“I’m not here to tell you that voting Democrat is the answer. It’s not. My democratic opponents, Corrinne Powers and Randal Montgomery, both supported the Island Prison Crime Bill in 2043. If they’re elected president, I expect business as usual.” Naomi surveyed the audience again. People held signs that read Send the Republicans to Psycho Island, Bring the Prisoners Home, Close Psycho Island, and Naomi Sutton 2052. “If I’m elected, I’ll end this barbaric system of incarceration. I’ll review the cases of each and every inmate sent to the island prisons, and we’ll rescue those sent there unlawfully. We’ll reunite them with their families, regardless of the color of their skin or their political persuasion.”
The crowd cheered.
77
Derek and the Games
The locker room was full of men, some bragging and pumping themselves up; others dead quiet, fear in their eyes. Derek sat on a bench next to Jordan, his knee bouncing with nervous energy.
Jordan glanced at Derek’s knee and said, “Relax. Don’t waste your energy.”
Derek stopped fidgeting. He hadn’t even noticed his knee until Jordan pointed it out.
It was Sunday. Game day. They were waiting to be called to the stadium to fight to the death. They had no idea who would be their opponent, only that it would be a white man from another locker room. They’d watched other men called, some of these grown men crying and begging the Aryans to have mercy, to let them go. The ones who were inconsolable were sent to another room. Derek knew they wouldn’t be spared. The Reaper had said that, if they refused to fight, they’d be sacrificed at halftime.
“How can you be so relaxed?” Derek asked.
“I’m not,” Jordan replied. “I’m conserving my energy. If we’re gonna get out of here alive, I figure we have to win at least four fights, maybe more, depending on how many guys refuse to fight. It’ll be a war of attrition. Not wasting my energy now gives me a small advantage over those other guys who are freaking out. Could be the difference between winning and losing. Living and dying.”
The Aryans used the best fighters for single combat. It was a fight to the death, the winner advancing to the next round. Only one winner would survive the day, the prize being induction into the Aryan Nation—or the tribe of choice if the winner happened to be nonwhite.
Derek was happy that the Aryans had classified him as nonwhite. The Aryans pitted whites against nonwhites in these bouts. The last person he wanted to face was Jordan. Derek wondered what would happen if the winners of each round were predominately from one race or another. If I win my bouts and Jordan wins his bouts, we’d face each other in the finals.
Derek held his breath as an Aryan trainer approached, walking past Derek and Jordan, pointing at a group of approximately ten black men. “Let’s go. Y’all are on deck.” The black men left, some with puffed-up chests, others with bulging eyes and shaky knees. Those men had been picked for group combat.
Derek exhaled and said, “I don’t know if I can do it.”
“When I was a kid, I played varsity football as a freshman,” Jordan said. “My first game, I was scared shitless. Back then, I was only a buck forty. But, after the first hit, I was fine. Some guys have that aggression. Once they’re in a fight, they let go of the fear, and they fight for their life. Other people lay down and die. You’ll fight when the time comes.”
Derek nodded, then said, “You never told me why you’re here.”
“Neither did you.”
“I killed the man who raped and murdered my girlfriend.”
Jordan turned to Derek, his face stone-cold. “Pretend that piece of shit is every man you fight today.”
They didn’t say anything for a few minutes, Derek processing the advice, Jordan wearing his game face.
Then Jordan said, “I was with an Army Special Forces unit. We trained the Venezuelan rebels. Supplied them with the dirty bombs they used in Caracas. Then, with the country in shambles, the US companies came in and bought the place for pennies on the Fed Coin, and we secured another forty years of oil. I was a part of that.” He shook his head, his jaw set tight. “I was a product of the system. American patriotism and exceptionalism. That shit was shoved down my throat since birth. But, after Venezuela, a crack opened in me, and I was never the same. I couldn’t unsee the shit I saw. As much as I tried, I couldn’t erase the truth. I went AWOL. Got involved with an antigovernment group called 1776. I started posting videos anonymously, talking about all the shit we did in Venezuela. I was broadcasting in different places. I lived off the grid for ten years. I was careful, but a facial recognition camera caught my face, and they brought me in for going AWOL, and my last post was still on my computer.” Jordan took a deep cleansing breath. “They classified me as an Unlawful Enemy Combatant, and you know the rest.”
The Aryan trainer approached and pointed at them. “Let’s go. You’re on deck.”
They were led to the dugout. The roar of the crowd rose and fell with the action on the field. A battle royale was in progress, with a group of whites fighting the group of blacks that had been summoned only minutes earlier. Bodies lay motionless and bloody. Men swung their machetes and swords wildly, missing more than hitting.
Derek winced as a black man was stabbed through his stomach, the blade exiting his back. The white man yanked at the sword, but it was stuck. Another black man approached from behind and plunged a knife into the white man’s neck. Derek turned away, his stomach queasy.
Swords and machetes leaned against the dugout wall, like baseball bats. Knives were displayed on the bench. The weapons were rusted, but the edges were fresh and sharp. A dozen Aryans stood watch over the weapons.
One of them pointed his machete at Jordan and said, “You’re next. Pick a weapon.” Jordan looked over the knives, feeling the weight in his palm, checking the edges, finally settling on two fixed-blade knives, one six-inches long, the other eight-inches long, and both razor sharp.
An Aryan snickered. “Little blades for such a big man.”
Jordan sat on the bench, unresponsive. Derek knew Jordan planned to use a knife if given the chance. They’d practiced with wooden swords for days, and yesterday they’d practiced with steel swords. The steel swords were very heavy and cumbersome. Most of the men were out of shape and huffing and puffing after swinging the swords for a short time. In addition, Jordan was much more comfortable with a knife.
The crowd roared again. Derek looked from Jordan to the field. The fans stood and cheered. Eighteen bodies lay motionless in the dirt. Two dark-skinned men stood with their machetes raised over their heads, their bodies covered from head to toe with the blood of the others. Aryan guards surrounded the men, and they dropped their machetes. They escorted them back to the locker room, the crowd giving the men a standing ovation. If The Reaper was a man of his word, the winner or winners of the battle royale would be given to the gang of their choice.
While the Aryans removed the dead bodies, three skinny women pranced to the middle of the field, wearing nothing but boots, and holding pom poms over their breasts. They performed a weird dance that was part striptease, part cheerleader routine. The crowd cheered each time they bent over, bounced, or twirled.
“It’s time,” one of the guards said to Jordan.
Jordan stood, his knives in hand. Derek wanted to thank him, to wish him luck, but Jordan looked like a man on a mission, like a boxer on his way to the ring. Jordan stepped from the dugout, and an Aryan man introduced him to the crowd as The Executioner.
A handful of Aryan guards escorted Jordan to shallow center field, just about dead center of the stadium. From the opposite dugout, Aryan guards escorted a large man with a fresh sunburn. The red-skinned man was over six feet tall, stocky and shirtless, with tattoos covering both arms like sleeves. Once the competitors were in place, the Aryan guards marched back to their posts.