This Machine Kills (34 page)

   “Sounds like he was pretty involved in the running of things up there. He was ex-army, and knew what he was doing.”

   It was strange for Taylor to hear those words. There was no army anymore, at least not in the sense that it was back then. SecForce now employed anyone in the country who was paid to carry a weapon.

  
“He was a real pain in the ass for ClearSkies; blew up a
couple of buildings and killed a few of their men before they finally caught up with him. He was at home with his wife and two little girls at the time, but knowing his reputation they decided to gas him out rather than take him on, on his own turf. When the gas got too much for them, Warchild sent his girls outside so they’d be safe, but it sounds like the troopers were a bit too quick on their trigger. They wiped his entire family out… It took three bullets and two tranquilliser darts to finally stop him, and that was after he had taken out four troopers.”

   Christopher smiled like he had just told Taylor what the next day’s weather was going to be like.

   “So that’s who you’re about to fight. A man whose family were killed by the company you work for.”

   He paused for effect, then gave Taylor the warmest of smiles and patted him on the shoulder, “Anyway, they’re ready for you now. Good luck champ.”

   Christopher disappeared from the room as silently as he had entered, leaving Taylor to wonder if anything else would come out if he threw up again.

   The boo’s rang out around him as Taylor walked toward the concrete circle where Warchild and another large man already stood. It felt strange for him going into a fight without going through any of his usual routines. There were no wraps to systematically apply or gloves to tightly pull over them. No mouth-guard to fit and then refit, checking that it stayed in place when he opened his jaw as wide as possible. He didn’t even have Old George there to do his pad work with. It was just him, his bare hands and feet, and the same pair of filthy jeans he had pulled on after finding Charlotte’s body.

   Before stepping into the pit, Taylor stopped in front of Jacob, who was standing with Christopher and the other jail-breakers.

   “You going to wish me luck?” he asked, then regretted it, thinking it was the sort of thing you said to a loved one. The bad choice of words was reinforced by Christopher’s sneer.

   Jacob ignored, or was unaware of his side-kick’s deprecating look, “You won’t need it, I know you can do this.”

   Taylor looked up at the three levels of caged prisoners who had pressed themselves against the bars to get a better view. They were cheering savagely for Warchild.

   “Well at least if I lose, this lot will be happy. Maybe if we put on a good enough show, they’ll help us anyway.”

   Taylor saw the muscles raise in the area where Jacob’s eyebrows should have been, “Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly lost your confidence, being humble really doesn’t suit you.”

   Taylor laughed, “You’re right, I’m not. I’m a bad-ass, and this guy has just made the biggest mistake of his life.”

   “That’s more like that,” Jacob nodded, “I’ll see you when you’ve won.”

   As he descended into the pit he caught Christopher leaning out from behind Jacob and winking at him. Stepping onto the floor of the arena, the man who was almost as big as Warchild approached Taylor. He had a crew cut and manicured beard that stopped precisely at the bottom of his chin leaving his neck completely hairless. Anyone could tell he was a guard from a mile away.

   “Who are you?” he asked when the man was close enough.

   “I’m the referee,” was the curt response.

   “I thought there were no rules?”

   “There aren’t, I’m just here to make sure it stays entertaining,” he looked up and around at the cells that surrounded them, “this lot want to see blood. Any holding, any boring stuff, I’m going to split it up, understand?”

   Taylor nodded.

   “Good, now wait here, I’ll introduce you to them.”

   Normally a smarmy American with thick, black hair and a silver suit introduced the fights to the viewing audience, but as this contest was taking place behind closed doors without the cameras present, the referee would be doing the job. Instead of a microphone he only had his booming voice to accompany him.

   “Ladies and gentlemen,” he yelled, his voice not being able to disguise the irony, “it’s time for the main event.”

   Taylor looked across the circle to where Warchild stood. Instead of the stare-down he was expecting, the huge man seemed to be regarding him with little more than a passive, almost bored curiosity. This had a worse affect on him than if his opponent had been spitting fire.

   “On my right is the challenger,” the referee cried, then had to wait for the bombardment of insults and obscenities to finish before he could continue,

   “Making his prison fight debut… it’s Taylor.”

   The referee’s voice grew to an enthusiastic roar as the fighter’s name left his mouth, but even that could do little to drown out the crowd. As he spoke, Taylor threw a volley of straight punches into the air followed by a couple of uppercuts and regretted it instantly. He could only hope that Warchild hadn’t been quick enough to see the pained expression on his face as he let his fists flow.

   “And on my left is our very own undefeated Champion. Bringing with him an immaculate record of eight fights with no losses, it’s the man who was born to destroy… Warchild.”

   The prisoners in their cells went wild.

   “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s fight is a non-title match-up.”

   The referee pointed his hands at the two fighters then brought them together in front of his body; it was the sign for the men to meet each other in the middle of the pit.

   Standing feet apart with the referee separating them, Taylor could see for the first time the true size of the man that confronted him. He knew he was sometimes prone to exaggerating the difference in size between himself and his opponents but this giant must have been at least sixty pounds heavier as well as five inches taller.

   “Ok fellas you both know what you’re here to do…” the referee seemed to be relishing the thought of the two of them fighting as much as Christopher had.

   Before he could speak again, Warchild switched his attention from Taylor to the ref.

   “Do me a favour Jackson,” he interrupted, “shut up for a minute, I need to speak to Taylor.”

   Without another word, Jackson took a half step back and dropped his eyes to the floor. It was true; Warchild really did run the show.

   “Looks like you’ve already bust your ribs up pretty bad,” he said, his voice serious but without menace.

   Fuck, Taylor thought, he already knows my weakness. He nodded in agreement; there was no point hiding it.

   “Well listen, I ain’t a fan of all that ground fighting shit that I know you like to do. You keep this fight standing and I’ll stay off your ribs. That sound fair?”

   Even if he wanted to, he was in way too much pain to take the fight to the floor anyway. If they did end up there, Warchild would only need to get his massive arms around him and he’d get a submission out of Taylor in no time. Luckily, his opponent had not realised how badly he was hurt. 

   “Sounds fair.” Taylor answered, trying not to sound too keen.

   Warchild nodded towards Jackson, whose eyes were still trained on the floor, “So we’re not going to need him then?”

   Taylor shook his head, “I guess not.”

   Warchild turned to the other man who now looked lost in his own world, “Jackson.”

   The man looked up eagerly like a child who had been waiting on the sidelines to join the football game.

   “You can go now,” he continued, “we’re not going to be needing you.”

   The referee gave Warchild a confused look that lasted a second too long.

   “Jackson,” he said, his voice deepening, “fuck off.”

   Obligingly, Jackson turned from the two fighters and stepped out of the arena to where his colleagues were assembled.

   The two warriors stepped back from one another to the periphery of the circle. Taylor took a deep breath in through his nose, then slowly exhaled  through his mouth. This was what it was all about for him; there was no more waiting to be done and the sickness in his stomach had disappeared. He met Warchild’s gaze and with a mutual nod, the battle commenced.  

   The fight couldn’t have got off to a worse start for Taylor. For as long as he could remember, he had been fighting against bigger, less talented fighters whose size and strength he could use against them. From the off, he could see that Warchild was going to be a very different proposition.

   Usually these bigger men would launch themselves at him, allowing Taylor the opportunity to counter attack. The impact of a punch landing on someone who was directing their mass towards it, was always greatly magnified. Just ask Newton, it was one if his basic laws of physics and it was how Taylor knocked most of his larger rivals out.

   With Warchild, he could see that things were not going to be so simple. Instead of charging in, the bigger man patiently stalked him around the pit. He was in a crouched stance making him shorter than normal, with his guard held up high in front him. As he pushed on him, Taylor was forced to move around the pit throwing a few jabs that he knew lacked snap and were easily avoided by his opponent. He was being made to throw warning shots whilst Warchild followed him around, trying to force him toward the walls as he looked for the counter to Taylor’s lazy jabs. The fucker was fighting him at his own game.

   Taylor’s body felt heavy and lethargic as Warchild continued to hunt him down. Everything felt wrong, even the cold, hard concrete beneath his feet, completely different to the sprung floor of the cages he was used to. It wasn’t long before the man’s tactics paid off. As he felt himself being pushed once again towards the walls, Taylor threw a jab that lacked any real bite. No sooner had he thrown it, than he was struck by a mighty left hook on the temple. It was the first punch Warchild had thrown.

   Sometimes when a fighter takes a really solid shot, strange things happen to them. Taylor didn’t even feel the punch land, he just felt time slow down as he was taken out of the fight and into a different world. He was suddenly aware of happier times; of playing in the park with his mother and father when he was young; of his father pushing him on the swing as his mother took a picture and laughed. The next blow he did feel; it brought him violently back into the real world and real time. It felt like he’d been gone for minutes but in reality it was probably less than a second; the length of time it had taken his head to rock violently to one side then back to its rightful place.

   Instinctively, Taylor’s defence mechanism kicked in. He moved to his left and slipped the oncoming right hand before pivoting his body away from the walls of the pit. Warchild was now the one with nowhere to retreat to. Taylor faked another jab then landed a solid right hand directly through Warchild’s guard, smashing into the bridge of his nose. His opponent instinctively threw a right of his own back, but Taylor had pushed off his front foot and was safely out of range; the punch only skimming the air. With a trickle of blood coming from his nose, Warchild tilted his head at Taylor, acknowledging the quality of the shot.

   For the next ten minutes, the two men would fight at a pace that neither, given their individual circumstances, should have been capable of. The punch to the temple seemed to awaken Taylor’s fighting spirit. Even though his ribs still hurt, he started to move with a bounce in his feet and his punches became sharper and more focussed. Likewise, for such a large man, Warchild kept pushing the fight at a frenetic pace. He continued to stalk his prey, forcing the smaller man to unload flurries of punches just to keep him at bay.

   The fight soon took its own pattern. Taylor would wait for his opportunity and launch three or four-punch combinations then try and get out before Warchild landed one of his own monstrous shots. Sometimes he managed it, on other occasions he took the full force of the oncoming punch, forcing his legs to buckle. With every punch he landed, the crowd screamed in support of their rampaging champion. One solid right hand sent Taylor hurtling to the concrete floor but he had managed to get to his feet before Warchild could advance on him. At no stage did either man look close to throwing a kick or taking the fight to the ground.

   Even though Taylor had landed more punches, Warchild’s powerful blows meant that the two were about equal in the damage they had sustained. Nearly fifteen minutes into the fight, the pace had started to drop off and Warchild’s punches became slower and less regular. As his breathing grew heavier and his hands dropped to his waist, Taylor forced him towards the pit wall. He was going in for the finish.

   No sooner had he launched his two fisted attack, than the huge man grabbed him and quickly turned Taylor so that it was his back now against the wall. It was classic rope-a-dope; Warchild had been exaggerating his level of fatigue, there was clearly plenty of fight left in him. With nowhere for his opponent to go, he launched a vicious onslaught of hooks and upper cuts with a ferocity Taylor could never have expected.

   At first he was able to absorb most of the punches on his bruised arms and shoulders, but then Warchild decided to forego their agreement and landed a brutal shot to his ribs. Taylor’s guard instantly dropped as the searing pain coursed through his body. It was now a hot poker, rather than a screwdriver that he felt he had been stabbed with
.
Before he could get his hands back up, a thundering uppercut smashed into his jaw, violently rocking his head back and sending him into another reality. Instead of being in the park with his parents, Taylor was now transported back to the white, sandy beach where he frolicked in the surf with Charlotte. With his hands draped around her neck, they laughed as they tried to jump over the oncoming waves.