Arena Mode (6 page)

I responded with a small nod, breathing heavily. “Feels like I’m still alive.”

“Huh.” His grin slowly returned. “Who would have thought?”

I laughed.

“Hey Mox, I have an idea: since you’re not dead
yet
, why don’t we make a plan? If it works you become rich, famous, and get this tumor out of your thick skull.”

If I didn’t at least entertain his idea, Gavin would have never let it go – and I didn’t want to spend the remaining days of my life listening to annoying voicemails. “And if it
doesn’t
work?”

“Well, you’re gonna die anyway, right? At least you can go out as the stubborn son of a bitch who took a few superhumans down with him. Maybe they’d make a comic about you.”

The idea was insane – there was no other word for it. But in my situation, it was the sanest idea I had to work with.

My countdown to Arena Mode began.
The tournament was less than six weeks away, and I had more than a few obstacles to overcome if I wanted to secure a position.

I may have had the intellect of Lex Luthor, but unfortunately, I also had his body. It’s not that I was fat, but I was hardly muscular. I played a season of high school football during my sophomore year, but since then my thin, wiry frame hadn’t seen any physical activity in well over a decade. At the time I was relatively fast and strong, and could jog for hours. Now I got winded running up a flight of stairs. Hiring a personal trainer and a nutritionist wouldn’t transform me into a world-class athlete, but it would certainly improve my current situation.

I’d never taken a martial arts lesson in my life, but it was time to start. If I was going to survive a physical encounter I needed the basics, so I enrolled in a number of classes during the weekdays, including boxing, Muay Thai, judo, and submission grappling.

My weapons training was reserved for the weekends. I traveled to a shooting range for several hours on Saturday to work with an ex-marine, and on Sunday I’d visit a bladed weapon specialist in upstate New York where I could learn the fundamentals of swordfighting.

Even if I was somewhat fit come game-day, and marginally prepared for battle, two major issues surrounded my participation in the tournament: first of all, I wasn’t a superhuman, and second, no one had invited me. Thankfully, Gavin had a pair of solutions – solutions that were crazy, even for him, but solutions nonetheless.

As it turns out, his friend Darren (the tourist with the English accent who I had the pleasure of meeting the previous day) worked as an intern at a burgeoning nanotech company in The City. For a modest price and a few comics in trade, he could provide us with the parts for a device that would mimic a specific brainwave pattern, convincing the New York State Athletic Commission that I was, in fact, an actual superhuman.

As far as receiving an invitation, Gavin felt that, if I could impress Cameron Frost in a grand public display of heroics, I’d be accepted into the tournament with open arms. He assured me that he would take care of the details – we just needed to tie up some loose ends first. I didn’t mind the wait, because getting a protective suit was high on my priority list.

Full Contact Swordfighting suits were state-of-the-art; strong, flexible, and in some ways offered more protection than a bullet-proof vest. If I could get one custom designed, and modified with some additional armor plating, I actually stood a chance in The Arena.

Only two locations in the tri-state area had a licence to construct high-quality FCS suits that were premium grade and approved for league use. Premium suits could withstand a direct hit to the head, chest and shoulders with any blade, from a katana to a broadsword, but were light enough to sprint in.

The quotes I received were north of three hundred thousand dollars, which left me no choice but to sell off some of my comics. Within a week I’d generated a hundred grand selling some of the more sought-after books in my collection, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Time was ticking away and I needed a huge influx of cash. There was only one place left to go, and one person who could take me there.

Being born and raised in the Dark Zone, Gavin was familiar with the ins and outs: where to go
, where not to go, and who to trust – just a few tidbits of useful information that I required in order to avoid being executed.

I gazed out the passenger window of our rented blue sedan, captivated by the decaying urban sprawl that I’d only seen in photographs: abandoned stores, burnt-out cars, and graffiti-covered buildings that looked like they should be condemned – many of them riddled with bullet holes. The Fringe had seen better days, but compared to this hellhole, my neighborhood looked like Beverly Hills. Even more depressing were the living quarters that resembled Brazil’s notorious ‘favelas’. Occupying nearly every parking lot, the makeshift homes had been cobbled together with discarded metal left over from Manhattan’s construction sites.

The further we drove, the more attention we were attracting. Curious eyes peered at us from cracked windows and darkened alleys. With every passing minute my anxieties grew; I wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of travelling to The Dark Zone, even with Gavin as a guide, but I had no other options. The banks weren’t going to front me two hundred grand considering I had no assets and no recent work history. And as far as the government was concerned, I was living ‘off the grid’ – I didn’t even have an official address that I could write on a loan application.

Navigating through a series of winding roads and narrow alleys, we arrived at an abandoned steel mill, surrounded by an imposing chain-link fence topped with a coil of barbed wire. We pulled up to the front gates. Gavin rolled down the window and made a series of hand gestures to the overhead camera, and within a moment the gates pulled open.

Gavin parked and strolled into the gutted-out mill through an unlocked side door.

I followed closely behind with a metal briefcase in-hand. The expansive building was equipped with an endless supply of flood lights that illuminated the dusty interior, giving the air a stale yellow quality. I was surprised by the flagrant waste of electricity. With energy grids being squeezed to capacity, rolling blackouts were necessary in order to maintain a consistent flow to the more affluent neighborhoods. And if somewhere was going to be blacked out, it was the impoverished area west of The Fringe – hence the name ‘Dark Zone’.

We were confronted by a pair of heavily armed guards wearing black suits and matching ties. After a brief pat-down, we were promptly escorted through several security doors until we reached a smaller, more dimly-lit room, illuminated by a single overhead lamp that cast a spotlight beneath it.

The room was littered with paintings; some hung on the walls, some were displayed on easels – Picassos and Rembrandts and a hundred other works by famous artists that I never bothered to learn the names of. In the dark corners of the room were at least ten men that I could make out, all wearing interchangeable suits, and brandishing military rifles.

Just beyond the spotlight’s reach was a small metal desk – possibly owned by someone who at one point worked for the mill – where a stout, olive-skinned man sat, cradling a glass of red wine. Standing behind him was someone whom I could only assume was his personal bodyguard. The guard looked not unlike his counterparts, but with two small distinctions: his head was shaved, and he was roughly the size and shape of a refrigerator.

I might have laughed at the cliché if I wasn’t sure they’d shoot me on the spot for it.

The middle-aged man with a slick of black hair plunked down his wine glass and stood to greet us, stepping beneath the overhead lamp. The light revealed a horrible scar on his pockmarked face, stretching from his cheekbone down the length of his neck. It looked like the result of a nasty gunshot married with a second-degree burn.

“As I live and breathe,” the man grumbled. His voice was like sandpaper scraping across my eardrums.

“Johnny the Bull.” Gavin flashed his trademark grin. “It’s been a while.”

“I’ve gone legit,” he was quick to announce. “No more hits for hire. It’s ‘Mister Abruzzio’ now.”

“Fair enough.”

I passed Gavin the metal briefcase and he dropped it on the tabletop, flipping it open with one smooth gesture.

Abruzzio’s dark eyes flicked to the empty case, and then back at Gavin. “I’m guessing you’re in a hurry. How full do you want it?”

“Two hundred K.”

The loan shark blew out his cheeks. “That’s a tall order, Gunner.”

“You’ve lent me more.”

“Those were different times,” Abruzzio said, raising his eyebrows.

“Right,” Gavin said without missing a beat. “I was broke and you were better looking. Shit changes.”

The room fell silent.

So silent I could hear the beating of my own heart.

Abruzzio threw his arms around Gavin with an avuncular embrace, and let out a bellowing laugh. “You’re still a funny son of a bitch, Gunner.” The rest of the guards were quick to join in, forcing out a chorus of awkward chuckles once they realized Gavin’s behavior was permitted.

“Look,” Abruzzio continued, with one arm loosely draped across Gavin’s shoulders, “I’d
like
to help you, I really would ... and I know you’re good for it. But we have one little problem.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“We’ve had a lot more heat than usual around here lately, and I’ve heard a few whispers about undercovers in The Zone.”

Gavin scoffed. “The PD never comes this deep into The Zone, you know that.”

“Be that as it may,” Abruzzio continued, “I haven’t stayed alive this long by throwing my balls onto the craps table.”

“I can appreciate that,” Gavin replied with a quick nod. “If you’re gonna dance with the dragon you’d better have a big goddamned sword.”

I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about at that point – or why the scary looking Italian mobster kept calling Gavin ‘Gunner’ ...
or
why we were standing in a room filled with a small army of hit men who were armed to the teeth. I knew he grew up here, but certain parts of his past had always remained a mystery, and I was starting to see why. I wanted to ask my friend a few million questions, but in the interest of getting out of the room alive, I felt silence was the best option.

“I know you, and I trust you, Gunner – but I’ve never seen this guy before in my life.” Abruzzio pointed an accusing finger in my direction. “Now you explain exactly who
this
son of a bitch is in the next ten seconds, or I empty the contents of his head onto one of my Picasso’s.” Without instruction, the fridge standing behind his desk leveled a machine gun, aiming the barrel squarely at my face. “And you
know
how much I love my Picasso’s, so make with the talking.”

“I’m his Counter,” I blurted out.

Abruzzio squinted at me, and then glanced at Gavin. “His
what
?”

“I’m here to count the cash and verify it’s legit,” I explained. “Calculate the total and make sure we’re not being scammed during a deal. I can authenticate in seconds: both the amount, and any signs of counterfeiting.”

“A ‘Counter’?” The fridge said in a thick Jersey accent, “I’ve never heard of this before.”

Abruzzio glared at his bodyguard. “Shut your goddamned mouth, Sal.” He quickly turned back to me. “Yeah, I’ve never heard of this before.”

“Gunner never does a deal without me,” I replied with complete confidence. Which, with a gun in my face, was quite the accomplishment.

“Is that so?” Abruzzio said. He scooped the wine glass off his desk and took a quick sip, taking a moment to dab the corners of his mouth with the crimson handkerchief in his breast pocket. “So tell me, mystery man, how fast can you count cash?”

I motioned towards a small stack of bills that were neatly piled on the corner of his desk. “Throw that in the air.”

“What is this, a magic trick?” Abruzzio shouted, his patience clearly wearing thin.

“
Toss it.
” I insisted. Suddenly every eye in the room was fixed intently on me. A cold drop of sweat rolled down the back of my neck and between my shoulder blades.