Serial chapter 1

Lyle Stokes

I open my eyes, once again; hoping, willing and praying that the sight in front of me would change. It didn’t. As I sit here on this rather uncomfortable chair, I stare at a plain steel door, just ahead of me. On the other side of this door, is death.

I can only hope it is not mine.

I was a boy once. Unassuming, carefree, innocent - naïve, you could say. I guess in some respects, I still am. Still, I turned eighteen, and here I am.

The short buzz rings out through a small speaker. I almost fall out of my chair at the sound. I can’t be tense, I can’t afford to be, but I am. Is it natural, or is it a sign; a sign of weakness, a sign of my impending death? Before my nerves really got to me, I stood up.

The door opens. I take note of a small squeaking noise as the door’s halves slide on their tracks, masked by the grinding of the gears that made it move. And then I’m moving.

I stop right at a marked spot, about 11 meters from the door I just exited. Back then - a lifetime ago, really - I read that the field for the first elimination round was modeled after the playing area of a very old sport called football. The spot I’m standing on now corresponds to a spot in the football field called the penalty spot. The significance of the name is not lost on me. Not now.

Behind me, the doors were sliding shut. When the two halves clicked together, there seemed to be an air of finality to it. Judgment has begun.

I look toward the other end of the field. A boy stood there. He was dark-skinned, tall, and looked like he was in good condition. His hands, like mine, were empty. That’s how the first round of eliminations is always fought: bare-handed. My heart sank as I looked on.

"This is the first match in the first round of elimination. Let judgment begin," called out a voice from the speakers all around the field.

The surface of the field is much like that of a football field - grass. The boy shot out of his starting spot as soon as the voice was finished speaking. His steps were long and graceful, each one leaving almost no impression on the grass. I struggled to pull myself together, unable to think or move. He was halfway up the field when I regained control of myself. I let out a long sigh. When did I start to hold my breath?

There is no time to think. Without hesitating, I run right. Instinct, I suppose. I’ve always been right-handed, like most people. The boy saw I was moving and went to cut me off. He never even broke his stride.

I changed direction, heading back the way I came. He responded, still going full-speed. I decided if he’s coming, let him come, and I stopped right where I started. He was perhaps seven meters away by then.

I rolled left just before he ran into me. The boy shot past where I stood, slowing down as he realized I had dodged his attempt at a pre-emptive attack. I got to my feet and ran as fast as I could to the end of the field where he started.

It didn’t take him long to chase me down. I was barely halfway up the field when he collided with my back. I was thrown face-first on to the field’s surface, grass getting in my mouth. I tried to struggle to my knees, but I felt his weight on my back. I was trapped.

My arms flailed around, my fingers scrabbling, trying to grab hold of anything. I pulled patches of grass off the field in my struggle to get free. It got me nowhere.

“Like the view down there?” came the boy’s voice, taunting. He was sitting on my back. Pain explodes on the right side of my head as his punches me. Faintly, I could hear him laughing.

I was still recovering from the impact when my face was pushed down into the grass. I struggled harder, to no avail. He was too strong, his position too good. My face gets rubbed left and right on the grass. My face was rubbed raw when he stopped.

“This is too easy,” says the boy. He chuckled, and the next thing I know, his right hand was over my face.

I realized he was trying to claw my eyes out. I closed them, and started to thrash about. If I was blinded, then I’m dead; there are no two ways about it. The boy grabs my hair with his other hand and keeps probing. I jerk my head around. I don’t want to just give up.

The boy realizes I’m fighting hard to keep my sight, or perhaps he just gives up. He covers my mouth with his hand and drives my face back to the grass.

“Hold still!” he shouts, angry, as I redouble my struggles. I snapped my head to the left, to get away from his right hand, and it slips. I open my mouth to gasp in some air, and a couple of his fingers get into my mouth as he tries to recover his hold.

I bit down, hard. It was instinct. The boy howls, and tries to shake his hand free; wrong move. I put all my body’s strength into my one desperate attack. Soon I was tasting blood.

The boy, now roaring in pain, hits my head on the left side. I growl in pain, and the small opening was enough for him to pull his fingers out of my mouth. I felt his weight come off my back.

I roll to my back. The boy was four feet or so to my left, kneeling, his right hand cradled protectively in his body. He was moaning in pain.

I struggle to my feet, breathing hard. My head was still throbbing with pain from the two blows to either side. I spat blood out as I approached the boy. He was also struggling to his feet, but doing it with one hand instead of two is slowing him down.

I kick his left arm from out under him, and he crashes face-first into the grass, howling. “Like the view down there?” I asked. He growls in answer and tries to get up again.

I kicked him in the ribs, and heard the air go out of him. He started to cough as I kicked him again. “No more, please,” he begged, his voice reduced to a gasp after I’d hit him several times.

I placed a foot to his side and rolled him over. He didn’t resist, but curled up in the fetal position instead. I kicked him again, and he flinched, his defense buckling under my attack. He was crying now, the fight gone from him.

I was tiring of it. I was expected to kill him, or be killed. But with no weapons and a field that offered no hazards, my choices were limited. I looked down at the boy, who was sniffling, his bleeding right hand held protectively to his chest. He wasn’t even trying to get up anymore.

I looked up. It was still early; the sun wasn’t even a quarter across the sky yet. I sighed and resigned myself to finish it. Kill or be killed, that was how justice was meted out in here.

I looked back to the boy again, and stomped on his side. He grunted in pain, so I brought my foot down again. This time he roars in agony, and his left hand covers his side. I must have cracked or broken a few of his ribs.

The blood drew my attention as I continued to look at him. His right hand was left defenseless as he covered his side. I prodded it with my foot, licking my lips at the memory of how his blood tasted. He started to cry out in pain, but the sound got strangled halfway through and he clutched at his side harder, shaking. His ribs were broken for sure.

I bent down to lift his right arm away from his body. The boy barely resisted. Just a few minutes ago, he was strong, but now he was a whimpering wreck. I laid his hand down on the grass and stomped on it.

The blood started to seep to the grass as the boy convulses in pain again. I keep a good hold of his hand so he can’t pull it away and stomped down on it one more time. In the game of football, players have studs on their boots. I wish my sneakers had them, too.

I stomped down again, this time on the wrist, and I hear the grinding of bones. The boy’s eyes were bugging out by then, his face almost frozen in a scream. I tried not to let it distract me from the matter at hand.

I studied the boy. My mind was foggy as I scanned his limp body. Dazed, I decide to stomp down on his groin. His neck strained as he felt the pain. I stomp down again, harder, and then again, and another time. After the sixth time, I stumbled as I pulled my foot back for another stomp, and fall flat on my butt.

I breathed hard as I sat down. The boy had stopped moving after the third time I brought my foot down on his groin. I looked down at him again, and saw his glassy, empty eyes.

The boy, whoever he was, was dead.

I cover my face with my hands as the realization coursed through me. I barely heard the voice announce me the winner of the first match in the first round of eliminations.