Chapter 9 – Odds and Ends
A couple of hours later Ashley woke and crossed to a nearby sink and mirror. She ran some cold water, splashed her face and dried it off with a small white hospital towel.
She looked into the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and red. Small cuts and fading bruises bore testimony to her fight with Marco yesterday.
She slammed her fist into the mirror, shattering it.
Ash tentatively withdrew her hand from the spider-webbed glass. Her knuckles reflected red wetness and glittering light from the small glass shards.
On the mirror, crimson smeared the central point of impact.
A young nurse rushed into the room, responding to the sound of the crash. She saw Ashley's pained expression, her hand and the shattered mirror. The nurse didn't admonish her. She just took a deep breath and pulled a chair over to Ashley.
She wheeled an urgent care cart over and placed Ash's hand in a shallow metal bowl. She rinsed the hand and removed the pieces of mirror with a pair of finely pointed tweezers. Once the wound was clean, the nurse spooned blue pluri-potent antibacterial goo, (a cheap version of her father’s creation), over the knuckles and wrapped the hand with gauze.
"This is going to harden in twenty minutes. It'll start to deteriorate after twenty-four hours. Go easy," she suggested.
Ash nodded.
The nurse looked over at the mirror, shook her head and left.
Ash flexed her fist, the blue goo was already hardening. She glanced at the clock. 2:10. Dante will be coming for her soon. She doubted he'd be in a good mood.
Ash looked at the large jar of blue goo and then back at the broken mirror. She picked up a towel and laid it over the metal sink. She pulled a surgical hammer from the instrument cart and held another towel in front of the mirror. Ash lightly rapped the mirror with the hammer, knocking chunks of silvered-glass into the towel.
She then transferred the operation to the floor. Ash folded the towel and used the hammer to smash the mirror into smaller and smaller bits. Once the loud cracking sounds turned into quiet crunching, she stopped. She opened the towel to reveal a small pile of glittering mirror-sand.
Ash wrapped more gauze over her damaged hand then wrapped the other as well. She slathered them both in the blue goo and then lightly dipped her knuckles into the small mound of mirror shards. She stood and inspected her hands in the light and smiled.
Ashley looked around for any other useful items. The hammer, great for breaking mirrors, was far too small to provide any significant help against Mo.
She looked in the drawers of the surgical cart, lots of clamps and bandages. Then she discovered the knife drawer. A dozen chrome scalpels of varying sizes, sheathed in plastic caps, arranged on a towel. Ash chose a particularly wicked looking model and slipped it into her back pocket.
Behind her, Geoff moved and slowly woke. He sat up and smiled at her. Ash hugged him, careful not to get mirror shards on him. She asked him if he felt well enough to get dressed. He nodded and struggled out of bed.
As Geoff tied his second shoe, Dante, Yama, Frost and two other guys arrived in the doorway.
Ash turned to face them, placing her hands behind her back, offering no resistance. Yama and Frost stepped into the room, one to each side of the door.
Geoff recognized them with a gasp.
Dante remained in the hall.
Ash nodded to Geoff and they walked out between them.
The jumbled mess of golden curls, Swoop, followed the action with his camera, recording everything. Near the elevators a small crowd waited. Several held cameras, flashbulbs popped.
Ashley's hands remained behind her back, in exactly the submissive posture required around the district guards. They rode the elevator to the bottom floor. The doors opened. They were in an abandoned maintenance wing.
Ash, Geoff and her bodyguards drifted along with the rather heavy adolescent traffic. They walked the passageway, flanked with machinery so massive that they were as ants: the general flow informing anyone unsure of their mutual destination.
Ash saw other groups of bodyguards and fighters as they made their way deeper into the prison. Kids floated along in groups of twos, threes, and dozens, some on phones, as many with cameras. In the dull roar of conversation, she felt the expectation, the air itself seemed charged with excitement.
People looked at Ashley, surrounded by Dante and his crew.
Dante, with his newly broken nose, walked with a simultaneous swagger and a sobering measure of humility. He made eye contact with almost no one.
Finally the entourage reached a deep corner of the prison, underneath the recycling center; the waste chutes. There were only three working chutes. The fourth had been renovated into an auditorium.
Bleachers and box seats had been erected around a central shallow pit. A concessions stand offered cold drinks and sweets of all kinds.
The fights were professionally produced and filmed from dozens of angles. All of it broadcast live, available to anyone who cared to tune in.
Ash estimated the spectators numbered in the hundreds. The stands were packed, kids milled about everywhere. Three walls of odds makers offered constantly changing digital wagers on the afternoon's events.
Ashley's fight, a late addition to the card, was scheduled last. The odds against her hovered at a thousand to one. The odds were so high, the bookies drafted pools on how long she might last, just to drum up any action at all.
Her current expectation was somewhere between 15 to 30 seconds. In a small cube beside the odds, footage of her fight with Marco was mixed with Mo’s most recent bouts.
Ash and company walked out onto the apron, between the bleachers and the pit. The pit looked twelve to fifteen feet deep, with slanting walls and a shallowly banked floor. All painted white, leaning toward a flat circular metal grate, set in the center.
Video screens hung everywhere, cycling through commentary on the upcoming participants. The announcers broke down the odds and explanations of the various bets to the waiting crowd.
Ash and her crew wound their way through the auditorium, under and behind the bleachers, to abandoned offices in the back, doubling as the fighters' warm-up rooms. Ash was given her own and Geoff stayed with her. Dante locked the heavy door behind himself as he left.
Ash and Geoff could hear the announcer's muffled voice on the loud speakers. They heard the bell and the thunder of the crowd as a fight began. Over and over again, the fighters heated exchanges were identified by a roar that built to a crescendo and then tapered off. Ash guessed that these must be brutal fights to draw such volume from the crowd.
Two and a half hours later, Dante returned for her, marching her out to stand near the front of the bleachers. They allowed Geoffrey to follow silently.
On the apron, Sky, Kaz, Hambone, Tanaka and the rest of the kids she'd met, came over to her. They wished her luck and tried to talk her out of it. Ash asked them to watch Geoff and told him to stay with Sky and to not let go of her hand.
The pit, that had so recently been pure white, was now bloodstained in several places, streaked and smeared. Despite the fact that the blood had been hosed down, it left long pink lines toward the center grate.
The main card fighters stepped up onto the elevated platforms. At the base of the platform, on Ash's right, hung a banner reading, Challenger. On that platform stood a huge goatee-ed teenager in black shorts and a black robe, twin swords were crossed in embroidery on his back. The video screen nearest him displayed his name, stats and record.
Across the pit, on the other platform, stood a shorter but wider kid. He stood perfectly still. The banner under his platform read Champion.
"Tonight's title match," the announcer called out, "Hector Macho-Man Mendoza, standing six foot two, weighing in at two hundred and ten pounds with a seventy-four inch reach. Macho-Man sports an impressive record of twenty-two wins, seventeen by knock out.”
He continued. "Tonight he'll face the champ, standing at six foot ev
en, two hundred forty pounds, with a seventy-two inch reach and an undefeated record of forty-seven wins, all by knock out, Harold The Bear Arcilla.”
Harold dropped his robe to the platform, but otherwise remained still. Across his back was a massive tattoo of a snarling bear.
Hector bounced and shadow boxed, keeping himself warm, Harold didn't bounce or stretch, he didn't do anything at all. A bell rung and the ref gestured for them to enter the pit.
Hector bounced down the steps from his platform. The Bear walked with exaggerated slowness. Once in the pit, the crowd went crazy as the fighters approached each other at the bottom.
Dante lead Ash out to the base of the platform Hector had occupied.
Below her, Macho-Man jumped at the Bear, a mountain of muscle, who caught Hector easily and spun him into a full nelson.
They struggled for a few moments.
Harold increased the pressure on Hector's neck.
Macho-Man stepped forward and then back, lifting a heel into the Bear's groin, escaping from the hold.
Harold doubled over in pain. Macho-Man kicked him savagely in the face, shredding his lips against his teeth.
The crowd screamed wildly.
Macho-Man leapt at the Bear, swinging wildly. Harold took it all. He even turned his face into the punches, attacking Hector's fists with his head. The strategy worked.
Hector punched away but his hands were soon reduced to hamburger. He stepped in with elbows, knees, and finally a couple kicks, but he was out of gas, and it showed.
The Bear caught a lazy kick and spun, hurling Hector across the pit. He landed in a tangled mess of arms and legs.
The Bear stumbled after him, careful to avoid the grate in the center. He grabbed Hector and dragged him toward the grate.
Hector kicked and jerked and kicked again.
The Bear paused long enough to punch him a few times.
Someone tossed a lead pipe into the pit. A large knife, several homemade shivs, a hatchet, a pair of brass knuckles and a machete followed it. Then dozens of weapons clattered down into the pit.
Hector kicked free of the Bear's distracted grasp.
Instead of fleeing and picking up a weapon, Hector scrambled up the side of the ramp attacked with a knee to the face. The Bear absorbed the strike and flipped Hector past.
Hector rolled dangerously close to the grate, but avoided it. He hopped to his feet, quickly snatching up the hatchet and pipe.
The Bear stood. Blood gushed from his smashed nose. He pinched it off, wiped it away and picked up the machete at his feet.
Hector set down the pipe, kept the hatchet and swept up three shivs, all needle sharp.
The Bear anticipated Hector's attack and rushed toward him, hoping to close the distance in time.
Hector leapt backward and hurled the first knife at Harold's shoulder causing him to drop the machete. Hector threw another and planted it in the Bear's thigh.
The Bear reached him before he could throw the third.
Hector defended himself with the last shiv, stabbing it deep into Harold's forearm.
Harold delivered a powerful punch to Hector's ribs, cracking three of them. The not-so-Macho-Man scrambled away, across the sloped floor, the hatchet in his hand, useless.
The Bear stood upright and pulled the knife from of his forearm. He pulled the shiv from his thigh and pulled the last one from his shoulder. He held the three small blades in his fist, protruding from between his fingers.
A hush fell over the crowd.
The fighters lined up, staring at each from the length of the oversized trash chute. They silently agreed to a game of chicken and sprinted toward each other at full speed.
Hector held the hatchet upside down, the blade along his forearm.
The Bear retained the three shivs, nestled in his palm.
As they neared each other, Hector took the high road, up the slanted ramp, attacking from above.
The Bear slashed at Hector's legs and opened three parallel gashes across his right thigh.
Hector's hatchet opened the Bear's right shoulder to the bone and nicked his ear. Hector came down behind the Bear, turned and positioned himself for an overhand attack.
Harold spun and his hand lashed out, shredding Hector's shirt. His left caught the descending hatchet arm and the Bear prepared to deliver the final blow, a needle-filled right hand; all three shivs, to Hector's lung.
Hector abandoned the hatchet attack and ducked past the Bear, sprinting around the pit, putting some distance between himself and Harold.
The Bear saw the machete lying nearby moved toward it.
Hector threw the hatchet.
The weapon spun end over end.
Finally the backside, the hammer, not the blade, collided with the Bear's forehead. He went down hard.
After a moment, he struggled to his hands and knees to discover Hector standing over him, with the machete held high.
The Bear leapt forward and slammed Hector to the ground. He grabbed his head. Harold The Bear slammed Hector Macho-Man's head against the floor until his struggles subsided and his ears bled.
It would be considered bad form to drag an unconscious fighter over to the grate, and Harold didn’t have the energy for it anyhow.
The Bear stood and raised an arm overhead, victorious.
The referee, standing with the announcer, blew his whistle. "Harold The Bear Arcilla is declared the winner by way of knock out."
The crowd cheered and Harold raised both arms in victory. He was soon thrown a thick rope and helped from the pit.
Three medical techs slid down to Macho-Man and strapped him onto an emergency sled and Hector was hauled out of the newly bloodied pit.
Several guys with water and towels began rinsing the sides and the floor of the newest stains.