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"I don't roll that high," Valentine said.
The party in the box got louder and the stadium began to empty out. It was just after eleven. Rod Lightning left with the two bar girls. The announcer began to count down for kill-tally bets. Valentine wondered what that meant.
"Time to call it a night?" Valentine asked Rooster. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"Nope. One more special show," Rooster said. "Ever heard of a rat kill?"
"This have something to do with extermination?"
"In a manner."
Valentine watched twenty men of assorted sizes and colors being led into the center hexagon. Each had a black hood over his head. Some of the people on their way out hurried for the exits, but a good third of the audience stayed.
"What's this?" Valentine asked, a little worried.
"It's a rat kill," Moyo said from over his shoulder. "I'm going to watch this one. One of my yard chiefs is in there. Daniel Penn. He was screwing me on deposits, swapping out corpses for the healthy and smuggling them across the river."
Rooster made a note on a pad. "They're all criminals of one sort or another, or vagrants."
Some of the condemned men lost control of themselves as they stepped into the ring. Bladder, bowel, or legs gave way. Escorts in black uniforms shoved them into the cage and lined them up. Valentine saw a shot clock light up in the scoreboard-evidently one part of it still worked-set for sixty.
"And here comes the Midway Marvel," Moyo said.
"Jus-tiss. Jus-tiss! JUS-TISS!" the crowd began to chant.
Tall. Pale. Hair like a threadbare black mop. It was a Reaper, stripped to the waist, loose, billowing black pants ending just above its bare feet. It walked oddly, though, with its arms behind it. As it entered the cage he saw why-thick metal shackles held its wrists together.
"JUS-TISS JUS-TISS JUS-TISS!" the crowd roared, the attenuated numbers sounding just as loud as the thicker crowd had for the night's main event.
"The Marvel's got sixty seconds to off as many as he can. Record's fifteen for the year. All-time high is eighteen. Contest rules say that one always has to survive-even though we've never had a nineteen."
As they unshackled each man from his companions and removed his hood they read the crime, but no name. Number one was a murderer. Number two committed sabotage. Number three had been caught with a transmitter and a rifle. . . .
"Why no women?" Valentine asked.
"Haven't done women in a rat kill for years," Moyo said.
Fourteen, a currency forger, fainted when they took his hood off.
"Crowd didn't like it as well," Rooster said. "They booed when it killed a woman instead of a man. We have other ways of taking care of women. Would you-"
"No thanks."
A heavyset man in a black-and-white-striped shirt with a silver whistle entered the ring to more cheering. He wore a biking helmet and thick studded-leather gloves. The condemned men bunched up.
Valentine felt sick, suspecting what was coming. "Who operates the Marvel?" he asked.
"The one at the top of the Pyramid," Rooster said, lifting his glass a few inches for emphasis. "We only get to do one of these a month. You're lucky."
"You must have an unusually lawless town," Valentine said.
Moyo leaned in close. "I'll tell you a little secret. Only a couple are really criminals. The others are volunteers who took the place of a spouse or a relative in the fodder wagon. On a bad night only six or seven die, so they've got a better than fifty-fifty chance of making it back out."
That's the Kurian Zone, A lie wrapped in a trap cloaked in an illusion. "Jesus," Valentine said.
"Never showed up," Moyo said.
The referee held a black handkerchief high. Valentine was surprised to see that the Reaper's arms were still bound. Weren't they going to unleash it? Or would it simply break free at the right moment?
