Ring of Knives

CHAPTER TEN

Matt swallowed. He knew if he backed down now, it'd be all over. "Well, I don't mean to argue the point, but I saw a video of Jesse Weston sliding around the ceiling of Module Two like an air-hockey puck. And no offense? But you're a dead ringer for the guy. And if you took off those bandages, so I could see your face…"

"My face," came the muffled reply, "isn't under these bandages."

"Isn't…?" Matt didn't know what to make of that.

"No." The figure took hold of the lapels of his black robe and pulled them apart. "This is my face."

Matt stared, his mouth open. Jesse Weston had taken a knife to his bare chest. Dark scars showed where he had cut two large circles around each nipple, making them look like giant eyes. And beneath his navel a long, jagged set of jack-o'-lantern teeth had been carved into his belly. The effect looked like what a die-hard Packers fan might do to attract the attention of a game-day news camera. If that die-hard Packers fan worshipped an insane owl god.

Matt licked his lips. "You know, they have programs for people who cut. You just gotta ask."

"Rotting Jack does not ask, Matt Cahill. Rotting Jack commands. His servants fulfill his every desire. And right now, what he desires"-Weston brought his hands together in a loud clap-"is blood."

Immediately, three aides sitting behind the Ojibwe stood up and crossed to the silent giant. Two knelt on either side of him and lifted up his huge, tattooed arms. Then they pulled from their belts the two big butcher knives that Matt had seen in the kitchen. They slid the knife handles into the deep grooves built into the Ojibwe's leather cuffs, then tightened and buckled the straps. When they lowered his hands and stepped back, both of the Ojibwe's arms tapered off into twelve inches of tempered steel.

This, thought Matt, is going to be very bad.

The two aides backed up, leaving the third standing directly behind the motionless giant. He was holding something, too. He lifted it up, and there was a general murmur of excitement from the knife-wielding audience.

Matt couldn't tell what it was at first; it looked to be a triangular swatch of leather about eighteen inches by twelve, bound tightly to a wooden frame. Then he saw the single eye slit halfway up, and how, on the bottom, the tapered end was fringed with large, serrated shark's teeth.

It was the mask that he'd seen hanging from the FA's office wall.

As the two aides who'd attached the knives quickly returned to their seats, the third gingerly pulled back the elastic band behind the mask and laid it against the base of the Ojibwe's skull. Then-bracing himself for a quick retreat-he slid the shark-toothed, triangular mask over the big guy's face.

The effect was instantaneous.

As soon as the mask slid over his cross-eyed, jut-jawed features, the giant sprang off the stool as if electrified. The crowd roared as he swung his head searchingly to the right, then to the left, then looked straight ahead-caught sight of Matt-and shot forward.

Matt had seen a documentary once about alligators, and how their stumpy legs made them deceptively fast because, even though they could go only ten miles per hour, they didn't accelerate-they began at ten miles per hour. So if you weren't already retreating at top speed before they attacked, you probably weren't going to get the chance to do so.

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 downwards 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 facefirst 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 upwards. A heap of sand and pine needles flew against the Ojibwe's triangular, sawtoothed 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 leperous aide and slung him upwards.

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 confidant, 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 towards himself.

The elastic band stretched, stretched… and snapped.

Immediately, the top of the mask jerked away from the Ojibwe's face, towards 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.

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."