Rating
3.65 of 5 Votes: 3
Richard Thomas (This story was originally published in 2011 in Murky Depths #15 as a shorter version.) © Copyright Richard Thomas, 2011 It’s the third night in a row and my bloodlust can’t be quenched. There aren’t many women here, I’m one of the few. They don’t have the stomach for it. I do. This advancement in prison control, this thinning of the herd was inevitable. The people won’t stand for anything less. The guilty have an option now at the hands of their victims. There are no laws here, no punishment beyond this place. Fight or die. On some nights, fight and die.
The warehouse is vast and yet we are on top of each other. Some are sweaty, wiping their foreheads with the back of their hands, taking deep breaths. Others have their arms wrapped around emaciated frames, shivering as if cold. In the center of the room is a patch of canvas, a lone dim bulb descending from the rafters, a sepia tone declaring this time history to be recorded. Risers are scattered around the ring, leading up to concrete walls and dusty windows with spiderweb cracks.
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