Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Like the other guards, Victor wears black army fatigues tucked into ankle-high boots and a black T-shirt as a uniform. He’s got the same high-and-tight as the others do, his dark hair buzzed close to the scalp at the sides and slightly longer on top. That’s where the similarities end, though. They’re all in good shape, some bulky and some lean, though none exude the same strength that Victor does. But that impression of strength doesn’t have anything to do with Victor’s physicality, not really. Instead it’s in the way he holds himself, like a trap waiting to be sprung. It’s the way he looks at you, as if there’s nothing you can hide from him. Line all the guards up, and anyone could pick out Victor as the smartest and most dangerous of them all.
The door to the medical office buzzes open, courtesy of a guard in the control booth, who’s watching us through the cameras mounted along the central aisle. I notice Victor glance toward Lissa’s door—she should have come out at the same time I did—and I quickly sweep inside the office, knowing that Victor will follow me in. He does, then unlocks the cabinet where all of the vitamins and medications are kept. Silently he stands watch as I prepare the individualized doses for the nine fighters in this barn, showing him each bottle of medication so he can check the label before I take any pills from it. They aren’t going to risk that I’ll poison one of their cash cows.
I wouldn’t, anyway. None of the fighters are angels, but they didn’t have any more choice about coming here than I did. They’re all just doing the same thing I am—trying to stay alive long enough to get through this.
In three months, I’ve outlived twelve fighters, but I don’t pretend that my chances are better than theirs. Papa won’t set anyone free. All of us are going to die here, one way or another. Some of us will simply last longer.
Unless Lissa manages to send help.
Smiling again, I load up a tray with little paper cups full of pills, and exit the doc’s office with Victor at my heels. The fighters in the barn know the morning drill as well as I do: as soon as Elton begins singing, they better get their asses out of bed. So the first is waiting in the center of his stall until Victor gives him the okay to approach the bars.
Of all the fighters, Crash keeps his stall the tidiest. He’s already made up his bunk, the blanket precisely folded and tucked. His grooming implements sit neatly on the edge of the concrete sink in the corner of the stall, and he’s already put the disposable razor to use. His square jaw is baby-smooth. He’s dressed, too. Some of them don’t bother putting on their pants while in their cells, but Crash always does. The guys don’t receive much clothing—just a pair of gray sweats—but Papa doesn’t require them to look pretty or keep their surroundings clean. He doesn’t care if they take a dump in the corner of the stall or piss into the aisle. He doesn’t care if they stand under the shower heads that rain into their stalls every night at nine p.m. or if they smell like an open sewer. They only have to do two things: stay strong and healthy, and fight when they’re told to.
And when it comes to hygiene, some of these guys let themselves go. For a couple, it’s depression and despair. For others, it’s rage and rebellion. But either way, Papa doesn’t punish them for it. Some have thrown feces at Victor’s men—or at Lissa and me—and a few weeks back, one fighter got his hands around a guard’s neck and snapped it. Papa blamed the guard for being careless, and that was that.
In the end, it all comes down to money. These guys earn Papa millions of dollars in the Cage. So the only time the tasers and the cattle prods come out is when the fighters don’t follow their regimen of nutrition, exercise, and sleep.
Crash has never been tased, but it’s not because he’s afraid to break the rules. Instead, having a regimented schedule suits his personality. Heck, put him in a pair of fatigues and he could pass for one of the guards, because he’s got that same clean-cut appearance and military bearing, as if he just stepped out of boot camp.
But I bet not one guard would want to go toe-to-toe with the big man. Not even Victor. Because Crash is a fairly quiet guy, somewhat serious, and self-contained…but I’ve seen what he’s done to his opponents in the Cage. He sizes them up and zeroes in on their weaknesses. Then he kills them with terrifyingly brutal efficiency.