Prey for the Soulless

By K.R. Lugo

Society is in a complete shambles, leaving behind a bloodthirsty world that practically worships pain and suffering. Sitting at the helm is Marcus Powers, the most powerful individual the world has ever known and the person controlling so many aspects of life with his tremendous financial influence. Hes the impetus behind the popular Games, a highly publicized, fight-to-the-death drama that pits prison inmates against one another for the sake of entertainment.

Even so, Powerss influence is not enough; he wants to be president, the keeper of the people, leading the citizens of the United States into new territory. This man, filled with evil and bemused by mans pathetic antics, has a plan, and he dares anyone to challenge his desire to mold a new world in his own image.

But a small congregation of pious men and women recognize and understand the prophetic signs of each broken seal reflected by the sorry state of the society. With a Bible clutched in his right hand and an automatic weapon in his left, excommunicated priest Father OBannion and his tiny band of devout parishioners will risk everything to save the world from evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475994742

K.R. Lugo

K. R. Lugo attended school in California and Arizona and graduated from METC in 1984. He attended several vocational classes, including landscaping, masonry, and horticulture, but none satisfied him. In February of 2001, Keith graduated from Law school. Previous publications "Schism". He currently lives in Nevada. "Prey for the Soulless", a work of fiction created by K.R. Lugo, is hereby introduced by Dark Writer LLC [e-mail]

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

About the Author

To my devoted team of support: Alisa, my wife, manager, and unofficial proofreader and editor; Carol, my friend and unofficial backup proofreader and editor; Audria, my daughter and technical advisor on all things computerized; and my parents, Virginia and Robert.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Alisa, manager of Dark Writer LLC, who has worked tirelessly to make this novel possible.

Many thanks to Carol for devoting so much time in chastising me for some of the words I originally selected to use.

Many thanks to Audria for using her computer expertise to enhance the cosmetic effect of the cover.

Special thanks to all those at iUniverse for going the extra mile to help make my dreams come true.

All Bible quotes in this book

are taken from the New King James Version (NKJV)

and the King James Version (KJV).

CHAPTER 1

And do not fear those who

kill the body but cannot kill the soul.

But rather fear Him who is able to destroy

both soul and body in hell.

Matthew 10:28 (NKJV)

The clash of steel on steel instantly brought the crowd of thousands to its feet. Men, women, and children alike shouted with bloodlust, while billions of viewers from homes and bars around the world wished they could be there.

Savagely clutched in the heat of a battle to the death, standing bloody shoulder to bloody shoulder, the pair of fierce warriors gracefully moved on nimble feet in a painstakingly slow clockwise pattern. They paced around each other like a couple of vicious wraiths with every bone-weary pivot. Blood dripped from dozens of deep lacerations and punctures—expertly delivered by the opponent—and hit their feet and the ground with sickly splats. Eerie, red-stained impressions left in the wake of their steps marked the dirt.

Armed with Thracian swords and polished shields, the evenly matched men measured each other with eyes that blazed with a deep understanding only two gladiators forced to kill could ever hope to fathom, let alone share without feeling remorse or taking offense. It was nothing personal. Just business as usual. Kill or be killed was the mantra of every participant. A single error in judgment meant certain death. Pity was obsolete and the epitome of weakness. Pain was inconsequential—something to be shut out. Only victory mattered.

In the stands—beyond the combatants’ concentrated field of vision—the fans jubilantly pumped into the air posters of their favorite fighters, foam fingers, and every conceivable type of merchandise they had bought from the arena’s vendors as they cheered for the more popular fighter who was battling to stay alive a little longer.

Slash Johnson, currently ranked at number ten as a Section B fighter and a two-to-one favorite over his opponent, leaned forward and pressed his ugly face within inches of Darrick Woodrick. He sneered.

Darrick moved his own face forward until their noses practically touched. He curled his horribly disfigured lip and made a twisted grin.

A dead quiet enveloped the crowd. They had seen the calm before the storm countless times.

With no more than an inch separating the adversaries, the men shifted on perfectly balanced feet, their dexterity honed from hundreds of practice hours to improve their homicidal skills. They circled one another in a macabre dance of destruction.

Slash made the first offensive move.

The crowd rose to its feet. All hell was about to break loose between the gladiators.

Slash snarled like a rabid wolverine and rose up on his toes to gain more leverage against Darrick. He angled his razor-sharp blade toward Darrick’s sweat-stained throat.

Darrick grinned at the predictable maneuver. That’s a pathetic move, he jeered in a croak. It might work on a shadow fighter, but not on me! Darrick readied his shield. He surreptitiously adjusted his shoulder and positioned it solidly behind the hilt of his sword.

Metal screeched in protest when the edges of their blades seesawed back and forth, as the men fought for an advantage. Sparks flew.

A single miscalculation would cost everything.

The action quickly energized the crowd, and voices roared for spilled blood. They continued to wave their merchandise in the air.

Slash smiled and grunted in satisfaction, preparing for a first strike with the blade. He blinked against the perspiration coursing down his face. Can ya feel it, sucker? He felt the other man’s knees falter and buckle ever so slightly beneath the pressure he was exerting.

Darrick smiled back, adjusting his shield once more. He dug his feet into the dirt to get a sturdy foothold. What’s that? he grunted, squinting against the brightness of the sun.

Your friggin’ head sliding down a sharp stick, Slash said.

Ain’t gonna happen, Darrick promised. Not in this life.

I got a spot all picked out for ya!

I ain’t goin’ nowhere!

Slash suddenly yanked his sword back and stepped to the side to throw Darrick off balance. His aim was to make his opponent stumble forward, exposing a clean-kill shot. But Slash realized a second too late that Darrick had expected his plan. Darrick whipped his shield around and struck Slash, sending him flying backward.

Shit! Slash thought. Screwed the hell up!

Darrick towered over Slash, who was scrambling to get off the ground. He brought his sword down.

With a poetic sweep of the shield, Slash blocked the blade intended to lop off his head and swung his own sword in a retaliatory arc to sever his would-be killer’s leg.

Darrick jumped skyward just in time to avoid the slicing blur of shining steel. In retaliation, he delivered a wicked slash across Slash’s back on his way back down to earth. A thick stream of blood spilled from the wound.

Slash grunted in pain and rolled away from another sweep of the murderous blade.

Darrick moved in for the final deathblow.

The crowd screamed for more and turned their thumbs downward.

Darrick tightened his grip on his sword, pulled the shield a little higher on his shoulder, and snickered at Slash.

Slash sneered defiantly.

There’s nowhere for you to go, now, Darrick said, raising the sword overhead. You can run, but you can’t hide.

Rather than roll away from the man only seconds from striking him dead, Slash did a partial somersault and threw himself at his stalker, flinging his shield at Darrick as hard as he could. He whipped his sword around to make it his last act.

Darrick’s eyes went wide as he clearly realized the stupid mistake he’d made—he’d underestimated a man’s will to live. He took a clumsy step back and moved to shift the angle of the shield to stop the shimmering weapon from completing its journey. But he failed to get the face of it around fast enough. His shield hit the ground with a metallic thump. He screamed in pain.

The fans whooped.

Darrick staggered backward on uneven steps, his head twisting in horrific agony. He raised his left arm and then let out another scream when he saw that barely half of it remained. A shower of red spewed from the elbow joint like burning lava from a raging volcano, splashing on his face and everything else within ten feet.

Still lying on his back, Slash snickered at the sight. He was too weak to move or do anything else. He no longer cared about anything. Can ya feel it now? he managed to choke out. We c-c-can b-be bookends.

Darrick staggered closer to his fallen opponent; his sword slipping from his hand. Doesn’t matter, asshole, he mumbled. I still win. He toppled over, falling onto the bloodstained ground with a splat.

Slash! Slash! Slash! the crowd chanted, applauding and stamping their feet in celebration.

An alarm sounded.

A small group of medical personnel carrying a gurney rushed into the center of the arena a few seconds later and quickly tossed Slash on the canvas and disappeared to wherever they had come from. A young intern stuffed Darrick’s body into a bag and dragged it off like garbage.

Ladies and gentlemen, a voice shouted from a speaker system. How’s that for entertainment?

The crowd screamed wildly.

The voice chuckled. We have a special event coming up, but we shall take a thirty-minute break for your convenience, so that you may visit the snack bar and facilities.

Jabbering like excited schoolchildren on a field trip, countless numbers of spectators rose from their seats and headed off with haste.

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The stench of death lingered in the atmosphere like a dense, penetrating fog, and filled the lungs of the three first-time combatants with each breath. Untried and untested, they were commonly referred to as shadow fighters As the newest additions to The Games, they exchanged pained expressions and continued to gag. They were held captive inside the mobile cage made of metal bars, along with an older fighter.

In spite of the fear coursing through the three young convicts’ veins, all they could do was stare in an incongruent mixture of silent awe and confusion at the fourth man—the infamous Ramses, the Harbinger of Death—who held his head bowed as he rested on bended knee in silent prayer. Such a bizarre act of piety made no sense to any of the trio. In a bloodthirsty world that practically worshipped pain and suffering above all else, Ramses was its ordained God. His reputation for inflicting unspeakable brutality on other human beings was without match.

Ladies and gentlemen, the voice announced. Two-minute warning. Please return to your seats.

Suddenly, Ramses raised his enormous head and looked at his fellow prisoners with gentle eyes. A single tear trickled down his scarred cheek, falling upon a freakishly muscled shoulder that was covered with jagged evidence of countless battles. He could sense the younger men’s terror of the unknown, as the dying screams of those slain by his own hand plagued his mind. Filled with shame for all that he had done, finding it difficult to look into the eyes of those who were not so unlike his fallen victims, he cast his gaze downward and groaned.

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Petrified, the three prisoners inched away from the intimidating hulk of a man.

Hello, brothers, Ramses greeted them with unexpected warmth. Zippered skin writhed to form a grotesque version of a Halloween mask when he lifted the corners of his mouth to offer a friendly smile. He held out a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt marked by deep slashes healed long ago. I don’t mean to bother you at such a terrible time, but would you please join me in prayer? I think group prayers bring us closer to His glory.

Stunned by such a request, the three men slowly blinked their eyes in quiet disbelief. It was the last thing any of them expected. But they knew it was far wiser to agree than to risk offending a man who could easily snap their necks with a single twist.

Although wary, the man sitting closest to the human monster reached out and watched the callused glove swallow up his hand.

The other two men looked on in silence.

We’d be glad to pray with you, Ramses, the man said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. He slid his hand free when Ramses loosened his grip. The shadow fighter stared at his own hand strangely as he opened and closed his fingers, genuinely surprised to find that it was not permanently disabled. He then looked at the other two men and nodded.

Please, don’t call me by that name, the veteran fighter said softly, shaking his head. My name is not Ramses. It never was. That is the name of a godless creature, a beast that has committed atrocities against his fellow man, insulted God. It is a name that was given to me by evildoers who walked the path of our Lord’s adversary. He rested a palm against his massive chest. I am Jason White.

The shadow fighter cleared his throat. I’m sorry, Jason, he said, his tone slightly subdued. I meant no offense. He smiled weakly. My name is Billy. He turned his head and pointed at the other two men, who were still staring in awed silence. This is Aaron, and this is Tommy.

Hello, my brothers. Jason said, nodding. He then held out his hand to them and shook their hands in formal greeting. Would the two of you be willing to join me in prayer, to ask for delivery from the evil and sin of this world?

They let out an audible sigh of relief.

White then bowed his head and closed his eyes. In the name of your Son, Jesus Christ, please wrap your loving arms around my new friends, your children, and forgive us our trespasses. Please accept us into your loving embrace this day, and forgive me for allowing myself to be lured into committing wicked acts against my brothers and sisters by the ‘adversary’ Marcus Powers. Like so many of the blind in the world, I did not see him as the destroyer until you blessed me with the purity of vision to see. Jason took a deep breath, shuddering. I know the evil one is here today to vanquish me. I can feel his darkness everywhere. My faith in you is absolute. What are riches worth, if one is to lose his soul? Please bless my brothers, Billy, Aaron, and Tommy, and in your unlimited wisdom, mercy, and love, grant them eyes to see and ears to hear the ultimate deceiver of …

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Fifteen years earlier, an unknown shadow fighter by the name of Jason White stepped into the center of the arena. It was his nineteenth birthday. Consumed in fear, he listened as a voice introduced him as the challenger to a man whose skill in hand-to-hand combat was both feared and revered by anyone fortunate enough to have witnessed his poetic use of fists, feet, and weaponry. Tens of thousands had risen in support of their well-known champion, yelling protests at the unfamiliar young person standing opposite the more seasoned man. Boos and hisses at the newcomer echoed like a reverberating cancer. Jason White’s physical presence appeared impressive, but the number-one-ranked contender from Section A had already dispatched eighty men and showed a proclivity to decimate anyone placed in front of him—quickly.

The guard escorted Jason to a spot near the center of the arena and offered a polite tilt of the head to the predicted victor, who was holding a sword. It was then that Jason did something no other shadow fighter had ever done in the history of The Games.

Ignoring the officials watching from all corners of the immense structure, and to the absolute delight of the crowd, Jason raised the large cutlass in his hand, bowed his head, and offered a poignant salute to all those watching from around the world.

Thousands in the stands fell silent in a bizarre calm, awed by the man who seemed to have no fear. They stared at him, and soon, whispers began to circulate.

An elderly woman was the first to applaud in appreciation of Jason’s moxie. Others soon joined her.

Only seconds after the modern-day gladiators brutally clashed, Jason quickly proved that he was no ordinary man. He drew first blood and forced the favored fighter down to the ground effortlessly.

The crowd’s response was immediate. The shadow fighter had just shocked the world into a tailspin. The people stomped their feet in perfect rhythm and shouted for Jason to lop of the pretender’s head.

Finally, Jason reached down, grabbed the groaning man by the hair, and beheaded him with efficiency.

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Fourteen and a half years after his first victory, following his five hundredth championship match, Jason was known throughout the world as the Harbinger of Death. On one afternoon, he stood in the center of the arena, covered in the blood of another adversary, and watched the famous Marcus Powers walk down the southern aisle toward the wall that separated the stands from the field of battle to congratulate him for so many conquests. Two other figures trailed after him with awkward gaits. The hairs on the back of Jason’s neck prickled. As the men came near to him, he took a step away from Marcus, who was smiling and waving a hand at him. Jason bit down on the inside of his cheek as he watched the three faces staring at him. They shimmered as like a heat wave and then suddenly changed into something so hideously obscene that bile rose from his stomach. The impact of the images was so strong that Jason renounced his title under his breath and prayed for God’s intervention as he turned away from the three snarling faces.

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Time! a prison guard shouted, interrupting the four men. He then struck the metal bars with a heavy pipe that served as a nightstick.

The three newcomers jumped in fear, and looked up.

Jason ignored the rudeness and continued to pray.

Enraged at the champion’s refusal to submit at the feet of authority, the guard retrieved a ring of keys from a utility belt that encircled his flabby midsection and walked over to the door.

Several other guards approached with guns drawn. They surrounded the mobile cage. All guns pointed at Jason’s head.

No one better fuckin’ move! the lead guard, Jack Johansson, warned. If any of you tries one damn thing, we’ll shoot you where you sit. Do you understand what I’m sayin’ to you, maggots?

With a new level of fear rising, the three newcomers nodded.

The guard gave them a vicious smile. Now that’s good little dead men. He turned his attention on Jason. I didn’t get your answer, Ramses.

Do whatever you want, Jason replied softly. I am saved, so your hateful words fall on deaf ears.

Is that right, killer? Johansson said, his tone dripping with venom.

It is, Jason replied.

While leering at the prisoners, Johansson unlocked the gate, stepped back, and swung the heavy metal door open. It squeaked on rusted hinges. He then lifted the pipe overhead and glared at the huge man. So now you want to pray to a God who can’t and won’t help you, huh? he asked heatedly. You’re pathetic! All of you and your worthless hides. He threw a set of handcuffs into the cage. It’s showtime for you, Ramses, so put those on. You know the routine, tough guy.

Jason looked at the manacles and shook his head. I won’t fight, he said, pushing the cuffs away with a foot. I will not shed a single drop of man’s innocent blood ever again. This is my sworn oath to my Lord and Savior.

The guard chuckled without cracking a smile. Put a weapon that kills in your hands and you’ll change your mind, he said, pushing the handcuffs across the metal floor with the pipe. I’ve seen the results of your handiwork. We all have, so stop screwing around, Ramses, and chain yourself for me. You’re a killer down to the core, so don’t try to pretend otherwise.

Don’t call me that! Jason said. He stood up to his full seven feet.

Johansson took a step back. Suddenly, he didn’t look quite so confident, guns protecting him or not. Or what, you’ll murder me like all those other people? he asked, shifting his eyes back and forth from one armed man to the other to make sure he was properly covered if the man decided to attack.

Jason ignored the question, refusing to take the bait. He smiled. My name is Jason White, he proclaimed. And I am a child of God. I will not fight.

I’ve heard enough of your crap, Johansson said. He motioned one of the armed guards to assist him. This is your last warning, Ramses. Move it right now, or I’ll have one of your Bible-thumping pansies executed where he sits.

A guard dressed in body armor stepped over and lifted the rifle as directed. A wicked grin creased his lips.

My name is Jason White, Jason repeated solemnly. He looked at the other three men with gentle eyes. The fear of death was clear on each face. Please remember me as Jason, not the monster called Ramses.

The three men nodded.

Whatever, the guard said. Your people are waiting for you, so move it or one of these lames dies right here and right now.

Those soulless creatures screaming for death are not my people, Jason said. He looked at the men in the cage and smiled. These are my people, brothers of our Lord and Savior.

Yeah, sure they are, Johansson said. Take aim and shoot in ten seconds if Ramses doesn’t comply.

You don’t have to kill anyone, Jason said, leaning over and picking up the handcuffs. He fastened them over his wrists. I’ll go with you. He stepped out of the cage, brushing the dust from his jumpsuit, and then craned his head around to see the other men. Peace be with you, brothers. We shall soon be in paradise, so pray for me, for all of our brothers and sisters. Even this sadistic pig. He turned and smiled at the two guards. That’s right. Even you can be forgiven.

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After the guard locked the gate behind the extracted prisoner, the shadow fighters pressed their sweat-stained faces against the bars. They ignored the fiery pain assaulting their cheeks and watched in confused despair as a small army of prison guards quickly surrounded Jason and manacled his neck and waist with chains as thick as a human thumb.

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Don’t you move a single muscle, a guard wearing a face shield warned as he bent down to attach a pair of heavy chains to Jason’s ankles, or you’ll be shot in the head.

I have no intention of doing any such thing, Jason said.

Johansson chuckled under his breath as he pulled out a sidearm.

When staff checked and found the chains tightly fixed in place, the guard stood up, tilted his face upward, and pushed it closer to the prisoner. So where’s your God now, Ramses? he asked mockingly. He smiled broadly when the other guards began to laugh.

Jason just stared at him.

What, cat got your tongue? the guard teased.

It’s okay, sir. I forgive you, Jason said sincerely. You do not know what you do.

The guard growled, pulled a nightstick from his utility belt, and struck Jason in the stomach with the end of it. His eyes opened wide in shock when he realized the blow had absolutely no effect on the man. The giant didn’t even grimace.

I still forgive you, Jason said.

The guard lifted the nightstick overhead, his lip curling up into a vicious snarl. Why, I’ll bash your damn head in and— he began, but stopped when he felt the weapon yanked from his hand.

Are you completely insane, Eddie? Johansson barked, holding the man’s nightstick in his hand. Do you want to get us all killed for treason? Johansson shook his head. This man is protected by the damn Federation, so no one is to damage him.

Eddie shook with anger. But did you hear what he said to me? he asked. He insulted me … all of us.

I don’t care what the man said to you, Johansson said. Unless ordered otherwise by the chairman, if he dies, he dies in the arena.

But— Eddie argued.

Enough! Johansson said, effectively cutting him off. He then stepped aside and motioned for Jason to move. Come on, killer, let’s go and make the people happy.

Jason nodded and stepped forward.

God be with you, Jason, one of the shadow fighters said as they watched the guards lead him away. The other two repeated the plea.

The armed guards led Jason down a secret passage hidden underground and through a labyrinth of tunnels that ran for hundreds of yards. No one spoke a word.

Although Jason had lost count of how many times he had made the same trip in just the past year, he knew the exact number of security cameras attached to the walls and ceilings. Single red lights loomed over and around him like bloodshot eyes, rotating on their metallic frames with the soft sound of grinding gears. The cameras maintained a constant vigil on those venturing beneath the earth’s surface.

Jason prayed. Please, God, give me the strength of Job and John to maintain faith and be strong enough to overcome all obstacles to prove my devotion and love. He blinked away tears that began to form in his eyes. I need your strength and love to prevail over evil.

As the distance to the destination shortened, the words of cheering people became distinguishable and grew in volume with every step until it nearly drowned out the rattle of the steel links that bound the man for whom they screamed.

Minutes later, the fighter and his escorts ascended a set of stairs that brought them out of the shadows and into the sunlight, where thousands of anxious fans cheered and jumped up and down.

Jason squinted against the brightness of the sun, which illuminated the mass hysteria of the riotous spectators already screaming for vengeance.

They love you, Ramses … each and every one of them, Johansson commented, with a tone of envy dripping from his voice. Just listen to the roar of the crowd, the shouts of their respect and love for you. He paused. Everyone loves a natural-born killer, whether they’ll admit it or not, especially such an efficient one like you. The least you can do for them is to show appreciation for their devotion to you.

I told you—my name is Jason, mumbled the giant as he stepped into full view of the tens of thousands shouting out his false name.

Ramses! the multitude screamed in frenzied unison. Ramses! Ramses! Ramses!

Your name is whatever they say it is, Johansson said. So you might as well accept the fact that you’re here to serve a much greater purpose to the State, not to yourself. We all make our sacrifices for the betterment of a collective society.

You speak sacrilege, sinner, Jason said with a hiss. You’re a keeper of man and therefore hell bound. He craned his head around and glared. Repent or be forever damned in Satan’s pit.

The guard clenched his jaw tightly and exhaled deeply. Turn around and don’t move a single muscle, he ordered. Without taking his eyes off the enormous man, he quickly removed the shackles that bound Jason’s limbs. Your challenger is a shadow fighter, not a very impressive figure at all, so try to give everyone a decent show by not killing him too fast.

Ashamed of what he had done for so many years, free of the heavy steel that had been coiled around his body like the merciless serpent in the Garden of Eden, the man known only as Ramses by the masses stood before a full-capacity crowd of near-crazed fans. Wild screams of excitement echoed throughout the immense coliseum. He felt the seven hundred thousand eyes bore into him like those of ravenous predators, penetrating his very being in an attempt to taint his born-again soul, begging for their champion to bedazzle them with his skill to slaughter and prevail over another opponent who seemed deemed unfit to live in their civilized society.

Jason peered up at the sky. Such a beautiful day, he thought. I wonder what it feels like to be free.

He knew it would be easy for him to fight his way through the crowd if he could scale the wall before security guards shot him. No. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. No more pain and suffering. It’s better this way. He searched in vain for the face of the devil he knew, and then lowered his eyes.

The people in the stands pumped billboards, slogans, and giant foam fingers into the air in support of their champion and his corporate sponsors. Television crews and reporters from every network in the world frantically raced up and down flights of steps, fighting through the crowds and shoving their competition out of their way in hopes of getting the best possible angle. Everyone suspended all rules of journalistic professionalism whenever the committee scheduled Ramses for battle.

Media personnel had actually risked everything and jumped over the wall years earlier in hopes of getting the legend to speak just a couple of words into their microphones, but they had been shot before they were able to get within twenty feet of their hero.

Jason remembered all the events that had taken place over the years with crystal clarity as he looked at the shrieking people. He cringed for the first time since he had become eligible for The Games; he truly saw the people for what they were in the eyes of any decent men and women, if any still existed at all. Tears fell from his scarred features.

My God, Jason thought, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. They’re monsters. Every single one of them. All they desire is to see blood spilled onto the dirt-covered ground by tarnished hands. What have people become?

Ramses … Ramses … Ramses! the crowd shouted.

Jason shuddered and bowed his head in shame, sniffing back tears. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. He felt the end of the guard’s stick poke him in the back, prodding him to step forward. I’m so sorry for what I’ve done.

Move it, Ramses, Johansson ordered. The people want to get a good look at the living legend.

Jason took a reluctant step farther into the arena. I won’t fight, he said softly. Or hurt anyone ever again.

You’ll do exactly as demanded … what’s expected of you, Johansson spat. What’s the matter with you? You always liked the killing.

I’m not like that anymore, Jason whispered. I—I’m different now.

Yeah, right, Johansson said. You’re a regular humanitarian. He poked him in the back again. Move.

Ladies and gentlemen of the world, a voice bellowed from a thousand speakers attached to walls that surrounded the arena. It is my privilege—no, my honor—to give you Ramses, the Ultimate Harbinger of Death!

The crowd went crazy. Men cheered. Those who had small children sitting on their shoulders lifted them up and down in the air as the children squealed with glee. Women screamed, their voices suggesting an almost sexual frenzy.

Ramses walked forward.

Here he is, in the flesh! the electronic voice hollered. He is the ultimate predator and carries out the people’s demand!

The crowd began to applaud with reverence.

As Ramses stood in the center of a world gone totally insane with bloodlust, the noise of endless chants for death pummeled his mind. He lifted his right hand over his head, made a fist, and pumped it several times into the air.

The spectators swooned as they experienced nirvana, and cried out even louder.

In spite of the physical movement, which he had made solely for the benefit of those swaying back and forth in the stands, nausea gripped the bottom of Jason’s stomach. His eyes caught sight of no one with one shred of conscience.

It was a world of decadence and corruption.

Mounted as trophies in remembrance of past battles, the decapitated heads of those defeated by superior opponents were impaled on thousands of stakes that lined the inner walls encircling the expansive area of the combat zone. Many of the skulls had been resting on spikes for so long that there were barely more than a few pieces of skin hanging loosely from the bones, all long forgotten and written off by a public whose memory lasted only as long as the latest headline of the upcoming match. Others were so fresh that they still secreted cranial fluids on which the local vultures snacked.

After Jason had finished making his acknowledgment to the delirious fans, who continued to chant his name like some sort of holy mantra, he returned to where he had entered the dirt-covered arena and waited for staff to escort the challenger across the circular battleground. He looked out at the field where he’d literally emptied bodies of life so many times. The memories of all the crimes he had committed against God flooded his mind. Fear was an emotion that no longer registered, and trepidation was something his mind could no longer fathom. He had been hardened like tempered steel over the years, and the concept of granting mercy to any human being set before him had become alien to him.

Individual thoughts and desires on the part of the combatants, outside the collective wishes of the majority, were forbidden and were considered as crimes against the Federation.

But things were now different. He was different.

Ladies and gentlemen, the announcer’s voice bellowed from the huge speakers. It is my great pleasure to introduce the brave challenger, a man who has vowed to topple Goliath and post his head on a pike for all to enjoy. So please offer your appreciation and support to James Litton!

The crowd began to applaud.

When Jason saw his intended opponent step into view, he could barely comprehend the sight. The gravity of what was expected hit him full force, for the combatant standing before him was more boy than grown man. He felt sick to his stomach from just the concept that those in charge were using him as a tool for the execution of a child.

I can’t do this, Jason thought as he stared at the leather straps that hung loosely on James Litton’s emaciated chest. He couldn’t help but see that the young man’s arms and legs were equally frail and weak in appearance. I won’t. He’s just a skinny kid. Jason shook his head in shame.

Stand still! Johansson ordered. He retrieved a knife from a hidden pocket and used it to slash Jason’s jumpsuit from behind. He then tore the material away from the man’s massive body and tossed it aside. The crowd once again cheered wildly for their champion. They certainly love you, Ramses.

Don’t call me that! Jason said with a hiss.

The leather straps stretched across his massively muscled chest were studded with rows of sharpened gold rivets. He wore shorts tailored to ride high on the quadriceps to expose the rippling thickness of their power. Long, jagged scars from hundreds of past battles decorated his entire body like a collage created by the hands of a madman, each telling its own story in a long history of conquests.

What is your weapon of choice for today? Johansson asked. Are you going to start with the usual?

Yes, that will be fine, Jason replied, holding his gauntlet-protected arms outward. When he felt the weight of the war hammer and shield in his hands, nothing was clearer to him. It was the first time since he was a child that everything made sense. An epiphany of total clarity of heart, mind, and soul emerged and laid claim on him.

Jason looked across the desolate arena. Fifty yards away, a puny James Litton cringed when he looked up at a nearby row of decapitated heads. Jason watched the guard, who had been standing behind James, shove a rapier and shield at the young man. The petrified-looking opponent sagged beneath the weight, struggling to hold the shield at waist level. Jason figured Litton had probably grown up watching the fights with his family, cheering on the combatants without ever dreaming that he would one day be in the arena.

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James looked at his own lightweight sword, shifted his eyes to the giant holding a twenty-pound war hammer, and then brought his attention back to his own weapon. A wave of defeat was all he could see; and it would be swift and ugly. The guard narrowed his eyes and poked James in the back with his nightstick.

In spite of the unrelenting fear that gripped him, certain that he was walking to a bloody and painful death, James decided to make his first and last appearance in the arena a memorable one for the debauched onlookers. He strode forward on bony legs and made several obscene gestures to everybody in the stands and to the television crews that were focusing cameras on him. The response from the crowd was as expected. Boos and hisses echoed throughout the inside of the stadium walls. James gave an even more pronounced sneer to show what he thought of them.

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Jason found the kid’s last act of defiance toward the entire system either one of the dumbest