

“Brent?”

Finally, he shook his head slightly. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I honestly don’t.”

 

* * * *

 

“You’re sounding like an old man there, Brandon.”

“Shut your pie hole,” he grunted, moving into a basic karate stance, balancing back and forth on his feet until he found his ‘center’.

I shuffled backward, wanting to keep as much distance between us as I could. We were both jacking ourselves up, huffing and puffing—two aggressive males trying to psych each other out.

Over in the stands, meanwhile, the Crazies were becoming restless.

There was a lot of pushing and shoving, and one of the younger kids actually tumbled over a bench, slamming his face on the cement below. He was led away, crying, wiping at the blood pouring from a cut on his forehead.

“One of your vicious Crazies just got an owie,” I said.

Brandon turned his head slightly, watching as the kid was escorted out of the stadium. He shrugged, unconcerned.

“That kid’s what—seven, eight?” I asked. “A little boy.”

“You got a point?”

“Yes, I’ve got a point,” I growled. “The same point that I’ve been trying to get you to see all along. That this is stupid and ridiculous. And it’s bad enough that you’re involved. But that you’re bringing these little kids into it is just so beyond wrong—it’s evil.”

“You’re always so full of yourself, Jacob,” Brandon muttered. “I’ve always hated that about you—that you always think that you’re so much better than the rest of us.”

“I’ve never said that,” I insisted. “And I’ve never believed that.”

“Could of fooled me—with that goody-goody act you got going.”

Suddenly…BANG! It was a gunshot, fired by Mateo from over near the bathrooms.

The Crazies started to cheer.

Round Two had just begun.

 

* * * *

 

I had no idea that Brandon could move so fast.

On the football field, he was always the punisher, the enforcer. He tackled, he dropped guys, he threw them over his shoulder and slammed them into the ground.

And, although I knew that Brandon had a brown belt—truthfully—I’d never really believed it. I guess, because he was such an oaf at school, I figured that he’d be big and lumbering in the dojo, too.

But this kid who came at me now—he moved quick.

Too quick for me.

 

* * * *

 

The roundhouse kick caught me in the left shoulder. I spun around, immediately off-balance, my arms windmilling.

Brandon moved in then, his hands lashing out. The heel of one caught me on the right side of my jaw, rattling my brain. That was followed with a jab to my solar plexus that nearly knocked me onto my back.

Over in the stands, the Crazies were screaming. Out of the sides of my eyes, I could see bodies jumping up and down with excitement. Reacting to their cheers, Brandon turned away from me, putting on a show for them as he balanced on one leg—“Karate Kid”-style.

In response, some of the guys immediately started yelling. “Wax on, wax off!”

 

* * * *

 

Hoping to catch Brandon while his attention was focused on his adoring fans, I raced forward, pulling my right hand back for a punch.

I didn’t even get to throw it.

Brandon spun around—almost as if he had been waiting for me—and his base leg lashed out, smashing me on the bottom of my chin. I flew back, my teeth biting into my tongue and my mouth filling up with blood.

“Wax on, wax off!”

 

* * * *

 

I’ve no doubt that Brandon could have killed me any time that he had wanted during the second round. That he did not, I think, had simply to do with his wish to ‘put on a good show’.

He pummeled me badly, however—with hooks and jabs that sent my head flying back and split open the skin above my left eye. Meanwhile, an elbow smash left my ear ringing and a side kick came close to crushing my throat.

It wasn’t much, but I’m proud of the roundhouse that I did manage to connect to his ribs as Brandon came in for a series of heel snaps to my stomach. Other than that one roundhouse, however, the only other time I touched Brandon was the foot stomp I gave him when he enfolded me in a bone-crushing bear hug.

 

* * * *

 

When the trumpet blew, ending the second round, Brandon and I both slumped to the ground—exhausted. I was spitting out blood and had more dripping into my eyes from a cut on my forehead.

 

* * * *

 

While Mateo went over to do a final check on the weapons for the third round, Brandon and I sat close together on the football field. The guards—including Brent and Han—were nearby.

Out in the stands, meanwhile, Crazies were using the break between rounds to share a smoke or a joint. Others were wandering about, talking to friends, eating sandwiches or potato chips. The atmosphere was friendly and slightly raucous—more like a bunch of guys having a tailgate party during halftime than waiting to witness a murder.

 

* * * *

 

“Do you still miss girls?” Brandon asked.

I turned my head slowly to look at him; he was half-lying on the ground, his sword in front of him, drinking from his water bottle.

“Yes,” I answered, honestly.

“I don’t,” said Brandon. “Mostly…I mean, I miss the sex. That kind of goes without saying. But the other stuff—the talking and the pretending to care and all that. I just don’t miss it. Not at all.”

With my fingers, I probed the teeth in my mouth, jiggling each one in turn, checking to see what, if any, damage had been done to them.

“Girls smell good, though. I’ll give them that,” Brandon admitted.

“They smell amazing.”

“Hard to believe that it’s only been a year without them,” he sighed. “I kind of feel like they’ve been gone forever.”

“I think they grounded us. Girls kept us civilized.”

Brandon gave me an evil grin. “You obviously never dated Tray.”

 

* * * *

 

…boom, boom, BOOM!

The Crazies were almost manic in their yelling and screaming. Their faces were contorted in excitement, their feet pumping the stands, their arms karate-chopping the air.

One kid down in front held up a fork and knife—laughing and sticking his tongue out at me. Another turned and pulled down his pants, showing me an unfortunate view of his ass.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

 

* * * *

 

Brandon was now standing ten feet away from me. He was wearing a metal breastplate and holding a long sword in his right hand. Leaning over, he allowed Mateo to place a set of football shoulder pads over his head, securing them with strings.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

Mateo then took a helmet and placed it carefully over Brandon’s head.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

 

* * * *

 

It was Han who helped me into my own shoulder pads. They felt right to wear, a comfortable sense-memory of my previous high school football life.

“They good?” Han asked, tying the pads down.

“I’m counting on it.”

He handed me the spear that I had chosen a few moments previously—the one with the three green rings. Then, Han lifted up a football helmet and jostled it into position over my head. Through the small cage over my eyes, I could just see up onto the hill at the end of the fence.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

“Get him,” whispered Han, knocking the top of my helmet with his knuckles. Then, he stepped back and left the field. Mateo followed a moment later, pulling out his gun as he walked.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

Stopping in front of the stands, Mateo turned and faced us. He held the gun up, high in the air, and waited for Brandon’s signal.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

 

* * * *

 

“I don’t eat them,” Brandon confided. He looked over at the frenzied Crazies in the stands, then back at me. “They think I do—but I don’t.”

“Then what’s all that crap about eating your enemy’s heart?”

Brandon lifted his sword up waist-high, moving it over and under in a figure eight pattern.

A pattern I recognized!

“It’s all just for show,” he admitted. “That’s all it’s ever been.

“You do it to control them.”

“Of course,” Brandon nodded. “Once they’ve eaten, they’re committed. Not like they can go back to being normal after doing something like that.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“Absolutely,” Brandon agreed.

…boom, boom, BOOM!

“And it’s really going to be disgusting,” he continued, “when they eat your heart.”

“You really hate me that much, Brandon?”

“Dude,” he said, “don’t you get it? I hate everyone that much.”

“Even yourself?”

Brandon’s eyes narrowed. He looked over at Mateo and nodded.

BANG! The gun went off.

 

* * * *

 

Three things happened at once.

 

* * * *

 

I jumped back as Brandon ceased his figure eights and lunged his long sword at me with a vicious jab.

Up on the hill, a dark figure came out from behind the ‘A’ and knelt down, centering his rifle on his shoulder and aiming down into the Arena.

Then…everyone—in the stands and on the field—disappeared!

 

* * * *

 

…except her…the girl.

 

* * * *

 

She was kneeling in the center of the football field, with her back toward me…but still I knew.

Her hair had been braided—three messy, crisscross plaits that stuck out at absurd angles. I noticed right away that she was thinner than before and that there were cuts and bruises all over her body. My heart hardened at that—wondering who would dare hurt this girl.

Suddenly, she turned—rising and spinning around at the same time—as if to take flight.

But then, she saw me—and stopped.

And she just stared.

 

* * * *

 

I walked toward her slowly—one step at a time.

Twenty feet away, fifteen feet, ten feet, five feet.

Then, I stopped—facing her—my heart racing. “Kaylee?”

 

* * * *

 

And she said one word. “Jacob…”

 

* * * *

 

My heart skipped a beat as I pulled off my helmet and went to her.

Kaylee Michelson—the girl I loved, the girl I would always love.

She smiled up at me, her green eyes blazing fiercely into mine.

“I knew you were still alive,” I whispered. “I just knew it!”

 

* * * *

 

They began to reappear, then.

One after another—popping up all along the football field and in the stands.

Crazies…and girls!

 

* * * *

 

A few feet away, Brandon materialized out of thin air. He looked disoriented and wobbly—dropping the sword he was carrying onto the ground beside him.

Traynesha Davis was standing a few yards away, a gun lying at her feet. She looked up and saw Brandon and her jaw dropped open in shock.

In the stands, meanwhile, guys began to yell—girls to scream.

I returned my gaze to Brandon, watching as he shook his head, as if clearing out the cobwebs. For a moment, I thought that it would all be over—that sanity had returned.

But then Brandon looked at me and grinned.

And he bent over to pick up his sword.

I knew then—it wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

 

* * * *

 

And I took the hand of my girl—my girl with the extraordinary green eyes—the girl I loved so dearly—and I said the one thing I would have least expected.

“RUN, KAYLEE…RUN!!”

 

 

END

 

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

Nancy Isaak is a Gemini-nominated, award-winning writer of television, films, and books. She currently resides in Southern California with her son and three cats.