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 leaving without this place burning to the ground. - Jack
EIGHT: A LEGEND'S WORTH
BAM…!
BAM…! A metal gate rattled violently. Something behind it wanted out. Each time it wailed, a misty vapor, like faint embers, drifted between the bars.
Before the infected could slam itself against the metal grill again, the gate finally opened. Out staggered the creature, letting out a guttural growl as it declared its presence to the cheering crowd. A second snarl followed—this one directed squarely at Jack.
A Night Walker. Nighttime had given this infected a dangerous boost, but it still lacked the speed of its more feral cousins.
Good. Jack dodged its first clumsy swing, planting a sharp kick to its shin.
"Oops!" It tripped and fell, crashed to the ground.
Mad Jack 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.
But her fun was short-lived as some boos began to rain from the crowd for taking the first match too long. She eventually decided to wrap it up 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 don't get too comfortable, folks. That was just the appetizer! Next up, straight from the Captain's cabin in Sunny Costa Cruise, and no - he's not the captain. We checked his ID. Crewmate Hannibal!"
Once again, the gate opened on command. Jack's next opponent stumbled into the ring: a regular Biter clad in a Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, and a baseball cap with sunglasses perched on top. A comically tragic tourist turned into a nightmare.
Unlike the last opponent, this one wasted no time, lunging at her with teeth bared. Jack sidestepped sharply and counterattacked with a jab.
Same routine as before. She grabbed its arm, twisted it hard until 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. Yet the virus kept it moving, driving it to mindlessly pursue her. It didn't need grace—it just needed to bite her.
Jack dove first, grabbing for its abdomen, and threw it over her shoulder. The dull clang of its body hitting the metal floor echoed through the arena. Before it could scramble back to its feet, she stomped 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 hyping them up again. "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 second impact was louder, more violent, and enough to put Jack on edge. Her stance shifted, ready for whatever came next. She kept her focus razor-sharp.
"Release him, boys!"
THUNK!
The gate creaked and almost buckled as it rose, and out burst what should have been a common infected. Except this one wasn't.
Its upper body was grotesquely muscular, with hardened boils riddling its carapace-plated arms—some as large as grapefruits swelling across its massive hands. Its lower jaw hung loosely, barely held in place by the mutated sinew and boils that marked its transformation. The tattered remains of a tank top and shorts suggested it had once been a combat sportsman, while its bare feet thudded heavily against the arena floor.
What on Earth was that?
"Yeeaaah! A Brawler!" someone shouted from the crowd.
The infected snapped its head toward the noise with an irritated wail before charging blindly in that direction.
CLUNK!
One side of the arena shook violently, scaring the spectators right off their seats. Their only protection; the fence swayed. Back and forth, back and forth—until it finally settled, though not without leaving the audience with the uncomfortable possibility that the creature could break free.
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 hunted by sound alone.
This time, she had to be tread carefully. Reading an infected's movements was already harder than a human's, and this one's unpredictability meant she couldn't afford to waste energy or make mistakes. The first two walkers had been easy enough to dispatch, but she had conserved her strength for any bigger threat.
She got what she wanted: a bigger threat.
Jack stepped slowly around, quiet as a mouse. As dangerous as it was, she couldn't go upfront like usual. Her unease deepened when the Brawler lifted its head, its exposed nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air.
So it relied on smell. Then it wouldn't take long before it could find her.
"Hey! Get a move one!" another prisoner yelled from above, chucking an empty can at the fence.
"Grraaasnk!" the Brawler hollered at the clatter.
Good. It couldn't put its focus on locating Jack with so many distractions from the audience. That gave her time; how could she take it down? Its massive upper body was built like a tank—too dense to strike vital areas or twist its neck.
But its lower legs… They were disproportionately thin compared to the bulk above. Perfect. If she could unbalance it, she'd have a chance.
"Phwwwhht!"
Her whistle drew its attention immediately. The Brawler snapped its head toward her and emitted a guttural howl that this time, it heard her. It had her. It charged, headfirst and unyielding.
But halfway through its run, it stopped abruptly and swung one massive, inflamed fist at her with tremendous force—the momentum of its dash giving the blow extra power.
THUD!
Her heart leapt into her throat. The punch missed as she ducked, but the sheer wind from the swing sent a chill down Jack's spine. She glanced back, the dent it left in the fence was proof of the damage it could do.
It was like a mantis shrimp. Two punches like that aimed at her vitals, and she wouldn't stand a chance.
But its bulk came with a cost. The heavy arms took too long to recover, the Brawler struggling to retract its overextended fist. Seizing the moment, Jack darted forward and delivered a sharp, low kick to its ankle.
Down it went like Humpty Dumpty. Jack swore she heard something crack. She rose, searching for a weak spot, which she found on the exposed back, where vertebrae jutted out unnaturally.
Without hesitation, she struck with a downward roundhouse kick.
CRACK!
It was a sickening sound but that guaranteed that the Brawler was done. It gurgled aggravatedly, but its limbs went limp.
"Oh, c'mon! That's not fair!"
She ignored the complaint from the crowd. Survival wasn't about fairness. She'd use every technique in her arsenal—from full to semi-contact, from Muay Thai to freestyle.
Being retired didn't mean she would stay rusty.
"Impressive! And we're only halfway there!" the Director droned over the mic.
"Now, many of you may recall last week's winner, who tragically met his demise after claiming his prize. Let's have a moment of prayer…"
A moment of silence; he pressed his palms together in a prayer, pausing for effect before flinging his arms wide.
"And a second round of applause for our reigning champion of Cell Block A, Tough Turk!"
Despite the commotion, Jack heard something heavy drag across the floor. Her head whipped around as the battered gate groaned open and her next opponent strolled out.
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 offered no response—too busy flashing his smug, toothy grin at the crowd.
"Marvelous," she hissed, reeling back to her kickboxing mentality. Contestants couldn't enter with weapons but apparently, zombies could?!
The Goon lumbered toward her, closing the gap with deliberate, sluggish steps. When it 'thought' it had the chance, it lifted its massive rebar high and swung down with brute force.
A quick dodge and a miss, the rebar's aftershock dented into the metal floor with a CLANG!
It was a long and grueling fight at this point. Every time she evaded, she countered with two quick punches to its side before retreating to avoid the next swing. Taking down a Goon with her bare fists was a feat she'd never heard anyone accomplish.
There was a very small window for an opening with its choice of melee having such a wide girth.
And the rebar connected.
CLANK!
"Gah!" Jack stumbled, the handle of the rebar striking her arm. It wasn't the concrete end, thankfully, but the impact still sent a jolt of pain up to her shoulder.
Well, it was still a dumb, instinctive move. Could've fractured it.
One more hit like that and she'd be fighting with one arm. Worse, dead. The crowd roared louder, wild with excitement at the sight of her strain. They all wanted her dead.
She had to change her game.
"Grooooaaawnn!"
THUD!
Another swing into the ground but Jack darted forward this time, closing the gap between them. As much as her right arm hurt, she pushed 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 shaft 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, staring dumbly at its now-empty hands.
Jack, however, had to brace up her arms.
"Omph!" The Goon retaliated with a powerful swing, even without its weapon. The sheer force was more like a swat to a fly than the mindless flailing of regular Biters. Had she not shielded herself, she might have been sent flying across the arena. As it was, the blow threw her back five feet, down on a knee.
She tried to force herself back on her feet, adrenaline pumping through her muscles. The Goon, however, didn't come after her
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 into the air.
Yes, trying to suplex on an 8-foot-tall freak was probably a terrible idea but she had to try!
THUD!
The arena floor shuddered as the Goon's massive body hit the ground. Jack scrambled back, her tired arms instinctively raising to guard against a counterattack.
The infected thug in its jumpsuit didn't climb back up at first. Its fingers twitched, its head hanging loosely to one side. Then it began to push itself up.
"Stay down!" she pleaded.
One last desperate kick drove into its skull.
CRACK!
Its neck snapped clean, and the Goon collapsed for good.
The crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and jeers.
"Whoooie! Four out of six! Mad Jack's on a roll here, huh." The Director's nervous laugh slipped for a second. "But how about we up the difficulty level, shall we?" the Director sang.
Oh, sod off, she thought bitterly as she fought every heavy breath. Duman hadn't been kidding that they wouldn't give her a breather!
"You know what time it is. TIME FOR THE BLOOD FRENZZZZY! "
The audience's cheers erupted to a deafening roar, making Jack gravely concerned. Two men appeared behind the fences, carrying a crate she immediately recognized from the kitchen. With a heave, they flung its contents into the ring.
Blop, blop, splash!
The blood packets burst open on impact, coating the floor in sticky crimson.
Jack's defensive stance tightened, recallingDuman's warning. Whatever was coming next would be far worse than anything she'd faced so far.
"This one took a lot of work to capture after our last Volatile was taken down by Tough Turk himself!" the Director hollered with manic enthusiasm. "And this is gonna be a very interesting fight. Get ready for JACK THE RIPPER versus MAD JACK!"
"He took a lot of work capturing after our last one got taken down by Tough Turk himself. And this is gonna be a 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 here?!
"GAARGH!" Saliva sprayed from its gaping mandibles. It moved erratically, with a speed and ferocity unlike any Volatile she had seen before. Something was off. Its entire body was twitching constantly, breathing heavily.
Like it was drugged.
Jack had never fought a Volatile—and for good reason. She had heard enough stories and the losses the Ravens had faced with them.
Her only choice was to dodge. Again and again, saving herself from turning into shredded pork. She desperately searched for a weakness, but there was none. The monster was too fast, too frenzied, too hungry.
She barely registered the blur of its other arm swinging wide until it was too late.
WHAM!
It was a hard blow to her side—knocked her right off her feet and sent her across the blood-soaked dirt.
'Jack the Ripper' came at her again, faster than before. Jack barely caught her breath as she deflected the next attack with a desperate boot to its chest, forcing the creature back. It gave her only a second to widen the gap between them.
She could feel her stamina was getting spent, however.
Finally, she felt a sweep of the claws at her lower side as she climbed onto her feet. Shallow but it burned like fire.
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!"
The audience laughed, but she tuned them out. Let them mock. They 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.
She pushed out the noise. Let the qi flow. Center her gravity.
Because if this failed, it would cost her life.
"GAARGH!" The Volatile lunged again. The attack couldn't be stopped outright as she retreated, keeping her unique pose. But the controlled breathing dulled the sharpness of the pain, fortifying her just enough to endure.
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 tumble hard, crashing several feet away.
Jack repositioned herself for the next lunge.
Try again.
She inhaled. Exhaled.
Find that moment.
The Volatile's feral eyes zoomed back onto her with a growl as a threat: Stay still! Jack raised two fingers and gestured back and forth.
Come get some.
Somehow, her taunt got the better of the ravaging monster. The Volatile lunged again. And again, she redirected its momentum with ease—this time using a single palm. Her shoulder braced against its massive body, sending it staggering back while her other hand grabbed for the unthinkable.
And she yanked it out, flesh tearing 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 the bone.
A broken jawbone was an ideal weapon. And no one could say no to that.
The Volatile screeched angrily at the sight of its stolen mandible, the other flailing around. Give it back!
She'd gladly give it back one way or another.
The creature dove for a third time, as reckless as before. Jack parried its attack with a practiced fluidity and darted in close. With a sharp thrust, she used the sharpest end of the bone and drove it between the tendons.
Jack didn't leave it in the beast's gut; it was her only weapon.
Now, it was a waiting game.
If only her fortitude hadn't worn off. The Volatile was catching up to her with speed and fury. With the gap almost gone, Jack made a desperate move. She madly latched onto its head and reeled back hers.
SMACK!
She headbutted the infected. Hard.
The force sent the Volatile staggering clumsily away, but Jack immediately regretted it. Pain shot through her skull, and she took a few precious seconds to recover from the recoil.
No! No! Get up! Get up!
Pushing through the haze, she straightened, her fingers quickly adjusting the jawbone in her hand like a makeshift set of brass knuckles. She fired a fist, then another: each punch stopping 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 secret weapon of hers going to start-!
"Gack!"
The Volatile gagged loudly. Then came another one. And another, as it collapsed to one knee.
"Garugh!" it uttered and suddenly, its claws lashed at 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 over the loudspeakers.
"Go down, go down!" Jack whispered. The infected stumbled towards her, still deadset for the kill. Surely, it couldn't have built a resistance like Freakazoid did.
Right?!
"Srank!"
That snarl from behind froze her blood. Jack wheeled around to see the Brawler rise again, its body hunched and drooping awkwardly to one side.
Shit! The blow to its back hadn't been enough.
"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 Volatile let out a garbled snarl 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 as the abdomen split open, while the Volatile's head slingshot from the sheer impact.
Two great Specials killed together in an ironic and brutal twist.
The Brawler hit the floor with a wet splatter, motionless. The Volatile floundered with its coughing fit, tearing at its own throat in a desperate attempt to breathe. Blood poured from its mangled neck until, with one final gurgle, it crumpled.
And the entire time, Jack had been in the middle, unharmed and amazed that she had lived through all that.
As she shakily got to her feet, the arena erupted in shock, followed by an uproar. Some shouted accusations at the referee, demanding that the jawbone was 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 crowd's mood darkened, splitting into factions—some furious at the Director, some at Jack for that stunt, and, surprisingly, others arguing with their neighbors over the outcome. Any cheers she'd received were 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'd love to forget, Jack thought wearily as she struggled to stay upright.
"Without further ado, time to let loose our best and biggest title-holder yet! Weeelcome, TITAN!"
Lovely. Now what?
The answer came through the gate. Slow. Sluggish.
Big. Menacing. And she recognized that type of infected instantly.
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.
Jack leapt at the last possible second, feeling the wind of its massive arm sweep past her as it slammed into the container wall behind her.
CLUNK!
The impact made the container wall buckle slightly, enough to make some spectators a jump for their money. Could the walls hold against a Demolisher?
She was trapped in a small space with an enormous brute! The only saving grace that helped her was its slow movement, which gave her just enough time to dodge each time it regained momentum.
But there was no bloody way she could punch her way through that thing! A jawbone was utterly useless now—it wouldn't even scratch its carapace-like 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 back.
The Director wagged a disapproving finger at her from the safety of his booth. "Sorry, Jackie. No weapons."
"You fucking cu-!"
"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. As the big guy leisurely wheeled back to her, Jack slapped her thighs and waved her arms like she was calling over a lost pet. Or a mutated bear in this case.
"Come get me, fatty!"
Thud, thud, thud, its feet boomed. CLUNK!
It barely felt the small, puny human climb up its back in a sprint. By the time the Demolisher straightened, Jack was already hanging on to its tattered Kevlar vest for dear life.
A feat nobody has tried on a Demolisher. She patched through the pockets as fast as she could but the infected eventually got the memo. It flailed its massive arms wildly, roaring like a frustrated child wailing. Thank goodness it couldn't reach its back.
Click!
A small canister dropped at its feet. Pulled from its vest and the metal pin free.
BANG!
"Shit!" A spectator shielded their eyes.
The arena lit up in a blinding flash. The flashbang stunned the Demolisher mid-charge and burned everyone's retinas in the audience, disoriented.
The only one in the arena not affected was Jack, who crouched the beast's massive frame behind its back from the searing light.
Five seconds.
That was all the time she had, desperately clinging onto the now-stunned monster. It was like riding a mutated bull. In those precious seconds, nobody could see her jam her bleeding hand into its gaping maw.
"Bite on it!" she shrieked. "Bite it!"
The five seconds ran out. The Demolisher snapped back into action, thrashing more than ever. 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!" Her body slid across the slick metal floor hard, rolling in pain. Every muscle screamed as she tried to force herself upright. Her fatigue was nearly at its peak.
The crowd howled with delight. Yes, her demise was coming; they applauded. She couldn't keep avoiding the charge anymore.
Jack raised an arm in a desperate, feeble attempt to shield herself. A pathetic defense against an unstoppable monster-
Click!
Her other hand pulled another pin.
With the last ounce of her strength, she pitched the second grenade—not forward. But up.
BANG!
The world turned blinding white again for five seconds. Voices wailed as photoreceptors burned for the second time.
"I can't see!"
The Demolisher staggered aimlessly, its coughs guttural and pained. It clutched at its face with massive hands, blinded and overwhelmed. The creature groaned and fell to one knee, the sheer weight of its body shaking the arena floor.
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 and everything she had left.
"AHHHHH!"
WHACK!
Something made a horrible sound—fleshy and squishy. The helmet flew clean across the arena like a botched home run ball. A faint shudder rippled through the ship as the giant collapsed.
Everything fell silent.
No one in the audience dared to speak as their vision returned. All Jack heard was her heavy breathing and the pounding in her chest. Each second stretched, the waiting more excruciating.
Was one hit to the head enough to kill a Demolisher?
The answer came with a groan as the monster staggered back up, its immense strength tugging at Jack's frayed nerves. It looked like it had one last fight left.
But then, it stilled.
A few twitches. A gurgling sound.
And finally, the giant gave up, its bulky weight nearly shaking the ship as it fell.
It was dead.
Jack's sixth opponent didn't get back up.
The silence slowly broke, first with murmurs.
Then there were the mounting boos and hisses.
Jack didn't care. Relief flooded her body as she dropped the rebar with a dull clang, barely able to stand. She had done it. She had survived.
And no one could take that away from her.
"There's no way. Nobody has ever survived a Demolisher before!"
"She cheated! She used a weapon!"
"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 couldn't resist relishing their bitter complaints as much as possible.
Let it all sink in, bastards.
"Uh." The Director glanced frantically around, trying to think how to assess the distasteful situation.
It had been a first in a long time—someone had fought six rounds and lived.
"G-Give a clap for Miss Mad Jack, gents! Our third winner and champion of tonight's show! All betters, you know where to collect your winnings."
The mocking and disappointment washed through the crowd. Jack simply ignored them all and staggered towards her exit, where the guards opened up with tense shoulders and awe written all over their faces.
Keep on going, she limped slowly down the narrow metallic hall. She wasn't out of the woods yet.
Then her vision blurred.
Her fingers spasmed uncontrollably, the feeling rippling up her arms. Then throughout her body.
To the common folks of the epidemic, it might have looked like the Harran virus taking hold. But Jack knew better.
The pounding headache.
"Shit." It was starting again.
With trembling hands, she fumbled for the brown bottle in her pocket. 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 and shut 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, and her vision would return. But it was going to take all night for her to fully recover.
Again, Jackie. Breathe in, 1, 2, 3, 4. Breathe out. She couldn't afford to stay like this in such a dangerous place.
Get back in the game, get back in the game, get back-
"Miss?"
She shot upright, trying to feint her composure, but the sudden movement nearly cost her footing. Standing in front of her was Duman, his frown tinged with a tiny hint of concern.
"You ok?"
"What? Oh, good. Good. You know. Six fights. Really takes the wind out of ya," it was partially true, but she said it a little too quickly.
"Six fights should've done you in."
She chuckled weakly. "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."
The small exchange was interrupted by the Director, who waltzed into the hall with his arms spread wide like he was addressing an audience.
"You've made quite a show tonight. Far more spectacular than I imagined."
"Really?" Jack inquired, all too tired to care.
"Of course! Even the great Alexander was impressed by your performance."
There it was again—that name.
It was a strange puzzle for Jack—in just a few months of the unfolding chaos, one man had risen to power, seizing control over the prisoners when most of them behaved like feral animals.
If her hunch was right...then what the Director just said about his leader's supposed 'amusement' was likely a lie.
"He wants to meet you in person. Not many get an invitation 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 gave us purpose. He led us into this 'golden 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 dryly.
"Of course not! 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. This could be the start of something beautiful. Worth your while."
Sure. An early grave.
Jack glanced back to the arena. "Your audience doesn't sound too happy about me."
"They'll get over it." The Director slid up beside her, draping his arm over her tense shoulders. "But you're a one-in-a-lifetime deal."
"Really?" Jack forced a polite smile, though every fiber in her being screamed to clock that 'award-winning' grin of his. "That easy?"
"If you cooperate." How smooth and subtle he slipped in 'if she cooperated'. "Tonight's show will be hard to top off. That's what trappers are for. Restocking."
Jack's smile didn't falter. It wasn't going to be easy getting out if this overenthusiastic prisoner was going to shepherd her straight to the big boss.
She was playing with fire after all.
"It's 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 just as easily."
A shallow, indirect threat. She had met plenty of these types before.
Finally, the Director peeled himself away from her. "You're the Wild Dog. You fight like something's trying to claw its way out of you. With the world falling apart, a legend's gotta rise back up again."
"To sell the dream?"
"Exactly! See? We're on the same page."
Oh, she absolutely was not. How entertaining it had been listening to the man dance to his own shady tune.
"If you get on the boss's good side, I can make you that legend again. One that can surpass 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 huffed, 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 one of those guys who give themselves a dumb nickname."
The smirk vanished from his face like a slap had landed. He couldn't see the sly wink behind her shades but the click of her tongue was enough to peeve him. To tick him off.
Even Duman, standing silently to the side, shifted uneasily at how close Jack was at stepping over that line.
"You know," the Director started, closing the distance between him and the smiling brawler. His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "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 replied. A moment of hesitation out of the referee, but his glare was growing colder.
Just another lackey under Alexander's thumb. Easily 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. "Pot calling the kettle black. It's just a glorified past, Miss Celebrity. The Wild Dog's a forgotten name."
"Really?" Jack shone her razor-sharp grin. "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. In fact, she shortened the space between them even further; an invitation for him to attack. Go ahead.
Throw a punch at her.
Try it.
The fuming referee gave nothing but the teeth grounding and tightly curled fists at his sides.
"The difference between you and me? I don't go around announcing my name to the whole world. Everyone else 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—if he tried anything, he'd end up as dead as her last opponent. Whether by her hands or Alexander's, it didn't matter.
It was a gamble she took, but Jack played her hand and she won just like her six matches.
"Now… Can I get my winnings?" Jack asked 'politely'.
Aslan's jaw clenched before his pearly white smile returned—the fake courtesy the Director wore like a mask. "Not until you meet with the boss. At the captain's hold."
The unspoken warning hung in the air: Don't overstep. A glint of malice flickered 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 echoing down the metallic hall.
"Most men would know when to quit," Duman finally spoke after letting out a long-held sigh.
And the woman had the gall to just shrug her shoulders. "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 tossed that light jab at him.
"You don't know what I've been charged with."
"None of my business. Every dark past is meant to be buried."
"Hm…" Duman paused, then extended his hand. "Guess this is the end."
Jack scoffed lightly as she reached for his hand. "You must be glad to be rid of me."
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's 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 met her prying gaze, obscured by her shades, and saw nothing but madness.
But Jack's unreadable face countered his doubt.
"I knew I'd be dead the moment I walked in. But I'm not leaving without Antizin."
In other words, the ex-kickboxer had already planned to make enemies aboard this ship.
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 watched many faces reduced to hollow shells. The hope in their eyes always flickered out just before the infected tore them apart.
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 few 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 that blood-soaked ring. She swam with the sharks, just by the skin of her teeth, and lived.
"Duman, you're a smart man. You know how to keep a low profile." Jack's eyes drifted down as she twirled his arm around. "Is your girlfriend's name Kara?"
Duman instinctively jerked back, tugging down one of his sleeves.
"Not the girlfriend then," Jack observed. "Looks too simple compared to any convict's tattoo. No romantic imagery either. But the date…"
She paused, spying his brow knitted as a warning.
"'16 March 2003.' Twelve years in prison?" she guessed. Duman's silence spoke volumes. "And Kara... That's also a Turkish name for a man." Her voice softened, almost sympathetic. "Having that on your arm means you can see it, but others can't. It's a reminder."
Angry eyes in disbelief that she opened him up like a book from just a tattoo. Duman didn't want her to continue.
Yet there was no ill will from the woman's vibe. There was nothing that told Duman that she had any intention to expose his secret. Perhaps it was why she gave a moment of courtesy for the next thing she said.
"That tattoo is for grief, isn't it?"
He could have rebutted back. He could have gone aggressive like most of the thugs around them. But he was struck silent. Her words had landed too close to home.
"Who are you?" he managed to ask.
Jack simply smiled. Warm.
"I'm just a retired kickboxer."
She dodged the question. And her answer demonstrated to him that they didn't welcome just any ordinary woman.
"Don't get cocky," Duman then provoked, with hopes of getting her to reconsider. 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 won't," she reminded. "You want to see your girlfriend again."
His fists curled up. How daring and touchy for some random stranger to bring up something so personal. It didn't matter if it came from a woman or a man. That was still reaching for the low-hanging branch.
But the problem was that she was right.
Twelve years in prison, of surviving on his own had taught Duman the art of self-preservation. It was all to see that beautiful face and hear her firecracker voice once again. He survived for another three months into the outbreak and he had planned to continue. Blending in, keeping his head down and speaking the right words.
That was how one could survive the longest, just enough to look for an opening. An escape.
But a stranger saw all that in him.
Admittedly…it terrified him.
"That's why you need to get out of here while you still can. 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. A chance at the freedom he'd been clinging to since the day Scanderoon fell—no strings attached.
Never in all his time behind bars had he expected to meet a kindred spirit underneath a wolf's clothing.
After all, who could you really trust among a band of crooks?
"...Watch yourself."
Duman left, probably never to be seen again. Or maybe fate might be cheeky next time. Who knows.
Jack watched him go, a rare smile tugging at her lips. Among thieves and murderers, she'd found a good soul. A rare stroke of luck, considering her circumstances as she glanced down 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. 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.
But there was no room for sentimentality. She couldn't afford to drag him down with her. Regardless of whether he would spill the beans now, later or never, the dominoes had already fallen the moment she stepped onto the ship.
After a quick patch-up, Jack barely took ten steps before two new, unfriendly-looking faces approached her.
"Alexander-"
"Yes, yes," she interrupted, waving off the formalities. "He wants to see me. Lead the way."
The two men guided her onto a fixed path, to the bow of the ship. There were no openings to exploit, no escape routes to note. Even the water below seemed unreachable—a silent reminder of how boxed in she truly was.
There was also nothing that screamed, "Here's the jackpot." Wherever they kept the Antizin, it wasn't on the first deck. It had to be stashed somewhere deep inside the belly of the ship.
"Tight shift you all have," she droned. "Running this ship well-oiled without the freaks must be exhausting work."
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 run by convicts sounds like a recipe for disaster. I would imagine a rat sneaking off with something precious."
No response. Not even a muscle twitch. They'd been trained to keep their mouths shut.
"Not much for gossip, huh?"
Still nothing. Her time was running short at the last flight of stairs, and any sudden move would likely end with a bullet in her back. A meeting with the boss of cutthroats wasn't going to be for tea and biscuits.
"Well, well. If it isn't the infamous wildcat. In the flesh."
At the top of the stairs stood another inmate in an orange jumpsuit, leaning casually against the wall. A burly man with his shaved head growing out and a chewed-off right ear. He wasn't just muscle—his sharp, calculating eyes said he'd clawed his way to the top.
If Jack had to describe him, it'd be simple: a Doberman off his leash, prancing around willy-nilly right outside the boss's lair.
But the strange hospitality irked Jack.
"Never would I imagine seeing you again," he greeted with a crooked grin.
"Do I know you?"
The one-eared stranger looked offended at her reply. "Oh, right. You don't remember. Celso's the name. I'm your biggest fan."
A lie. Jack could smell it.
"Really?" She tested the waters. "I usually remember my fans' faces-"
"Oh, 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." Celso laughed. "The stories I heard about you. 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 had fixated on.
"Really disappointing," he hummed before he gazed off toward the horizon—the open water, the distant coastal city, and the industrial zone dotted with lights. "There's a lot of people out there. Scared stiff."
Jack was good at hiding emotions. But her gaze darkened as he pointed to one place in the darkness.
The Junction.
"That place over there." Celso looked back at her but her gaze didn't waver, locked on the convict instead. "It's a nice little spot full of mice. Let one freak in, and it's all over."
Nothing out of the brunette but he was pushing the right buttons.
"Men, women, kids… Hah. All snuffed out in the blink of an eye."
"Is there a point to this?"
The henchmen's guns aimed downward, but the message was clear: any wrong move, and Jack wouldn't leave alive. But her stern frown was a standoff against Celso'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.
The man, Celso, scoffed at her reply. "Well, then. Maybe our boss can jog your memory. He's an old friend of yours." He stepped aside and 'courtly' opened the bridge's door, a hand forth to let her go first. "After you, miss."
Fear slowly engulfed her. Her suspicions were narrowing into certainty: she knew who this 'Alexander' was. And stepping into that room meant walking to the end of her rope.
Bail out now.
"You know what?" She tried to spin it casually, taking a small step back. "I think I'll pass. Past my bedtime-"
Her words were cut short as grubby hands shoved her forward. The henchmen forced her into the bridge, with Celso shutting the door behind them. She was on her knees, restrained, with her arms pressed against her back. Chin hit the floor and her shades slipped from her face.
"Well, well," a deep voice drawled from the shadows. "What a beautiful reunion this is."
Jack saw only the silhouette at first—a tanned man with arms folded, standing like a captain surveying his domain. His steps echoed across the floor, slow and deliberate. As he emerged from the shadows, her eyes widened, her teeth ground together, and fists clenched.
The days in jail had changed him but Jack recognized him instantly. The long dark, unkempt hair gelled back. Clean, sharp face with bony cheeks covered by a bristling beard.
That distrustful, prominent gaze, and thin lips curled into a malignant grin.
The wariness and dread she had been feeling inside soon turned to pure, swimming, pulsating rage.
"Vlachos."
The proud man drank in her shock and fury. Her face, priceless to him.
"Really, now," he said 'calmly' and 'venomously'. "There's no need to be so formal. We're still friends."
He leaned casually 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," Vlachos tsked. "After so many years have we worked together, Janes?" The laugh was deceivingly effusive and sanguinely ice-cold. "Oh. I'm sorry. It's 'Jack Brecken' now. 'Mad Jack'. 'The Wild Dog'."
It was the same technique Jack often used herself: coaxing the conversation into exposing weak points. But this time, she stayed silent, her expression daring him to keep trying.
"So why haven't I been transferred... I heard things got a little 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 decided to rebuild my business. To create something out of the rubble."
"That why everyone's been calling you Alexander?" she shot back.
He nodded shamelessly. "Alexander the Great. Fitting, don't you think? A new name for a new empire."
'Alexander' took no offence from her gritted, his condescending tone fueling her disdain. If she weren't bound, she'd gladly knock him off his so-called throne.
"Now, your turn. I didn't expect to see you alive in this epidemic. Or back to the game." Vlachos sniffed bitterly but still wore his beam. "But I suppose old habits die hard."
And from his hand, he held out an Antizin bottle.
She could only guess—the same bottle she gave as her entry fee.
"You wouldn't give away something this valuable without a reason. Another one of your retrieval jobs?" Nothing out of her. "Whose insulin did I take this time?"
Jack refused to answer with a warning, drilling glare.
"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 for. Prison life gave me a lot to reflect on..." Alexander then pondered. "How are your friends, by the way?"
That got Jack's blood turned icy cold. Then boiling up.
"Still alive through all of this?" Alexander taunted calmly, pretending as if he couldn't recall something. "What were their names again?"
Jack shoved the hands restraining her but they wouldn't let her go. She'd rip him apart if she could.
"Mert! Your wonderful boss. 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 any of them and I'll tear your head off," she snarled. "You know exactly what I can do."
The threat, however, didn't make a dent in Alexander. Instead, it brought out a soft, knowing chuckle. "Oh, I know all too well."
"Then how about you push your luck and come at me!" Jack threatened again. Louder.
One of her captors raised the butt of his rifle, ready to deliver a sharp blow to her head.
Jack braced for the impact.
"Wait."
The henchman froze, glancing back in confusion and gestation as they gauged their boss's mood.
"You can try that," Alexander warned gladly with amusement, "but you'd only be giving her the chance she's waiting for."
Bastard. He saw through it.
"It's admirable." The two henchmen tightened their grip on Jack as Alexander paced slowly and methodically towards her. He crouched down, right in her personal space.
She despised the expression she read off the man's face.
"After all these years, you're still acting the responsible teacher for those children. Tell me. Are those two still by your side even after everything?"
Don't listen.
That's how he worms in.
Jack had used similar tactics before, just as Freakazoid had 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?
The Greek-American criminal hummed at her silence. "Playing the hero has never been in your cards, Jack," he tried to convince her. Pointless, and he didn't care. "The old you… Oh, you were so grateful-"
"Grateful?" A bitter laugh erupted from Jack, a sliver of her Wild Dog persona barking out. "Don't kid yourself."
"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 raised his hand, shaping his fingers in 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 like a thunderclap. A vivid memory forced her to look away—to remind herself she wasn't in the past.
Not that day, in that warehouse.
Where a body had dropped in front of her, lifeless.
Jack's chest tightened as if the air had been sucked out of the room—bound hands robbed her of her breathing technique. No matter how much she tried to hold it together, her body betrayed her, screaming for her to fight back.
And Alexander? He savored every second of her little episode.
"And you know why. I made you. The real you."
Her teeth clenched with deep disdain simmering just beneath the surface. If only she could shut him up!
"I own you," Alexander said confidently. "And I can destroy you."
Jack's anger-warped terror turned into pure fear as she looked back at her old colleague.
"Just like how you destroyed me."
The subtle, seething animosity had finally slipped out.
Hatred.
It was a hatred that had been cooking up for three years, distorted into a personal obsession at seeing her fall.
As many times as possible. As many chances as he could get to push her off the edge and watch her smash on impact.
She was in deeper trouble than she'd thought.
"Why did you ever think you could walk out of here alive, hm?"
His voice feigned curiosity, but his cold, dead smile spoke the truth: he wanted to understand her objectives walking into a lion's den; he wanted to know who 'asked' her to enter the competition; he wanted every piece of information.
So he could torch everything and everyone tied to her even after she was dead and gone.
But then he shrugged his shoulders. Jack was always the same brick wall he knew. No point in squeezing it out of her when she wouldn't budge.
"Not that it matters," he said with a dismissive wave.
"Figures," Jack spat through clenched teeth. "There aren't any no winners. All bets go to you."
Alexander nodded, shameless as ever. The first step of rising from the ashes—making some profit first on the backs of foolish men.
"And we can't have a winner for tonight's show," he droned.
The same rifle now pointed the barrel squarely at Jack's side-
"No, no," the big boss raised a hand to stop the henchman. His voice carried a deceptive and calm warning to his men. But his piercing gaze never left Jack. "...That'd be opening up old wounds for you."
A wide smirk curled his lips, Jack's seething defiance feeding his sadistic delight. That's what he wanted her to feel: powerless.
"...Take her back to the ring. Mad Jack has one last fight left in her."
In his twisted, cruel mind, he thought it poetic to send her off doing what she loved so much.
The ex-kickboxer thrashed against her captors, trying her best to free her arms and escape. Somehow. Maybe the arena could offer her a last-ditch opportunity she needed to turn the tables—or maybe it would be her grave.
Either way, her time was running out. They saved her the grace of shooting her in the back by trading it for another infected killing her. The show could go on.
"Shame, really. You're still making mistakes again, Jack," Alexander chuckled. "You never try to strive for more."
With a slight nod, his henchmen dragged the furious woman out of the cabin.
Fuck you!
Out into the deck, Jack was hurled away. A nuzzle from a rifle pressed into her back, urging her to comply. But she gave no satisfaction, only for her feet to be less resistant to cease moving.
And outside the cabin was Celso, beating the fire with a stick with his smirk.
"See ya around, Jackie."
And fuck you too! she screamed in her head.
She could curse all she wanted. She could scream like a desperate, crying woman. It would make such lovely music to Celso' ears. But alas, the Wild Dog never broke—she never knew the word, 'quitting'.
Whatever. The next opponent she would be tossed against would surely make her quit.
Permanently.
"You're crazy."
"I'm telling 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, painful climb for Crane to get back on his feet but the effect was still too much. He had to steady himself by grabbing onto something. Some sort of bar.
His body felt like lead, and the fog in his brain refused to clear quickly. But once Crane's vision came back, he came to the realization that he was inside a cage.
Great.
And somewhere unfamiliar. The lights were too harsh, casting strange, shifting shadows that made it hard to focus. Everywhere he looked, metal surrounded him—the walls, the floor, even the ceiling.
Under the faint hum of fluorescent lights, there was the sound of crashing waves and the unsettling, guttural 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 by the dim light.
He could see his captors, chattering.
"That thing muttered some lady's name in its sleep." One of the trappers pointed at Crane. "I heard it."
"Look. You're still rattled after what happened-"
"Of course, I'm rattled! 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.
"Those infected can bluff you. Remember the one guy from Cell 280? He heard that Viral begging him to wait and got his face eaten off for it," his companion tried to reason with him.
"Hey."
Another thug in orange entered the dimly lit room, dumping something next to Crane's cage and walking to the two chatterboxes. "Entry Number 13, right?"
The 'something' turned out to be a plastic box with random junk and a few things that stood out. A sling bag. A pouch bag. A portable player rattling against the edge of the crate.
Didn't that brunette carry those on her?
"That's us." A fourth man stepped out of the shadows, his air of authority suggesting he was now leading the trapper crew
"Where's Khan? Thought he was in charge."
"Dead. This freak killed him."
"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 stopped.
"Fine. Follow me then. He's going up against tonight's contestant."
"Contestant?" one of the trappers repeated. "Thought the match was over."
All Crane could do was watch, retreating to the back of the cage. His containment shifted as a trapper hooked the cage to an industrial hand-pull cart. Enough distance that an infected's arm couldn't reach.
"A woman managed to survive all six rounds. Since you lot got a new one, Alexander gave the green light on this one."
"A woman? No way. No one can fight those freaks of nature."
"This one just did. Damn lady's a psycho. Heard she used to be some kickboxer."
Crane could do nothing but watch and listen as they went down a hall. Wherever he was, it was busy—like a well-oiled system. Guards stood at key positions, and prisoners moved efficiently, hauling supplies, corpses, and firearms.
He even spotted a dead Demolisher at a corner, his head blundered open.
Further down, two men wrestled a dolly loaded with an assortment of items: cash, valuables, random junk. But among the chaos, six red crates stood out to Crane. They were sturdy, rectangular, with a durable plastic exterior and grey Styrofoam-lined interiors.
One lid had slipped ajar, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the contents inside. Vials.
Antizin.
Crates of Antizin.
Enough to save lives—or sell for fortunes.
"Hey," the packleader called, 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 lit by UV lights framing a doorway.
It was some kind of docking area from the looks of it, with four other cages of different sizes. Empty. The sound of cheers and cries came from somewhere beyond the harsh glow.
Whatever was out there, Crane knew one thing for sure: it wasn't going to be good.
"Here's Khan's group, Director."
A new figure entered the scene, sporting a vest and a grin that oozed arrogance. 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 Director's smile faltered as he took a closer look at Crane. His initial curiosity shifted into something closer to disappointment.
"Rather docile-looking."
"Believe me. This thing's a new type. Literally stalked the other trappers across the district."
Seriously? Stop making me as the boogeyman, 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-"
"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."
"And?" the Director rebuffed. "Many infected have killed people-"
"It's double or nothing," the leader threatened, stepping between the cage and the Director. Yeah, like convicts would work out a good business without having their fingers broken.
Crane stayed still, observing the tension rise. Someone had to give. And he was betting on the chaos to give him a way out.
The Director then beamed, ready to strike a deal.
"Alright. I've heard your offer."
The packleader smirked, confident he'd won the deal.
It happened in a flash. The referee snatched a pistol from a nearby guard and, with practiced ease, pressed it to the packleader's 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 by their ally's sudden demise. 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'. His face devoid of regret or guilt. His uncaring glee was unsettling—a textbook 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, leaving his lackeys to move the cage closer to the thin beams of light and prepare the 'main event'. From opening the door to his cage to buckling the sides down, the only way the monster had to go was forward.
The glaring blue beams kept Crane from trying any attempt for escape.
Outside the doorway's shut gate before him was a scene too 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 smug madman's voice boomed everywhere and nowhere. "The night's not over yet! We've got a special treat for you! A rare new breed of zombie straight from the marketplace! Feast your eyes on unlucky Thirteen: the Night Stalker!"
The gate rattled open completely, exposing the brightly lit arena. The crowd erupted, cheering for carnage. Crane, however, stayed rooted in his cage.
Like hell am I going out there.
"Move it!" one of the guards snapped.
Tssww!
"Gargh!"
A sharp jolt of 2000 volts surged through Crane's body, starting at his side and coursing through him in seconds. The modified police baton-turned-cattle prod forced him out of the cage and into the blinding spotlight.
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!" The Director's voice rang out "Let's give a warm welcome back to end the night with a bang! Maaaad Jack!"
From a second gate on the opposite end of the arena, another figure was shoved forward. Crane's eyes widened in recognition.
The woman in red staggered into the pit. Battered, bruised, catching her footing. Her sunglasses hung loosely around her neck.
She raised her head and faced her opponent.
Her hazel eyes widened. She was as equally surprised as he was, to see 'Freakazoid ' again.
Talk about a twist of fate and Crane couldn't disagree either.
The situation was worse than he had imagined. 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 was in no shape to keep going.
But the brunette suddenly gave a hard, stern look at him. Her body tensed. Wait, why?
The moment Crane was forced into the arena, a familiar, alluring scent pulled at his senses, threatening to overwhelm him. His teeth ached and absentmindedly, he gave out an aggressive snarl.
Snap out of it.
He shook his head hard, trying to steady himself. He needed to think. Get this woman out of this danger.
But how could he when he was becoming one?
Wait, no. He hadn't lost control yet-
The crowd didn't care. They grew increasingly aggravated. Loudly disappointed. Some even loudly called the new monster a 'defect' for taking too long to attack. From the corner of her eye, Jack spotted the Director perched high in the audience, motioning to someone off-stage.
Blop, blop, splash, splash!
More blood packets hit the ground, their crimson contents pooling and spreading. Freakazoid sidestepped instinctively, but the sticky drug splashed onto his legs.
In seconds, Jack saw the shift—the same telltale signs as the Volatile she had fought earlier. Ravenous. Unpredictable. And off his rocker.
But unlike her previous foe, there was also a fierce internal struggle in Freakazoid. Something desperate. He was fighting to get a hold on himself.
Those silver-blue eyes were pleading with her.
Run!
Run where? There was no way out of this arena.
"Alright."
Jack rolled her shoulders and readied her fists. Blocked out all the unwanted noise above her again. Ignored the aches in her muscles.
"If that's how we're gonna play."
She planted her feet, staring the growing erratic Hunter down.
"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 eyes begged her. He'd kill her.
"You've been a right pain in the arse since we first met. The punches. The smart-talking. The bloody brainwashing."
The begging look in his silver eyes washed into something else. They went wide. Then the struggle in them dimmed out, but Freakazoid didn't move. Didn't pounce yet.
The spectators' hollers grew restless. Demanding for something to happen. Anything.
"Yeah. I'm a sodding problem. A barrier in your way." she continued. "Not like we were on the same page to begin with!"
Come on! Stop stalling any longer!
"C'mon! Bite my face off, Shy Guy!"
Finally, the monster readied himself like a coiled spring. That brought out Jack's toothy grin.
"-C'mon, you two-faced coward!" Mad Jack hollered. "COME AT ME!"
Freakazoid lunged.
"RAAARGH!"
The arena completely fell silent in one collective gasp.
Then it exploded.
The prisoners behind the fence spurred on their thundering cries, some literally jumping out of their seats. "Death! Death! Death!" they chanted like a spell, a mad hymn to ward off their own mortality.
After all, their patience has been paid in full. They'd struck gold with this finale.
Because Mad Jack lay crumpled on the crimson-soaked floor.
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, pooling beneath them in a grotesque halo.
Not even the great ex-champion could withstand a seventh fight.
It brought a delightful, sinister beam to the Director's face. Good riddance to the wisecrack.
"Gentlemen and gents," he readied one final speech through the speakers. "We have come to the end of the show! Give it up for tonight's new victor.
Our very own Night Stalker, Thirteen!"
The roars grew deafening.
This. This was exactly what the Director wanted. The crowd's satisfaction. Their delirious cheers echoed his success, his reputation growing.
Showbiz was a cruel mistress, but there was no place for pity. Not for the maggots who bet their lives against the impossible.
That was how legends were made. The woman was just daft—nothing but old news.
Sure, he saw potential in her. How many suckers would flock to see a fighter, and a woman at that, survive wave after wave of infected freaks? The profits would have soared.
Alas, she had to stupidly decline. The Director couldn't have been happier when the radio crackled with King Alexander's orders to throw her against another monster. He didn't care what the reason was. The bitch kicked the bucket.
And even if she had somehow survived, well, they'd have gunned her down without a second thought.
Thankfully, it never came down to that. A disappointed audience meant a disappointed Director with a smaller paycheck. This zombie gig was far more lucrative than his past schemes before he'd landed in the slammer.
The city of Scanderoon was burning, lawless, and wide open for opportunity. He and every other convict in orange were free to carve their names into history, rising from the ashes of a collapsing world.
He could only dream, and normally, he made those dreams into reality by treading on the backs of others.
The Director straightened 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 new creature could enjoy feasting on her fresh corpse.
"Well, Jackie. It was nice while it lasted."
He raised his mic one final time, his voice ringing out over the din. "Alright! Clean-up on Aisle 1! And someone get Thirteen back to his cage. He's earned a good night's rest."
The Director tossed the mic aside, letting it shriek through the speakers as he strode off, humming a jaunty tune.
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
21/1/25 - Reedted some parts to be more streamlined and removed some unwanted text.