Chapter III: Life, Unhinged (Part II)

"HHHHIISSSSSSSSSSSS!"

I fell back in sheer terror- the giant, floating wooden platform I was fighting on rocked back and forth as the feral crocodile released a menacing hiss from its snapping maw; Crawling aboard the platform, the beastly albino reptile eyed me hungrily- Clearly having not been fed for several days just for this event.

I grit my teeth as the blaring speakers around the swampy coliseum of a building blasted aggressive rap music, making a spectacle out of the endangerment of my life. I glared with murderous rage at the cheering and jeering audience of Cajun hicks that'd gathered in the makeshift stands of the open-roofed Romanesque coliseum, swilling distilled liquor and shouting all manner of curses and disrespect at me, wishing me death and a horrible fate to this hungering beast.

I sighed deeply, shaking my head to clear the noise out of my mind. I raised my eyes towards the crocodile, glaring at it with as much ferocity as I could muster.

These were only the beginning days of my three-year Hell in the Cajun Coliseum.


(Music: "The Darkest of Days", by Piotr Musial)


The first week of my captivity, I had been thrown into the Cajun Coliseum. The Coliseum is a very large building with a circular, open-roof interior that mirrors the Roman Coliseum of ancient days.

It was, quite simply, a gladiator's arena. Except the gracious hosts of these events would throw more than just humans at each other- Infected, feral animals, rival faction members, and even small children like me on occasion. Then again, I was only pitted into these arenas because I was a Vulture, and just as luck had it, these people, in particular, had been majorly affected by the Vultures. I could see the burning rage and hatred in their eyes, clearly the loved ones of past victims to the Vultures, as they jeered my very presence.

At the time, I was nine years old. I had learned to make use of the pistol to take the lives of others, but when it came to close combat, I was at a hilarious disadvantage. A nine-year-old, being pitted into a fighting pit against full-grown men and other horrors. I had to face facts- eventually, I knew my luck would run out. if there were a time when Death could have taken me, it would have been during this period of time.

Three years. Being pitted against all manner of horrors in a gladiator ring, on a wooden platform that floated over a gator-infested marsh.

Three. Years.

Yes, I thought to myself. This will be the end of me.

And yet still, miraculously, impossibly, I had overcome foe after foe, after foe- and with each victory, I gained invaluable experience and insight into combat, myself, and my enemies.

I remembered my first fight, where I had been thrown in against another Vulture that I knew well enough; A woman by the name of Butcher Bird. Aptly named because she was incredibly skilled with knives, and had ended more than enough lives with her blades to claim that title.

This is it, I thought miserably, This will be the stage for my glorious, violent death.

Death, death, death. That was all I could think about during those years. How could I not? Most of those days I was facing it so closely that it was impossible not to think about it.

And yet, no matter the odds, I had to persist. I remember how she rushed me almost immediately, having no empathy for my being a child. She grabbed me by the throat, and held me down aggressively, choking me out with such enthusiasm that I almost believed she enjoyed it.

I reached around desperately for a weapon, losing consciousness quickly, until I found a fragmented piece of wood from the edge of the platform, and tore it off, sticking into the Butcher Bird's side. She screamed in pain, and once her arms loosened I pulled her closer to me, biting into her neck with feral vigor. She choked as I tore her esophagus out savagely, then kicked her quivering body over me and into the waters below.

Splash!

It wasn't long before the frenzied alligators dragged her below the water and drowned her; The murky water turned crimson-red, and I had one more traumatic experience to catalog in my head.

After her, it was a number of other desperate survivors, all of whom fought with the same gut-wrenching desperation to survive as that woman. Those who refused to fight were shot in the legs and arms and thrown to the alligators, and so the few kind-hearted slaves that remained had perished; Leaving only those who hungered to live another day.

In that period of time, I truly learned the meaning of survival, of clinging to life so badly that I would trample over the lives of others just to see that sun rise above the horizon once again. It was frankly unrealistic how I had survived this long, though with each year that passed my strength and experience grew immensely- I was now entering arena fights and finishing them in only a few minutes, using the same tactics I had on each previous fighter.

Gouge the eyes; Aim for the throat, the crotch, the underside of their armpits, their neck, whatever would incapacitate them the quickest so I could find an object to jam through their skull. I had to rely on the weaknesses of each survivor I was pitted against- A bum leg, asthma, emotional turmoil of killing a child; Whatever I could exploit to win the match and walk back to my cell.

Alive.

Whenever I wasn't engaging in pit fights, I was doing hard labor for the camp, toiling away tirelessly until I was escorted to my dingy cell and allowed to collapse in fatigue onto the cold, mossy floor.

During this time, food was scarcer than before, only being afforded to me once a day and in meager proportions depending on who the guard was for the day.

Three. Long. Years.


Eventually, I came to my most difficult fight yet- fighting the monstrous beast of an albino crocodile, nicknamed 'Colmillo Blanco' - White Fang. By this point, three years had passed. I was aged twelve, and no longer did I feel that gripping fear of death that'd held me so firmly when I was first tossed into this arena. NOW, I was the one who dominated this deathfest.

My eyes slid around the arena I had spent so much time in- Feeling the uneven balance of the floating platform I fought on as the crocodile clambered around it with a murderous fervor. The crocodile hissed at me once more, easing its way towards me as it looked for a weakness to exploit in me. I could do nothing but raise my fists in a threatening manner- it was obvious now that the Cajun shitheads wanted me dead, not even affording me a simple sharp stick to fend for myself against this beast of nature.

The massive, albino crocodile almost seemed to cackle as it saw how utterly defenseless I was, toying with me as it faked lunging attacks toward me. I was infuriated by how poorly my life was being treated even by animals, but I dared not to charge; It would be a surefire death sentence to attack a crocodile with nothing but my bare hands.

THIS was it, I thought to myself once and for all, an overwhelming sense of dread and despair filling me. This is where I will completely, hopelessly, utterly perish; This is the end of my life, the end of my fruitless struggle. Maybe, finally... I can... find peace...

As this revelation came to me so suddenly, while I faced death so clearly, I found that a serene, somber peace wash over me; Finally, after all these years of terror, of losing my sense of self, of denigrating my humanity and making me lose trust in every other person in my life...

I would be set free from this living hell. Once... and for-

BOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM-!


Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-

I felt my ears ring continually, unable to hear much of anything. Only a second of ear-piercing sounds had created a violent cacophony in my ears, before all of that chaos was drowned out by the high-pitched ringing in my eardrums. I crashed to my knees on the platform, groaning as I went temporarily deaf. In a daze, I raised my head and stared wide-eyed at the carnage around me.

An explosion had sent metal and wood flying in every direction; Having been nearest to the crocodile's side of the coliseum, I felt a powerful, all-encompassing relief flood over me as I saw that large amounts of shrapnel had torn into the gator's scaly body, leaving it in a bloody mess. The rest of the building was shaking at the foundations, rocked by the explosion, and dozens of black-clad armed soldiers flooded through the opening left by the explosion, neutralizing every single Cajun bastard that stood in those stands; Even in the concussive state I was in, I wanted to shout to the skies and revel in my victory.

I had survived once again.


(Music: "The Choice", by Gustavo Santaolalla)


"You cannot come with us."

...

...

...

I counted to three seconds, ensuring that I would not lose my mind. I wasn't sure if I had heard the soldier correctly- perhaps it was the incessant ringing in my ears that'd clouded what I heard?

"Huh?" I muttered simply. The soldier looked down in guilt, shouldering his rifle as his superior checked the aftermath of the raid. These were members of 'The Southern Coalition', as they had revealed to me after rescuing those of us in captivity. They were a larger group that was aiming to put down atrocious groups like this; As they so righteously proclaimed, their mission was to end human cruelty during the rebuilding of humanity.

A great joke.

"I said... you can't come with us, kid. You're a Vulture. No matter what we do to protect you, it is very likely that you would be killed within days of being brought to one of our settlements."

"Wha..." I mumbled, unable to come up with an appropriate response. This couldn't be happening. When I had finally found safety and solace from this endless cycle of terror...

"The reputation of the Vultures is simply too deeply-ingrained in our southern communities. It's gotten to the point that every Vulture we've brought back has been killed on sight or days after imprisonment. We decided to have a kill-on-sight policy for all Vultures just to avoid that, but..."

I saw the eyes of the Coalition soldier, and for just a momentary glimpse, I could see a deep sorrow behind his eyes- slow-burning guilt he'd carried for many, many years.

"...You're just a kid. I... I can't bring myself to execute a kid. So... just leave. Please. Go, and try and survive out there."

He pointed toward the lands beyond, indicating that he wanted me to go out and simply... fend for myself out there. I looked between him and the lands he pointed to for a moment, a slow but gradual rage building up inside me.

"Y...You want me to go and die?"

"Goddamnit, LEAVE, kid!"

I felt myself shoved towards the outskirts of the settlement by one of the other soldiers, who clearly had more vitriol against me than the other soldier. I considered smacking the soldier across the jaw, then taking his rifle and blasting every single one of these apathetic bastards through the head. And yet... looking between them and the lands beyond,

I realized that I was actually, finally free. To make my own choices from hereon. No groups to direct me, no slave pits, no reputation following me.

...

...

...

Fuck it.

I didn't need anyone else to survive.

I stormed out of the settlement, heading westward. I resolved to find a purpose for myself, to lead my own life. No longer would I be the pawn of other groups or factions, whether it was serving as their bait, or entertainment, or labor or otherwise. Even if I were to suffer starvation, or be torn apart by Clickers, or executed by a group of bandits...

It would be my life from hereon. And if necessary,

My death.