Unarmed: A Post-Apocalyptic Thrill Ride (The Main Event Series Book 1) Read online

  I ignored the rest of the commentator’s stupid banter and went to my corner. Brian was on the other side of fence, reaching a finger through the cage, and trying to get my attention.

  “You sure you’re okay, Jake?”

  “Yes. Why does everybody keep asking?”

  “We’re worried about you.”

  “Don’t,” I said.

  The announcer, a short man in a tuxedo, headed for the middle of the mat and sidestepped the spilled blood. Someone had gotten a nasty cut during the preliminary fights. Nothing like a good and sticky puddle when your spine hits the mat.

  A microphone descended from the ceiling like a spider on its silk and the announcer grabbed it out of the air and held it to his lips.

  In a movie trailer voice he said, “And NOOOWWWWWWW to the MAIN EVENT! Tonight’s fight is sponsored by Red Claw beer. When you’re in the mood for something red, grab the claw! And Heeeerreees’s our heavyweight contenders. Brawwwwwling from the blue corner, hailing from Stockton California, and weighing in at 250 pounds with a record of 35 and 10 is Moe, ‘The Horseman,’ Miller!”

  The announcer paused while the crowd whooped and hissed. The Horseman gave his booing enemies the finger.

  Classy, I thought.

  “Brawwwwling from the red corner, hailing from the Blue Ridge Mountains, less than a hundred miles from here, light heavyweight champion of the world, weighing in at 195 pounds with a record of 27 and 0, and fighting above his weight class, is the hometown hero, Jake ‘The Constitution’ Wright!”

  The crowd cheered. Given my record, the commission had allowed me to step into the heavyweight game. They deemed it a safe and fair fight and the publicity had been sensational.

  Both the microphone and the announcer retreated and the ref waved us over to the middle of the cage.

  “Bring it in gentlemen.”

  We joined him in the middle. The ref stood away from the blood, but we stood right on top. It was moist between my toes, getting wetter as the mat oozed it under my weight.

  The Horseman was six foot six, as tall as a centaur, a good six inches taller than me, and I had to look up to him. A row of teeth was tattooed away from his mouth, making his head look like a skull.

  “I want a clean fight tonight. The whole goddamn world is watching,” the ref said. The media had called this a historic fight, the first one broadcast simultaneously in India and China.

  “You hear me, Horseman?” the ref said. “No low blows.”

  The Horseman neighed.

  “I’m keeping an eye on you, Jake.”

  “What? I’m fine.”

  The ref dropped his hands like the green flag at a Nascar race and we tapped gloves. My knuckles felt something hard in my opponent’s gloves. Harder than normal. It wouldn’t have been too tough to dip his wraps in water and then sprinkle a little grout on there so it hardened between the walk from the locker room to the cage.

  The problem was, everyone knew that Jake “The Constitution” Wright wouldn’t say shit. And they were right. I wasn’t gonna soil my name by bitching and moaning about some cheater. Better to do it right.

  We stepped back. The Horseman didn’t wait. We were barely three feet from each other when he charged.

  Chapter Three

  He was so heavy, the whole canvas floor shook each time his heel hit, and the entire cage rattled like a bunch of a prisoners had gripped the diamond-shaped holes and were shaking it with rage.

  The Horseman was a slugger. He was used to bullying his way around the cage and intimidating his opponent’s by his sheer size.

  It didn’t work. Not on me. Not with my freaky heart. I caught a quick glimpse of my first fight, a playground brawl with the schoolyard bully. I was in elementary school. The bully was from the nearby junior high. He had hit puberty already and was twice my size. He was picking on Brian for his withered arm. He called him lobster boy and I lost my cool. I swept his feet out from underneath him and punched him in the teeth. Brian, who had been obsessed with martial arts, but could never fight because of his arm, said right then that he wanted to train me. He said I would be the body and he’d be the brains. He said he would turn me into a world champion.

  It took us only fourteen years.

  The Horseman was no different from that bully. He swung and I dodged, a quick sidestep. His fist swished past my ears. The crowd gasped. He had put so much force into the punch that he pitched forward, almost losing his balance. He stumbled forward, but had so much momentum, his shoulder drove into the cage behind us. He bounced back, the fence twanging, and turned to face me.

  I could have put him down on the other side of that miss. I could’ve spun around, dropped an elbow between his shoulder blades, and sent his nose into the canvas.

  But I didn’t. I got paid more the longer the fights went on. The president of the whole league had personally guaranteed it. After six first-round knock outs, he had flown me up to his office in New York to have a “conversation.” He had said the advertisers were getting frustrated with me and he’d pay me more if I stopped knocking my opponents out in less than a minute.

  The Horseman charged at me again. I danced around the perimeter, trying to feel him out. He was fighting the same way as all the tapes I had watched. He was a bull rusher. All strength, no grace.

  I did another lap, bouncing on the balls of my feet, facing him the whole time. He chased. Like a dumb dog. I thought I’d tire him out a bit.

  I backed toward the middle, squared up inside the puddle of blood, and let him come at me and build up some speed.

  He leaned forward and put his weight into another punch. He was trying to throw a haymaker, even this early. I stepped to the right, deflected the punch with my forearm and countered with a kick to the side of his ribs, right under his armpit. It struck the wings of his anterior serratus muscles and it rippled through to his chest. It wasn’t that hard. A little love tap, really. Just trying to see what he was made of.

  He shrugged it off. He was made of cowhide. It might be harder to bring him down than I thought. Like bringing down a column of stone. I backed away and squared up. It was time to give the crowd a little show. I took three quick steps, then leapt off the mat and drove my knee at his chest.

  It connected with his sternum and he staggered backward off balance. But he didn’t go down. He was so massive, I bounced right off him and fell on my tailbone. I bounced once on the springs and settled.

  I shook my head. Jesus. I had barely nudged him. It was as if I had just taken a flying knee to a heavy bag with five people holding it.

  The Horseman came at me again, his right arm cocked. His strongest punch had once been measured the hardest in the sport. One blow had even put Jim “the Canker” Sore into a coma.

  I had to stay away from that fist. I rolled out of the way and hopped to my feet. The Horseman staggered forward, a near miss. He spun around, his cheeks red. He was getting frustrated. He cocked that right arm back again and came at me again. He was faster this time. He was channeling all his anger, that fist ready to punch through a wall.

  A ring. My brother’s chords.

  I looked to the side of the cage.

  My father was holding up my phone.

  “Jake!”

  The crowd gasped.

  I turned back in time to see the Horseman’s fist coming right at my head. It connected with my temple and there was a loud crack and a sharp, white hot pain exploded inside my head. My brain smacked against the inside of my skull and stars burst everywhere. These were no cellphone flashes.

  I dropped to one knee. Concussed. I put a hand on the mat to steady myself. It was one hell of a hit. Everything had blurred. The lights twinkled. Nausea leapt into my throat.

  I took a deep breath.

  I had lost sight of the Horseman. Where was he? I needed to end this thing now. I needed to take that phone call.

  C’mon, where are you?

  I turned around, still on my knee, confused. There was a blur, a streak
of skin. Then the Horseman appeared on the other side of me. He was coming in to finish the job, coming fast.

  I blinked through the haze. I could see my father. His lips were up to the phone. He was nodding to the person on the other end, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  Then there was a rush of air, like someone had opened the outside doors and wind was sucking through the arena. Something black was headed right for my face. A freight train.

  It was a left hook. The Horseman’s fist was an inch from my eye, ready to splinter the socket and embed the bone inside my brain.

  Chapter Four

  But they didn’t call me “the Constitution” for nothing.

  The adrenaline didn’t surge. My heart didn’t pound. I watched the fist come, as calm as a priest on judgment day. Unlike other fighters, my constitution allowed me to stay put until the last possible second. It allowed me to draw him near.

  Right before his fist connected, I twisted off my knee. I spun around, yanked my arm back and drove my left elbow into his ear.

  A crack.

  The crowd gasped.

  It was a legal move, a sideways blow, not a 12 to 6 elbow. The Horseman’s jaw popped out of its socket and he crashed, face first, into the canvas. He was so heavy, the thud of his body sent ripples toward the edge of the cage.

  I popped back to my feet.

  The crowd was silent. Stunned. The Horseman lay there, face down, his legs twitching. The commentators sat there, their jaws as unhinged my opponent’s.

  The fight lasted only forty-five seconds. The president wasn’t going to be happy.

  Then the crowd erupted into cheers. The cellphones came out. There were bursts of light inside the stars.

  The ref rushed into the middle of the cage to check on my opponent. Before stepping back, I spat my mouthguard into my palm and gave the Horseman a little pat on the shoulder.

  “Sweet dreams, pal. Maybe lose a few pounds and I’ll see you in a different class.”

  The ref put up a hand. Made the call. The Horseman was unconscious. The fight was over.

  The announcer had already opened the gate. He was coming in, ready to broadcast my victory: the first in the history of the commission to hold both light heavyweight and heavyweight titles at the same time.

  But then it happened.

  A voice came in the back of my head. A raspy whisper.

  “Finish him.”

  I looked around. The doctor had come into the cage to revive the Horseman. The ref’s lips hadn’t moved.

  There was no one behind me. Yet the voice was as clear as someone sitting on my shoulder and whispering in my ear.

  “Finish him.”

  Goose flesh ran up my spine. I put a palm to the side of my head as if to knock the water out of my ear after going swimming.

  Then louder, more forceful. “Fin-ish. Him.”

  The Horseman was already done. Defeated. There was no finishing him. All I had to do was run from the cage and meet my father, get the phone, and hit the road. It was a ten-mile drive to the city and D.C. traffic was unpredictable, even at ten o’clock at night.

  But instead my fists clenched.

  I tried to open my fingers, but they didn’t respond. My toe tapped the mat. Then the other one.

  Morse code.

  Before I knew it, I was shoving the ref out of the way. He landed on his tail bone. The doctor was on his knees, offering the Horseman smelling salts, but I put the ball of my foot to his head and shoved him out of the way. The back of his head hit the mat and clearing the way to my opponent.

  I was not in control. I swear to God. I wasn’t doing it.

  “You’re going to lift your foot,” the voice said.

  I shook my head, blinked hard. “No.”

  The crowd sucked air, a collective holding off its breath.

  I raised my right leg. My heel hovered over the back of the Horseman’s head.

  “What the hell is he doing?” a commentator said.

  “Jake!” my father screamed. “What are you doing?”

  I stood there, one leg hovering over the Horseman’s head as if I were balancing on a pier, my arms out in a silly pose like Daniel-san about to do a crane kick, my face a question mark.

  “Jake!” Brian screamed. His career was on the line.

  I had never had a violation. I had never made an illegal move. If I brought my heel down, not only did it violate all the unified rules, but it was morally reprehensible. A kick to the back of my opponent’s head while he was on the mat after the fight was over and he was under the referee’s protection would get me expelled for life.

  Or worse.

  The announcer was only three feet away. He put up a hand as if he were trying to keep me from firing a shot at an innocent victim.

  “Jake!” he barked. “Stop it!”

  Still on one foot, I pivoted to look at him. My mouth was open. My eyes were wide and pleading. I wasn’t doing it. I wasn’t doing it. I swear on my life and everything I love that I wasn’t doing it.

  “I’m not doing it,” I said.

  And then my heel came down.

  Chapter Five

  All of my energy had focused into that blow. The strength of it shocked me, like I could put my heel right through concrete. I had never felt so powerful in my life.

  My heel connected with the back of the Horseman’s head and his face stomped flat into the mat.

  “Jake…” my father said. “What have you done?” His voice trailed off in despair.

  I snapped out of it. I stood on the Horseman’s flank. I wiggled my toes. I was back in control of my own body. I looked at the Horseman lying there, no longer twitching, the back of his head caved in.

  The arena was dead silent. People were cupping their mouths in shock.

  Then a shout: “Killer!”

  What the hell had happened?

  My father stood there on the other side of the fence. He stared at me, his face blank.

  We locked eyes.

  I wanted to go back in time. Not far. Only a minute. I didn’t want this new reality.

  “I didn’t do it,” I mouthed. “I swear.”

  But it was empty plea. The whole arena, the whole world, had seen me do it. Now security guards were rushing down the aisles. I counted five of them. They were dressed in black and brandishing their tasers.

  “You’ll pay for this,” the announcer said. He was good friends with the president of the league. “Dearly.”

  I had no doubt. The doctor had gotten back to his knees and was beside the Horseman. He touched the back of his head, and then felt underneath his jaw for a pulse.

  “Get that stretcher down here!”

  My heart was not pounding. I was worried yes, but it didn’t affect my physiology. So I knew that my next decision was rational, not chemical.

  It was time to leave.

  I sprinted for the cage’s door. The security guards were climbing up onto the apron, blocking the exit. I ran toward the nearest corner, planted a foot in the chain link, leapt up, planted my other foot, then grabbed the top of the fence and vaulted over their heads.

  I landed on the other side and shut the door behind them and grabbed the nearest towel, fed it through the links, and tied it off. It wasn’t much, but it would buy me a few minutes.

  My father was standing on the apron, holding the cellphone limply. He was still in shock. Brian was sitting down behind him, his head in his hands.

  “Jake?”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I said. “I really don’t. I need the keys.”

  “Don’t run,” my father said. “They’ll come after you.”

  “Please. You know I need to get downtown. Let me get there. Then I’ll turn myself in.”

  He had no words. He didn’t move.

  I stuck my hand into his pocket and fished out his keys. Then I grabbed the cellphone from his hand and sprinted for the tunnel.

  The bleachers were emptying. People were coming down to the m
ain floor. They were shouting, cursing, giving me the finger. They were swarming the crowd control barriers and grabbing for my arms. I was still slick from the sweat of the fight and I slipped past them and charged for the tunnel doors.

  My head was still pounding from the Horseman’s blow. There were still twinkling lights. The deed was still too fresh to feel any guilt, but I was sure it would come back later, and with a vengeance.

  The only thing that made any sense was that the Horseman’s blow had damaged my brain so badly that I had lost control of myself.

  Maybe I was a killer now.

  I’d think about that later. I’d have all the time in the cold of a jail cell.

  But for now, I had to get downtown. I slipped the phone into my waistband and ran. I was back in the cold fluorescence of the tunnel, headed for the yellow light opposite the arena. I tried to run in a straight line, but every step was a stumble.

  Then there were sirens. And the parking lot beyond the tunnel doors was no longer yellow with the light from the street lamps.

  It had turned red and blue.

  Chapter Six

  I followed the exposed duct work and pushed through the doors. I was now on the loading platform outside the former Patriot Center—excuse me, the arena now renamed for some generic bank. Directly ahead was the asphalt loop where the team buses pulled up to the curb, where the rock stars got out of their limousines, where the fans were not allowed, but would try to snap photos from the trees. Often, a few security guards would be waiting outside the door and would come and ask for my autograph. There was nothing like trying to sign your name when your head was throbbing and your brows were bleeding.

  But there was no limo here tonight. Instead, three police cruisers screeched to the curb. Their light bars were spinning and the trees turned red and blue. It looked like I’d be getting a ride anyway.

  The megaphone on the middle car said, “Put your hands on your head and lie down on the ground.”

  I stood there and weighed my options. I could run. Or I could surrender. Surrender was of course the right thing to do, but I still had business downtown. If I put my hands on my head and lay down on the pavement and let them cuff me, I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t make it downtown. I would rather get a longer sentence for evasion than go straight to jail and miss the most important moment of my life.