GunBarrel Gauntlet: The Last Bronze II

31. Saturday Night Live!

Polyrhythmic drumbeats charged the air with excitement, gamelan cymbals singing with frenetic metal notes from the orchestra pit of the arena. The stadium's benches were claimed quickly by the mixed crowds, almost the entirety of the factory's workforce given a sabbatical rest to gather for the spectacle of the games.

Amongst the swelling audience, Shamrock had taken a seat in the higher back rows, caught up in the energy of the crowd. Another mechanic had explained that the games were blood sport, using misbehaved slaves and outcasts from the tribe folk as bait. It not only entertained the audience, but also warned them of what the punishment would be if they should ever disobey.

Weary had a closer view of the arena floor, a wide cement pavement enclosed on all sides like a square pit. Arched gates were built into the concrete walls on three sides, with the remaining wall and its prospective half of grounds covered in a maze of tyres.

The one eyed paramedic had found himself keeping company with the elite inside a private balcony that projected from the vertical face of the Tower. Boudisha was there with her collared pet, beside the imposing broad shadow of Zeus, whom remained mostly anonymous from Weary's attempts to study the leader of the united tribes. Yesterday's News was resting at the rear close to Weary, dwarfed by the standing company of Zeus's closest friends and bodyguards that came and went as they pleased from the viewing box.

Denied a closer glimpse of their chief, Weary instead took note of the bodyguard and rank holders, ostentatious in their barbarian costumes of flayed skin and grisly ornaments designed to intimidate or inspire awe.

The pounding energy of the drums and percussion orchestra ceased abruptly, reducing the noise of the stadium to the babble of the expectant crowds, watching the cavity of the pit and maze in the shifting firelight of the torch sconces lining the walls.

"Who's out there, tonight?" A megaphone voice challenged the noisy audience.

Hundreds of mouths cried out in response.

"Do you know what night it is?!" The megaphone let the question hang again until a wave of noise replied:

"Saturday! Night! Live!"

"You betcha! It's come at last, our sweet salvation, coming to you live from the colosseum of carnage and calamity, another episode of everybody's favourite television program direct to your imagination! Saturday night live!

"But first, before tonight's games may commence, a word from one of our corporate sponsors. HERCULES!"

Entering the arena to the wild cries of the spectators, a roman chariot leashed to four parallel motorcycles circled the pit, engines snarling as they passed through the halo of torchlights. Standing as solid as a mountain in the open top chariot, a muscle carved giant gripped the reigns in one hand as the other waved to encourage their adoration.

A chain gang of prisoners soon followed, compelled by handlers whom burned them with electric shocks to walk ahead and wait in the center of the chariot driver's display, hanging their heads in resigned misery as they became the focus of the crowd's attention, exposed with no place to hide from closing judgement.

Yanking the reigns to cease the momentum of the bikes, Hercules stepped down from his mount and placed himself between the balcony deck and the row of prisoners, signalling for an immediate silence.

Weary and Shamrock had been focused on the charioteer since his first seconds in the arena, giving a face to the infamous name they had been warned about. Unlike the other Skin Pirates, Hercules was a Spartan in his austere clothing and physique, braided hair strands tied back in a tail from the terracotta tan of a broad forehead.

Both men had diverted their attention from Hercules when the prisoners entered, shocked to witness that Tiny was chained to the others. The big man's eyes were wide and rolling like a trapped animal, looking for any means of escaping the killing-floor.

"Father! Father!" Hercules addressed the tower balcony.

From high above, a figure in a gold helmet appeared and lent over the terrace rail.

"I must ask your forgiveness! I was too generous to our enemies, and they have betrayed us by making deals with these outlander scum!" Hercules pointed a finger towards Tiny. "And when they failed to sabotage us, they stole our haitch-two-oh!"

A mob of voices cursed out at those whom had stolen the water shipment.

"Father! The Scabeaters have payed for their crimes, but not enough! Tonight, there will be a further reckoning. Tonight... is for you!"

Returning from the gates with car tyres laced in chain restraints, the prison handlers set to work placing them on the shoulders of each condemned man so that their head emerged through the centre, looping the chain lengths under their armpits and back through the tyre to secure it against their upper bodies.

Turning away from the scene as his imagination swam with sickening imagery of what might happen to Tiny, Weary had unexpectedly caught the gaze of Yesterday. The legless man's face was loaded with the silent question, do you still believe you'd be safe here?

Below, Hercules had already strode toward the nearest wall and took from it a lit torch, brandishing it high to tease the blood lust of the audience. Staring into the haunted eyes of each captive along the parade, the long haired chieftain touched the burning end of the torch under the tyre rims hanging from their necks.

Tiny and the other prisoners screamed and flailed as their heads were engulfed in the melting rubber heat, throwing themselves down on the cement with legs and torso writhing out from the smoking inferno that had consumed the rest of their features.

Withdrawing from the window view of the fires, Weary made his way to the back of the room, searching for the man in the wheelchair...

* * *

Carrion's own situation had not improved since she had been separated from the others in the tunnels underneath Gaswells. Her interrogation with Boudisha and the golden masked Zeus had been brief, and painful. Hanging from her wrists inside a triangular frame, the beautiful scarred woman and her unseen partner had used her for a boxing bag, bruising her all over with their knuckles to learn everything they could about the missing water tanker.

Ironically, Carrion had no real knowledge of where the tanker was hidden. Only Scratch and the remaining Scabeaters could identify the secret location they had secured it, part of the deal they had made with herself and the other Outlanders.

Having suffered through her stubborn refusal to give them a useful answer, Boudisha had declared that Carrion would not suffer a quick death. Prolonged suffering and a bloody end would be the trucker's reward for her sullen defiance.

And so Carrion would also be a participant of the games, promised a spectacular entrance into the arena. Cruel hands strapped her into the seat of an egg shaped rocket sled, part of a team that was loading the canisters at the rear of the sled with gas until the pressure gauge needles were flat on the opposite side.

"Hold on to this!" A handler tucked the blade of a knife into her mouth. "But not too hard, you'll break your remaining teeth when they launch you down the runway. Lose it, and you'll have no chance of breakin' out of this gas sled when it finally stops." He grinned as though it were little more than friendly advice.

She could hear the gas whistling in escape as they adjusted the ring of outlets, a shout of warning given for the team to clear the launch passage. Keeping a hold of the knife between her lips, Carrion closed her eye and inhaled purposefully, ready for what may come next.

An oil soaked rag burning at the end of a pole reached into the miasma of volatile gasses filling the air, igniting a fireball brilliance that sucked out the oxygen of the passage in an audible snuff.

Shooting through the narrow barrel like a flaming bullet, the gas sled sparked against the walls, rebounding on all sides as it spiralled into the growing light of the exit gate.