CHAPTER 35
Havre, MT
Cheers rang out across the enclosure. A crowd of guards and inmates surrounded the two combatants. The men circled each other, jockeying for the best position. Both men had cuts on their knuckles and faces. Their clothing, which had been tattered prior to the fight, had been reduced to mere strips of fabric that barely clung to the men’s emaciated frames.
Tom was sickened by the spectacle. The smaller of the men, Seeley, held his ribs. Tom was pretty sure some of them were broken. He’d been close enough to hear the crack. The less injured combatant, Devon, charged across the space, aiming for them.
“Left hook! Left hook!” one of the guards yelled.
The man’s glee was splashed across his face. Tom fought to keep from telegraphing his own disgust. He must have bet on Devon.
Another guard reached out his foot as the combatants neared and tripped Devon. He fell to the ground. Seeley leapt on top of him. Their thin bodies rolled across the space. Devon managed to get a leg in between them and flung Seeley off. With a grunt, he slammed into the ground, his face a painful grimace
A guard across the circle threw a shovel into the arena. Both men leapt for it, knowing it was the difference between life and death. The guards pointed and laughed.
Tom looked away, struggling to keep his breathing even, unable to stand the sight any longer. Seeley was in trouble. Devon was the stronger of the two fighters. He outweighed Seeley by a good thirty pounds and had at least five inches on him. The guards thought it was funny that they were so mismatched.
The fights happened once a day. Sometimes the guards let the combatants live, but usually it was to the death. Even those that lived through the fight didn’t survive many days after it. They probably could have, if they’d been given medical attention. But that wasn’t going to happen here.
And the guards didn’t care. This was sport for them. Tom looked over at Commander Gregory. He stood with his arms crossed, staring down at the combatants, a smirk on his face. As horrible as the guards were, Commander Gregory was the worst.
To the commander, this was just a cockfight. The men fighting were no longer even human to him. Tom had seen Gregory take every opportunity to inflict pain, physical or otherwise, on the prisoners. Tom knew he was no exception. The Commander recognized early on that Tom could take the physical pain easier than the emotional pain. When he saw Tom’s reaction to the body pit, he made sure that from that point on Tom was always one of the men who carried the bodies over. Every time Tom did, Gregory was there, watching him.
A loud cheer arose from the guards, pulling Tom’s attention back to the fight. Seeley had somehow managed to wrestle the shovel away from Devon. He’d gotten a lucky strike to Devon’s head. Now he slammed away at him, looking like a man possessed.
Panting, Seeley paused, holding the shovel above his head. He flipped the shovel over. Using it as a spear, he drove it directly into Devon’s face.
Tom’s stomach lurched. The fight was over. He watched in horror as Devon’s blood splattered across the ground, along with bits of bone and, oh God, was that brain matter?
He tore his eyes away from the sight to look at Seeley. Swaying on his feet, his right arm clutched to his side. His eyes were wide as he stared at the bloody spectacle in front of him.
Tom looked up into Commander Gregory’s cold eyes.
“Clean it up,” Gregory barked, pointing to Tom and the man next to him.
Tom tried to wipe all emotion from his face. Denying the Commander the satisfaction of seeing him react was one of the only victories he could achieve in this place.
He walked over to Devon’s body with quick movements, his face without expression. But as he glanced down at what was left of the man’s face, an involuntary shudder ran through him. He struggled not to gag.
Please don’t let him have seen that, he pleaded silently as he looked up. The Commander stared down at him, victory in his eyes.