Page 40 of EverGreene
Malachi nodded at me, silently questioning me whether I was okay to proceed with the fight. I returned the nod, grabbing one of my gloves and sliding it over my hand. I’d be fighting last or anchor, as it was called. I was the closer for our team. The one relied on to seal our win. Teams of four do battle, one fighter at a time. A team with the most wins after four matches, or the most points from the judges, wins the pot. Tonight was different because there were eight teams fighting, meaning if we weren’t knocked out in the first round, we could potentially fight in three matches. Brutal on the body, but the payout was substantial.
The four of us, as our alter egos, Pain, Sacrifice, Justice, and Vengeance, clad in our colors, blue, green, purple, and red, walked side-by-side down the hall to the set of stairs that led up to the first floor, where a ring had been built for this event. Nix, our first fighter, would take the ring while the rest of us waited, listening to the roar of the crowd as we waited our turn. At the end of the hall, our opposing team stood huddled together. I recognized them from previous encounters. They were good, but we were better, and that wasn’t just arrogance talking. This first match should be in the bag for us.
“Gentlemen,” Malachi greeted the opposing team. “Sounds like a packed house out there.”
“Estimates are around seven hundred,” Banks, the leader of their team, answered back.
“Seven hundred?” Cole said. “That’s not good. You can’t tell me word about this fight hasn’t gotten to the cops.”
My stomach sank. For an average person, an arrest tonight probably wouldn’t be reported on by the media. But when you murdered your father, even despite it having been to save your mother, any other stumble could put you away or completely topple the life you’ve been trying to cobble together. And then there was Malachi. A priest being part of an underground fight club would be a wet dream to any journalist out there.
We looked to Malachi. If we pulled out now, it would be a stain on our reputation and cost us future opportunities.
“You all remember where the exit we found down here is, right?” Malachi looked around at each of us.
We all nodded, recalling the rusty door that led to a flight of stairs from the building to the woods behind it.
“Good. If shit hits the fan, run down to that exit and make your way through the woods. There’s an access road that leads to the back of the CVS we parked at.”
“Good evening, everyone!” A voice silenced the crowd momentarily before they erupted into cheers. “Are you ready to see some of the area’s best fighters duke it out for the title of Grand Champion and the twenty-thousand-dollar grand prize?”
The roar from the crowd was amplified by the open concrete interior of the factory.
“Goddamn, the next zip code over probably knows where we are right now.” Cole groaned.
“The more people, the more cover charge they collect. Greed is going to lead to our downfall,” Malachi said with a sigh.
“Okay, Okay.” The announcer’s voice spoke again, carryingacross the factory. “Let’s get this party started, then. Our first match is between Fury from Chaotic Neutral and Pain from fan-favorite Fallen Soldiers.”
We smacked Nix on the back on his way to the stairs. At the base of the steps, he greeted his opponent with a handshake before they both ascended them to be consumed by the raucous crowd.
When the fight started, it was a waiting game. Members of each team occasionally climbed the stairs to catch a glimpse of their teammate, but I stayed put throughout the matches, rooted by a thought that could only be described as my personal superstition that watching my teammates would somehow jinx them. And so, while my other teammates navigated the stairs, I leaned against the cold concrete wall, defaced by years of graffiti, slapping Nix on the back in consolation when he emerged with his second ‘L’ of the year and cheering on Malachi and Cole when each of them came out victorious.
Then, as it often did, it came down to me to break the potential tie.
Three hands slapped my back when my stage name of Vengeance was announced, and I walked to the stairs, pausing long enough to shake the hand of Mayhem, my competition for the night, whose name reminded me of that guy from the insurance commercials that seemed to play on an endless loop on television. Being the anchor match, and the fact that our teams were close to a tie, the audience erupted when my counterpart and I reached the top of the stairs.
Large men in plain clothes acted as somewhat of a barrier, keeping spectators at bay behind orange cones and intermittently-placed steel barricades, erected for the night’s event, acting to part the crowd and allow us safe passage to the ring. Given the nonexistent budget, it was the best the organizers ofthis event could hastily assemble with the short amount of time they had.
I glanced at the crowd, noticing some people holding up signs depicting the names of some of the teams participating tonight. By far, our team had the most supporters, with one blonde woman even displaying my blown-up masked face on a yardstick. It was surreal, having fans. Intoxicating yet sobering at the same time, because like Ever, all they knew was Vengeance. They didn’t know the real me, and probably wouldn’t be holding up signs with my face on them if they did.
When we reached the ring, Mayhem ducked under the ropes, entering it in one corner, and I, the other. A water bottle had been placed in each of our corners, perfect for hydration and to wash the taste of blood from our mouths. “Okay, gentlemen,” the referee/announcer joined us, beckoning Mayhem and me into the middle of the ring, “you know the rules. Keep it clean. No spitting, kicking, scratching, or hitting below the belt. If either of you is seen engaging in any of these behaviors, you will be thrown out of this match entirely, and your team will take a loss. Understood?”
Both Mayhem and I nodded, bumping our gloved fists together and returning to our respective corners. Unlike some of the other fighters competing tonight, I hadn’t fought Mayhem before, but I’d watched him in the ring before. A worthy opponent, he was fast. It was his strongest attribute, actually. But, much like his name suggested, Mayhem was all, well, Mayhem. As soon as the referee blew his whistle, he would strike out, a mass of swinging limbs. Shock and awe meant to confuse me, to keep me busy blocking his strikes. A few would land, but what he was really counting on was me being too discombobulated to form an attack of my own. It wasn’t the worst of strategies, but it certainly wasn’t the best of strategies, either.
A shrill whistle rang through the factory, and just as predicted, Mayhem came out of the gate, all fists of fury without any coordination. Circling the ring, I backed up, holding up my arms to block the punches that came close, which weren’t many. Three trips around the ring and Mayhem was already beginning to turn into stagnation.
When Mayhem’s next punch failed to hit its mark, I took the opportunity to launch an assault of my own, landing a direct hit to his nose—or where his nose should be behind his mask. Rattled, he stumbled back, giving me a few more precious seconds to land another blow to his flank. A kidney shot he would feel for the next few weeks. But for now, the adrenaline coursing through Mayhem’s veins kept him on his feet. The pain would be an aftertaste he would contend with later.
Mayhem threw another cacophony of blows, the last of which landed against my shoulder. Something I learned about Mayhem: dude’s punches were like a flesh-covered battering ram, knocking me back into the ropes.
Gasps with some embedded cheers resounded around the ring when he landed another hit to my forearm, which I’d been able to throw up just in time to avoid being clocked in the head.
Okay, play time’s over, asshole.
Another missed punch heralded an opportunity for me to regain my footing, striking Mayhem in the chest and briefly knocking the wind out of him. He gasped, stumbling back even further from me, throwing him off his game and opening himself up for my knuckles to meet his jaw. That hit would have been enough to knock most average humans on their ass, but Mayhem must have been built from adamantium straight from the pages of a Marvel comic.
In obvious pain and a shake of the head, the bastard stayedon his feet, preparing to lunge at me once more. He’d weakened, like a hurricane shortly after making landfall. His energy had peaked, but he was still lethal, and he intended to prove that by making a rallying cry toward me. With blitzes that were far less coordinated than they had been only moments ago, I dodged his first blow and was almost a victim of a direct hit on his second attempt when Mayhem’s faltering recovery time allowed me to take advantage of his disadvantage.
