Strike by D. J. MacHale

  Kent’s adrenaline must have finally kicked in because he grabbed the guy’s hands, but rather than pry them off, he kicked his legs up and back, flipping the guy over his head. The dark-haired prisoner hadn’t expected that and landed on his back.

  “Bravo!” Bova shouted, clapping his hands with delight.

  The Retro guards cheered and whistled like it was some MMA event, not a battle to the death. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had put bets down on who they thought would walk away alive.

  None of the prisoner spectators reacted. They seemed as horrified at the scene as I was . . . or maybe they were also imagining what it would be like if they were the ones who had to fight for their lives.

  Kent was now fully into the fight. He flipped over and jumped to his feet faster than his opponent, who was still struggling to catch his breath. I’d seen Kent hit ball carriers on the football field. He was fearless and fast. I willed him to drive into this guy and take him down like he did so many running backs. He charged at the squat guy and hit him just as he was standing up and turning around. The guy didn’t have time to brace himself. Kent got low and drove his shoulder into his chest. I heard the man grunt at the moment of impact.

  Kent kept driving his legs, pushing the guy backward until he hit the grill of the jeep to my right. There was a sickening thud and another sharp groan of pain when his body made contact.

  The guards in the jeep didn’t so much as flinch. They’d seen fights like this before.

  Kent leaned back, pulled his opponent up by the front of his coveralls with one hand, and nailed him with a punch that snapped the guy’s head to the side.

  That woke his opponent up. He threw a punch at Kent, but held back before connecting. It was a fake.

  Kent threw up an unnecessary block. That gave the guy the opening he needed to deliver the real blow. He used his foot to sweep out Kent’s legs and sent my friend crashing to the sand. The guy looked as though he had some martial arts training. Before Kent hit the ground, he was already throwing controlled kicks to his head and chest.

  Kent landed flat on his stomach and threw his arms up to try to ward off the vicious blows. It was no use; he was losing. In desperation, he crawled for the jeep he was lying next to and scrambled underneath, while being continually kicked.

  “Please! No hiding!” Bova called out, taunting.

  Kent wasn’t hiding. He didn’t stop under the jeep but kept crawling until he came out the other side.

  His opponent rounded the jeep to try to get there before Kent could stand up.

  Too late. Kent leapt up, grabbed the hood of the jeep and launched himself feet first at the attacker. His timing was perfect. He caught the guy in the gut with both heels, sending him tumbling backward while pinwheeling his arms in a desperate attempt to stay on his feet. He failed and hit the ground, again.

  I expected and hoped that Kent would take advantage and jump on the guy, but he was exhausted. After getting kicked multiple times, he couldn’t catch his breath. He had to hold onto the side of the jeep to keep from falling over as he gasped for air.

  His opponent wasn’t in any better shape. He lay flat on his back with his chest heaving.

  Both of them were exhausted and probably badly injured.

  “Good show!” Bova exclaimed. “I think we’re all ready for round two!”

  It was as if he expected the crowd to roar back their approval.

  For the record, they didn’t.

  “We don’t have to do this,” Kent’s opponent called to him, sucking wind.

  I was surprised to hear him say anything to Kent, let alone something that showed defiance to Bova.

  “They’re just using us to threaten everybody else,” he added.

  I looked to Bova.

  The commander stood on top of the other jeep with his arms folded across his chest. He seemed intrigued by this new development.

  The guards hadn’t moved, though they kept stealing glances at Bova, expecting him to do something.

  The circle of prisoners pulled in a bit tighter, as if drawn to the drama that was playing out.

  “Yeah, so?” Kent called out between pained breaths.

  “We’re all going to die here,” the guy called back. “I don’t want to do it for their entertainment. I’d rather make a stand.”

  Kent glanced up to the guards who stood over him in the jeep.

  They didn’t budge.

  He looked over to Bova.

  Bova gave him a shrug as if to say, “Don’t look at me. This is your fight.”

  I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t want either of these guys to kill the other. But if they refused to fight, would Bova kill them both? After what I’d seen him do to the prisoner who tried to steal water, I didn’t doubt it.

  Though there were hundreds of people watching the drama, it was so deathly quiet in that clearing that I could hear the heavy breathing from both fighters.

  Kent did a slow scan of the circle of prisoners who were all staring at him. He was looking for help. Or at least some sign that he wasn’t in this alone.

  He didn’t get any.

  The dark-haired guy slowly pulled himself to his feet.

  “What do you say?” he called out. “Are we going to die with dignity? Or for their entertainment?”

  Kent took a deep breath, let go of the jeep, and stood up tall.

  “Alright,” he called out. “I’m done.” He backed away from the jeep while looking up at the guards who loomed above him. “This is bull. If we’re going to die, you’ve got to kill us. We’re not going to put on a show for you.”

  A concerned murmur went through the crowd. Nobody called out or cheered. It was more a muted sigh of relief, but it was the first sign of life I’d seen from the prisoners. It proved that they hadn’t given up yet, and it gave me a small hint of hope.

  I couldn’t have been any more proud of my friend. I dreaded to think of what might happen to him because of his stand, but he had shown something I’d never seen from him before.

  Courage.

  Kent turned his back on the guards and walked slowly toward the crowd, limping. He was hurt but didn’t let that stop his show of defiance.

  The dark-haired guy walked toward the jeep.

  I expected Bova to shout out a warning to them, but none came. He watched them both with a cautious yet amused eye.

  The short prisoner made it to the jeep. He stopped there and then, with one quick and surprising move, he reached inside and pulled out a dark piece of metal that looked like a heavy crowbar or a piece of pipe.

  Before the guards could react, the guy took off running . . . after Kent.

  Kent was still turned away from him. He had no idea.

  The people in the crowd barely had time to react. A few people called out, “Look out!” and “No!”

  Too late.

  The guy jumped Kent and swung the bar around his neck. The two fell to the ground as the guy jammed his knee into Kent’s back for leverage while pulling the bar back against his throat.

  I reacted without thinking.

  I jumped from the crowd and ran for them.

  Kent grabbed at the bar, desperate to relieve the lethal pressure. It was futile. The guy was about to crush his windpipe. He had seconds to live . . . unless I could get to him first.

  The guy’s back was to me, which gave me an extra few seconds. When I got to within a few yards I threw myself at him, nailing his back with my shoulder. If it hurt me, I didn’t feel it. I was too charged up to care. The guy grunted and went limp for a brief moment, just long enough for him to drop the metal pipe and release Kent.

  He tensed back up quickly and the fight was now between the two of us. We rolled in a jumble of arms and legs, each thrashing to get away from the other.

  I saw the pipe on the ground an
d stretched for it.

  The other guy went for it too.

  I got it first. I swept it off the ground and swung it in his direction with everything I had. I caught him square on the side of the head and he dropped instantly. Either I had knocked him out cold, or he didn’t want to fight any more, because he lay there in the sand without moving. I waited a few seconds to make sure he wasn’t pulling another cowardly fake, but he didn’t budge. He was truly done.

  Looking around I saw Kent lying on his back a few feet away. I crawled over to him, but kept hold of the pipe . . . just in case.

  Kent was on his stomach. I grabbed his shoulder, ready to roll him over, but hesitated out of fear for what I might see. Was he dead? How long did it take to crush somebody’s windpipe?

  I steeled myself and pulled him over to see that his eyes were open . . . and searching. He was dazed, but alive.

  “It’s me,” I said. “Fight’s over.”

  It took a few seconds for Kent to focus on me. There was a moment of confusion in his eyes as if he thought he was seeing a ghost. A moment later, he smiled.

  “Rook!” he said with a raspy whisper. “Who won?”

  “I’d call it a draw,” Bova said.

  I spun quickly to see the commander strolling toward us, followed by two of his guards. He was in no hurry. We weren’t going anywhere. He now carried a black baton gun.

  “This didn’t play out anything like I expected,” Bova said, half to us and half to the crowd. “Though I can’t say I’m disappointed. Such drama! An even fight. A bold show of defiance that turned out to be a cowardly betrayal, and of course, a selfless act to save a life. Bravo!”

  The idea that he had enjoyed this horror as if it were a show put on for his amusement turned my stomach. I thought about taking a swing at him with the pipe but realized he would shoot me before I got close enough to do any damage.

  “What is your number?” he asked me. “You can speak. Please.”

  “You tell me,” I said and turned my back to him.

  Bova stopped walking suddenly, as if I had slapped him. He stared at me with those sparkling eyes. I tensed up, expecting him to raise his weapon and blast me into oblivion.

  Instead, he laughed.

  “I remember you, Zero Three One One,” he said, almost jovially. “You were there to enjoy my little game earlier. Quite the busy day for such a young lad. I trust you will remember it for a good long time.”

  Bova stepped away and addressed the circle of anxious prisoners.

  “I trust you will all remember this for a good long time,” he announced. “In spite of the dramatic turn of events, punishment must still be given.”

  Kent’s opponent sat up slowly, shaking himself back to clarity.

  “We gathered here to determine which of these escapees deserved to live,” Bova continued. “That has not changed. If not for the interference of this young man, the tall one would most certainly be dead.”

  Bova strolled toward the dark-haired prisoner and held out his hand.

  “Please,” Bova said with a smile.

  The guy tentatively took Bova’s hand and was helped to his feet.

  Bova stepped away and addressed the crowd.

  “This prisoner saw that the fight was very much in doubt and made a tactical decision, hoping it would turn the tide in his favor.”

  Bova strolled up to Kent and me. I felt Kent tense up, preparing for the worst.

  “He deceived the tall one into making a grand, rebellious gesture that would demonstrate the disdain he felt toward his captors . . . and lower his defenses. It was a clever ploy, for his treachery almost won him the fight.”

  The dark-haired prisoner actually smiled as he soaked up the praise.

  Bova walked back to him and stood staring him square in the eye.

  “Almost,” Bova repeated. “I’m not against treachery, if it’s effective. Your stunt proved to be futile. Therefore, you are not deserving.”

  The smile dropped from the dark-haired guy’s face. “But—”

  Bova jammed his weapon into the guy’s gut and pulled the trigger.

  The guy let out an anguished cry and fell to the ground. Dead.

  Shocked gasps rumbled through the crowd.

  Bova was coldly oblivious. He did an about-face and strode back to us.

  Kent and I sat in the dirt, staring up at him.

  I tensed up, ready for the shot.

  Bova stood over us.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That was quite surprising, and entertaining. The best bout we’ve had in weeks. Perhaps tomorrow evening the two of you will do us the honor of fighting each other. Two friends. A duel to the death. That will be quite the show!”

  “Forget it,” I said.

  Bova laughed. “Don’t count on that, Zero Three One One. Don’t count on that.”

  He walked past us toward his jeep, still laughing as the guards dragged the dead prisoner to the other vehicle. Moments later both jeeps roared to life and drove away, forcing the spectators to scatter or be run down. No sooner were the jeeps gone than the floodlights came back to life, bathing the clearing in harsh white light, making the assembled squint and cower.

  Kent and I sat in the dirt. Nobody came to help us or to see if Kent was okay. We watched in silence as the crowd dispersed and shuffled back to their barracks. Eventually, we were left alone in the center of the dirty field.

  “I’m not going to fight you, Rook,” Kent said through gasping breaths.

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll take it one day at a time. Are you okay?”

  “Better than the other guy.”

  “What happened to my mother? And Tori? Did they make it?”

  Kent massaged his throat and shook his head. “I don’t know. I remember you getting blown out of the door just before we hit. I saw stars, man. Literally. I was hurt so bad I had streaks of light flashing past my face. Must have been a concussion. It was all just a jumble. I couldn’t focus on anything, so I don’t know what happened to them. Next thing I knew I was in the hospital plugged into an IV.”

  “Yeah, same with me.”

  “I’m sorry, Tuck. Maybe they made it, but I just don’t know.”

  Kent had nothing to be sorry about because he had done something for me that only a few minutes before I wouldn’t have thought possible.

  He had given me hope.

  “You know we’re square in the middle of Retro-central,” he said, his voice finally clearing.

  “I do,” I said. “I know something else too.”

  “What’s that?”

  I looked up at the giant steel dome that loomed over the camp to see a black plane rising up, lifted by its musical engine.

  “They’re going to wish they never brought us here.”

  SIX

  “I can’t move, Tucker,” Kent said.

  Now that the adrenaline had left his system, the pain from the beating had taken hold.

  “It’s hard to breathe. I think I have a couple broken ribs. My knee is totally out of whack too.”

  “We gotta get you to the medical building. That miracle juice will fix you up.”

  I stood up and tried to help Kent to his feet, but he howled in pain.

  “I can’t,” he cried. “Jeez, that scum really did a number on me.”

  “I’ll get help,” I said.

  “From who? The guards don’t care. Neither do the other prisoners. Everybody stays in their own little orbit so they don’t draw any attention.”

  “Well we can’t stay here.”

  Kent tried to get up again, and again he sat back down, wincing with pain.

  What had been a fiercely hot day had quickly become a cold desert night. The barracks were dark. No guards were around. We were alone . . . until a set of headlights appeared, moving our
way.

  “Great,” Kent said sarcastically. “What are they going to do now? Kill us for being out past curfew or something? That Bova guy is a real piece of work.”

  There was nothing we could do but wait and see who—or what—was coming our way. The vehicle was quiet, which made sense as it got closer. It was an electric golf-cart looking thing. At the wheel was a Retro guard. He glided up next to us and came to an abrupt stop.

  “Get him in back,” the guard commanded brusquely. “I’ll take you to the infirmary.”

  It was a rare show of humanity from the otherwise heartless guards.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Kent. “Take it slow.”

  “No problem there,” Kent replied.

  I wrapped his right arm around my neck and gently stood up.

  Kent strained not to yell out but said, “Jeez, I can’t breathe!”

  I didn’t know what to do other than to ease him down again. Before I realized what was happening, the guard was kneeling at Kent’s other side.

  “We’ll both lift him,” he said, all business. “Hold him behind his back and under his butt.”

  We both slipped our arms under Kent from opposite sides.

  “Now, lift together. One . . . two . . . three.”

  We both stood up as Kent grit his teeth and did his best to keep from howling. The two of us quickly shuffled to the back of the golf cart, where there was a flatbed for cargo.

  “Easy now,” the guard cautioned.

  We eased Kent over the deck and gently lowered him to the surface.

  “I’m good. . . . I’m good. . . . I’m good. . . .” Kent said, straining. He wasn’t even close to good.

  “Ride in back with him,” the guard said. “Don’t want him falling out.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The guard didn’t acknowledge me. He went right to the driver’s side, hopped in, and slowly accelerated. He was careful not to bounce the cart too much, which wasn’t easy as we traveled over the rough dirt roads of the camp.

  “That juice works every time, right?” Kent asked through gritted teeth.

  “You’ll be better by morning,” I said with confidence.

  “Maybe I don’t want to be better,” he said. “Things just keep getting worse, Tucker.”