Trial by Combat by Ronald Schulte

Trial by Combat by Ronald Schulte

“Excuse me? Sir? How much longer?”

The old man leading me down the tunnel doesn’t answer, doesn’t break stride. He’s probably sick of the question. I’ve been pestering him quite relentlessly, not unlike my kids in the car on the way to vacation. Maybe that’s why he ignores me. Or maybe he’s still pissed that I suggested he’s lost. Men can be so stubborn about asking directions.

“Who would you have me ask for directions, exactly?”

Had I spoken my thoughts aloud? Don’t think so. That old bastard is quite the mind reader. And he makes a good point; I can’t remember the last time we saw another human being. Embarrassed, I fumble for a response.

“No need to apologize,” he says, waving me off. “We’re almost there. You can see the light up ahead if you look carefully.”

I have to squint to see it, but he’s right. There’s light up there, real light, not the dim torchlight that’s provided our only illumination since we entered this tunnel so long ago. How long has it been, exactly?

“About six months.”

The light gradually grows brighter, and the tunnel widens into a chamber of sorts. The chamber ends at a large doorway, through which a blinding rectangular shaft of light penetrates, illuminating the chamber. I slink into the shadows to let my eyes adjust more slowly.

A horn blasts from somewhere beyond the doorway.

“Come.” The old man walks forward into the blinding light. I sigh and follow.

A deafening roar of applause catches me completely by surprise. I imagine a coliseum, perhaps a subconscious nod to the old man’s robes. I use the word “imagine” because I can’t actually see any structure or crowd; there’s fog in here, thick fog that limits visibility to a few feet in any direction. It is a bizarre combination, the bright light and the fog. You’d think fog would dim things a bit but this fog makes it worse. It reflects and refracts the light so my eyes are pierced from all directions by every color in the rainbow. I focus on the old man’s back since it is the only thing I can look at without hurting my eyes.

The old man wanders off into the blinding murk, and I hurry to keep up. Every so often the fog thins out enough that I sense some motion in the distance. I have no clue what I’m seeing, but the noises I hear are suggestive: Grunts, cracks, cheers, crunches, boos, thumps, gasps. Since I’ve already imagined a coliseum, I can’t help but imagine gladiators out there, fighting for the crowd’s amusement.

Gladiators. Didn’t they always fight to the death?

As I contemplate this question and try to ignore the tightening knot in the pit of my stomach, I walk into the old man’s back. Apparently we’ve stopped walking. “Sorry,” I mutter, backing up a step. The old man shakes his head but doesn’t turn around.

We wait.

The crowd cheers, and we wait.

The crowd gasps, and we wait.

I hear a loud thwack, and the crowd goes silent.

And we wait some more.

I almost miss it when the old man starts walking again. Just like that, no warning this time. Before I know it he’s vanished into the fog.

“Wait!” I shout. I jog a few steps in the general direction he’s gone.

“Stop.”

Loud, booming, echoing voice. Not sure it was even directed at me, but I stop nonetheless. Suddenly the fog clears, retreating from me in every direction, creating a large circular fog-free zone around me. I can see the floor now: packed dirt. A barbed wire fence encircles the area, creating an enclosure with a radius of perhaps fifty feet. I see no opening in that fence; how the hell did I pass into this circle without ripping my skin to shreds?

The old man stands just beyond the fence, outside of the circle.

“What is this?” I ask as I approach the old man.

“Do you remember when we first met?” he asks.

“Not really,” I respond. My memory consists of tunnels and trudging. Everything before that is a blur.

“You asked for help.”

“I did?”

“Yes. I told you I’d try.”

“Okay…”

“This is the best I could do.”

“Oh. And what is…this…exactly?”

“Trial by combat.”

“Trial by combat?”

“A fighting chance. Good luck, child.”

I have so many questions but he’s gone, of course he is. Trial by combat? Versus what foe? A battle-hardened warrior? A giant? A pride of lions?

“Fighters, take your mark.”

“Wait!” I shout, spinning about in a panic as the echoes from the booming command slowly fade. “How does this work? What are the rules? Where’s my armor? Do I get to choose a weapon? I’m not prepared!”

“Begin!”

Cheers from the phantom crowd.

A large shadow forms over my head, grows rapidly larger. My instincts tell me to run, and it’s a good thing too because something enormous slams the ground just behind me. The aftershock makes me stumble but I manage to stay on my feet. I keep running but soon reach the barbed wire at the far side of the arena. I have no other choice but to turn around and face my opponent.

I feel a strange jolt of familiarity at the blood and mucus oozing down its lumpy, vaguely spherical surface, forming a slick of vile mud on the arena floor. The thing is at least twenty feet in diameter, takes up almost half the arena. How in the hell am I supposed to fight that?

Better think of something quickly. It’s moving.

It isn’t very fast, but that doesn’t matter much given its nonsensical size advantage. A partial roll is all it would take to corner me. I react on instinct, fake left, sprint right just in time to avoid being trapped.

The meatball–for lack of a better term–takes a few seconds to slow down and change direction; maybe that’s something I can use to my advantage later, but for now I have no weapon and no plan of attack. All I can do is run, stick and move, keep away. The meatball trundles about effortlessly, but soon I’m panting. My movements become more lethargic, my reactions slower. I dodge the thing one last time, but then it anticipates my next move, cuts me off, and just like that I’m hopelessly cornered. I swear I can see the thing gloating as it slowly bears down on me. I back away, all the way to the fence. There’s no way out, and the damn meatball knows it.

Except…

I drop to the floor just before the leading edge of the meatball squishes me against the fence. I stretch out along the bottom of the fence, ignoring the barbs digging into my back. I’ve extended the game by a second or two, but seriously, what is a thin barbed-wire fence to this monstrosity? I close my eyes and wait for the unfathomable weight to turn me into a pancake.

But that doesn’t happen.

After a few seconds I dare to glance up. The meatball has stopped. From my vantage point I can tell that part of the meatball is hanging over the top of the fence, kind of like my love handles over my pants after Thanksgiving dinner. However, the thing has stopped a hair’s width from actually touching the fence. I breathe a sigh of relief. If it doesn’t want to touch the fence then I have a safe zone at the base of the fence, all the way around the arena, due to the meatball’s smaller diameter at its base.

The crowd boos, perhaps unsatisfied with the sudden lack of action. Let them boo. I roll onto my stomach and belly-crawl along the base of the fence. The meatball shadows me, pinning me near the fence but unwilling–or unable–to press any further attack.

“Psst!”

I glance toward the fence a few yards in front of me…and someone is there, on the other side. Again I feel a jolt of familiarity.

“Come here!” she hisses.

“Do I know you?” I ask when I’ve clambered over as close as I can get.

“Where’s your port?” she asks, ducking to avoid the shelf of meatball protruding over her side of the fence.

I blink.

“Your port! Which side is it on?”

I don’t even know what she’s talking about, but I find myself tugging down the left corner of my t-shirt. The woman slaps on a pair of gloves, reaches through the fence, wipes at the skin just below my collarbone with an alcohol wipe.

“What is that?” I ask as she pokes a needle into my chest.

“Your weapon,” she responds.

“My weapon?”

“Of course. All combatants get a weapon. Good luck.”

She’s gone. And I’m nauseous. I turn my head and barf all over the arena floor.

The crowd cheers.

Seriously?

I back away from the puddle of vomit, careful not to hit my head on the meatball. I glance up…and realize the meatball is no longer so close to my head. There’s a noticeable gap between the meatball and the fence, and the gap widens even more as I watch. Is the meatball retreating, grossed out by my puke perhaps?

No. Not retreating.

Shrinking.

It seems to realize this at the same time I do, because it rolls forward to close the gap. There’s less wiggle room near the floor now due to the meatball’s shrinking diameter. However, the trade-off is that it is easier for me to avoid being cornered. I scramble on hands and knees and dart away while I can.

When I reach the middle of the arena, I glance behind me. The meatball has shrunk even more, and is moving much more slowly than it was at the beginning. The tides have turned, it seems. I move every so often to avoid letting the thing catch up, but it is now so much smaller that I doubt it can hurt me at all. It shrinks, and shrinks, and shrinks some more, until it is no larger than a basketball.

Now’s my chance.

I charge the meatball, grab it with both hands. It doesn’t fight back. It is heavier than I expected, but I can handle it. I hoist it over my head, and with a primal scream hurl it out of the arena. It nicks the top of the fence on the way out, but for a weakling like me I think it was a damn good throw.

The crowd gasps.

What is wrong with these people? I just kicked that thing’s ass. Why aren’t they cheering?

Oh.

There’s a small meatball growing on the top of the fence, right where my throw came up oh-so-slightly short of perfect. This is what has the crowd all worked up? No worries. I casually walk over, pull the thing off the fence, send it flying. I wipe the fence with my sleeve to make sure it is fully clean, then raise my arms in victory. Surely there will be cheers this time?

Nope. Gasps. And a couple of screams, if I’m not mistaken. That can’t be good. I turn around slowly, resigned to what I’m about to see.

Meatballs. Dozens of them, manifesting up out of the arena floor from puddles of the big meatball’s foul excretions. Growing, growing large, growing fast, growing out of control.

I feel a hand on my shoulder as I burst into tears. I turn and find myself face to face with the old man.

“They aren’t meatballs,” he says.

I stare at him through my tears, quite shocked at his stupidity.

“I’m going to die.”

“Are you?” he asks. His hand darts through the fence. I feel the slightest pinch on my upper chest. A split-second later there’s tubing attached to my port.

“No more chemo,” I whine.

“No more chemo,” he agrees. “I recommend a different course of treatment. Something that better suits a fighter like you.”

My eyes trace the tubing away from my chest, expecting to find a syringe at the other end, or perhaps an IV bag…

But no.

The tubing is attached to a sword.

I reach out and grab it, and in an instant my entire outlook changes.

I won’t be dying. Not today, anyway. Not at the hands of this gang of meatballs.

“Cancer,” says the old man. “Not meatballs. Call them what they are.”

Fine. Metastatic meatballs.

The old man shakes his head.

He really is one hell of a mind reader.

I’ll bet he’d make a great oncologist.

I turn, face my enemies, raise my sword to the sky.

The meatballs quiver and start rolling…away from me.

The crowd cheers as I give chase.

—

Ronald Schulte is an avid reader and writer of speculative fiction. His work has previously appeared in several online and print publications including Theme of Absence, Fiction on the Web, Purple Wall Stories, The Literary Hatchet, Dark Fire Fiction, and Bewildering Stories. He lives in upstate New York with his wife, son, twin daughters, and two cats. Follow Ronald on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ronaldschulteauthor/ and Twitter at https://twitter.com/ronschulte1.