Primal Gambit

Chapter 35: Drexel Receives a Challenge

"You will never live in a time like this again! Freedom in the purest sense; where the only thing that keeps you from being buried alive is your will to survive!" Axle roared into the megaphone. Speakers surrounding the small arena blared across the land and over the raucous tongues from the gang of chop shoppers. An old-world cigar drizzled smoke from the leader's gloved hand as he looked down into the pit composed of fine black sand and gravel. The blood that had been spilled into it could not be measured. It served as a lapse; no one would ponder the sheer amount that sunk deep into the roots of The Yard.

The night air was heavy, spectators passing needles and bottles to one another as they anxiously anticipated the opening of the cages. On the night prior, a scouting party had ransacked a camp belonging to the Followers of Asher, a tribal clan whose ideals were based around a god that brought the ash to their world as a sign of the impending apocalypse. Before entering battle, warriors would rub ash deep into the pores of their faces, arms, and chests. They believed the ash would protect them from being wounded.

There was only one survivor, and when he was brought back to the shop he was stripped naked and thrown into the pit. Ordinarily a snared mutant would be his adversary, however he had information imperative to the survival of the choppers, so it was Drexel who pounded his chest and paced back and forth from behind his cage. The previous questioning proved futile. Axle's jurisdiction dictated that this Follower would have the information of his territory beaten out of him. Drexel's taped hands tapped the bars as the methamphetamines coursed the confines of his veins. He growled like a beast ready to tear the Follower apart like he had seen the nightmarish mutants do so many times in the past.

Across the arena, the Follower of Ash knelt and kissed the ground – rubbing the sand in his hands and on his battered chest. His face, half white from the ash and half scorched from the exposed flesh at the hands of the flamer crew, was devoid of all emotion. Drawn cheeks and sunken eyes, he looked out at the crowd that cheered for his death. He had heard tales of what the chop shoppers did with their victims, in respite of which he called down the power of Asher to aid him.

After reciting a biblical phrase and expanding his wingspan he looked to the sky. Axle did the same, noticing the formation of dense ash clouds above the pit. As the first bit drifted down onto his glove, the leader of the chop shoppers brought the megaphone to his bearded mouth:

"Your God won't save you now, tribal." The crowd cheered violently. The arena was a primal form of entertainment where the choppers would often place wagers and welcome the bloodshed. Oftentimes the two opponents were men, as trapper crews commonly had a difficult time trying to ensnare some of The Yard's more unique specimens. A pair of ravens hung in the air, awaiting the next opportunity for fresh carrion.

"Without further ado: I grant life. I grant death. Open the bars." He growled out of the speakers as his cronies twisted wooden hand cranks – slowly lifting the squealing cage doors. Chains jangled as the Follower stepped out slowly, his chest broad and his arms long, muscular. Drexel scurried out of his enclosure like an animal, snarling and yipping like one of the wild dogs his body would be fed to had he lost.

Plumes of charcoal smoke and fire poured into the sky as the chop shoppers raged from above, watching Drexel claw through the sand as he bounded on all fours to the weathered man. Ash began to fall heavily from the sky above as if the Follower's chants truly wrought down the power of his deity. Unlike the civvies in the Inner City, the denizens of The Yard cared not about being caught in the ashfall. When they attacked opposing clans, the ash offered a good shroud, and the ability to carry out assaults with stealth.

The thin-framed man barreled into the walking bastion before him like Persians into the Spartan Phalanx. With reckless abandon, Drexel clawed and punched at the Follower until they were both taken to the obsidian sand. As the Follower struggled to remove the parasite from his chest, the chopper laughed and embraced his inner demons.