| |
The Merged storm up the pitch, Cal in the centre, three players to either side.
“It’s odd that they’re sticking together,” Inez says. “Usually when a team drops to a low number, it’s to spread out play and create gaps.”
“We have seven defensive players on our team,” Kurtis grins. “I don’t fancy your chances in a head-on collision.”
The teams clash. The SubMerged captain tackles Cal, but he’s underestimated the big man. Cal knocks him aside with a punch, then poleaxes the nearest player. Before the rest of the team can react, he wrestles a third blocker to the ground.
The SubMerged are in shock and Cal’s teammates seize the moment. There are only four SubMerged blockers left. Cal and the others keep them busy while the Merged captain and a bird dance past and head for the nearest tree. The SubMerged bird doesn’t even try to intercept them.
The captain isn’t a chucker, but with no one to oppose him, he casually hoists the bird into the air and she scores.
Eleven-five, and the slightest ripple of hope washes through the crowd.
The SubMerged win the next point after a massive battle, but our team then scores four times without reply, making it twelve-nine. Cal’s at the heart of everything, bullying the opposition and advising the captain to bring on or withdraw players after every score.
I’m cheering non-stop, along with all the Merged. The atmosphere has flipped on its head and that’s given the players confidence. They’re winning duels which they were losing earlier, feeding off the energy of the fans.
“What do you think our chances look like now?” I ask Kurtis.
He grimaces. “This is only a practice match. The result isn’t important.” But I can tell he’s sick inside, especially as he’s the one who brought Cal to the match.
On the pitch, Cal makes a rare slip. He tackles a SubMerged who has possession of the grop and wrings it from his hands, but he’s on his way down and can’t release it to a teammate. The grop smashes, resulting in a penalty for the SubMerged. They chance a long-range shot and score.
Thirteen-nine.
Half-time.
The players shuffle off. The Merged are buzzing, despite the fact that they lost the last point and are four behind. They believe the second half will be very different to the first.
The SubMerged, on the other hand, are wrecked, and it’s plain to even a newbie like me that they’re in trouble.
“We should have placed a bet,” I say to Kurtis.
“Too late for that now,” he says sourly.
“You don’t fancy a small wager?”
A dirty look is his answer.
“Now, now,” Inez chuckles. “Be gracious, Archie. Kurtis didn’t crow when they were winning...”
“We’re still winning,” Kurtis reminds her.
“...so you shouldn’t crow when we pull ahead,” she finishes with a smirk.
“I’m outnumbered,” Kurtis laughs. “I’ll get the hotcats and leave you to relive the highlights. The way things are shaping up, the cat might be the only highlight of my day.”
Inez and I talk about the match while he’s gone, and she explains more of the rules to me. Then she starts chatting with a woman. They compare this with other matches they’ve seen and try to guess what the final score will be.
I look for Kurtis and spot him in a line outside a house — the residents cook up the hotcats and dispense them from a window. There are several customers ahead of him, so it’ll be a few minutes before he returns. I cast my gaze round, looking for people with moon-shaped faces or other weird, remoulded features. The SubMerged supporters are mixed in with the Merged, which surprises me. I thought there’d be separate sections for the fans, but it looks like grop brings everyone together peacefully.
I’m idly scanning the crowd when my gaze settles on a couple of figures flanking the exit, and all thoughts of the match vanish in an instant.
The men are positioned on either side of the alley, scrutinising everyone who passes. People must sense that they’re not to be trifled with, because even though it’s chaotic over there, everyone carefully edges past them, keeping well out of their reach.
One of the men is pale, the other dark-skinned. They’re dressed all in white – suits, ties, shoes – and there’s an odd, crescent-shaped swath of dyed white hair running across their foreheads.
I’ve seen these men before, on the bridge in London where all this first began, and on the river of blood in Diamond when they attacked with a pack of demonic hell jackals.
They’re Orlan Stiletto and Argate Axe, the killers who’ve been hunting for Inez. To my shock and dismay, they’ve tracked her down again, and since they’re guarding the only way in and out of this place, there’s nowhere for us to run. It’s only a matter of time before they isolate us, move in and start painting the pitch red with their blades and our blood.