One month ago …
Guns firing.
Crashes.
Screaming.
Gunshot after gunshot and the tumult of shouting pounded through the stone ceiling as I paced the small area of my dank cell. Above me was a stampede, the thunder of hundreds of feet; prisoners were on the loose. And here I was trapped in this fucking cell!
I need to get out. I must get out! I screamed inside my head as I ran my hand over the metal bars keeping me trapped inside.
Charging the door of my cell, my right shoulder slammed into the metal. It didn’t even shake. Wrapping my hands tightly around the bars over the “window,” I scanned the dimly lit hallway, its flickering dull bulbs swinging back and forth from all the heavy movement upstairs. This level of the prison, the Gulag as it was known amongst the inmates, was reserved for us champions, the most prized of the death fighters. The fucking killers, the murderers, the monsters they’d created to want nothing but to feel rage and spill blood. We were jailed in the bowels of this shithole, no chance of escape. Our cells were too far apart to ever see another fighter except when we were training.
My breathing became ragged. Bellowing in frustration, I pulled on the steel bars, my arm joints creaking with the enormous pressure I put them under. My bulging, drug-created muscles corded with the effort. I roared out a final yell when they refused to budge.
The shot they’d just given me was making my skin crawl and was evoking the need to fight. I was scheduled to fight later tonight. I felt rage, nothing but rage.
I needed to kill. It was the only way to stop the rage.
The first shot had been fired about thirty minutes ago, I guessed. I didn’t know; time had no meaning in the Gulag.
I could hear the other fighters shouting, screaming that they’d been released, could hear the screech of cell doors being wrenched open, the screams of men dying.
I was fucking incensed.
I wanted blood.
And I needed to fight!
My blood boiled under my flesh, fiery, searing, preparing me for a fight to the death. To do what I did best—maim, slaughter … kill.
Roaring out, I released the cell bars and once again began pacing the cell. My eyes, even in the dark, focused on the wall and the name engraved in the stone. Alik Durov. Underneath was an address. Brooklyn, New York. Below that, a motive. Revenge. Lastly, there was a clear instruction. Kill.
I had no memory of writing it down, no memory of my life before this place. Didn’t know if I ever had a life outside of these stone walls. My brain had shut down, blocking out anything but the need to kill, erasing any knowledge of who I was, where I was from, and why I was in this fucking shithole. But one thing was certain. I had written that name, that address, that motive, and that instruction. When I stared at those jagged letters carved permanently on the wall in my line of sight, anger consumed every cell in my body and I knew, without a doubt, I had to do what the inscription commanded.
But I had to get out of this place first.
The sound of the hallway door slamming open echoed off the walls. I rushed to the bars to see what the fuck was happening. My skin was itching with the need to break free, to join the fight … to get my revenge.
The clinking of cell doors opening made my heart race faster. My knuckles cracked with the intensity of my grip on the bars.
“Get me the fuck out!” I growled as I heard heavy footsteps approach my cell. My cheek pressed hard on cold metal as I stretched to see who was coming, my hands rocking the cell door until blood began to ooze from the constantly splitting skin on my fingers.
“Go! Go!” a male voice ordered a prisoner, and I heard a man running away. “They’ve been overpowered. Head for the east gate.”
They’ve been overpowered. Hearing these words spoken out loud, I lost it. Wildfire pulsed through my veins. Running to the back of my cell, I charged the door, my shoulder dislocating with the force.
Seizing my right hand, I popped my shoulder back in place. “GET ME THE FUCK OUT!” I bellowed, my voice sounding as sharp as razors.
The light above my cell flickered off, plunging me into darkness, but it didn’t matter. I could hear everything, I’d learned to embrace the dark. Thudding on the stone floor made its way toward me. My roaring and bellowing increased.
Suddenly, the footsteps stopped and I could hear the sound of heavy breathing outside my cell.
“Get. Me. The. Fuck. Out,” I warned. I caught a nervous flicker of movement to my right.
Two men.
Two men were pussying out of facing me head on.
“It’s him,” one of them whispered as my jaw ticked in annoyance. “It’s 818.”
“I won’t tell you again. Get me the fuck out, or when I find you, I’ll snap your spines,” I threatened in a low voice, as the bars creaked louder with the pulsating power of my anger.
The men still didn’t move. I could smell their fear and it just fucked me off even more.
“Get him out!” a voice ordered from behind and, suddenly, the familiar face of 362 came into view—my greatest rival but the man I spoke to and respected most.
362 grabbed a key and unlocked my door, his broad chest bare, black sweatpants covering his legs and his long black hair hanging down his back. He swung the door open and met me toe to toe at the entrance. His brown eyes bored into mine as my chest pumped with adrenaline. Then he smirked and slapped me on the arm, laughing. Shaking my head, I sized up the two men who blocked my way and then I smiled. I could kill the two weak fuckers in seconds. Snap their necks before they could fucking blink.
The smell of piss filled my nostrils as the two men stood frozen, wide eyes fixed on me. Then the tension of the moment was shattered when a gunshot rang out from upstairs.
362 backed up. “We’ll go out through the east gate. The guards have been overpowered, but they’ll send more soon. We’re the last to be freed. No fucker dared come down here apart from those two. They had no idea it was for you and me.”
362 set off at a sprint back up the stairwell, leaving me stunned at the entrance of my cell. I looked down at the invisible line that separated me from the hallway and, when I looked down, my hands were shaking.
My hands were shaking …
I’d never left my cell of my own accord before. I’d never been beyond this room unless to fight, be tortured or train.
I ran my hand over the mass of scars from being tortured along my body, still feeling the pain that had been inflicted when I’d tried to remember my past. The metal rods the guards would use to shock me, the ones that made you feel like you were dying until you lost consciousness. The pain that felt like fire raging through my body every time I tried to remember anything from my life before this place.
Hearing shouts and what sounded like a brawl upstairs, I clenched my fists and ran back into my cell, ripping my spiked knuckledusters off their hook on the wall.
Bending down to the tub of dirt I kept on the floor, I dipped in my two fingers and ran the dark, almost black, mud under each of my eyes. I’d always hid my eyes. I didn’t know why, it was just something I’d always done. The guards liked it, thought it made me look more vicious, so they collected the dirt for me. They said it made me look more animal than man in the cage.
Slipping on my weapons of choice, I ran my fingers over the carved writing on the wall and recited my mantra.
Alik Durov.
Brooklyn, New York.
Revenge.
Kill.
Hearing the familiar sound of the guards’ heavy footsteps on the stairwell, I threw the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, rolled up the sleeves to free my knuckledusters, and gritting my teeth with single-minded intent, ran full force at the three guards coming my way.
Years of life in the cage, fighting to the death for sick fuckers’ entertainment ensured my strikes were quick and effective. I was a reigning champion. I was the sure bet … I was a machine … I was death.
My spiked fist punctured the chest of the first guard, his heart and lungs sliced open, guaranteeing a swift death. A blow to the head of the second guard saw him drop lifeless to the ground. The third guard turned on his heels when he recognized me. He should. This fucker had beat me, tortured me. It was his time to feel pain.
He’d run just four steps when I gripped his shoulders, wrapped my foot around his calves, and bent him backward until his spine snapped in two. Dropping his corpse, I pounded up seven flights of stairs, not even out of breath.
Revenge.
Kill.
Revenge.
Maim.
Alik Durov.
Brooklyn, New York.
Kill.
They were the only thoughts occupying my mind as I navigated my way through the narrow hallways, dodging bodies under my feet, following the rush of fighters of all ages … even scared little kids, freshly brought into this hell.
I pushed people out of the way heading to the outside, my lungs burning as they coped with the unfamiliar sensation of fresh air. I stumbled as the freezing night breeze whipped the skin on my face and oxygen filled my raw lungs.
Fresh air.
I hadn’t been outside for … I didn’t know how long. Years, I thought. Years trapped in a cell without a glimpse of daylight, breathing in stagnant air, a mixture of dampness, mildew, and blood.…
And death.
Death had a unique smell, a unique taste. I had breathed it in day and night, tasted it for so long that I found it difficult to breathe in the clean freshness of the outdoors.
Seeing the other fighters run free and out of the east gate, a guard sprawled on the floor caught my eye, a stab wound to his stomach. 362 was backing away with bloodlust in his eyes, his bloodied sai in his hand—his choice of weapon in our Gulag cage.
362 watched me approach. “We’re free, 818!” he shouted, his face lit with excitement and his words seemed to echo in my ears, my mind not allowing me to believe it.
“Wh-what now?” I asked, looking around the yard filled with dead bodies, the ground drowning with blood, the Gulag’s sirens wailing and prisoners running for the safety of the nearby forests.
362 dropped his tense shoulders and moved before me. “This is it, 818. It’s what we’ve been waiting so long for. What we’ve survived for.” His eyes brightened and he said, “It’s time for us to seek our revenge.”
R-E-V-E-N-G-E … I spelled out each letter in my head, feeling the anger take hold of me. My mind suddenly caught up with my heart telling me my chance had finally come. After years of killing and becoming the monster the guards had wanted me to be, I was going to get my revenge.
“Where are you going?” I asked 362.
“West,” he answered darkly. “My retribution lies in the west.”
362 had been the one to make me write Durov’s name on my cell wall, I didn’t remember him doing that, but he told me he had when I first arrived. He too had a name on his wall. Those inscriptions drove us. They gave us a past when there wasn’t one left in our heads. They gave us a reason to live.
We stood there, matching each other’s stares, when 362 pressed his hand onto my arm, gripping my bicep tightly.
“Go kill the one that condemned you, 818. You’re ready. You’ve been ready for this day for far too long.”
Mirroring his action, my hand hit his arm. “You too.”
362 dropped his hand but looked up to say, “Hopefully we’ll meet again, 818. If not, get back the life you lost and I’ll see you in the next.”
With a nod of his head, he turned on his heel and sprinted out of the large metal gate. Dropping down to the guard scum, I fisted his shirt, my anger flaring when I saw recognition flash across his face.
He need be scared. I was going to gut the fucker for keeping me in this hell, for hurting me when I was a kid, for doing things to me when I was a kid …
“Don’t … don’t hurt me!” he cried, and my lip curled in disgust.
Shaking his puny body until his teeth chattered, I demanded, “Which way to New York?”
The guard paled and my fists tightened, threatening to choke him. “Which direction?”
The guard’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t breathe through my grip. I loosened my hold just enough to let the asshole speak.
“East. New York is east.”
The sound of trucks approaching in the distance prompted me to lean down and ask, “And where the fuck are we?”
The guard started to lose consciousness, and by the pool of blood on the floor, gushing from his stomach, I knew it was only a matter of seconds until he passed.
“Fucking answer me!” I snarled. “Where the hell are we?”
“Al-Alaska,” he replied.
I threw him to the ground, done with the bastard now that I’d gotten what I needed. The trucks neared the Gulag and I knew I had only a few minutes to leave before more guards arrived and locked this place down.
Alik Durov.
Brooklyn, New York.
Revenge.
Kill.
Reminded of my purpose, I rose to my feet when the guard laughed and my eyes shot straight to him.
“We … we made you who you are…” he whispered, blood now dripping from his mouth. “We made you strong … unrivaled … a champion…” He trailed off, coughing and spluttering, choking on his own blood.
I saw red.
Incensed at his words, I raised both fists, the sharpened spikes of my knuckledusters facing down, and with a rage-fueled roar, I pushed the spikes straight into his chest. The guard’s mouth dropped open as he released a silent scream, and pushing down all of my muscled weight into his chest, I snarled in his face and slowly twisted the spikes of my knuckledusters. Victory surged through my body as his eyes bulged and, fighting for breath, he gagged for the last time. I witnessed the life leave his eyes, nothing remaining but the unseeing stare of death.
Panting with the victory of the kill—what I was trained to do, all I was created to do, all they had trained me to do—I slowly rose to my feet, then set off at a sprint.
Within minutes, I broke through a line of trees into a dense forest, heading east.
And I wouldn’t stop until I reached my destination. I wouldn’t stop until I killed a certain …
Alik Durov.
Brooklyn, New York.
Revenge.
Kill.