“That’s going to leave a horrible scar,” Doc said angrily. “And it’s not going to heal the arterial tear. You’ve got ten minutes, tops, before you pass out.
Quentin heard boos from the crowd. He looked up at the scoreboard, his heart leaping when he saw the magic words “4th down, 6 to go, ball on the Demolition’s 44.” The clock counted down… 1:12… 1:11… 1:10…
“Barnes, get your lazy butt up here,” Hokor’s voice said in his helmet. Quentin ran to his Coach and knelt. Hokor stared at him, and Quentin saw his own reflection in Hokor’s big eye: jersey torn and stitched up the chest, making the left side of his number “10” slightly higher than the right; the orange fabric stained bright red with blood; his arm a bloody mess with an ugly, black-threaded stitch running from his hand to his elbow.
“You sure you can make it?” Hokor asked.
Quentin nodded and smiled. “Just give me the ball, Coach.”
Hokor’s pedipalps reached out, each one lightly touching Quentin’s shoulder pads. “We’ve pulled a lot of new strategies on them this quarter, so they’ll be ready for anything, but at the same time they won’t focus on any one area. We’re going to spread it out, so you’ll have room to move — if you’re in doubt, tuck it and run, but no more head-to-head battles. I can’t have you getting hurt. When you run, you slide before they tackle you, you got it?”
Quentin nodded quickly. Hokor called the first play.
The Demolition punt sailed through the air. Richfield signaled a fair catch at the Krakens’ 17-yard line. Quentin looked at the clock, then nodded again, to himself this time — he had his work cut out for him: he needed to go 83 yards in 56 seconds.
The Krakens offense ran onto the field. In the huddle, the players seemed different, staring at him with near reverence. Quentin noticed that blood streaked all of the Ki linemen jerseys. Red blood. But Ki blood was black… it took him a second to realize that Kill-O-Yowet had rubbed blood, Quentin’s blood, on each jersey. The pain in his arm faded away as a new dose of adrenaline pumped through his veins.
“We’re going to get back in the hunt for Tier One right now,” Quentin said. “We’ve got 56 seconds to put these motherless losers away. A field goal ties it, but I want a win. X-set, 21-base. All routes break off at twenty yards.” Quentin reached up and grabbed Hawick’s facemask, but when he spoke, it was to another receiver.
“Scarborough,” Quentin said, his eyes still locked on Hawick. “Their nickel back will be on you. She can’t handle your speed.” Scarborough quivered once, then stopped and stood stock-still. “You sprint downfield on a post and when I throw you the ball you damn well catch it. Let’s step on their throats right now and put this one away. Ready?”
“Break!”
The crowd roared as Quentin’s team stepped to the line. He moved up with a step left, a half-bounce left, a step right, a half-bounce right. He stood behind Bud-O-Shwek, his hands tapping out a quick left-right-left ba-da-bap on the Ki’s carapace. As he suspected, the defense moved to key on Hawick.
The ball snapped into his hands and he dropped back five long steps. He planted, left knee bent deep, and slid two yards across the oily white surface before his cleats caught and he bounced forward a half-step. Standing tall at the six yard line, he locked his eyes on Hawick. She drove downfield and suddenly broke off at the 37, cutting back on a hook route. The motion was enough to freeze the safety, only for a moment, but in that moment Scarborough turned on the afterburners.
Wait for it… Quentin thought as the pocket started to collapse around him.
She sprinted past the 40… the 50…
Wait for it…
She sprinted past the 40… the 30…
Kill-O-Yowet lost his fit on his defender and fell to the ground. The defender’s body gathered for a vicious blow even as he ran forward, multi-jointed limbs reaching out like those of a hungry, long-armed spider.
Quentin reared back and launched the ball just before the defensive lineman extended and smashed into him at full-force. Quentin was knocked ten yards to his right, the wind whuffing out of his lungs. He hit and rolled. The ball was in the air so long he actually stumbled to his feet before it finished its long parabola.
Scarborough leapt into the air, the safety a good three feet behind her. At the 12-yard line, 81 yards from where he’d released it, the ball landed in Scarborough’s tentacles. Her feet touched down at the 7-yard line, and she strolled into the end zone standing up.
Krakens 25, Demolition 21.
Quentin stumbled off the field, his mind still fuzzy from the devastating hit he’d taken just after releasing the ball. Morningstar added the extra point to put the Krakens up by five. The hit had also opened up the cut on the back of Quentin’s hand, although most of the rest of the gash remained sutured shut. From there on, things were a bit of a blur. Someone guided him to a medsled and sat him on the back edge. The medsled moved down the sidelines and into the tunnel. The crowed seemed a massive blur of colors and shapes and sounds. The medsled cruised into the visitor’s locker room — Quentin had an impression of someone (or something) helping him off the sled before his legs gave out, and everything went black.
With a thrilling 28–24 win over the Glory Warpigs (3–1), the Whitok Pioneers (4–0) took sole possession of first place in the Quyth Irradiated Conference.
Rookie QB Quentin Barnes kept the Ionath Krakens (2–2) in the playoff hunt with an 83-yard TD pass to Scarborough, giving the Krakens a 25–21 win over the win-less Sky Demolition (0–4).
The Grontak Hydras (2–2) edged out a 35–31 win over the Bigg Diggers (1–3).
Orbiting Death (3–1) is only one game out of first thanks to a 28-7 drubbing of the Quyth Survivors (1–3).
The Sheb Stalkers (3–1) shutout the Woo Wallcrawlers (1–3) 17-0.
DEATHS:
No deaths to report this week.
Offense: Condor Adrienne, quarterback, Whitok Pioneers. 31-of-42, 334 yards, three TDs, no INTs.
Defense: Arkham, cornerback, Bigg Diggers. Six tackles, one sack, three interceptions, including one returned for a TD, her second of the year.
GAME FIVE: Sheb Stalkers (3–1) at Ionath Krakens (2–2)
QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE STANDINGS
QUENTIN WALKED SLOWLY from his locker to the central meeting room and to Hokor’s office. Two days of rest hadn’t completely removed the pulsing, dull-nova ache that lived inside his skull. “Concussion-proof helmets.” Right.