Chapter Summary
- THE ARENA
Six rounds against the infected. I need to make it out alive and find where they keep the Antizin. Wherever it is, I'm not gonna leave without this place burning to the ground. - Jack
EIGHT: A LEGEND'S WORTH
BAM…!
BAM…! The metal gate shook. Something behind it wanted out. A misty substance drifted between the bars like small embers every time Jack's opponent wailed.
Before the infected could slam itself mindlessly at the metal grill again, the gate finally opened. Out the creature staggered into the ring, with a loud growl declaring its presence to the loud cheering. Then a second one told Jack that it had spotted her.
A Night Walker. The nighttime gave a common scrub the boost it needed to be dangerous. But it was still slow in speed, an advantage she needed. Just a dodge and a boot to the foot. Oops! It tripped and fell. Mad Jack basically danced about the poor sob as it tried to get up and attack. Over and over. But all were misses—just flimsy swings of the hands.
Jack couldn't have her fun for long as some boos rained down on her for taking the first match too long. She eventually obliged by seizing the Night Walker's head and twisting it a complete 270.
SNAP!
There, happy?
"That was fast!" the Director yelled over the mic. "But it's only the appetizer. Next up, picked from the Captain's cabin in Sunny Costa Cruise, and no - he's not the captain. We checked his ID. Crewmate Hannibal!"
Again, the gate from the infected's side opened at command. Out popped Jack's next opponent: a regular Biter in a Hawaiian shirt, baseball cap with sunglasses on top and Bermuda shorts. Just like the first, it shot itself with teeth bare, but she took a sharp right and jabbed at the diaphragm. Nothing new like the other opponent, so it was the same grapple technique she used on the thug before. Jack instantly seized the arm and twirled it completely that she heard the joint snap.
The clumsy tourist didn't have a well-endorsed body before he was turned: having spent too much time at the bar from the stench it had. But the virus still prevailed, telling its host to chase after her. It just needed to bite her.
Jack dove first, grabbing for its abdomen, and threw it over her shoulder. She heard it hit the metal floor behind her. And just before it could climb back up, she slammed a foot right at its head. Cracked open like a rotten egg.
"Another win for Mad Jack, gents!" the Director droned under the booming applause. It wasn't even a minute before he was rallying up the audience for the next fight. "Now this one's fresh from the marketplace and I do mean that literally. No ID off this guy, but he's reeling up for a brawl! Welcome our third zombie, Iron Fist!"
THUNK!
Out of the blues, the gate bent outward. Something had rammed headfirst with a roar.
THUNK!
The banging was a lot louder and more violent than the first two opponents. It was enough to put Jack on the fence, but she stayed focused.
"Sounds like he's real impatient! Release him, boys!"
THUNK!
The gate almost bent as it rose up. Bursting out was what should have been a common infected, except it was muscular top-body. Hardened boils riddled across its carapace-plated arms, some the size of grapefruits on its hands. The face had traces of losing the lower jaw, but its new body mass and boils partially held it in place. The attire it had were that of someone adept in combat sports: worn tank top, worn shorts, and barefoot.
What on Earth was that?
"Yeeaaah! A Brawler!" she heard someone yell from the crowd.
Suddenly, the infected snapped its head towards the noise. It wailed out irritatedly and unexpectedly charged off.
CLUNK!
One side of the arena shook, scaring the spectators there right off their seats. The swaying of the fence, back and forth, back and forth, before it eventually stood still, was enough to make anyone think an infected escape was possible.
Jack froze up. First time she had ever seen an infected change on a dime instead of lunging at the prey in front of it. It didn't help that the thing was unpredicted, blindly searching for its victim-
No. She corrected herself. The thing was blind. It relied on sound alone.
This time, she had to be extra careful. She couldn't read an infected's moves as easy as a human's, hence why she had taken the first two walkers quick and simple so that she could conserve her energy for the next one.
She stepped slowly around, quiet as a mouse. As dangerous as it was, she couldn't go upfront like usual. It became increasingly alarming to her when it lifted its head up, its bone-exposed nostrils sniffing the air.
So it relied on smell too. Then it wouldn't take long before it could find her.
"Hey! Get a move one!" another prisoner from above yelled crossly, chucking an empty can at the fence.
"Grraaasnk!" the Brawler hollered at the outburst.
Good. It couldn't put its focus on locating Jack with so many distractions from the audience. That gave her time; how should she take this one down? Its top body was wide and heavy, making it difficult to hit vital parts or snap its neck.
But its lower legs looked as weak as twigs in comparison to the weight of its top, even if they gave the freak tremendous speed.
"Phwwwhht!"
The Brawler turned sharply at Jack's whistle. Another howl to yell that this time, it heard her. It had her. The infected charged headfirst and headstrong. All of a sudden, however, it stopped mid-run and fired one of its inflamed fists at her—the force of its dash giving it that extra push.
THUD!
Her heart almost leapt into her throat as she felt the wind brush above her. She didn't get hit. It was an easy duck down, but it was enough to know the sheer power a Brawler had in one punch. The dent in the fence behind her proved it.
It was like a mantis shrimp. Two bullet punches like that at the vitals could absolutely kill her. But the heaviness in its arms was another disadvantage. It took too much time to recover—the Brawler retrieving back its fired fist—as Jack darted forward and low-kicked at the ankle.
Down it went like Humpty Dumpty. She swore she heard something crack. Jack rose back up, searching for a weak spot, which she found on the exposed back. The vertebrates were grossly pierced outward.
She snapped them with a downward roundhouse kick.
CRACK!
It was a sickening sound but that guaranteed that the Brawler would stay down. It gurgled aggravatedly, but all limbs wouldn't move.
"Oh, c'mon! That's not fair!" someone yelled.
She ignored the whiner. Jack would use every page in the book she knew to survive, and that meant every single technique she knew—from full to semi-contact, from Muay Thai to freestyle. Being retired didn't mean she would stay rusty.
"Impressive, and we only have halfway to go. Now you all may remember him from last week, who unfortunately met his demise after getting his winnings. Let us give a second of prayer..." A false moment of silence, the Director put his hands together before raising them up in a dramatic display. "And a second round of applause for our last week's winner, from Cell Block A, Scanderoon Bay Prison, Tough Turk!"
Despite all the yelling and loud noises around her, she heard something heavy drag across the floor. Jack wheeled back to see the battered gate open and the one infected type she least expected.
Oh, now that was unfair!
"Grooooaaawnn!"
THUD!
"Hey!" Jack hollered, ducking away from the rebar.
Her fourth opponent was a Goon.
"Isn't that against the rules?!" she snapped.
The Director didn't reply—all too busy shining his toothy smirk to the audience.
"Marvelous," she hissed, reeling back to her kickboxing mentality. Contestants couldn't enter with weapons but zombies could?!
The Goon tried to narrow down the distance between them. Sluggishly, when it 'thought' it had the chance, it lifted its weapon up and down onto Jack. A quick dodge and a miss, the rebar's aftershock dented into the metal floor.
It was a long and grueling fight at this point. For every evasion she did, she punched twice at its side and backed off before the next swing of the rebar. She literally had to take a Goon down with her fists, a feat she had never heard anyone do. There was a very small window for an opening with its choice of melee having such a wide girth.
And it finally did hit something.
CLANK!
"Gah!" The whole brute force nearly took her off her feet. Thankfully, it was only the handle, not the concrete at the end. Jack had used her arm to cushion the blow.
Well, it was still a dumb, instinctive move. Could have gotten a fracture.
One more blow and she'd be left punching with one hand. Worse, dead. Moreover, the crowd roared louder, wilder, at the sight of her injury. They all wanted her dead.
She had to change her game.
"Grooooaaawnn!"
THUD!
Another swing onto the ground but Jack evaded it and this time, darted right in front of the Goon. As much as her right arm hurt, she bit through the pain and prepared her stance; one foot forward and her knees lowered. Jack wrapped her elbow around the Goon's gripping arm and pulled herself back—grabbing the rebar with her free hand.
Just like that, she managed to slip its weapon out from its grip—a self-defense technique to disarm a foe. And it actually worked! The Goon flinched, finding its hands empty.
Jack, however, had to brace up her arms.
"Omph!" The Goon actually retaliated. Even weaponless, a simple swing of an arm was like a swap to a fly than the regular Biters' witless beating. Had she not shielded herself, she might have flown across the arena. Jack was tossed back five feet away, down on a knee.
She tried to force herself back on her feet, adrenaline pumping through her muscles. The Goon, however, didn't come to finish the job.
It sluggishly turned back to its rebar.
"No, no, no, no!"
Quick thinking pushed Jack to act madly. Before the infected thug could reach for the hilt, Jack roped her arms around its waist and with all her strength, she quickly hoisted him up.
Yes, trying a suplex on an 8-foot-tall freak was probably a terrible idea but she had to try!
THUD!
Jack quickly backed off, tired arms reeling back up for any surprise attack. The infected thug in its jumpsuit didn't climb back up at first, with fingers twitching uncontrollably. It then tried to push itself up but the surplex really had done it in—its head dangling loose to one side.
"Stay down!" she pleaded and gave one hard kick down on its head. The neck snapped.
The Goon finally gave up.
"Whoooie! Four out of six! Mad Jack's on a roll here, huh." A nervous laugh interrupted the exhilarated, booming tone for a second. "But how about we up the difficulty level, shall we?" the Director sang.
Oh, sod off. She couldn't curse out as she fought every heavy breath. Duman did say they wouldn't let her have a breather!
"You know what time it is. TIME FOR THE BLOOD FRENZZZZY! "
The audience's volume suddenly perked up, making Jack gravely concerned. Two men behind the fences appeared with the familiar crate she had seen from the kitchen. They flung something over and into the ring.
Blop, blop, splash! The blood packets exploded, coating the floor thick and red.
Jack hurriedly stayed firm in her defensive stance. She recalled what Duman had said about the meat bags but all the more she couldn't go off guard.
"This one took a lot of work capturing after our last Volatile got taken down by Tough Turk himself. And this is gonna be very interesting fight. Get ready for Jack the Ripper versus Mad Jack!"
"Are you kidding me?!" she murmured to herself.
But nothing in this tournament was a joke to her. Her fifth opponent was a Volatile. A Volatile!
How on Earth did they even bring that thing in?!
"GAARGH!" Saliva sprayed from its open mandibles. Strangely and horrifyingly more berserk than the ones she ran away from. Something was wrong. It was twitching constantly, breathing heavily, yielding for more.
Like it was drugged.
Jack had never fought a Volatile—because she never dared herself to fight one. She had heard the tales about these freaks and the losses the Ravens had faced. All she could do was dodge. And dodge again and again, saving herself from turning into shredded pork. There was no sign of weakness no matter how hard she searched. No chance of hesitation from the crazed monster.
She barely noticed the other arm swaying at her.
It was a hard swing to her side—knocked her right off her feet and sent her across the blood-soaked dirt.
'Jack the Ripper' was already on the next attack, suddenly worse than before as she could barely catch up. A quick boot at the chest shoved it away, giving her a chance to widen the space between her and her opponent. But her stamina was getting spent out.
Finally, she felt a sweep of the claws at her lower side as she climbed onto her feet. Shallow but it still hurt like hell.
I'm not gonna survive.
"Sod it."
The professional fighter immediately took up a stance, one foot forth and palms out. She took in one inhale, then a long, deep exhale.
"What is she doing?"
"Wow, she looks real dumb! Ahahaha!"
They could laugh it up all they wanted. The onlookers didn't know a thing about Tai Chi. Or that they didn't like the idea of a rabid bitch dog acting calm in a fight.
Push out all noises. Shove out the fatigue and pain. Lead the qi around and find the center of gravity.
Because you might get killed for this to work.
"GAARGH!" The Volatile lunged. The attack couldn't be stopped as she backed away, still in her unique pose. But the breathing technique helped numb the newest sensation of pain. It fortified her body to stay alive just a little longer.
She found the opening at one skin-peeled arm flinging at her, which she parried away with her open palms. Jack maneuvered the monster to go in the direction she wanted, using her other leg—positioned forward this time—to make it trip and tumble several feet away.
Jack repositioned herself for the next lunge. Try again.
Find that moment.
The Volatile's animalistic eyes zoomed back onto her with a growl as a threat. Stay in one spot! Jack, however, simply gestured two fingers back and forth at it in a cocky fashion.
Come get some.
Somehow, her taunt got the better of the ravaging monster. The Volatile tried again. The same result happened. However, she used one palm this time. Her shoulder pushed the Volatile's body back while the other hand grabbed for the unthinkable.
And she yanked it out, muscles peeling off in a disgusting sound.
"GAARGH!" Another wail, but this time out of excruciating pain as the infected clutched its face.
"Shit! Did you see that?"
Jack entered the arena weaponless. So, she had to make her own weapon. And it didn't come without consequences—the canines biting into her hand, and blood coated onto the bone.
A broken jawbone was an ideal weapon. And no one could say no to that.
The Volatile screamed angrily at the sight of its stolen mandible, the other flaying around. Give it back, was probably not a thought it had in its empty head.
She'd gladly give it back one way or another.
It took another opening for her to come close—the Volatile never learned from her parry a third time, and she stabbed the jawbone into its side. It sounded reckless, unthinkable, and yet she was able to use possibly the sharpest end of the bone and jam it between the tendons.
Jack didn't leave it in the beast's gut; it was too precious as her only weapon.
Because now it was a waiting game.
If only it wasn't so difficult now that her fortitude has worn off. The Volatile was catching up to her with speed and fury. With the distance shortened far too much for it to tear her down, she madly latched onto its head and reeled back hers.
SMACK!
Yes. She literally headbutted the infected. It stammered clumsily away, and Jack took a few seconds to recover from the recoil.
She regretted it. No! No! Get up! Get up!
Jack recoiled back up, her fingers switching the jawbone around in her hand like setting up a set of brass knuckles. She fired a fist, then another, every punch halting the monster from quickly retaliating. The blood from her open knuckles flew as specks and dropped onto the soaked ground, on herself, and on the infected's skinless body.
When was that card up her sleeve going to start-!
"Gack!"
The Volatile gagged loudly. Then came another one. And another, as it fell on one knee.
"Garugh!" it uttered and suddenly, its claws lashed onto its throat. It started to tear at its chest. Something horrible was stuck inside, and the Volatile couldn't get it out.
"Um, I think Jack the Ripper's last meal didn't agree with him! Ahahaha," the Director nervously chuckled to the audience.
"Go down, go down!" Jack whispered. The infected resisted it for a moment, stumbling towards her for the kill. But there was no way it could win like Freakazoid did...right?!
"Srank!"
That snarl came from behind. Jack wheeled around to see the Brawler back up. Shit, the blow to its back wasn't enough as evidenced by its body drooping to one side.
"Well, well! Looks like Iron Fist has one more fight in him! Two against one, gents! Who will come out on top?"
Between a rock and a hard place. The struggling Volatile gave out a garbled voice while the Brawler roared. Both sides pounced at Jack.
"SHIT!" She dropped down.
One bloated fist ricocheted off, and the claws slashed up. The Brawler's tumors ruptured with pus and blood oozing out as the abdomen split open. The Volatile's head slingshot from the sheer impact.
Two great Specials killed together in an ironic turn of the table.
The Brawler's body splashed onto the drenched floor and the Volatile clumsily floundered with its coughing fit. It continued to choke violently until its own ripping of its throat turned the desperate attempt to breathe into a blood-soaked scene.
And the entire time, Jack had been in the middle, unharmed and amazed that she had lived through that.
As she uneasily climbed onto her feet, the surprise ending caused some in the audience to gasp. Some vocally expressed their anger. A few called out the referee for that jawbone being a cheat! Demanded the Director to count that as a loss!
"Um… Well, she didn't kill them with a weapon. And they're both dead so...that's two wins?" The Director then forcefully changed back to his rambunctious persona. "Looks like we're gonna have to find a new Volatile for next season."
The shock soon dissolved into disappointment, then more anger—some towards the Director, some at Jack for that stunt, and, surprisingly, debating with the other spectators. Cheers and claps for her luck were quickly short-lived—pressure peer, after all.
"Settle down! Settle down," the referee tried to bring order back. "We've still got one final match to end it off and I guarantee it's gonna be a finale nobody will forget!"
Really? I want to forget, Jack thought wearily as she struggled to keep standing.
"Without further ado, time to let loose our best and biggest title-holder yet! Weeelcome, TITAN!"
Lovely. Now what?
Jack's answer came through the gate. Slow. Sluggish.
Big. Menacing. And she had seen that type of infected before.
A Demolisher. A big, fat, giant Demolisher!
"You bloody ain't kidding me," she groaned.
"BRROOUGGGH!" it bellowed. It charged. Each step thundered across the deck.
She could feel the wind brush by her just as she jumped right at the last second and heard the loud CLUNK behind her. The strength was enough to inch one container wall back, giving some spectators a jump for their money—some frightfully muttering if the walls could protect them from a Demolisher.
She was in a small space with an enormous bloke! The only saving grace that helped her was its slow movement—she could keep dodging every time the monster regained its energy.
But there was no bloody way she could punch her way through that thing! A jawbone wasn't going to cut it either. She most definitely knew it wouldn't pierce through its bony carapace skin!
She needed another weapon! Any weapon!
Then she spied the Goon's rebar.
Jack ditched the blood-drenched bone and hurried over to it.
Tik-tik-tik!
"Shit!" Three warning shots were fired at her feet just as her fingers only grazed the hilt, forcing her to skid away.
The Director waved his finger at her like a parent scolding a naughty child. "Sorry, Jackie. No weapons."
"You fucking wank-!"
"Grroooar!"
Another charge and miss from the big guy. Shit! Shit! Shit!
What could she do?!
She searched as she evaded. There had to be something, anything, to take down this once-human riot police cop-
The idea then dawned on her.
No weapons for humans. But did anyone check an infected?
"C'mon!" she then taunted. The big guy had finished his latest charge and leisurely wheeled back to her. With a wide, toothy grin, Jack waved her arms and slapped her thighs, like cooing a bear to come eat her. "Come, fatty!"
Thud, thud, thud, its feet boomed. CLUNK!
It barely felt the small, puny human climb up its back in a sprint, and as the Demolisher rose up from its impact, Jack quickly latched onto its torn Kevlar vest for dear life.
A feat nobody has tried on a Demolisher. She patched through the pockets as she hung on for dear life! The Demolisher eventually got the memo that it proceeded to fling its bulky arms about like a spoiled child wailing. Thank goodness it couldn't stretch them to its back.
Click!
A small canister was somehow at its feet. Pulled from its pockets and the metal ring yanked off.
BANG!
"Shit!" yelled a spectator close to the fence.
The arena had gone white, piercing enough that it blinded the audience and the Director. Even the Demolisher was affected in some way, whether it was the flashbang's light strong enough to stun it or the ringing sound disorienting it.
The only one in the arena not affected was Jack, who crouched her body behind its back from the explosion.
Five seconds.
That was all the time she had, desperately holding onto the now-dumbfounded monster. It was like riding a mutated bull. In the few seconds of obscurity, nobody could see her jam her bleeding hand into its mouth.
"Bite on it!" she shrieked, grabbing its lower jaw and pushing it up. "Bite it!"
The five seconds ran out. The Demolisher revolted more violently than before. It wanted the thing in its mouth out; it wanted the annoying bug off it. Another swing of the arms and Jack went flying.
"Gah!" The wet metal floor added more pain in her rolling body. Jack's fighting attempt to stand up was enough time for the Demolisher to charge towards her. Her fatigue was nearly at its peak.
The crowd wailed. Yes, her demise was coming; they applauded. She couldn't keep avoiding up anymore.
Jack raised an arm as her shield. What a sad attempt to try and block an infected's ram-
Click!
In her other hand, another pin was pulled. She had pitched a second grenade and shielded her eyes. Not forward. But up.
BANG!
The world was white again for five seconds. This time, the gleeful viewers, so eager for the retired kickboxer's death, felt all the photoreceptor cells in their eyes burn again.
"I can't see!"
This time again, the giant infected wobbled aimlessly, coughing. In its growing haze, it tried to shield its eyes too from the bright, white light—all while fighting against a strange, overwhelming sense of pain internally. The heavy monster actually fell on one knee.
The Demolisher couldn't see that Jack had dropped near the defeated Goon.
That she had the rebar in her hands.
She swung with a war cry.
"AHHHHH!"
WHACK!
Something made a horrible sound—fleshy and squishy. The helmet had flung clean across the arena like a failed home run ball. The whole ship suddenly felt a little quiver from the giant's fall.
Everything became quiet.
No one in the audience dared to speak after their vision came back. All Jack heard was the sound of her heavy breathing, the pounding in her chest. The waiting was now more excruciating.
Was a whack to the head enough to kill a Demolisher?
It staggered back up, its pestering strength pulling at Jack's worry. It almost looked like the infected had one more fight in it. There were a few twitches here and there, but the giant gave up on the spot with a gurgling sound, its bulky weight nearly shaking the ship as it fell.
It was dead.
Jack's sixth opponent didn't get up.
The silence slowly broke, first with the whispers. Then there were the growing boos and hisses. But Jack didn't care. She was all too relieved she had survived, listlessly dropping the rebar to the floor as she tried to catch her breath. She was done.
She had triumphed. And no one could tell her otherwise.
"There's no way. Nobody has survived a Demolisher before!"
"She used a weapon! Ain't that against the rules!?"
"I want my money back!"
"Rematch! I demand a rematch!"
"Oh, thank you. Thank you. You're too kind," Jack droned, hands waving in the air. Despite how exhausted she felt, she wanted to relish in their salt as much as possible.
Let it all sink in, bastards.
"Uh." The Director was glancing frantically around, trying to think how to assess the distasteful situation. But there was nothing they could throw at her. "G-Give a clap for Miss Mad Jack, gents. Our third winner and champion of tonight's show! All betters, you know where to get your winnings."
The mocking and disappointment kept on rolling. Jack simply ignored them all. She weakly strolled towards her exit, the guards there opening up with tense shoulders and awe that someone had survived.
Keep on going, she limped slowly down the narrow metallic hall. She wasn't out of the woods yet.
Then her vision blurred. The muscles in her fingers spasmed uncontrollably, the feeling rippling throughout her body. To the common folks of the epidemic, these could have been taken as clear signs of the Harran virus trying to win the internal war.
Except for the growing headache.
"Shit." It was starting again.
With a shaking hand, Jack quickly took out the brown bottle. She fought the involuntary twitches to uncap it open and pop out two little reds. One swallow.
She had to wait it out as much as she hated it.
"Bleeding migraine," she groaned. Closed her eyes to steady herself. Breathe in, 1, 2, 3, 4, breathe out. Her fingers were too stiff for her to count down. The spasms would settle down in a few minutes, enough for her vision to come back. But it was going to take the whole night for her to make a full recovery.
Again, Jackie. Breathe in, 1, 2, 3, 4. Breathe out. She couldn't afford to be like this in such a dangerous place.
Get back in the game, get back in the game, get back-
"Miss?"
She shot herself up, trying to feint ignorance, but that nearly made her lose her footing. Right in front of her was Duman, giving her an odd look of concern. Just a tiny bit in the man's frown.
"You ok?"
"What? Oh, good. Good. You know. Six fights. Really takes the wind out of ya," it was partly the truth, but she said all that a bit too quickly.
"Six fights should have done you in."
She chuckled. "I've survived this long. Don't plan on stopping."
"I don't know whether to call you looney or ballsy."
"You're not the first to call me either."
Clap. Clap. Clap.
"Truly remarkable." Interrupting the small conversation, the Director waltzed through the hall with his arms spread out. "You've made quite a show tonight. Far spectacular than I imagined."
"Really?" Jack inquired, all too tired to care.
"Of course! Even the great Alexander was impressed by your performance."
Again, that name. It was a strange puzzle for Jack—in just a few months of the unfolding chaos, one man had risen above everyone and taken the reins. One man became the leader of prisoners when these men acted like barbarians on the ship.
She wondered if it could be one of the most dangerous men in Scanderoon's penitentiary. If her guess was right...then what the Director just said about his leader's 'amusement' was a lie.
"He wants to meet you in person. Not many get a chance like that."
I wonder why, she thought to herself. "Sounds revered."
"Yes, indeed! Alexander was the one who guided us out of the darkness and into the light. We were left to rot in our cells. But Alexander...he led us out to make our names in this 'dawn of the apocalypse'."
Oh, how lovely. A crazed fanboy.
"He must have a lot on his hands. Doubt he has time to be praising my fighting skills," Jack said.
"Are you serious? He's absolutely smitten by you!" Aslan stopped her from ever saying she was taking her leave. "The things you're capable of could do wonders for us. It'll be the start of something beautiful. Worth your while."
Sure. An early grave.
Jack gave a passing glance back to the arena. "Your audience doesn't sound too happy about me."
"Oh, they'll get over it. There's always the next tournament," the Director swung between sentences as swiftly as he slid right up to the ex-kickboxer, his arm draped around her tense shoulders. "But you're a one-in-a-lifetime deal."
"Really?" Jack fought every fiber in her body to deliver a blow at that 'award-winning' smile. "That easy?"
"Not replacing you, of course. If you cooperate." How nice and subtle he slipped in 'if she cooperated'. "Tonight's show will be hard to top off. That's what trappers are for. Restocking."
She just shook her head, her smile still staying. It wasn't going to be easy getting out if this prisoner was going to shepherd her to their big boss.
She was playing with fire after all.
"It'd be a waste of talent," he persuaded once more. "The guys entering these tournaments? They think they can rise up the ranks by showing they can survive this outbreak. They dream of escape. But they're just stepping stones for us."
"Us?"
"Well, you need a spokesperson. I'm the one who sells them that dream. And I can take it away too."
A shallow, indirect threat. She had met those kinds before.
Finally, the Director unhinged himself from her. "You're the Wild Dog. Different from these slackers. You fight like something's trying to get out of you. With the world ending around us, a legend's gotta rise back up again."
"To sell the dream?"
"Exactly! See? We're on the same page."
Oh, she certainly was not. How entertaining it had been listening to the man dance to his shady tune.
"If you get on the boss's good side, I can make you that legend again. One that can tower your days as the Wild Dog. What do you say to that?"
"Interesting offer," she started, enticing a pleasing smile out of the Director. "But I can make my own stories my own way."
"I cannot understand you," he uttered, acting baffled. "This is an opportunity of a lifetime and you're throwing it away? Don't you want to be more than just 'Mad Jack'?"
"Well, I didn't choose the name. I'm not those guys who give themselves a dumb nickname."
The smirk on the Director's face was slapped off. He couldn't see the wink behind Jack's shades but the click of her tongue was enough to peeve him. To tick him off. Even the wary look from Duman expressed how close Jack was to stepping over that line.
"You know," the Director started, closing the space between him and the smiling brawler, so hushed and low, his voice whispered spitefully at her. "You should think carefully about the offer. You're still on this ship."
"And? You're gonna run to your boss and tell him the crazy shrewd is making fun of you?" Jack coolly whispered. A moment of hesitation out of the referee, but his glare was growing colder.
Just another lackey under Alexander's thumb after all. Simple enough to be squashed by the same thumb.
"This whole' showbiz' of yours... It's not about relief. It's stroking one's ego. The contestants, the audience, even you."
"Well, aren't you full of yourself," the Director scoffed. "The pot calling the kettle black. It's just a glorified past, Miss Celebrity. The Wild Dog's a forgotten name."
"Really? Then why do you keep saying my name?"
The witty comeback slapped the smirk off his face again. Now getting darker. Angrier.
But Jack didn't back away. Instead, she purposely shortened the distance between them; an invitation for him to attack. Throw a punch at her.
Try it.
The fuming referee gave nothing but the grounding of teeth and tightly curled fists.
"The difference between you and me? I don't go around announcing my name. Everyone in the world already does that for me," she smoothly berated. "That's what makes legends. They stay forever."
It was the final hit on the man's pride. But the short fuse hadn't snapped yet. Jack already knew—the man would be as dead as her opponents if he tried to kill her now, whether by her hands or by the boss'.
It was a gamble she took, and she won just like her six matches.
"Now… Can I get my winnings?" Jack asked 'politely'.
Aslan's jaw clenched. Then the pearly white smile came back—the 'fake' courtesy the Director had always shown before. "Not until you meet with the boss. At the captain's hold."
Don't overstep yourself, those words were read off his sentence. There was a small spark of gleeful malice in the referee's eyes—their great king would surely kill the vulgar gladiator at the foot of his throne.
"Sure," Jack chided. "I'll meet Alexander."
Nothing to push her wall down. The only rebuttal the Director could do was walk away, his heels stomping loudly.
"Really. Most men would know when to quit," Duman finally spoke out with a heavy sigh. He had held his breath for far too long.
And the woman had the gall to just shrug her shoulders—she didn't know the value of cautiousness. "Didn't see that short fuse you were talking about."
"Don't push your luck, lady. Everyone from Scanderoon Prison is dangerous."
"Even you?" Jack pointed out that light jab.
"You don't know what I've been charged with."
"None of my business. Every dark past is meant to be buried."
"Hm… Guess this is the end." The stern man offered his hand.
Jack scoffed lightly. "You must be glad I'm out of your hair then." She reached to shake the hand-
Suddenly, Jack was pulled forward.
"No, miss. This is really the end for you."
There was nobody in the hallway to see Duman whisper into her ear. A knife could have stabbed her in the gut. But how could he, with his other hand immediately seized by Jack as a fight response?
But she listened attentively. He had no shiv on him, just a cautious glare.
"You need to leave now," he warned. "If the boss' calling for you...that can't be a good thing."
"I figured as much… Then I'll do one thing better," she explained, the chirpy tone unbroken. She neared closer to his ear. "You should leave this place too."
Duman jerked his head back. He tried to pull his hand away, but Jack wouldn't let go. He could feel the prying gaze through the shades. This was madness, his expression read. But Jack's expression and firm grip counterattacked.
"I knew I'd be dead the moment I walked in. But I'm not leaving without Antizin."
In order words, the ex-kickboxer had already planned to make enemies onboard.
She finally let go of his hand.
Duman couldn't understand. Men have been desperate these few months, to the point where they've dropped dead like flies. He had seen the many faces before they were wiped out in the arena and at the prison. The hope flickered so fast from their eyes—the last thing they saw was an infected.
But the woman in front of him...she had a rare look on her. She was prepared to walk down the aisle with Death in hand.
No. She had already been prepared. She was going to bring Hell onto the ship.
And for what? A couple of bottles to cure herself? Why else would anyone come for these matches?
"You already bet yours away-"
"It isn't for me."
Another shock from him. Then for who? The woman could and should have gotten infected. She particularly bathed herself in the red-tainted arena. She swam with the sharks, just by the skin of her teeth, and lived.
"Duman, you're a smart man. You know how not to attract attention. You also know how to keep your secrets. Is your girlfriend's name Kaya or Kara?"
Duman instinctively jerked back, tugging down one of his sleeves.
"Not the girlfriend then. You knitted your brow there but that tattoo means something to you," Jack pointed, pushing Duman to react. Two subtle notches of shock. "It looks too simple compared to the ones these blokes have. Doesn't have any romantic images either... But that date's significant, isn't it?"
The man in front of her couldn't believe his ears. But that was the thing: every single, little twitch he unconsciously gave helped Jack connect the dots.
"'16 March 2003'. 12 years in prison?" The silence told her that she was on the right track. So she kept going. "Now...Kara is also a Turkish name. For a man. Having that on your arm means it's easy for you to see but difficult for anyone to spot. It's a reminder."
Yet there was no ill will from the woman's vibe. There was nothing that told Duman that she had intentions to expose him. Perhaps it was why she gave a moment of courtesy for the next thing she said.
"That tattoo you wear is for grief, isn't it?"
He could have rebutted back. He could have gone aggressive like most of the thugs around them. But all he could do was absorb her words.
"Who are you?" he managed to ask.
Jack simply smiled. Warm.
"I'm just a retired kickboxer. That's about it, really."
No, she dodged the question. And she was very good at it.
"Don't get cocky," Duman then provoked, with hopes of getting her to change her mind. Stop taking the bull by the horns when she was underneath its stomping hooves. "I could tell everyone what you just said."
Jack 'madly' acknowledged that with a nod and a shrug. "You could. But you're a smart man," she reminded. "You can't risk it now. You want to see your girlfriend again."
The fists curled up. How daring and touchy for some random stranger to bring up his girlfriend into the conversation. It didn't matter if it came from the opposite sex. That was still reaching for the low-hanging branch.
But the problem was that she was right.
He survived prison for twelve years, with a small glimmer of hope just to see that beautiful face and hear her firecracker voice. He survived for another three months and he had planned to continue. With the right words spoken and rarely did he stoop to the acts of a barbarian—that was how many got killed. It was far easier to follow the crowd and stay low, just enough to look for an opening. An escape.
A stranger saw all that in him.
Admittedly…it terrified him.
"That's why you need to leave and find someplace safe."
And just like that, shock replaced his wariness.
Was this woman really daft? She planned to take down this whole place?! And she had the nerve to make that kind of threat!
No.
As deceiving as it looked, Duman couldn't find any ounce of untruth in the woman's face. The smile was genuine, and the offer was honest. No strings attached to the chance he had been looking for when Scanderoon fell.
Twelve years he had survived on his own. And he would keep on going. Just never in his life behind bars would he meet a kindred spirit underneath a wolf's clothing.
After all, who could you really trust among a group of crooks?
"...Watch yourself."
Duman left, probably never to be seen again. Or maybe fate might be cheeky next time. Who knows.
At least, Jack found a good soul among a band of thieves. A rare and dangerous chance considering her circumstances, but she smiled softly at the gifted gauze in her pocket—a simple reverse of a pocket lift.
In times like this, finding a reliable ally could go a long way in extending her life a little longer in a sticky situation. Maybe it was out of pity, or maybe out of mercy.
Or hope. He banked on her escaping—and maybe he banked on her living another day after that talk.
That said, she couldn't afford to endanger Duman—just a warning to get off the ship before things would get ugly. Regardless of whether he spilled the beans now, later or never, the dominoes had already fallen way after she had walked through the main entrance.
A quick patch-up, and she took only ten steps before she was stopped. Two new, unfriendly-looking faces approached her.
"Alexander-"
"Yes, yes. He wants to see me. Lead the way." Jack willingly followed the henchmen.
She searched high and low as the two men guided her onto a fixed path, somewhere at the bow of the ship. There wasn't any opening she could spy, so the idea to bail ship and fall into the water was out. Another point was the lack of signs she had hoped to find.
There was nothing that screamed, "Here's a big bag of goods." Wherever they kept the Antizin, it wasn't on the first deck. It had to be somewhere deep inside the belly.
"Tight shift you all have," she droned. "Running this ship well-oiled without any freaks running around. Really remarkable."
Nothing out of their lips as they ventured on, now up a flight of stairs. If she had to guess: the bridge area.
"So do you keep your sweepstakes somewhere safe? A whole ship with convicts running the place. I would imagine a rat or two stealing some valuable crumb on board."
No response. Not even a muscle twitch. That meant they knew nothing.
"Not much for gossip, huh?"
Still nothing. Her time was running short at the last flight of stairs, and she couldn't bail immediately on the off-chance a gun would turn to her back. If a 'boss' of convicts and thieves asked for her presence, it rang all the alarms in her head.
"Well, well. If it ain't the infamous wildcat. In the flesh."
At the top of the stairs, another man in an orange jumpsuit greeted her. Another Turkish criminal locked up for whatever crime, except for a few minor things that made him stand out: the inmate's haircut growing out and the eaten-off right ear. He was the burly kind who used his smarts to get close to the top and the best description Jack could think of was a Doberman, off his leach so that he could prance around willy-nilly, right outside the boss's lair.
But the strange hospitality irked Jack.
"Never would I imagine seeing you again."
"Do I know you?"
The stranger looked offended at her reply. "Oh, right. You don't remember. Celso's the name. I'm actually your biggest fan."
A lie. Jack knew that.
"Really?" she tested the waters. "I know most of my fans' faces-"
"Oh, no. Not your kickboxing career. Your past works." He pointed shiftily at the old scar on his ear. "I've heard you've gone soft."
The bitter feeling in her gut warned her that Jack stood on hot coals. She should have turned and bolted the moment she saw the one-eared convict.
"I couldn't believe it myself." He laughed. "The stories you have done. Then all of a sudden...you changed."
'Changed' was a vague word—people change.
It was a matter of which part of her life the stranger shared an interest on...
"So what are you doing now? The same as usual?" Celso hummed before he gazed off into the distance—the open water, the clear sky and the coastal city. "There's a lot of people out there. Scared stiff."
Jack was good at hiding emotions. But her gaze darkened as he pointed to an area with bunched-up lights, hidden well in the industrial parts of Scanderoon.
The Junction.
"That place over there." Celso looked back at her but her gaze didn't waver, locked on the convict instead. "It takes a small flame to get them startled. Let a freak in and it could ruin everything for them. Men, women, children. They could die just like that-"
"Is there a point to this?"
The guns from the two henchmen pointed down at Jack when she stepped forth. But her stern frown stayed still—a standoff against the man's grin. Yes, her cage was rattled, but not completely.
"Are you sure you don't remember me?"
All he got was silence and a threatening glance telling him to back off. Jack didn't hide anything, nor did she confirm an answer to his question.
"...I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about," she explained in a harsh whisper.
The man, Celso, scoffed at her reply. "Well, then. Our boss is an old friend of yours. Surely, he can jog your memory." He then 'courtly' opened the bridge's door, a hand forth to let ladies go first. "After you, miss."
The one particular sentence immediately made Jack fear her gut feeling. The moment she'd step into the control room, then she would be right about her notion of who this 'Alexander'. Along with the end of her rope.
Bail out now.
"You know what? I think I'm gonna decline. Way past my bedtime-"
Jack had very little time to react when grubby hands pushed her in from behind. The henchmen forced her into the bridge, with Celso shutting the door behind them. They gave her little chance to break free. She was down on her knees, restrained, with her arms pressed against her back. Chin hit the floor and her shades were knocked off her face.
"Well, well. What a beautiful reunion this is."
It was only the silhouette of a tanned man that Jack saw. Arms folded like a captain. When he stepped out of the shadows—unhurried steps clanking across the floor—her eyes grew wide, teeth grounded, and fists clutched tightly. The long, gelled-back, dark hair, bristle beard. And years behind bars did change little in his lithe build; none of them didn't change his identity. Distrustful, prominent gaze, bony cheeks and thin lips curled into a malignant grin.
Jack recognized him.
The wariness and dread she had been feeling inside soon turned to pure, swimming, pulsating anger.
"Vlachos."
The proud man took in her shock and fury. Her face, priceless to him.
"Really, now. There's no need to be formal between us. We're still friends."
The man's voice was persuasive, spoken in a foreign accent not indigenous to Turkey; it was calm but carried a clear venomous threat behind the slithering tone.
"Why don't we catch up?" he began, leaning against the dashboard like a slimy businessman at his desk. "How long has it been? Three years?"
The chitchat didn't influence Jack to join in. So he continued on.
"I was so surprised when my men told me that you, of all people in this world, entered our little tournament. But then again, you always loved the thrill-"
"You should have been moved," she hissed. "Why are you still in Scanderoon?"
"That attitude," he tsked at her. "After so many years have we worked together, Janes?" The laugh was deceivingly effusive and sanguinely ice-cold. "Oh. My bad. It's 'Jack Brecken' now. 'Mad Jack'. 'The Wild Dog'."
It was the same kind of technique Jack used—to get the conversation going for the other to slip up. Powerful to pull at the right strings and get the topic going her way. But she was silent, her expression telling the big boss that it was pointless to use those tricks on her.
"So why haven't I been transferred... I heard things got very slow at the office. Something about 'transfer papers' getting lost."
"That's a load of rubbish and you know it!"
"Just because I'm in prison, doesn't mean I'm cut off from all my contacts," he chuckled softly. "So my stay in Scanderoon took a little longer. Then the outbreak happened. And, well, an opportunity presented itself. I thought of reestablishing my business again. Build something out of the rumble around us."
"That why everyone's been calling you Alexander?"
He nodded shamelessly. "Impressive, isn't it? Alexander the Great... A good way to start a new life."
'Alexander' took no offence from her gritted frown at how disgustingly condescending he was. If she could have been freed, she would gladly punch him off his royal throne.
"Your turn. I thought I'd never see you alive in this epidemic. But I didn't think you'd go back to the game." Vlachos sniffed bitterly but still wore his beam.
And from his hand, he held out an Antizin bottle.
She could only guess—the same bottle she gave for the admission fee.
"You wouldn't be giving something this valuable without a reason. Another one of your retrieval jobs?" Nothing out of her. "Whose insulin did I take this time?"
"None of your business."
"Ah. How could I forget? Client confidentiality," he exclaimed. "...This brings back memories. Just like old times."
"Old times?" Her voice was full of spite, her fists curling in so tightly. Laughter burst out of Jack. Unbelievable, she thought. "...You're full of it."
"Now that's uncalled. I've changed just as much as you have, Jack. Prison life gave me a lot of time to think..." Alexander then pondered. "How are your friends?"
That got Jack's blood turned icy cold. Then boiling up.
"Still alive in all of this?" Alexander taunted calmly, pretending as if he couldn't recall something. "What were their names again?"
Jack shoved the hands off her but they wouldn't let her go. Tear Alexander limb from limb.
"Mert! Your wonderful manager. He must be six feet under with the rest of your crew."
She tried one more time! Shut it!
"And there's that brat and his older sister. I heard she became the next champion-"
"Come near them and I'll tear your head off," she snapped warningly. "You know exactly what I can do."
The threat, however, didn't make a dent in Alexander. Only ushered out a soft chuckle—oh, he knew all too well... But it did invite the hilt of a rifle coming from one of her captors.
"Wait."
The low blow was stopped before it could even hit Jack's head. His two henchmen looked back, puzzled. Slightly concerned that they had touched a nerve by even attempting to bring harm to the boss's guest.
"You can try that," Alexander warned gladly. "But you're just giving her the chance she needs."
Dammit. He saw through it.
"It's admiring." The two henchmen tightened their security on Jack as the Greek criminal paced slowly and methodically towards her. He kneeled down, right in her personal space. She despised the expression she read off the man's face. "After these years, you're still acting as the responsible teacher. Tell me. Did everyone stay by your side even to the end?"
Don't listen.
That's how he worms into you.
Twists the words around and pulls the strings to his liking.
It has been something Jack has done many times, just as Freakazoid pointed out—to make it easier for herself. However, the sly man before her was far dangerous.
How else did he manage to get the whole prison to work for him?
Alexander hummed at the silence. "It's so much better without simple ties. Nobody to get hurt from knowing how bad you are," he tried to convince her. Pointless, and he didn't care. "...I do miss the old you. You were so grateful-"
"Grateful?" A chuckle erupted from Jack, a sliver of her Wild Dog persona barking out. "You are the last person I want to see."
"How touching. Are you still angry with that? "
Hopping mad. It took every ounce of her strength not to carelessly answer the question.
"Yes... I took everything that day."
Alexander gestured with his fingers in the shape of a gun. Pointed right at Jack and watched the horror in her eyes.
"Bang."
BAM!
The auditory hallucination of a gunshot ruptured in her head. A vivid memory forced her to look away—to remind herself she wasn't in the past.
Not on that one day, in that warehouse.
Where a body had dropped in front of her.
Jack's entire body flinched from the trigger. With her hands bound, she couldn't do her breathing technique. No matter how hard she tried to stay cool, an impossible task now that her body screamed to go into fight mode, the very culprit relished in her little episode.
"And you know why. I'm the one who made you. The real you."
She despised it. If only she could shut him up!
"I own you," Alexander explained confidently. "And I can destroy you just as you did to me."
Jack's anger-warped terror turned into pure fear. Now she was in deep shit. The subtle, seething animosity had finally slipped out.
Hate.
It was a hate that had been cooking up for three years, distorted into pleasure to see her fall.
As many times as possible. As many chances as he could get to push her off the edge and watch her be smashed on impact.
"Why did you ever think you could walk out of here alive, hm?"
A sense of curiosity was present in his voice. The cold smile told her the reasons: he wanted to understand her objectives walking into a den of lions, he wanted to know who 'asked' her to enter the competition; he wanted every single piece of information.
So he could smite down everything and everyone linked to her even after she was dead and gone.
He then shrugged his shoulders. This was a brick wall in Jack like always. No point in squeezing it out of her when she wouldn't budge.
"It wouldn't have mattered anyway."
"Figures," she hissed through clenched teeth. "There aren't any no winners. All bets go to you."
He nodded. There was no shame. The first step of rising back from the ashes—making some profit first from foolish men.
"And we can't have a winner for tonight's show," Alexander droned.
The same rifle now pointed the barrel at her side-
"No," the big boss stopped the henchman with an open palm out—the deceptive sublime calm in his voice was enough of a warning for his men but his eyes stayed fixed on the brunette. "No...that's opening up old wounds for you."
Alexander smirked, lapping up Jack's swelling rage. Any moment, she could snap the more he brought back 'fond' memories.
Because whatever she would do, it would always be pointless for her.
"...Take her back to the ring. Mad Jack has one last fight left in her."
At the very least, in Alexander's cruel and devious thinking, he could send her off doing what she loved so much.
The ex-kickboxer struggled one more, trying her best to free her arms and escape. Anyhow. Or maybe being taken back to the arena could give her a last-ditch opportunity she needed.
Regardless, her time was shortening. They saved her the grace of shooting her in the back by trading it for another infected killing her. All for the 'show' to keep rolling; to entertain the audience.
"Shame, really. You're still making mistakes again," Alexander chuckled. "That 'weakness' of yours... You never try to strive for more, Jack."
He gave the nod and his two loyal men dragged the outraged woman out of the cabin.
Fuck you!
Out into the deck, Jack was hurled away. A nuzzle to her back made the attempt to 'mellow' her down during the hustle. But she gave no such agreement back, only for her feet to be less resistant to cease moving.
What really stoked the seething temper like beating the fire with a stick was Celso outside, who had been leaning back with folded arms. The smirk said it all—she was a dead woman now.
"See ya around, Jackie."
And fuck you too! she thought loudly.
She could have cursed back. She could have screamed like a desperate, crying woman. It would make such lovely music to Celso' ears. But alas, the once-renowned fighter of the 21st century has an unbreakable mask—she never knew the word, 'quitting'.
Celso remembered that about her. A feat that made her the person she was today. Whatever. The next opponent she would be tossed against would surely make her quit.
Permanently.
"You're crazy."
"I'm telling you the truth!"
The sharp whispers were enough to stir Crane out of his slumber. His whole body felt numb... How long was he out?
"That thing spoke. One guy from the deck swore they heard it."
"Then they're all crazy. Ain't most of Cel's crew from Block B?"
It took a slow climb back onto his feet but the effect was still too much that he had to steady himself—managing to grab onto a bar of some sort. It took every ounce to shove out the needles in his muscles and the fog in his brain. But once Crane's vision came back, he came to the realization that he was inside a cage.
And somewhere unfamiliar. The lights weren't dim enough for him to make out some factors. Everywhere, even the ceiling and the floor, was metal. Besides the annoying mumbling from the two men—the same trappers from the group that caught Crane—he heard the sound of waves crashing and nearby hisses of the infected.
Where was he? What was even this place? Within the strange room, he could make out other cages, tall and short, the shadows shifting unnaturally from the fluorescent light.
"That thing muttered something in its sleep." One of the trappers pointed at Crane. "I heard it. Some woman's name."
"Look. You're still shocked after what happened-"
"Of course! This thing killed everyone!"
And Crane would gladly add more to the kill count. As soon as he could find a way out of his predicament.
"Zombies are zombies. Remember that one guy from Cell 280? He heard that Viral begging him to wait and got his face eaten off for it. Those infecteds can bluff you," his companion tried to reason with him.
"Hey." Another thug in orange entered the dark scene, dumping something next to Crane's cage and walking to the two chatterboxes. "Entry Number 13, right?"
The something dumped aside—a plastic box—had two things that looked very familiar. A sling bag and pouch bag, along with other random things—a cassette player/portable radio spilling out from the rough disposal by the man.
Didn't that brunette carry those on her?
"That's us," a fourth voice joined in, a new packleader taking over the remaining trapper crew from the looks of it.
"Where's Khan? Thought he was taking the lead."
"Dead. Got killed by this freak."
"A-And half of our team," the wimpy prisoner added, unable to tear his eyes off Crane.
Yeah. Be afraid, Crane thought.
"Is that a Volatile?"
"Dunno," the leader continued. "Never seen anything like it."
The prying eyes couldn't make it any more uncomfortable for Crane: an exhibition of a rare specimen to onlookers. He purposely gave a low growl, hoping that would be enough of a warning for them to back off.
Thankfully, the stares lasted for a short while.
"Fine. Follow me then. He's picked to go against tonight's contestant."
"Contestant?" one of the trappers repeated. "Thought the match was over."
All Crane could do was watch, standing as far back in his cage as possible. His containment shifted as one trapper used an industrial hand-pull cart to move it. Enough distance that the flay of an infected's arm couldn't stretch out.
"A woman managed to survive all six rounds. Since you lot got a new one, Alexander gave the OK to let this thing in."
"A woman? No way. No one can fight those freaks of nature."
"This one just did. Damn lady's a psycho. Heard she was some famous kickboxer."
Out of the large room of caged walkers, they were down a hall, but everything so far was still unfamiliar to Crane. Wherever he was, it was busy—like a well-oiled system. Guards stood at selected positions and men were moving about supplies, corpses, and firearms. He even spotted a dead Demolisher at a corner, his head blundered open.
Two prisoners on duty pulled a dolly away. But it wasn't another cage. The heavy content was random things like money, valuables, junk, etc. Out of all that, the only thing that stood out to Crane were six rectangular crates. Red, durable plastic outside. Grey Styrofoam material inside. One lid was loosely unhinged open, and with a quick peek, Kyle saw numerous vials.
Antizin.
Crates of Antizin.
"Hey," the packleader spoke out, having spotted the passing cargo. "Where do we get our payment?"
"Hands off," the guard warned. "Those are from tonight's winnings. Nobody takes from the bet bag."
Crane memorized the turns. Left. Right. Left again. Then down a long, narrow hall, guarded with UV lights at a doorway and bright white light streaming from outside. It was some docking area from the looks of it, with four other cages of different sizes. Cheers and cries came from somewhere beyond the light.
"Here's Khan's group, Director."
Another prisoner came into the picture, wearing a vest and a wide smile. From the way he dressed and acted, Crane could tell he was an asshole.
"Entry 13. An unlucky number."
"Catchy, isn't it? Anyone who fights this thing is already unlucky," one of the trappers sold the idea further.
The smile drooped down once the 'Director' took a better look at Crane. Curious, just like any other gaze, and there was also a growing sense of disappointment. "Rather docile-looking."
"No, no. Believe me. This thing's a new type. Literally stalked the other trappers across the district."
Seriously? Stop making me into more of a creep, Crane grumbled inside his head.
"That's why the price's doubled." The leader then cut between the cage and the man in the vest. Business as usual—he couldn't let anyone come near the new merchandise. "This freak killed eight men. It's worth a lot more than the usual rate."
"And?" the Director rebuffed. "Many infected have killed people-"
"It's double or nothing," the leader threatened, up close to him. Yeah, like convicts would work out a good business without having their fingers broken.
Under the tense moment, Crane waited. Someone had to give. And he was betting on the chaos to give him a way out.
The Director then beamed, ready to strike down the deal.
"Alright. I've heard your offer."
The packleader smirked.
It happened all so fast, however; the referee stole a pistol from the guard just like that and aimed at his temple.
BANG!
The body dropped. Thud. The other infected in their cages howled.
"The usual rate," the Director coolly stated as he tossed the hot gun back to the guard. "No more, no less."
The two trappers didn't oppose, all too overwhelmed at their dead ally. Not even given enough time to collect themselves as they were shooed off by the guard.
As for the Director, he glanced back at 'Thirteen'. No regret, no guilt, nothing but the uncanny glee at the main attraction and not the crime—the typical traits of a sociopath.
"Make sure to kill our contestant, won't you?"
And Crane could see he wanted a bloodbath.
"Let's a-go," the Director sang before disappearing off somewhere. His lackeys then moved the cage closer to the thin beams of light and prepared the needed requirements. From opening the door to his cage to buckling the sides down, the only way the monster had to go was forward. The UV lights kept Crane from trying to make any sneaky attempt.
Outside the doorway's shut gate before him was a scene a little familiar to him—an arena with people cheering and bloodstained walls.
Great, Crane thought distastefully. Was he going to go against a Demolisher again?
"Alright, folks!" the cocky madman's voice boomed everywhere and nowhere. "It's not over yet! We got a special event for everyone! Put everything you got on our newest catch of the day! Recently dropped by the marketplace, a new kind of zombie we've never seen before. So give it up for unlucky Thirteen. The Night Stalker!"
A loud groan escaped from the rising gate in front of Crane. No. Like hell was he going out there-
"Get a move on!"
Tssww!
"Gargh!"
2000 volts started at his side, then ran through his whole body in seconds. Crane was propelled out of his cage when he recoiled from pain; the cause by a modified police baton turned cattle prod. The spotlights almost blinded him and gradually, he took in the ruthless sight of the arena and the yelling audience.
"And coming back for her seventh match, our all-star champion. Let's welcome her back to end the night! Maaaad Jack!"
On cue, pushed out from a second gate on the other side of the arena and by force, the familiar woman in red. Battered, bruised, and catching her footing. Once she steadied herself, she faced her opponent.
Crane was awestruck on the spot. Her shades were off, hanging around her neck and he could see that she was just as surprised as he was, to see 'Freakazoid ' again. Talk about a twist of fate and Crane couldn't agree more either.
The situation was grimmer than he originally had thought. Now he had to save this woman from whatever mess she got herself into. These convicts screamed for her death—by Kyle's own hands. And she didn't look in any good condition to keep going.
Then, a hard, stern look on her face replaced her surprise. Intimidating. Calculating. No way. Was she really going to go along with this madness?
However, she might have had a reason to reel into a fight. The moment Crane was forced into the arena, he could feel his senses suddenly overwhelmed by the alluring scent again. His teeth ached and absentmindedly, he gave out an aggressive snarl. Kyle had to snap out of his sudden drugged state with a shake of the head.
Wait, no. He hadn't gone off the rail yet-
The crowd suddenly became increasingly aggravated. Disappointed even. Some even loudly called the new monster a 'defect' at how long he was taking. At one corner of her eyes, Jack spotted the Director up in the audience, giving a command to someone.
The lackeys behind the stage obeyed with another throw of the blood packets.
Blop, blop, splash, splash!
Freakazoid sidestepped but a bit of the crimson drug splashed onto his legs. In a matter of seconds, he bore the same signs as the Volatile she fought. Ravenous, unpredictable. Off his rocket.
But unlike her previous foe, there was also a strong struggle. An internal war against the feral roots.
He was resisting. Those silver-blue eyes of his hopelessly begged her to run.
Run where? There was only one thing to do.
"Alright. If that's how we're gonna play."
Jack readied her fists. Blocked out all the unwanted noise above her again. Ignored the aches in her muscles.
"Well? What are you waiting for, Freakazoid," she taunted, spying the tormented gaze from him. "We've got a show to perform."
Don't, his expression read. He'd kill her.
"You've been a real pissing fool since we first met. The punches. The smart-talking. The brainwashing."
Then the concern in his pleading silver eyes washed into something else. They went wide. Then the struggle in them diminished, but Freakazoid didn't start a pounce yet. The spectators' hollers grew more impatient for something to happen. Anything.
"Alright. I'm a sodding problem. One more barrier in your way. So how about you go ahead and stop my heroics, mate?" she taunted. "I was never on the same page as you to begin with."
Come on and do it! Stop stalling any longer!
"C'mon! Bite my face off, Shy Guy!" she taunted again.
Finally, the monster readied himself. That brought out Jack's toothy grin.
"-C'mon, you two-faced coward!" Mad Jack hollered. "COME AT ME!"
Freakazoid lunged.
"RAAARGH!"
And the arena completely fell silent in one go.
Then it exploded.
The prisoners behind the fence spurred on their thundering cries, literally jumping out of their seats. "Death, death, death!" the spectators madly chanted like a spell, just as a measure in case bad luck would come. After all, their patience has been paid in full. They've struck it rich with this last fight.
Because Mad Jack laid on the crimson-red floor, dead.
It was clean and swift that did her in—a bite to her jugular from the Night Stalker. And the beast stayed on her corpse, teeth hinged down on her neck. Warm, fresh blood gushed from her chest, a pool beneath the fighters.
Not even the great ex-champion could survive a seventh fight after everything she had gone through.
It brought a delightful, sinister beam to the Director's face. Good riddance to the wisecrack.
"Gentlemen and gents, we have come to the end of the show! Give it a round of applause to our new zombie winner, Thirteen!"
The roars boomed louder. Yes, that was what the Director wanted. The crowd's satisfaction. That meant his reputation was growing. It was all about showbiz, no need for pity over a few maggots who bet their lives away against the impossible.
That was how legends were made. The woman was just daft—nothing but old news.
Sure, he saw an opportunity for her. How many suckers would flock to see a fighter, and a woman at that, try to survive waves of freaks? It would make profits skyrocket.
Alas, she had to stupidly decline. The Director couldn't have been more than happy to receive a radio call from King Alexander to have her pitch against another monster. He didn't care what the reason was. The bitch kicked the bucket. And even if she had survived, they'd gladly gun her down.
Thankfully, it never came down to that. A disappointed audience made an unhappy Director with a cut pay. This zombie gig was far more beneficial than his past schemes before being thrown in the slammer. He and everyone in orange were all free to fall back to their roots with no one to stop them and the whole city burning. The prisoners of Scanderoon would make a name in history books from the ashes around them.
He could only dream, and normally, he made those dreams into reality by treading on the backs of others.
The Director straightened up his collar and marveled at the sight of the fallen woman. She did live by her name, mad to shout such nonsensical things and madder to fight against a freak like that in the arena. Now the strange creature could enjoy feasting on her fresh corpse.
"Well, Jackie. It was nice while it lasted." Then he held up his mic. "Alright! Clean-up on Aisle 1! And bring Thirteen back to his cage. He deserves a good night's rest."
The Director tossed away the microphone, giving a piercing sound through the speakers but he was already off with a hum.
That was all, folks.
A/N: 04/01/20 Both revamped and reedited this chapter.
Hello all into the new year of 2020! I actually was hoping to upload this soon but holidays and struggling with dialogue got in the way. This is a new year and with DL2 coming somewhere in mid-year (oh boy I expect to be wrong on a loooot put in this fic with that new book of lore coming), I hope to get as much done with this fanfic as possible. I'm only closing into the end of the prologue arc but here's hoping it'd be quick with the next arc's flow.
Moreover, I am really happy with this new version for the chapter. The prisoner characters (except for the one-shot thugs) really were fleshed out more than before. Celso was supposed to be the main antagonist but has been put as Vlachos' right man. Speaking of Savvas Vlachos, this is my refined main antagonist for most of the Descent and he'll play a huge part on not just Jack but also Crane down the line. Who he is and how he contributes to the whole Descent story AND even Dying Light will be an interesting plot to work on. How much of a prick is he going to be like Rais or be something worse? Not absolutely sure yet but so far, I'm liking how the first impression for his character came out. Duman will also return in a side-quest story as I have plans for his character arc too. If you want him. Still trying to figure out how to do my side-quest chapters later down the line without interrupting the main plot.
Anyhow, enjoy this chapter! Another side note: I'll be going back to my chapters for some minor changes like replacing Freakoid with Freakazoid. Sounds better.
Also, there would have been a tumblr link here to some of my artwork but you know how FFN is with links. You can check some of them up posted/reblogged at my Descent blog, dlthedescent at tumblr.
Enjoy!
7/2/21 - Fixed mistakes and edited parts according to new timestamp from pilot.
12/3/21 - Reedited for mistakes and added a small aesthetic change to Crane's design.
21/2/22 - Went over a full chapter edit with some fixes, retwists, deletes and adjustments. Edited some dialogues.
17/4/23 - Made some changes, added small details and changed bits in the dialogue.
4/1/24 - Final fixes and changes, I hope