Chapter 17 #2
First, it was Dean Knoxville. They threw him into the barricade with a sickening thud, then hit their finisher, a double team powerbomb through a table.
“Dean Knoxville has been eliminated!”
Then Carter Divine. He got caught in a submission hold by Raven. He tapped out within seconds.
We were down to four. They still had five.
Evan was fighting valiantly, trying to keep the team together. He looked at me, then at Cal, screaming at us to get our heads in the game. “Stick to the plan! Focus!”
But we couldn’t.
Cal was fighting like a man possessed, but he was reckless. He wasn’t wrestling to win; he was wrestling to hurt. He ignored the called spots. He ignored Evan’s directions.
Because of the miscommunication, Evan had to dive in to save Cal from a three on one beatdown. He took a superkick to the jaw intended for Cal. He went down hard.
One, two, three.
“Evan Wilder has been eliminated!”
The crowd groaned. The momentum was entirely with Demolition. They hadn’t lost a single man.
It was five against three. Me, Cal, and Martinez against five fresh opponents.
We were drowning. The match dragged on. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. We were selling the beatdown, taking bump after bump, waiting for the cue. My body ached, but it was a dull throb compared to the screaming void in my chest. Every time I looked at Cal, he was looking away.
Then, the referee caught my eye. He tapped his wrist discreetly.
Time.
It was time for the comeback. This was the scripted turnaround. We had practiced this transition a dozen times earlier that day.
Martinez locked eyes with me from across the ring. He wiped blood from his lip and gave me a subtle nod.
Go.
We set the move up. The spot designed to put Silas Reed on the map and finally eliminate Camden Coranto to give the good guys a fighting chance.
Martinez rolled out of the ring, pulling the table into position on the outside, near the barricade, exactly where we marked it.
I grabbed the ladder, sliding it into the center of the ring.
Cal was in the corner, selling a rib injury, surrounded by three guys who were “stomping” him to keep him occupied while I climbed.
I began to scale the ladder.
My boots rung against the metal steps.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
I climbed higher, perfectly positioned against the ropes. My setup was solid. Martinez was spotting on the outside, holding the table steady. Camden Coranto was braced on the table, lying in wait, trusting me with his body.
I reached the top. I stood up. I looked down at the drop. It was higher than it looked in practice. The lights blinded me for a second.
Then, it happened.
I hesitated.
Just for a split second. But in the air, a split second is an eternity.
I looked down. Not at the table. But at Cal. He was across the ring, looking up at me from the mat. And for a brief, terrifying moment, I didn’t see my tag partner waiting for the save. I saw the stranger from the hotel room. I saw the hatred.
It’ll plague your infected brain until you fucking die.
My mind drifted from the mechanics of the jump to the heartbreak in my chest. I lost my focus. I lost my nerve.
I kicked off the ladder, throwing my body into the backflip. But because of the hesitation, I didn’t get the full rotation. I didn’t get the arc. I didn’t push off hard enough.
I was coming down too short. And too fast.
Oh god.
I saw white.
I didn’t hit the center of the table. I didn’t hit Camden cleanly.
I crashed.
My body missed the target. I collided with the edge of the table and the mass of bodies below. I felt a sickening crunch under me,
Martinez.
I had landed directly on him. My weight drove him into the concrete floor, his body absorbing the impact that the table was supposed to take. He went limp instantly.
But my left arm… my left arm got caught.
It hooked over the top of the metal barricade leg as I fell. The momentum of my body kept going down, but my arm stayed up.
It wrenched back violently, snapping in a direction nature never intended.
Crack.
The sound was louder than the crowd. It was a wet, organic snap that vibrated through my entire skeleton.
My ears were ringing. The crowd went silent. The cheer died in their throats, replaced by a collective, horrified gasp. My vision went blurry, tunneling into a pinprick of light.
“Silas!” I heard a voice scream. It sounded underwater.
I rolled my head. My arm felt like it had been sawed through with a rusty blade, burning hot and then… nothing. Cold. Dead weight.
I blinked, trying to clear my vision. I looked up through the ropes.
Cal.
He was standing alone in the ring.
He stopped fighting. He was staring down at me. His face was white. The anger was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated terror. He knew. He saw the landing. He heard the snap.
He looked around. Martinez was out cold under me. I was broken. Evan was gone. The rookies were gone.
It was just him.
One against Five.
My consciousness was fading. Then, Cal was hit from behind. The Demolition team didn’t stop, they didn’t know the extent of it yet. They swarmed him.
Nobody knows, I realized, panic spiking through the fog. The match is still going.
The screams were there, but there was too much chaos. The refs didn’t know yet. They thought I was selling.
I tried to move my fingers. Nothing. I couldn’t feel them.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog. I finally caught eyes with someone, a ref? The ring announcer? I couldn’t tell. I lifted my good arm, shaking uncontrollably, and crossed it over my chest.
The X.
The white flag. The surrender.
EMTs and refs swarmed us instantly. The illusion shattered. My consciousness was slipping, sliding away like oil on water. I could hear words, urgent and shouting.
“We’re putting you on a stretcher!”
“Check Martinez! He’s not moving!”
“Brace Reed’s neck! Watch the shoulder! It’s completely out!”
What the hell?
I heard bangs on the mat inside the ring. One… two… three.
“… Has been eliminated!”
“…Has been eliminated!”
The announcer’s voice echoed.
I was being lifted. I looked back toward the ring one last time as my head lolled to the side.
Cal was standing in the center. Surrounded by five men. He wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at me being carried away. He looked small. He looked completely alone.
“Stay with us, Reed,” I heard someone say close to my ear.
I was put on a stretcher, no, a spinal board? Fuck, my arm, I swear it was ripped off.
Wait, I can’t feel my fingers. Fuck, why can’t I move my hand? Why are they bracing my neck?
I can’t breathe.
The dive.
How did I fall? Where was Camden? Martinez? Were they still in the match?
They had to be, I must’ve missed them, I had to have, they didn’t stop the match, did they?
“…Has been… Eliminated.”
Callum…
Fuck, Cal.
He’s probably scared, I wonder if he knows I’m alright.
I’m getting cold, where am I?
Am I bleeding?
“Silas! Don’t fall asleep!” a medic yelled as we moved.