James Daniels - Ring of Knives

In this, the Ojibwe resembled the alligator. His legs and arms were fantastically thick, but he didn’t huff slowly into action like other big men Matt had known. Instead, he bounded for Matt with a roar, legs pumping, arms swinging, and the knives eagerly carving the air between them.

Matt turned to flee and saw a row of rot-faced aides behind him brandishing a dozen steak knives. He turned back just in time to leap away from a downward blow that would have split him to the clavicle. But as he tried to shift his weight, the Ojibwe closed in, slinging the same arm in a furious backhand swipe. Matt misjudged the distance and lifted his hand just in time to avoid having the right side of his face sheered off.

But at a price: the huge butcher knife cracked into the bone of his forearm, releasing a spray of blood and making him careen backward across the pit.

The crowd screamed with bloodlust as Matt gasped, gripping his forearm, trying to staunch the blood. The pain was incredible. But before he knew it, before he could even get his bearings, the tattooed giant had lunged again.

Pounding across the sand, the giant gave a weird, high roar from behind his triangular mask. His flame-red arms pumped back and forth like pistons on an engine gone berserk.

Again, the ring of blades prevented Matt’s escape. In the two seconds before the monster reached him, he formulated a thought: If I jump aside again, the same thing will happen… so I’ll do the opposite of what I just did.

Instead of jumping away, he stood his ground.

Instead of standing, he fell into a crouch.

When the giant was almost upon him, Matt faked a lunge at him.

Sure enough, the Ojibwe swung his right blade a second too early. Matt leaned back as the massive knife sheared the air between them.

When Matt stepped to the side, the giant did exactly as he had before: swung his right arm in an immediate backhand swing.

Only this time, Matt was ready for him. With both of his hands extended, he caught the Ojibwe’s arm at the wrist. The blow drove Matt backward, but he went with the swing’s momentum, added to it, and-feeling the giant lose his balance-slung him with all his might into the ring of knives.

A second later, the night shift’s jeers turned into screams of panic as the Ojibwe crashed into the front row, swinging away. An aide with no jaw to speak of lifted up a hand in defense, and the blade caught it midpalm, sending five fingers flying overhead in a red mist.

But the Ojibwe was unstoppable. He flipped over, shoved away from the crowd, and regained his feet. In doing so, he braced a blade four inches deep into an aide’s sternum. When he pushed his massive girth back into the ring, the aide toppled face-first into the pit, vomiting blood.

The Ojibwe shot forward again, howling and weaving his red blades before him in a web of death.

Matt didn’t wait: taking a big step, he dug the toe of his boot into the soft sand of the pit and then kicked upward. A heap of sand and pine needles flew against the Ojibwe’s triangular, saw-toothed mask.

The giant screeched, staggered. Some of it must have gotten into the narrow eye slit, because his charge became a stumble; he crossed one arm defensively across his face while the other made a wild, diagonal swipe that Matt dodged easily.

Behind the Ojibwe now, Matt drove his heel into the giant’s ass, propelling him again into the screaming crowd of watchers.

Blinded, the giant had no idea whom he’d fallen against. So he dug both blades hilt deep into the chest of a leprous aide and slung him upward.

Back in the pit, Matt stepped aside to avoid the falling corpse, which crashed to earth in two pieces that were approximately the same size. He watched as the giant swung blindly, driving his right-arm butcher knife into the stone seating so fiercely that the blade snapped off at the handle.

The Ojibwe shook his head; his vision seemed to clear. He turned, saw Matt-and barreled forward.

Feeling almost confident, Matt fell into a crouch-only to hear an unexpected ripping sound, and feel, in the following instant, a searing pain tear across his shoulder blades.

He whirled around. An aide with a face crawling with maggots quickly retreated into the audience, his blade red with Matt’s blood.

A roar behind him.

Matt twisted back-and felt his back scream in pain. Saw that the Ojibwe was upon him; knew that it was too late to fake or dodge or kick. So instead he did the only thing he could remember from his days of high school football: he tucked his head, hunched his shoulders, and threw himself at the Ojibwe’s knees.

The giant swung his arms-and had his right blade still been attached, Matt would have been skewered. But as it was, he received only an agonizing punch in his sliced back as he crashed into the giant’s shins.

Matt’s vision exploded in sparks. It was like tackling two fire hydrants. He could have sworn that he broke both shoulders. But somehow his tackle did the trick, and the giant came crashing down with him.

Matt knew that the next second would determine who walked out of this ring alive, so-ignoring his bruises, his sliced wrist, his cut shoulders-he rolled over, got up, and dove onto the back of the Ojibwe, who was already rising on his knees. With his right arm around the giant’s neck, Matt snagged with his left hand the buckle that bound the remaining blade to its cuff and in a single motion slipped it open. When the Ojibwe swung wildly, trying to slice Matt’s head off, the remaining butcher knife flew free of the cuff and buried itself in the crotch of an unlucky member of the night shift.

Then-right when Matt was entertaining the idea of choking the big guy into unconsciousness-the giant let out another high, hollow roar and buried his elbow deep into Matt’s gut.

Matt released him, staggered backward. Gasped for air.

In a second, the Ojibwe was on his feet, had turned, had reached Matt and slung both arms around his waist in a bear hug.

He lifted Matt off his feet and began to squeeze.

Matt gasped. His head was ten feet in the air. He felt paralyzed from the waist down. His hands were free but seemed unable to do anything but brace themselves against the giant’s shoulders as the big man’s trunk-like arms crushed him like twin anacondas.

His ribs creaked. Unable to draw a breath, Matt felt his vision dim with black fireworks. Straight ahead, he could see-but not hear-the cheering, fist-pumping night shift, the snarling laugh of Jesse Weston, the blonde’s tear-stained cheeks.

I’m going to die, Matt thought as the blood roared in his ears. And for some reason, he had a sudden image of Janey saying the same thing while staring out the hospital window, and of himself telling her, You’ll be with me, Janey… What I see, you’ll see. What I do, you’ll do. I’ll never let you go. Never.

And the thought occurred to him: If I die, Janey-what’s left of her-dies with me.

And that was not an option.

Breathless, he looked down at the beast that was crushing the life out of him. Looked into the freakish triangular mask, with its single eye slit and long, jagged shark’s teeth encrusting its tapered edge.

Had an idea.

Grabbed the top of the mask with both hands and pulled it toward himself.

The elastic band stretched, stretched…and snapped.

Immediately, the top of the mask jerked away from the Ojibwe’s face, toward Matt, and the narrow, jagged-toothed end of the triangle tipped over the giant’s chin, until the shark’s teeth came to rest against his Adam’s apple.

With the last of his strength, Matt drew back his arm as far as it would go, and then slammed the heal of his palm against the top of the mask, driving the triangular tip-with its cluster of shark’s teeth-deep into the Ojibwe’s neck.