“Bullshit. You’re helping the ministry catch Candle, aren’t you? That’s why you’re asking about him. You’re a lying fuck.”
All three boys advanced on him.
Sparks retreated a step. Could he talk his way out of this? Not likely. Talking had never been his forte. Instead, he repositioned into a fighting stance. “Try get a second punch. I dare you.”
Mole took another step towards him. “Oh, I’m going to do more than that. I’m going to kill you. I’d be doing Candle a favour.”
Sparks’ eyes darted between the three of them. He shuffled backwards until his back was against the wall — not ideal, but it was better than getting surrounded. Three against one wasn’t great odds, no matter how good he was. “You can’t kill me,” he said. “My owner will have your skin for it.”
“I’m not allowed to kill you down here. But during the fight? I’ll rip your head off.”
Mole was right — Adrenalite fights weren’t meant to end with death, but they often did. If Mole did kill Sparks during the fight, no one would blame him.
Regardless, Sparks felt his confidence return. In a one-on-one fight, there was no way he would lose.
Mole kept advancing, the other boys just behind him. Sparks realized Mole wasn’t going to risk a fair fight in the ring. He was going to injure Sparks now, enough that Mole would have the advantage in the proper fight later.
Sparks’ watched the angle the boys were coming from, calculating who was going to strike first. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Mole threw a right hook at Sparks, who easily dodged. The blow hit the wall instead.
Sparks leapt at the smallest boy. A quick jab at the chest to distract him, followed by a hard kick between the legs — that was the real damage-dealer. The boy toppled to the ground, howling.
Mole lunged again. Sparks barely spun away in time to evade a punch aimed at his gut. Another blow grazed his shoulder, this one from the third boy. Sparks ducked between the two of them, slamming an elbow in the Mole’s ribs as he passed. Then, in one rapid movement, he spun on his left heel while his other foot kicked the third boy in the back of the legs, sending him to his knees.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed his ankle — the small boy, still on the ground, but still dangerous. Sparks’ feet were pulled out from under him and he fell.
He rolled to the side, shaking the hand off his leg. Someone kicked him in the chest. He stumbled onto all fours, gasping. He caught a glimpse of a boot flying towards his face, then felt the impact.
Someone landed on his back, pinning him. Thrashing wildly, Sparks tried to shake off his opponent. But it was pointless. Sparks’ advantage was his speed, and that was no use when he was being held against the floor. Dirt and stone scraped his face.
Nothing to do now but to suffer the kicks. Strong hands grabbed hold of Sparks’ right arm and twisted. Sparks fought not to scream as his limb pulled out of its socket. His entire arm felt like ice-cold needles were stabbing into it. The boys laughed as they continued to kick him.
Sparks gritted his teeth and waited until it was over. And eventually, it was. He pulled himself into a sitting position and he leaned against the wall for support. The boys had moved to the opposite corner, their backs to him. Sparks brushed the dirt off his face, placed his left hand on his right shoulder, and pushed. With a wave of agony and a sickening crunch, the socket popped back into place.
Sparks spat blood. No way he was going to get any useful information about Candle from these bastards, but at least he could get revenge on Mole, during the pit fight.
Or Mole would kill him.
I won’t give him the chance. I’m the best fighter in this city. Sparks’ usual confidence was slightly dampened, however, by the throbbing pain in his shoulder. He gingerly stretched the arm out. The motion came slowly, difficult, his muscles protesting the simple movement. Not good. He would have to rely on his left arm during the fight.
Softly, he began to whistle again. The same good luck tune he had learned at the Haven. Because today, for once, he might need a little extra luck.
06
With a strange mixture of curiosity and disgust, Roman watched the two pit fighters enter the hall. Even from his place at the back of the crowd, he could see the network of scars that ran across their bare chests. They were older than Sparks, probably nearer to eighteen. The audience roared their approval at the boys’ entrance. Roman ground his teeth. Applauding Adrenalites? Like they were gods. Like they were anything but monsters.
No, he reminded himself, these people don’t worship Adrenalites. They worship violence.
Ruby stood beside him on the bleachers made from scavenged bricks and wooden boards. Her expression was blank as she stared down at the two boys circling the edge of the audience, but judging by how she restlessly twirled one lock of her auburn hair around a finger, Roman guessed she felt as tense as he did.
The space on Romans left was vacant, reserved for the owner of the hall. Gavin. Roman looked around, but there was no sign of the deformed gangster. Late, as always.
Roman turned his attention to the hall around him. More than two hundred onlookers were packed inside, reeking of sweat, dirt, booze, and excitement. Roman wished they would shut the hell up.
“It’s pretty damn ironic,” he said.
“What is?” Ruby asked.
“This whole place used to be a prison. Where the Ancients kept their criminals. This might have been a mess hall, where they ate.”
“This was like the wind farms?”
“Yeah, except they didn’t use criminals for labour.”
“Then what did they do with them?”
Roman paused. “I don’t know.”
“So, who worked on the wind farms?”
“Most likely paid employees. Like we have in the grain fields.”
Ruby snorted. “A waste. The more you talk of the Ancients, the less surprised I am that they were stupid enough to wipe themselves out.”
“They weren’t stupid. They built this entire city! We barely have the means to feed and clothe ourselves.”
Ruby shrugged.
“But you do see the irony, don’t you?” Roman continued. “This used to be the home of outlaws. And now, a hundred years later and following an apocalypse, it still is.”
“Except now they run the place.”
“Yeah. I guess there have been a few changes.”
The roar of the crowd dropped in anticipation as the fighters took their places at opposite ends of the pit. Between them stood the referee, who wore thick protective armour. He held a hypodermic needle in each hand, with two more strapped to his belt. Roman didn’t envy the man his role of deactivating the Adrenalites once the fight was over — it wasn’t unheard of for the winning combatant to attack the Referee.
Not that they had a chance at escaping. A dozen other guards paced the edge of the pit. Two were even armed with pistols. They were marked as Gavin’s thugs by the dark red rags wrapped around their left forearms. Roman wondered how much Gavin was paying them to stand so close to an Adrenalite fight. How much did men like this value their lives? Probably not much.
Roman spied another dozen thugs scattered throughout the hall. Too few. Normally there would be enough to fill an entire section of the bleachers. If they weren’t here, where the hell were they?
“Care to make a bet?” Ruby asked.
“You know I don’t agree with this.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t bet on it. They’re not going to cancel the fight just because of your uptight morals.”
Roman sighed. “Fine.”
“Ten credits says the kid on the left wins.”