Raze (Scarred Souls 1)

My breath came in hard pants, but then 362 moved back. Before I’d even seen him raise an arm, he ploughed his fist into my stomach, my legs buckling as I fell to the ground.

“Enjoy your first fight… I’ve seen your opponent. You shouldn’t die tonight, as long as you keep your eyes alert and you don’t pussy out.”

Spit landed on my cheek as I lifted myself off the ground and stumbled onto my feet. A sudden boom of raucous cheering erupted from the cage. My heart began to race. The gun in the basement sounded.

The current fight had ended.

One fighter had died.

The other now knew what it was like to kill.

And it was now my turn.

Footsteps sounded down the hallway outside, bolts unlatched, and the steel door flew open, a guard appearing before me.

“Out,” he ordered.

Glancing to the back booth in the locker room, I caught sight of 362 practicing with a sai, his bladed choice of weapon. The thin blade twirled around his fingers as he watched me pass, his face betraying no emotion.

The guard smirked as I strode toward him and held out my hand for him to cuff. My stomach tensed as he looked at me; my skin crawled in disgust.

Once my wrists were bound, the guard dragged me into the dank hallway, pulling me down a set of steep stairs until the door opened and I entered the mob of men surrounding the cage.

My breathing echoed in my ears as I approached the octagonal metal cage where the Gulag’s warden waited. Some posts around the outside of the cage were manned by guards taking the spectators’ money.

The guard at my back pushed me forward. Then he undid my handcuffs. The warden gripped me by the neck and threw me toward a table full of weapons.

“Chose,” he demanded.

Nervously, I looked at what was on offer: blades, axes, sai, chains… and at the end, a bladed pair of silver knuckledusters.

“Choose!” The warden sneered. “We don’t have all fucking day!”

Reaching forward, I grabbed hold of the spiked knuckledusters, sliding them onto my damp hands, the feeling of steel against my skin so strange.

The guard behind gripped my arm and, turning me around to face the crowd, pointed to the number they’d tattooed on my chest—818. Dozens of eyes focused on me, and money began to change hands.

The guard made me stand for ages, like an animal on show. I surveyed the unfamiliar faces of the crowd, heart thundering in my chest, palms sweating, and the fear of imminent death almost paralyzing my legs. A firing gun sounded and, abruptly, the guard shoved me up some steps and into the claustrophobic octagon. A boy about my age clutched an axe; he was being pushed into the octagon from the opposite side.

My eyes were glued to his. He was about my height, but he was thinner. He too wore only black shorts, the number 591 tattooed across his chest.

As he stumbled into the cage, piss ran down his legs. I could see by the shaking of an axe in his right hand that he was terrified.

The cage doors slammed shut. The warden stood outside and banged on the cage wall, the sound sounding like thunder. “Only one of you comes out alive. No fucking around. No rounds. No breaks. Just kill.”

My eyes widened as I took in his words, but I knew this was what I was here for. I had to kill this boy in order to survive.

The boy looked across at me; by the way he stood, I knew he couldn’t fight. But my papa had taught me from a young age how to take care of myself. I knew how to fight. I knew how to inflict pain… I knew how to kill.

A gun sounded, and the joint erupted. Men were hammering the cage like hungry animals; they shouted things I couldn’t make out.

The warden bellowed for the fight to begin and adrenaline filled my muscles. My opponent stood frozen on the spot, his eyes roving the sick crowd in fear.

My pulse beat fast, the dull thumping deafening in my ears, drowning out the roar of the spectators.

“Move!” the warden screamed. He’d lost his shit. Our two guards stood at the doors behind us, rifles aimed straight at our heads. Self-preservation took hold; I moved to the center of the ring, my opponent receiving a hit on the head by his guard. The boy stumbled forward, crashing into my chest. The volume of the crowd dramatically rose as our bodies collided. Taking advantage of my stronger stance, I punched out my right hand and hit the boy square on his jaw. Blood showered the boy’s face. Dazed, the boy fell, back hitting the floor. Seeing my chance, I straddled his waist and struck him again on the face. Surprise registered on the boy’s face as blow after blow rained down on him. Teeth tumbled to the ground and his flesh tore under the spiked edges of my knuckledusters.

“Please…” the boy whispered, his quiet voice sounding like a foghorn in the middle of the insanity beyond the cage, “Don’t kill me… I don’t want to die… I’m scared…”

My gut twisted upon hearing his plea and my shoulders sagged. I was exhausted and out of breath. Glancing around the dimly lit dingy room, my eyes drank in the howling, bloodthirsty crowd, and my stomach recoiled in disgust. Grown men. Grown men cheering for kids to shred each other, to tear each other to death.

Wiping a bead of sweat from my brow with the back of my bandaged hand, I rolled off the whimpering 591 and staggered to my feet. The guards raised their guns at my movement. I hit the cage’s metal mesh, which groaned as if it were in pain.

“What are you doing, boy?” one of the guards asked. Everything seemed to slow down, my pulse throbbing too slow.

The warden circled the cage until his angry face was inches from mine on the other side of the metal. “Get back and finish him!”