Game of Cages

He was fast. When he threw the first punch, I almost didn’t see it coming and barely got out of the way, staggering back. He looked surprised that I’d avoided his jab but not particularly worried.

I leaned into him, moving my head to the side while throwing a jab of my own. I hit him full on his tattooed nose while his counterpunch went just wide.

Now it was his turn to stagger back. He kept his balance and his smile. “Gut, gut!” he said, as though advising me to try body blows. My left hand stung from the shot I’d landed, but his nose didn’t look damaged at all. Damn. His tattoos seemed to be the same as mine, more or less, and he was completely covered by them—even his face. Probably even his scalp. This guy was better protected than my boss.

He came at me again. I went on the defensive, blocking and weaving. I’m pretty quick—I was a promising baseball player once, and I’ve always had a sharp eye and fast hands.

Tattoo was fast too, but he wasn’t unnaturally fast. He wasn’t superstrong, either. I wondered just how complete his protection was. He threw a low right hand that I let hit my ribs while I extended my left, fingers out, toward his eyes.

He dodged sideways, almost losing his balance in his haste. In that moment, I landed a solid kick to his crotch.

We backed away from each other. My lunge at his eyes had wiped the smile from his face, but the kick had brought it back. It’d had no effect on him.

“Oh, hell no,” I said. “Your johnson, too? That’s just not right.”

His smile turned sour. Whether he spoke my language or not, he understood what I was saying. Suddenly he wasn’t having quite so much fun.

I kept backing away from him, my left hand still aching. I wasn’t focused on the fight the way I needed to be. If my head was in the right place, I wouldn’t feel my hand until after. My adrenaline was trailing away—I’d wasted it in the basement and I needed it now.

He caught up to me, feinted low, and hit me on the side of my jaw.

I managed to roll with it at the last moment, but the world still blinked dark. I felt something cold against the side of my face—mud? It felt solid. I pushed away and crumpled into the mud for real. As I fell, Tattoo’s fist hit the side of the house where my head had been.

I tried to shake my mind clear, but I was still feeling fuzzy. My ass was wet. My hands were muddy and leaching heat, but that soothed the pain in my left.

Tattoo was talking again. Someone who didn’t know about my protective tattoos would have kicked me in the ribs, but he circled behind me. The idea that he might return the favor of a kick to the nuts gave me a much-needed burst of adrenaline.

I rolled onto my hip and held out my forearm. That punch to the face frightened the hell out of me. If he did it again, I might never wake up. His kick struck my wrist. In a desperate grapple, I grabbed his right foot and twisted it with both hands. He yelped in surprise and pain, rolling against the steps Catherine and I had used to enter the house and falling into the mud to avoid a dislocated knee. His other boot scraped painfully across my scalp, but there was no power behind it. He got his arms under him. I didn’t have much time. I jammed his foot behind the other knee, then folded his leg over it.

I remembered that sour-faced housekeeper. The old man had sacrificed her without a second thought, and Tattoo had laughed about it.

I rolled over his ankle and broke it.

He screamed. It was a high, girl-in-a-horror-movie scream, full of fear and unaccustomed to pain.

He reached back for me. I twisted his thumb too far, and he screamed again. I loved that sound. It was like a church choir to me. This bastard was faster than me and he hit harder, but the tattoos that protected him from cutting and impacts didn’t protect against twisting.

And I couldn’t leave him alive. He’d come after me again someday, and I didn’t think I could take him a second time.

He swung with his good arm, stinging my ear. I let the momentum of his swing carry him onto his back, but I stayed close. I shifted my weight onto my feet, grabbed his wrists, and stood, lifting him off the ground with his head hanging down.

The stairs were made of stone. That should do. I waddled over there, pinning him with a bear hug. He struggled, but I could hold him long enough to break his neck.

Something came at me from the top of the stairs and slammed into me. The sudden impact broke Tattoo from my grip, and I wanted to cry out like a terrified child. I smelled a lemon aftershave as I sprawled in the mud.

It was the old man’s assistant, Frail. I flipped him up and off me, letting our momentum roll me clear of Tattoo. He scuttled off, his hands over his head. Tattoo crawled away from me, dragging his crooked ankle behind him.

I heard shouting and footsteps through the open kitchen door. Tattoo’s screams had brought help. My head still hadn’t cleared—all I could think about was guns. I turned and ran around the garage into the woods.

I fled blindly, pushing through a break in the blackberry bramble and dodging through the trees so they wouldn’t have a clear shot. It wasn’t until I tripped at the bottom of a steep slope that I realized they weren’t chasing me.

I leaned against a tree, fighting to catch my breath. Why hadn’t they come after me with their shotguns? I rubbed my aching hands and face. My head began to clear.

And I remembered the floating storm.

Damn. I scanned the woods around me. I didn’t see any floating balls of light, but my visibility was pretty limited. Damn and damn again. I’d planned to steal a car and drive to Catherine’s. We could have gotten off the property in a few minutes.

I looked back up the slope. The cars were still there, of course. I could try to sneak back.