James Daniels - Ring of Knives

The huge arms released him, and Matt collapsed into the sand. Gulping air, he watched as the giant doubled over and grabbed the mask. The Ojibwe gave a high, panicky whine and ripped the mask out of his neck, flinging it over the heads of the night shift.

A huge jet of black blood sprayed from his open throat, and then another. He staggered in a circle, gagging, clutching his neck, tripped over his own feet, and came crashing down into the sand of the pit.

The giant gave a last, pitiful croak; his limbs trembled as a black pool spread beneath him. His crossed eyes rolled in confusion and pain, and his piranha’s jaw worked soundlessly.

Watching him expire, Matt felt certain that the giant had had no idea what he was doing, that he was nothing more than a puppet. And Matt had no doubt who had been pulling the strings.

He got to his feet. Looked deep into the furious eyes of Jesse Weston.

Said, “Next.”

The night shift hissed like a snake pit. Four or five had been butchered by the Ojibwe, but that still left about a dozen, and they had spaced themselves around him in a perfect ring again, knives extended.

Weston seemed too enraged to speak.

Oh, what the hell, Matt thought. “You said you wanted blood, Jesse?” He gestured toward the fallen giant, to the dismembered pieces of the night shift that darkened the sands. “Why don’t you come down into the ring with me? We got all you want, right here.”

“I think not,” Weston said in a quaking, oily voice. “I think I’ll let my subjects pin you, skin you, and spread salt on what’s left. But not until I’ve quenched my thirst with the blood of your little friend.”

Weston grabbed the kneeling girl by her blond hair and jerked her head backward so that she was looking at Matt, upside down. Her kohl-smudged eyes were blank with trauma yet seemed to reach out to him across the distance.

“No!” Matt took a step toward her, but the night shift clustered in front of him, knives glinting in the moonlight.

The man in the black robe knelt next to the girl. “See these bandages, Matt? Dindren’s work. He bit me twice. But once I gave myself over to Rotting Jack? I was able to revenge myself on the doc many, many times over. He showed you my bite marks, right? He was proud of them, in the end. It’s an honor, after all, to quench the thirst of a god.”

Matt couldn’t believe his ears. “Did you say ‘god’?”

“Of course.” Weston’s bandages crackled as he grinned at Matt. “That’s what happens when you give in to them. I gave in to mine. Just like you-if you hadn’t come here-would have eventually given in to yours.”

Mine? Yours? Matt’s mind raced. Was Weston saying that Rotting Jack was different from Mr. Dark? How could he possibly know that?

Weston lowered his bandaged face to within inches of Annica’s upraised chest. His eyes flicked outward to Matt.

“You really don’t know what you’re missing,” he said, casually putting his hand on her pink sports bra. “Because, to tell the truth, the act of biting another human being is surprisingly habit-forming. Especially”-and here he ripped the bra off, exposing her small white breasts-“the tits.”

And he bit her.

As the first streak of blood ran from his mouth, Matt charged the wall of knives arrayed before him. But the instant before they would have run him through, two things happened.

First, the girl’s pupils rolled back into her skull, so that only the whites showed.

Second, the four halogen lights simultaneously dimmed, then exploded in a fountain of white sparks.

Chaos: the night shift cried out and bolted every which way, trying to escape the fiery rain that poured out of the halogens in burst after burst.

Matt didn’t waste a second. He crashed into the scattering group, flattened a fleeing aide, and ripped a ten-inch carving knife out of his hand. Then he bounded up the stone seats toward the girl.

Weston was crouched above her, his mouth red with her blood, grinning.

“Now you see the power of-“

“Oh, shut up,” Matt said, and slung the blade with such force that it cut through Weston’s entire neck and most of his vertebrae. Weston’s bandaged head flipped off like the top of a Pez container and remained connected to his torso by only a small strip of flesh. He collapsed backward, jetting gore.

Matt stuck the knife in his belt and turned his attention to the blonde. Her pupils had reappeared, but they were blank, disconnected. Matt slid one arm beneath the damp flesh of her bare back and another beneath her knees. He lifted her up. She weighed almost nothing.

Matt looked down into the small stone amphitheater. A cloud had covered the moon, and the only light came from the pulsing bursts of sparks from the halogens, which were getting smaller and farther apart with every passing second. When the sparks died out, the entire scene became pitch-dark. When they spurted again, like a slowing heartbeat, he could see the empty ring of seats, the bloodied pit, the bodies and limbs strewn within it. And shapes between the trees, moving, shifting, reassembling. He looked at his feet and saw Weston’s beheaded body. The black robe had fallen open, revealing the huge circular scars around his nipples and the jagged, jack-o’-lantern mouth cut below the navel. Then the sparks faded again, and darkness fell.

When the halogens showered fire into the arena a final time, the upper ring was empty, and Matt was gone.

The moon stayed hidden, and Matt traveled in darkness. He moved as quickly as he could, following what he hoped was a broad curve that would skirt the Carthage grounds but lead eventually to the highway. Annica was in his arms, her bony chest covered with the flannel shirt he’d had wrapped around his waist. Her head rested against his collarbone.

“I told you.”

He almost missed the words. They were whispered. It was the first time in ten minutes that the girl had spoken.

“I told you what I could do.”

Matt swallowed, thinking back to their first conversation in Module One. Wild talents and all that. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, you did.”

A pause.

“I’m such a freak.” Annica’s voice was strained, miserable.

“Not compared to me.” That was the God’s truth.

Another pause. Longer. Then:

“My boob hurts.”

“I’m not surprised.” Matt decided not to mention that his wrist, back, ribs-and pretty much everything else-was killing him. “Listen, I need your help.” He wanted to get her mind off of what had just happened. “I’m trying to find the highway, okay? But my hearing’s not so great. Too many rock concerts when I was a kid. Total silence, for other people? Sounds like cicada season to me.” Now he was rambling. “Anyway, can you help me listen for the highway?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She put her head against his shoulder. In a small voice, she said, “Thank you.”

Matt didn’t respond.

“Thank you,” she said again. “For not letting him…eat me.”

A lump in his throat. “The road,” he said. “Listen for the road.” And then, after a long pause, “You’re welcome.”

Matt walked on. The only sound he could hear was the soft whisper of pine boughs as they passed through the old-growth forest.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Mmm…Maybe to the right, a little? I’m hearing a sound like…” She stiffened in his arms.

“What is it?” he said.

“Matt,” she whispered. “Someone’s following us.”

He stopped.

They stood dead still.

“There,” she hissed.

She was right. He’d heard it. A crackle behind them.