The crowd went dead silent. Jordan stood in front of his opponent, relaxed, holding a knife in each hand. The man howled and ran at Jordan, his sword raised. But Jordan was light on his feet, sidestepping him, the man swiping at the air.
An audible gasp, then laughter came from the crowd.
The man howled again and took another run and swipe, but again Jordan moved. The man’s chest was heaving as he sucked air into his lungs. The man tried again, but he was even slower this time.
As the man caught his breath, with the heavy sword at his side, Jordan took a few steps back, as if lining himself up with the man. Then, Jordan wound up and threw one of his knives, like a fastball, the blade rotating and sticking deep into the man’s chest. The man dropped his sword, falling to his knees.
Jordan walked to the man with purpose and cut his throat from ear to ear, the crowd cheering in the background. The man slumped to the ground. Jordan removed the blade from the man’s chest, blood pouring from the wound, the crowd still cheering. Jordan didn’t celebrate or acknowledge the crowd.
The Aryan guards surrounded Jordan and escorted him back to the dugout. For a moment, Derek had forgotten his place. He was reminded when the guard said, “Choose your weapon.”
Derek grabbed the lightest sword he could find and a fixed blade knife. Jordan and Derek had strategized the day before. Derek would decide which weapon to use based on the opponent and their weapon of choice. Fighting a smaller man with a sword, Derek would use the sword. For a larger and slower man with a sword, Derek would use the knife.
An Aryan man stood on top of the dugout and introduced Derek as The Taliban King. Like Jordan before him, Derek was escorted to the middle of the stadium. His opponent was already there, holding a large sword with two hands. Derek recognized the man. He was the one who had been chained to Summer. The one who had harassed her and had threatened Derek. He’d told Summer his name, and Derek had overheard.
Aaron.
He smirked at Derek. “I remember you. Punk-ass motherfucker.”
Derek narrowed his eyes, sizing up his opponent. Derek was five ten, about 165 pounds. Aaron was about the same, maybe an inch taller and a little thinner. Aaron had small deep-set eyes, surrounded by dark circles. He had a long large nose and a weak chin.
The Aryan guards left, and Aaron approached cautiously, his sword held out in front. Derek tossed his knife to the side, deciding on the sword as his weapon of choice. Aaron’s arms flexed with the weight of the massive long sword.
Aaron took a swing, but Derek stepped back out of range. Derek played defense for a minute, Aaron the aggressor, swinging wildly; Derek avoiding or blocking his chops and swings. Derek waited until Aaron was tired, until his shoulders slumped. This time when Aaron swung wildly and missed, Derek knew he’d be too slow to recover from the miss, leaving Aaron’s midsection open to attack. At this point, after Aaron swung and missed for the third time in a row, Derek countered by plunging his sword into the man’s stomach. Derek moved aside quickly, to avoid a counterattack, leaving his sword in the man’s midsection. Aaron dropped his heavy sword, his eyes wide with shock, his hands vaguely touching the hilt of Derek’s sword. Aaron dropped to his knees, hunched over.
The crowd roared with approval. Derek stepped back a few more steps, wanting to distance himself from what he’d done.
The Aryan guards surrounded Derek, the crowd still cheering. One of them said, “You want that sword?”
“Yes,” Derek replied.
“Then you better get it.”
Derek stepped to Aaron, who groaned and moaned, his head hanging. Derek grabbed the handle with two hands and pulled the sword from the man’s stomach. Aaron wailed in pain and slumped to his side, blood pouring from the wound. Laughter came from the crowd, many mimicking Aaron’s wailing.
Derek was escorted back to the dugout. Two women perused the weapons.
“You need to leave that sword here,” one of the guards said.
Derek leaned his sword against the dugout wall, the blade slick with blood.
The women gave Derek a wide berth as he was led through the dugout, down the hall, and into the locker room. Derek sat next to Jordan, the locker room less crowded and much quieter now. Only four men were left, including Derek and Jordan. Two battle royales and the first round of individual bouts had eliminated most of the men.
The reality of what Derek had done hit him like a ton of bricks. With Zhang Jun, it had been about revenge, justified in his mind. Even then, he’d decided not to kill the man—the deadly shot only delivered after Zhang Jun grabbed the gun. But this was different. Derek had killed a man for sport, as part of a competition. Derek shook, first his hands, then his whole body. He hung his head, tears streaming down his face.
Jordan put his hand on Derek’s upper back. “Now’s not the time for that. Get yourself together. Focus on your breathing.”
Derek breathed in and out. His trembling subsided, and his tears dried. None of the other men stared or laughed. He was one of the few who had fought and lived. Derek sat up straight, not bothering to wipe his face.
“We have to do it three more times,” Jordan said. “Now’s not the time to question. Now’s the time to survive. You understand me?”
“I understand,” Derek replied.
Derek won his next two matches, beating two large white men with agility, endurance, and a very sharp knife. Jordan disarmed his next opponent in the first five seconds. The man ran away, but Jordan sprinted after him, tackling him from behind and plunging his blade into the back of the man’s neck.
Derek was assured a place in the finals, but he was worried that he’d have to fight Jordan. He would fight his third match soon, and, if he won, which he undoubtedly would, then Derek and Jordan would be the last two fighters left. The Aryans wanted to maintain their race-war theme, with whites fighting nonwhites, all the way to the final match. The Aryans would have that with Derek and Jordan, whether they knew it or not. Ironically, if the Aryans hadn’t misjudged Derek’s swarthy traits, he already would’ve fought and lost to Jordan. Without Jordan’s tutelage, who knows? Derrick might’ve lost his first match.
Derek turned to Jordan and said, “They’re gonna make us fight.”
Jordan, sitting on the bench next to Derek, said, “I know.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Neither will I.”
“They’ll kill us both.”
“Probably.”
Apart from the woman in the corner, they were the last fighters left in their locker room. Those who refused to fight were killed at halftime by the Aryans. The winners of the battle royales had already been released, and the losers, well, they were dead.
Two Aryan guards approached. One of them pointed to Jordan. “You’re up.”
Jordan stood from the bench.
The guard leaned in and said, “You’re one bad motherfucker. Too bad you’re a nigger.”
Jordan didn’t respond. The guards led Jordan from the locker room to the tunnel. Derek went to the locked doors, watching Jordan through the little window. Jordan walked through the tunnel, his figure and the guards seen only as dark shadows. At the end of the tunnel, they were more visible, the light from outside touching them.
Three more guards appeared, Jordan now surrounded. One of the guards stabbed him in the back. Jordan fell to one knee, but they hoisted him to his feet and pulled him into the dugout.