BloodBall, The Most Dangerous Spectator Sport, Bar None. (standard:action, 10465 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Aug 28 2020	Views/Reads: 1361/938	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
While polo may be the sport of kings, BloodBall is the sport of the BRAVE. In any given year, hundreds of both performers and spectators give their very lives for the sport.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

evicted, black-balled from the sport for life, and prosecuted to the 
fullest extent of the law. 

IMPORTANT: Be aware that, because of the electronic scrambling,
computers will NOT work within the playing area. That includes most 
watches, some PACEMAKERS, most automobiles newer than 1980, cellular 
telephones, or any devices using computer chips or other electronics. 
Some may be irreparably damaged by our protective devices. We are NOT 
RESPONSIBLE for any such injuries or damage to your property. 

====== BloodBall, the Story: ======= 

“You two shut the hell up, and keep an eye out,” Sammy Jenkins
admonished his companions. The nervous BloodBall player, mechanic named 
Ted, and Sally his gunner, were driving through abandoned Detroit, now 
the Detroit Reservation. The city stood out with its decrepit 
foul-smelling windowless buildings. The scene around them was dark and 
unsavory looking. Skeletons slumped inside autos and lay in the streets 
and on sidewalks. 

They were searching for old cars, very old autos without computers. In
the year 2040 those vehicles were both hard to find and expensive as 
hell, but there were hundreds of them in Detroit. Although most were 
rusty from sitting in the weather for twenty years, some could still be 
salvaged for the sport. 

Detroit itself had been declared a national preserve thirty years
before. The city had been almost destroyed by a terrorist attack, a 
nuclear one. It had been a "clean" bomb though, killing every living 
creature for miles around but leaving a minimum of residual radiation 
behind. That radiation had been slowly fading over the years. 

Still too dangerous to stay in for long, the city was off limits to all
but scientists and preserved intact by order of the Federal Government. 
It did contain one hell of a lot of old automobiles though, in 
junkyards and former low-income neighborhoods. Some were old enough to 
have been built without computer chips and were convertible to the 
game. 

Not having money to buy expensive restored or de-computerized vehicles,
which rarely functioned for more than one game, the three were braving 
radiation and occasional park ranger patrols. They were driving a large 
flatbed truck with a winch on the trailer section. 

Ted and Sally had never gotten along well. The three had been together
since childhood and those two argued constantly. Their friendship with 
Sammy was the only thing holding them together and keeping them from 
attacking each other. If they ever did fight, Sammy figured, he'd feel 
sorry for Ted. The mechanic was a large stoic man but diminutive Sally 
already had a dozen or more kills to her name. All as a result of their 
sport – although it wasn't considered polite to keep count. 

“My mother drew me a map. She lived up here around Adams Street before
the attack.” Ted pointed out a deteriorating sign saying "North Adams 
Street, next right." 

Sammy turned onto the street. They had been on the edge of the business
district, but the streets quickly became residential. 

Occasionally, they would feel the crunch of old bones and the streets
were sometimes clogged with abandoned vehicles. Sammy looked at his 
watch. It was still early afternoon.  They didn't dare be in the former 
city after dark. Their radiation absorption would accumulate if they 
stayed overnight, and headlights attracted air patrols. With all the 
obstacles inherent in the visit, it would be almost impossible to drive 
out unseen in the dark and without headlights. 

All three kept a careful watch for the right type of vehicles. Only Ted,
with his mechanical knowledge, could say for certain but they would try 
to notice which ones had the most rust or looked older than the rest. 

Nobody had ever tried to clean up the mess or bury corpses. They lay
where they'd fallen on that fateful day. Right after the attack, and 
for years afterward, the radiation and sheer magnitude of the dead had 
kept people away. Future cleanup had been aborted by the entire area 
becoming a memorial. 

“Stop here,” Ted ordered. 

They halted at a small sign saying, “Jeb's Reconditioned Autos”. It was
a warehouse-type building. 

“Ma said they'd been repairing old cars for used car lots here,” Ted
advised the others. “If so, some vehicles might be in good shape, 
stored inside out of the weather.” 

“Shit,” Sally complained. “How we ever going to get them outside and
onto the fucking truck? Those doors are probably electric, you know?” 

“Stop complaining. Ted's probably right. He's the mechanic. You just
look to your guns, you hear me?” Sammy wanted to stop her nagging 
before it started. The pretty red-headed woman pouted but shut up. 

The other two got out and tried to find a way inside while Sammy backed
the truck up to an overhead door and shut off the engine. It felt good 
to stand and walk around after all that driving. He heard sounds of 
metal banging on metal and then the shattering of glass. 

“Here we go, guys. I found a way in,” Sally called out. 

They entered through a door in the front of the building, finding
themselves in an office. Two skeletons, one in a chair and the other on 
the floor, greeted them with vacant gazes. Sally simply kicked the one 
away from an interior door, and they went inside the repair bay. 

It was a large working area filled with vehicles. They didn't show much
rust, except one that sat under what must be a leak in the roof. The 
vehicles were in various states of repair. Some looked ready to drive 
while others were spread over a concrete floor, tools scattered around 
them, sagging chain-hoists holding engine blocks only inches in the 
air. The smell of old oil was thick within a stuffy enclosed area. 

“Ted, you inspect them while we try to open that overhead door. We have
extra batteries and tires in the truck.” 

“Oh, man. This must be what mechanic heaven looks like.” Ted showed
eager enthusiasm as he ran from car to car. There was enough light 
inside for him to see well. His eyes seemed to gleam as he studied rack 
after rack of spare parts, most in original shipping boxes or piled 
neatly on the shelves. 

“If we could get all this shit out, we'd be set for years.” Ted groaned
in ecstasy, rubbing his hand lovingly over a pristine engine sagging 
from a stressed metal stand. 

“Stupid asshole,” Sally bitched. “And how long before the authorities
detected all that radiation on them, or some simple-ass customer got 
sick from it?” 

“Shouldn't be any problem, if they don't sleep with the stuff,” Sammy
told her. “There isn't a whole lot of danger anymore. Getting it out 
and trying to explain where we got it would be the problem. A lot of 
these parts have serial numbers sold to Detroit. We start selling all 
this, someone will notice, put a radiation detector on it, and we'd be 
up shit creek.” Sammy had to admit, to himself, that he was considering 
taking a chance. This was a million dollar find. “The little bit we 
take should be okay, I hope. And we know where it's at. We'll be sure 
to take that sign down before we leave. That way no one else will find 
this shop.” 

It took a while, but they found a way to open the overhead door without
damaging it. Since they might want to get back in on a later 
expedition, they didn't want to let rain and snow inside while they 
were gone. 

As it was, they did take quite a bit of the inventory. They had thought
to bring a few extra batteries and sets of usable tires with them. Ted 
managed to get two cars, both Fords, going. It took most of the 
afternoon, though. 

While Ted worked, the others helped him and loaded spare parts onto the
back of the truck, packing them around and inside a third auto.  All or 
nothing, they figured. Either they would have a good take – or be 
caught. At least one of the reclaimed vehicles should last long enough 
to be driven through to the outside. 

“The big fuel tank outside is bone dry,” Sally informed the others, “but
there are a dozen five-gallon cans spotted around the place and a 
smaller tank inside the door.” Luckily, they'd brought bottles of 'Oil 
and Fuel Renewal' tablets with them. 

Sammy pulled the loaded truck out of the way and the others, somewhat
gingerly, drove out behind him, Sally closing the door behind them. 
Sammy tore the sign out front down by pulling it out by the roots with 
his truck. They were ready to go. 

“Here. I made a couple of copies of the map and marked a route. You guys
go ahead and I'll follow with the truck. If you break down I'll pick 
you up,” Sammy instructed them. None of the scavengers completely 
trusted the old vehicles. They had been sitting for over thirty years. 
All sorts of parts could be dried out or rusted. Although Ted had done 
his best in that short time, he couldn't cover everything. And staying 
overnight with the residual radiation wasn't really an option. 

“If anyone is caught, the others will bail them out, okay?” Not waiting
for an answer, Sammy finished, “Just don't say anything if you're 
caught. We'll meet back at the ranch.” He meant the small ex-cattle 
ranch where he lived. 

“Sally. I know you're armed. If you're chased, for Christ's sake ditch
the damned thing. Don't try to shoot it out. We ain't got enough cash 
to bail you out from that, or for a homicide lawyer.” It was an 
afterthought ... but she might. 

First Sally, then Ted, left. Sammy started the truck, looking back to
make certain their escapade wasn't obvious. They had even rigged a 
cover over the broken glass to the office. Giving them a few minutes 
head start, he followed. While he drove, Sammy thought of the new 
sport, and how its popularity had escalated.... 

When a visitor entered their favorite arena, set in an unpopulated area
of Arizona, he was given a booklet explaining the action. BloodBall was 
one sport where even the spectators were fairly fearless. If you wanted 
to impress your bar buddies on your bravery, a good way was to have 
official BloodBall emblems on your baseball cap and pickup truck, 
proving you had been present. Every spectator was registered on the 
Official BloodBall website. Having your name, photo, and signature 
there was a certain sign of bravery. 

*** 

Sammy was somewhat surprised in that all three vehicles made it back.
They never saw a National Park Patrol car or helicopter. They did take 
every precaution they could, which wasn't much. It was a long trip back 
but they were relatively safe once they had left the Detroit Preserve 
behind. One of the autos barely made it to Sammy's place, smoking badly 
for the last fifty miles or so. 

“You get to work on the cars tomorrow, Ted, old buddy.” Sammy laughed,
in a very good mood on getting back to safety at his ranch. He still 
had to take the rental truck back for his deposit. “We have enough 
spare parts to almost build another auto from scratch.” 

“We gonna sell the extra parts?” Sally asked, still dusty and smelling
like oil from her steed. It was her car that had been smoking and too 
damned hot to drive with closed windows. “Ted could have fixed it on 
the road, you know?  We did have spare oil filters in the truck?” 

“Sure, and some patrolman would have seen us and stopped,” Sammy
reminded her. “We'd be in deep shit if he did, without a title or 
registration.” Another thing he'd have to take care of, Sammy knew. 
Fake papers. 

“I'm goin' home for sleep and a bath,” Sally told them emphatically,
rubbing crusted grime off her forehead and chin with a clean rag. “Let 
the oaf, there, work if he wants.” 

“Go on, girl,” Sammy told her while Ted, already busy checking the cars
over, ignored the jibe. “See you tomorrow for target practice?” 

“Fuck you,” she called over her shoulder. “I'm taking Hotshot to the
beach tomorrow morning. Promised her weeks ago.” Hotshot was the given 
name for her sixteen-year-old daughter. Sally was an unwed mother and 
doted on the little girl. If anything, Hotshot was an even better shot 
than her mother. It seemed to run in the family; running almost as fast 
as the father. 

As she drove her own Chevy home, Sally thought of her childhood. She had
been one of the fattest kids in school, also one of the dimmest. A 
small chubby physical stature and abrasive rebellious nature precluded 
young Sally Simpson from being popular. Those traits were only 
intensified by an irreverent attitude toward both her classmates and 
life itself. 

In order to keep up in her studies, she kept at them incessantly, having
no time for social activities. For some obscure reason, the kids called 
her “Sally Simpleton”, or SS said in a hiss. By the time she graduated 
from high school, Sally had lost much of her weight, also developing a 
cussing habit and defensive attitude. 

When she set her mind to doing something, she let nothing sway her. She
had only been swayed one time in her life, and that had resulted in 
Hotshot. Sally, not so fondly, recalled the circumstances of her one 
try at love.... 

“Hey, you got you a good eye there, girlie,” Adam, from a local gunshop
downtown, called to Sally, who was waiting on customers at the local 
McDougles drive-through counter. 

She had been, during a temporary absence of customers at the counter,
flipping toothpicks across her station at half a hamburger roll sitting 
in a nearby trash can. Many of them stuck into the target. 

“Come on, Sally. I'm going to the range Wednesday. You wanna come
along?” Adam asked from a stool in front of the counter. He always sat 
there in order to ogle the legs of the waitresses, who were required to 
wear short-skirted uniforms. “I'll furnish the ammo, you bring the 
lunch?” 

Sally, had nothing better to do that Wednesday, and it was her day off,
so she took Adam up on the offer. When he pulled up outside the 
restaurant where she waited with a sack of discounted burgers and 
cokes, he pulled up in his company van filled with firearms, ammo, and 
an air mattress. Since it was a private range with a wooded area around 
it, he had high hopes of using that mattress. 

At first, they practiced with black-powder weapons, having fun and
getting acquainted. Little virgin Sally and Adam fired a lot of duds 
that day from defective powder. However one shot wasn't a dud, 
resulting in Hotshot. The casual romp in the woods produced two 
positive results; her daughter and Sally developing an avid interest in 
firearms. 

Over the next few years, Adam closed his shop and headed for parts
unknown. Hotshot grew like a weed and Sally bought, borrowed, and 
practiced with a lot of firearms. She became so good with them that she 
entered, and soon won, state-level competitions. 

When the new sport of BloodBall began, the adventurous woman got in on
the ground floor, taking to machine guns like the champion she had 
become. When her daughter learned to walk, the tyke received a toy 
pistol for her birthday. Hotshot grew up with a gun in her hand and a 
soft plastic cartridge to teethe on.... 

*** 

As she closed her front door, Sally could hear familiar sounds of
gunfire coming from an open basement door. She had installed a shooting 
range down there, which was why she had bought the long narrow house in 
the first place. 

Sally put the food away, then went downstairs to see her daughter. She
had no qualms about leaving Hotshot alone while on her trip to the 
Detroit Preserve. The little girl always kept a gun handy and knew how 
to use it.  It would be one sorry sad-ass burglar or molester that 
bothered that youngster. 

“Hotshot. Get your ass upstairs,” Sally called to her daughter
during a break in firing. “You were supposed to clean the house while I 
was gone. You ain't done a goddamn thing. It's in worse shape than when 
I left." 

The firing in the basement stopped and sixteen-year-old Hotshot tramped
loudly up the stairs into the kitchen where Sally was trying to find 
something to make a sandwich. All she could find to eat was peanut 
butter and stale crackers. The girl was to have gone to the grocery 
store, too, but obviously hadn't done so. 

“And no fucking food in the house. What the hell you been doing?” 

“Tommy had these .38 cartridges, Ma. He found them in his barn and sold
them to me real cheap,” the contrite girl tried to explain. “You always 
said to take advantage of cheap deals.” 

“Not with the mother-fucking food money, I didn't. Here I come home from
a long trip and there's nothing in the fucking house to eat.” She 
glared at the teenager. “And I'll bet you shot them damn things up 
already, too? That's why the house is still dirty?” 

“I had to try them out, didn't I?” 

“Here. Get your ass down to the market, and hurry the hell up.” Sally
peeled a few bills from a roll in her jeans pocket.  Nobody could argue 
with one thing, she thought -- that girl is mine, no doubt at all. Just 
like me at that age. Ceptin' for the fucking cussing though. Well, one 
thing for damned sure, Sally decided, she's going to clean the fucking 
place up before she goes to bed. 

That evening, Sally managed to sleep, despite deliberate banging going
on as Hotshot cleaned the bathroom. She was tired from the trip to 
Detroit. 

*** 

As punishment, the beach trip was canceled and both of them went over to
Sammy's to practice for the game. Hotshot was pissed, especially when 
Sally went off to the rear of the property to practice with a machine 
gun, leaving the kid to help with the vehicles. 

The teenager became more and more annoying to the men as she heard her
mother popping away in the distance. Guns and ammunition for the game 
were furnished by the promoter, ensuring everything was standard. In 
prior competitions, some players had hot-loaded their own rounds, and 
even tampered with the proximity devices, giving them a wider firing 
area. Now both were rented at the course, already inspected and sealed 
to insure no cheating. For practice, though, they bought or reloaded 
their own. 

A foot-wide steel ball was hard to hit, especially from a fast moving
dodging and bouncing vehicle. Sally needed all the practice she could 
get. 

“Hand me that Simpleton Wrench, Hotshot,” Ted called from under one of
the Fords. Its transmission seals were shot from sitting all those 
years. It was a wonder it had made it back to Colorado. 

“Ouch! I didn't say to slap me with it, girl. Take it easy. Whatever
your problem, it's not my fault.” Ted was angry at her antics. He had a 
hell of a lot to do and she wasn't much help. Sammy was downtown buying 
supplies. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she told him, not sounding sorry at all. “I gotta go to
the bathroom. I'll be back.” He could hear her running away and didn't 
really care if she returned or not. Sally was the same way, accepting 
no responsibility except for shooting. That was why the staid mechanic 
and her didn't get along. It was like the turtle and the hare, with him 
being the turtle – slow and steady. 

*** 

They were to drop the autos off at the Arena four days before the game.
It took time for judges to check them over, making certain there was no 
armor hidden in the body and that the car was ready to compete. The 
promoter didn't like auto-trouble to dampen the game. There was too 
much damage during the contest itself, what with partially spent 
bullets flying around the playing field, often hitting vehicles and 
players. The longer the process, and the game itself took to play, the 
more money he made from auxiliary sales and the more he charged 
television stations for his tapes. 

Ted would drive the competing vehicle to the arena while the others,
including the teenager, rode in the spare competition car, loaded on a 
truck. They'd all ride back in the truck. While there, they'd take time 
to inspect the arena on foot. 

It was resurfaced before every game, but still a good idea to walk the
field and make plans on strategy. By the end of the game it would be 
covered with shot-up car-parts and junk. Sammy, who would be driving 
during the game, studied copies of past competitions containing other 
teams they might be facing. 

It was to be a playoff type competition, starting with eight teams
playing each other until only one was left. The Fords would have to be 
ready for up to three rounds of competition, each one harder than the 
last. Ted had the other car ready as a spare. The trip to the arena was 
his last chance to look for minor bugs. 

“Remember that buried bumper last March, Sammy?” Sally laughed. Once, on
an inspection trip like the one they were currently on, Sally had found 
a bumper buried in the dirt. It had somehow been missed by the cleanup 
crew. That piece of junk had won a game for them. When no one was 
looking, she showed Sammy and the two managed to cover it again with 
sand without being noticed. 

Since they knew where it was and the other teams didn't, they forced an
opponent vehicle to run over it. One end rose up and hit the 
transmission of the other car, causing it to fire a ten or twelve round 
burst into another of its own team's cars. Two cars out of the contest, 
simply by kicking a little dirt over some junk. 

“Yeah.” Hotshot laughed. “I wonder if we could get away with burying
spikes or something?” 

“That's cheating,” Sally replied. “You couldn't do anything like that.” 

Her daughter's suggestion caused Sally to look over her shoulder at the
innocent-appearing teenager. They had talked about that strategy before 
but were afraid they would be found out. Ordinarily, the officials kept 
a strict eye on competing teams. Bloodball was not a game for the 
naive. In many aspects it was a contest to the death. Hotshot looked 
out the window, a picture of innocence. When no one was looking, she 
patted her heavy belt and smiled. The others hadn't noticed that her 
right leg extended stiffly, knee not bent, as she sat sideways in the 
back seat. 

“Here we are, the competitors gate.” Sammy pulled up and showed his
identification. 

“I need it from everybody,” the gate guard told them. “And you have to
be searched, along with your cars.” They could see Ted with hands in 
the air while a guard patted him down. All players had to be searched 
any time they entered, but it was cursory except just before or during 
the game itself. 

While the others and the cars were being inspected, Hotshot smiled
ingratiatingly at the guards and rushed for a small restroom in the 
guard shack. By the time she returned, the others were in the car 
waiting for her, the guards standing ready to search the next vehicle 
in line. 

“Hey, take it easy, guys,” she patted the senior guard on the shoulder
where he sat at a desk. As she skipped out, she pulled on his left ear. 
“See you guys tomorrow, okay?” 

“Hey, cut it out, girl.” the smiling man called after her, “or I won't
let you in.” Which was a valid threat, as it took special dispensation 
for an underage observer. 

Soon the group was striding over the playing field, inspecting the
placement of low bulletproof concrete barriers. They were a recent 
attempt at a modicum of safety. Moved for every contest, they would 
deflect at least some wild shots from hitting spectators without 
blocking the view too much. 

The rest of Sammy's group was there, along with a couple of other teams
which were carefully avoiding each other. 

“Hey, you assholes better stay home,” Sally yelled at one competing
team. “We'll save every third bullet for up your asses.” 

There was a great deal of animosity between teams but none wanted a
fight then and there. That would risk them being banned from the game. 
Sally was trying to instigate a rivalry in order to get individuals of 
the other team banned. Officials with binoculars and monitor screens 
wouldn't be able to hear the instigator, only see the resulting fight. 
If she could get one of the others to swing at her, it would be to her 
advantage. 

At a signal from the head referee, the players were called off the
field. At a stated time the arena would be sealed, given a final 
inspection, and guarded until the event. Players wouldn't be allowed on 
again until the game. 

“Let's go,” Sammy put a notebook back in his pocket. “Lets go home. 
Since it'll be a long day tomorrow, we need sleep.” 

*** 

Before sunup on the day of the game, all four piled into a Buick. As
they proceeded to the competitors' gate, they were enthusiastic and 
spending the time going over strategy. This time they had to wait in a 
long line of cars, both players and spectators trying for a good seat 
on the stands. Many brought folding tables, chairs, and food with them, 
all of which must be xrayed for illegal armor. 

When they finally made it to the front of the line, the four were
strip-searched, female guards searching the women. The Buick was gone 
over carefully for contraband of any type. Even Ted's pocket knife was 
taken away and tagged. He had forgotten the familiar blade. In the 
past, players had been known to stab each other in the heat of 
competition. 

Finally making it through, they dropped Ted off at their autos which
were kept under guard until they arrived. The vehicles had been 
certified as playable by officials and parked with the other ten for 
their team, the Blues. Other team members were arriving and 
congregating for coffee before their first scheduled event. 

While Ted gave the Ford a last inspection, the other three, including an
excited Hotshot, drove to the supply tent to acquire and sign for other 
equipment. That included such items as machine guns, ammunition, and 
colored suits for the crews themselves. Sammy and Sally's were Blue for 
their team. The suits included helmets with closed visors to keep out 
dust and padding in case of being pelted by dirt and rocks. They would 
also help cushion the players if thrown off the vehicles. 

“I want a blue suit too,” Hotshot demanded. 

“Are you a player, kid?” the attendant asked. 

“She's a spectator with our team,” her mother told him. “Do you think
she could have one, though? Looking like the rest of us would add to 
her excitement?” 

“I don't really know. Never been asked before, but I don't think it
would hurt any as long as she doesn't ride in the car. She ain't gonna 
do that, is she? The judges would notice a third person in there, you 
know?” 

“Hell no. She ain't getting in that fucking car. Only over my dead
body,” Sally told him. 

So Hotshot was loaned an official suit to wear, making her feel more
like part of the team. Her mother was surprised that after all that 
trouble the girl ignored the suit, simply throwing it into the back of 
the Buick. 

“I wanna walk around, Ma,” she told Sally. “I'll see you later.”  She
wandered off around the stands. The spectator seats were only beginning 
to fill, most coming in later than the players. Nobody saw the girl 
digging up a plastic bag she had left there the day before, buried in 
loose soil and debris under the stands. 

Hotshot bought hotdogs and french fries and sat in the stands to observe
the first game. The blues didn't play until the third round. 

She watched the first teams, Red and White, line up across from each
other and heard the roar of engines, oil and gasoline fumes floating 
over the stands. A referee pickup truck drove along the length of a 
center line, spotting practice balls at intervals behind itself and, 
stopping at the other end, gave a signal. 

The air filled with the roar of machine guns, as all twelve of the
playing vehicles fired at the balls, adjusting gun sights and testing 
the weapons. Balls rolled back and forth as they practiced. At a shrill 
whistle, the firing stopped and the balls were picked up again. One new 
ball was dropped at the exact center of the field. They were ready to 
begin the game. 

At a double whistle-blast, the vehicles jerked into motion. As they
closed on the ball, a few of them cautiously fired while others drove 
to planned positions facing each other and the ball.  On a 
signal, both teams raced for the center of the arena. One red car slid 
to a stop almost on top of the ball, to their eternal chagrin as a 
couple of dozen bullets from the other team thudded into their vehicle, 
flattening two tires and slightly wounding the driver. 

The red team leader honked for time-out while the gunner helped his
driver out and over to the sidelines. Leaving the damaged vehicle where 
it sat, the game resumed. An ambulance raced to help the unfortunate 
driver while both teams resumed shooting at the ball, which now bounced 
under the disabled car. 

When all four tires were flat, making it impossible to hit the ball,
another time-out had to be called for referees to remove the target and 
place it a good distance away, this time twenty feet closer to the 
red-marked goal pit. It was considered a fault by the red team, giving 
a free twenty feet to the white team. 

Hotshot could hear screaming from the stands. A few errant rounds had
hit there and felled a couple of spectators. Medical personnel were 
trying to evacuate them to a rear area for treatment. She could see the 
injured, the less seriously wounded one fighting to stay at her seat. 
She didn't want to go down on the official records as being wounded and 
leaving that quickly. It was up to the medics whether the injured could 
stay or not. 

On the playing field, the remaining eleven cars circled each other,
watching for an opening while taking pot-shots at the ball, which would 
roll first one way then another as it was hit. One brave white team 
auto maneuvered between the ball and the red team, breaking the optical 
beam on the red team's guns, which automatically stopped firing. 

Two red cars slammed the white one in its side, causing it to slide
sideways, breaking an axle. Now they were down to ten autos, with the 
white team gaining ten or fifteen feet. The crowd cheered as the red 
team charged around the disabled white team vehicle. Nobody thought to 
call time-out as the two occupants of the disabled car dismounted and 
ran for the sidelines. 

The firing resumed, dropping one of the runners with a stray shot. The
other picked her up and carried her to relative safety. While that was 
going on, a half-dozen spent rounds bounced off a safety wall and hit 
another white vehicle, disabling its machine gun. Weaponless, the 
vehicle deliberately slammed into three red vehicles, taking out two, 
and calling for another time-out to evacuate the crews. 

Now down to three each of both red and white autos, the game resumed.
One of the red cars stopped at a good point about twenty feet directly 
behind the ball, and gave it a long burst. Two white cars, seeing what 
was going on, slammed into the front and rear of the red Mercury. In a 
hurry to move the ball as much as possible, the red gunner kept a tight 
grip on her triggers.  The hell with saving ammo, she thought, pumping 
bullets out, overheating her barrel but not giving a damn. She knew 
that the white car attack would eventually disable her vehicle. 

Unfortunately, the blow from the white team shifted her auto, suddenly
tipping it, sending a couple of dozen rounds directly into a crowded 
section of the spectator stands before she could release the trigger or 
the automatic cutoff kick in. 

As she nibbled on her hotdog three of those rounds zipped past Hotshot,
hitting two old people standing behind her. 

“Damn,” The girl exclaimed, shoving the rest of the sandwich into her
mouth and turning to help the wounded couple. By the time overworked 
medics arrived, the action was over. The red team had won, though two 
more spectators were dead. 

After the second contest, Hotshot rushed out to the field. It was always
pandemonium right after a round. There were referee pickup trucks and 
wreckers out to clean the field for the next engagement, players 
salvaging dead vehicles, even a few spectators running around looking 
for souvenirs. 

Nobody paid any attention to the girl as she circled around two of the
safety barriers, dropping sharp double-ended spikes down her pant-leg 
as she went. She would use any subterfuge she could to press the things 
into the ground, point up.  Including thick-soled boots. To cover 
herself, Hotshot carried a canvas sack and pretended to fill it with 
debris. It gave her a chance to bend over often to pound her spikes 
into the ground. Hotshot was careful to follow behind the rest of the 
people, especially the referees, so as not to be found out. 

When she was finished, the teenager walked over to Sammy and her
mother's car. She went to Sammy, who was studying a hand-drawn map of 
the arena spread over the hood. Her mother ignored them, busily putting 
the finishing touches on her weapon and testing the swivel. 

“You got something missing there, Sammy.” She was standing beside him,
looking over the map. 

“What's that?” he asked, idly, attention on memorizing obstacles,
marking recently torn up ground on his map, and the like. 

“There are a dozen sharp spikes in the ground. Did you know that?” 

“Hell no, I didn't know that.” 

She had his attention. That many spikes could flatten tires and disable
any number of cars. “How do you know? And do you know where they're at? 
We have to find out?” 

“Since I put them there, I guess I do.” 

“Show me on the map. Hurry up, girl. We gotta tell the rest of the team
so we don't hit them.” 

“I guess I could do that?” 

“Well?” 

“Well, I could tell you, but what do I get out of it?” Hotshot grinned,
eyes narrowing, ready to barter. 

“What do you mean? Your mother and our team will win. There are millions
of dollars in the pot today.” 

“I mean me, personally. What does little Hotshot get out of it?” She
tried to make it sound like a joke. 

“What'a you want?” Sammy had figured out what was going on. He was being
blackmailed. “More money, I presume? Screw that. If your mother set 
this up I'll kill her. Now tell me or I'm going to the officials.” He 
was madder than hell by that time. 

“Nothing much, Sammy, old buddy. Nothing like that – and my mother had
nothing to do with it.” She straightened up and looked him in the eye. 
“I want to shoot this round, that's all? Just shoot one fucking round 
is all.” She turned around in a circle. “See, I'm even dressed for it. 
The referees will never know.” 

“God damn it!” He pounded the hood, getting Sally's attention. Seeing
Sammy angry, she jumped down to see what was going on. As he told her 
and Hotshot stood, looking nonchalant, Sally also reddened. She was as 
pissed as Sammy. 

“I swear, I didn't know anything about this. You gotta tell the
officials and have those fucking spikes removed.” 

“If we did, we'd lose points at the very least. Maybe we'd be
blackballed from this game, and Hotshot would definitely be blackballed 
for life.” As his anger faded, Sammy was thinking. There wasn't much 
time. The game would be starting in ten or fifteen minutes. “On the 
other hand, if our team knows about the spikes and the yellow team 
doesn't, we could win easily.” 

“You're not seriously considering letting her shoot, are you?” Sally was
aghast. “She's only a fucking kid.” 

“A kid that's almost as good as you with that gun. She's expended almost
as much ammo as you have in practice.” 

“Practice? Practice is not the same as in frickin' competition. Not in
the heat of the game with bullets zipping around her, not to mention a 
bouncing car under her feet.” 

“I can do it, Ma,” Hotshot cajoled them. “No big thing. I'm your
daughter, not a coward.” 

“You stay the hell out of this, young lady.” Sally raised her hand at
Hotshot. 

“You going to beat me, Ma? You gonna kick my ass and lose the game
both?” 

“Go ahead, you two,” Sally, still red-faced, sulked and turned to walk
away. “Do any fucking thing you want. I ain't got nothing to say about 
it, and don't give a shit if you're gonna stick up for her.” Sally went 
back to sit under a tree and glare at the two. 

“All right, young lady, guess you win. Now show me where those damned
spikes are so I can tell the other drivers.” 

“Tell them that at least one of us has to hit them too, so the referees
won't be suspicious.” 

“That's not your concern. You shut the fuck up and stick to your gun. If
you can't take orders, you're out. Understand that, girl?” He looked 
over at Sally and, glaring back at Hotshot, went over to show the 
altered map to the other drivers. 

Hotshot did as she was told, somewhat regretting her actions – but not
enough to back out. Both sad and enthused, she avoided looking at her 
mother as she expertly inspected the weapon. The machine gun was 
mounted on the Ford with a hole cut in the roof for her to stand behind 
the front seat. A set of stirrups with leather ankle straps, welded to 
the floor for her mother, didn't exactly fit her, but would have to do. 


She would have felt different if she had seen her mother's proud smile.
Yep, definitely a chip off the old block, Sally was thinking. She 
wasn't overly concerned about her daughter's safety, since anyone on 
the playing field or stands was in almost equal danger. At least she 
would be behind one of twelve guns, not in front of all of them. 

The gun was familiar to Hotshot. The girl knew you never, but
never, trusted another's work when it came to weapons, so the teenager 
checked it over carefully, wiping off oil her mother had just put on, 
then spreading on her own. 

She carefully adjusted screws on the sight and one on the receiver that
controlled the rate of fire. Too fast and she would run out of 
ammunition, too slow and she wouldn't be able to move the steel ball. 
The optical transmitter was set by the range officials so she had to 
leave it alone. In fact it was sealed so she couldn't mess with it. 

Next, Hotshot removed the ammunition from the boxes and quickly ran it
through her fingers, eying and feeling each round, making certain it 
wasn't loose inside the links. Sometimes a round wouldn't be seated 
correctly, not thrust all the way into the links, and would cause the 
gun to hang up.  Cartridges had been known to come loose and then off 
the belt from constant shaking as they passed through the thruster and 
into the receiver, so Hotshot fingered each cartridge to test them. 
This was done quickly and mechanically, almost without thought. As she 
reloaded the boxes, carefully repacking belts and avoiding kinks in the 
links. She looked over to where Sammy was talking to the other drivers. 


They kept glancing over at her, some shaking their heads. Some glared
and others smiled. Hotshot grinned back at their looks as she finished 
and loaded the weapon – slamming down the loading-latch. Gun ready, but 
still uncocked, she checked out her safety belt and, jumping out of the 
car, shoveled handfuls of sand onto the floor behind the gun pedistle. 
In case one of her feet came loose. it would help her traction during a 
wild ride. She then sat and waited. Once the game started, she wouldn't 
have time to sit or relax. 

They had practiced together often, her and Sammy, at the ranch. When he
needed practice and Sally wasn't available, he would use Hotshot. So 
they knew how each other operated and could anticipate their actions. 
She was as ready as she could get. 

It was only then that the full import of the act hit her. Hotshot did
fear the added responsibility and felt apprehension about the coming 
dangers. Unlike at the ranch, she would be trusting Sammy with her 
life, and vice versa.  She hoped she hadn't screwed up with those 
spikes. If the officials found out she had laid them, they would all be 
blackballed for life – the entire team. Although some team members 
played as a hobby, others such as her mother, depended on winnings to 
feed their families. 

The purse was a few million dollars if they won the finals. Not only
that, but there were  product endorsements, paid talk shows on 
television, and other benefits. Of course, her mother would get those, 
since Hotshot wasn't officially gunning. If wounded, she didn't know 
what would happen, unless they switched her with her mother before 
being found out. 

Sammy shook hands with the other drivers, returned and started the car,
revving the engine before pulling into line. 

“You ready?” he called back to where she was standing and buckling into
a safety harness, shuffling her feet in the sand for traction before 
stepping into stirrups. “You sure as shit better be. Too late to back 
out now.” 

“S'okay, Sammy. Let's get going.” Hotshot pulled the cocking-lever back
with a loud click, swinging the gun back and forth on its swivel, again 
checking the belted cartridges for kinks as she moved the barrel. Damn, 
she forgot the padding at her back. Too late to unbelt, bend down and 
put it in place behind her. The padding was a bundle of old rags to 
soften any blows as she was bounced back by Sammy's erratic driving. It 
wasn't crucial, only to save her from a sore back later. Her mother 
would never have forgotten, was Hotshot's thought. 

The referees drove along the line in front of them, dropping off
practice balls. At the whistle, Hotshot fired a half-dozen rounds at 
the ball, missing with four, but hitting with the other two. A quick 
adjustment, and she tried again. That time missing all of them as the 
ball was hit by her adversary and bounced closer to her car. The third 
test burst hit it and bounced it back at the car opposite. 

Those balls were picked up again and the playing ball dropped. 

“Here we go,” Sammy yelled above the roar of the engine, adrenaline
pumping as the whistle blew. He jerked forward, heading recklessly 
toward one of the yellow vehicles. It swerved out of the way as Sammy 
slammed on his brakes, skidding to a stop. 

Ready, Hotshot fired a twelve or fifteen round burst that shot the ball
about five-feet toward the yellow goal. 

Her eyes on the ball, she felt a jerk, throwing her to the left side of
her hole, as a yellow car plowed into their left rear fender, spinning 
their vehicle about thirty-degrees to the right. Sammy stepped on the 
gas and made a quick turn, allowing him to hit the rear bumper of his 
adversary. For vital minutes, the two cars fought their own duel, 
trying to put each other out of the game while Hotshot could only hang 
on. No way she could aim while that was going on. 

Finally, the yellow car was maneuvered near a barrier and hit one or two
of Hotshot's spikes. A tire flattened suddenly, causing the yellow car 
to swerve into the barrier, out of the game. Sammy stepped on the gas 
and returned to the ball. It was now closer to the yellow goal, one 
more yellow and two blue cars were out of the game, counting the one 
Sammy had totaled. 

Four vehicles on each side maneuvered to shoot. At one point, Hotshot
almost got a good shot, but a yellow car was there first, bouncing the 
ball out of optical range. Three or four rounds hit behind her, 
probably aimed at the gas tank. She could feel thudding as they struck 
her vehicle, reminding her that it was a dangerous game. 

A time-out was called to let disabled players off the field. 

One yellow car sat smoking and alone, with no one getting out. Both
driver and gunner had been killed. Both sides waited, sweating, with 
hearts slowing down to normal while a wrecker came and pulled the death 
car off the playing surface. The other disabled vehicles were left in 
place as obstacles. 

While waiting after that quick spat of attacks and counter-attacks,
Hotshot could see at least a dozen white uniforms crawling over the 
stands as medics attended to wounded and dying spectators. Although it 
had seemed like hours, the action had taken less than five minutes by 
her watch. Hotshot was more nervous waiting than during the game 
itself. 

While other team-members ran interference, Sammy and Hotshot went after
the ball. Several good bursts set it rolling, now only about twenty 
feet from the yellow goal. As they moved closer to the goal, the yellow 
cars went ballistic, rushing in to defend their ground. The space the 
opposition had to maneuver in was shrinking rapidly. 

As if just now realizing the danger, the yellow team tried to break away
from individual duels and race for their goal, to defend it. The blue 
cars didn't want them to succeed. One blue car raced ahead to block 
them with its own body. Three yellow cars slammed into it and tipped it 
over onto its top, only the driver surviving the crash. The gunner 
couldn't unstrap in time. 

It was now three blue and three yellow vehicles, one slamming into
Sammy's car to make Hotshot miss. Before she could stop firing, Hotshot 
sprayed the stands with over twenty rounds as Sammy lost control, 
slamming their vehicle into a barrier. 

Both cars were totaled by the crash, leaving only one yellow and two
blue cars playing. Sammy, engine smoking and barely creeping, circled 
the barrier, trying to find spikes. It would look better for them to 
have two blue cars eliminated by them than only the one. 

Her auto barely able to move, Hotshot knew she was almost certainly out
of the game. 

After Sammy finding and running over three spikes, they were left
sitting, out of the action as the other three cars dueled. The two blue 
cars on Sammy's team trying to eliminate the last yellow vehicle. 

Hotshot saw the ball, now only a half-dozen feet from the yellow goal
pit. It was sitting there, temporarily ignored. The other cars were too 
busy banging into each other to shoot. 

Why not? she figured.  It was not only a long shot, but she would have
to hit the ball at a high angle to keep it from spinning sideways. A 
very difficult shot with a machine gun or even on a pool table, but she 
did have the opportunity to aim. Of course, if she missed the rounds 
might ricochet into the spectator stands. 

A difficult decision, she hesitated, wishing it were her mother there
instead of her. Sally was a better shot. What would Sally do? She knew 
the answer. Her mother would never have waited even that long. 

Hotshot took the chance. Gun chattering, she pumped rounds in a straight
line, nearer and nearer the twelve-inch steel ball. Walking her fire, 
they hit. The ball shot almost off the ground as it rolled, toward and 
into the yellow goal pit. Sally immediately stopped firing. Only about 
fifteen or twenty rounds were left in her ammo belt. The end of the 
belt flopped against one arm as she released the trigger. 

The final whistle blew, bringing an unnerving silence to the field. 

“Was ... was that you, Hotshot? That was a damned good shot,” Sammy
unstrapped and turned around in his seat to congratulate her, almost as 
much as she was doing to herself. She knew it was a damned good shot. 

“I have to wait for the wrecker to pull us out of here. You better get
over to your mother. People are going to be racing over to congratulate 
her.” 

“Her! It was my shot.” 

“But you can't take the credit. We'd lose all that money if they found
out. You're not only underage, but not a registered player,” Sammy 
reminded her. “There's no fucking time to argue. Go to your mother. Let 
her take the credit. We'll talk later when we have time.” 

Nothing for it, Hotshot jumped down and ran to the sidelines where her
proud mother was waiting. Sally hugged her daughter and commiserated 
about taking the credit, but there was nothing else to be done. 

Hotshot was ignored as players and officials congregated around Sally.
They were shaking her hand and hearing how it felt to fire that long 
winning burst. Nobody in the stands had even been scratched by it – 
amazing in itself. Hundreds of spectators also came over for her 
autograph. 

The teenager had to stand in the background and watch. They would still
have two more games to play to win the prize. Because of security 
expenses and insurance, all of the games had to be played the same day, 
no matter how long it took. 

*** 

The next contest was between two other teams, the Purples and
the Blacks. It was the last game in the first round, bringing 
competition down to four teams. 

Hotshot returned to the stands while Sammy and Ted worked over the
damaged car. If possible, they wanted to use it for their second 
contest. Sammy felt it better to save the spare Ford for the crucial 
last game of the day, assuming they won their second. Sally tended to 
her gun and new boxes of ammunition. 

Although the youngster tried to watch the game, she found herself
exhausted and nodded off before it began. Even screams from a wounded 
spectator near her failed to wake her. 

She slept through a long intermission, given to let the crowd buy
refreshments and visit the restrooms. 

During the break in activities, about a third of the spectators left –
those wanting only verification for being there. No official record was 
kept of whether they stayed for the entire series or not. Only the true 
fans of the game were left; those willing to unnecessarily brave 
further hours of danger. 

Putting on a show for her daughter, Sally banged around the car, going
so far as to scrape out Hotshot's sand on the floor to replace it with 
her own. Secretly pleased, she knew she had to chastise the girl for 
her impertinence. 

Sammy was also pissed, seeing as the teenager ruined their teamwork,
while Ted was pleased that Sally had been taken down a peg or two by 
her own daughter. The rest of the Blues stayed away, having their own 
problems. 

Harry, leader of car number three, came over. 

"You sure that wreck will make another contest?" he asked. "I see blue
smoke when you gun the engine. You must have an oil leak somewhere." 

Sammy sighed, looking out from under the hood. "I could use extra oil.
I'll top it off just before we begin." 

"We can shuffle your position to the center. If it overheats, you might
be able to take out a couple cars before the engine seizes." 

"I probably should, Harry." He looked back at the smoking engine block.
"Ted swears it'll be okay, but who knows?" 

"He don't know shit," Sally called from inside the vehicle, where she
was busily inspecting ammunition. 

"Okay. I'll get Jeff to switch positions with you, or take it myself." 

Satisfied, Harry went over to talk to the other driver. 

Ted and Sammy worked on their car until it came time for the next round
with the rest of their blue team. As Sammy drove into the field to a 
center position, Ted crossed over to put finishing touches on the 
alternate vehicle, trusting it would be needed. That they'd win this 
second round. 

Hotshot decided to skip watching that contest, instead buying more
hotdogs at the food stand. The stand was almost empty, with all 
spectators' attention on the game. 

"Two dogs with everything," she told the clerk. While eating, a few
stray machine gun rounds hit near the stand, causing the employee to 
duck while Hotshot ignored flying wood chips. "Oh," she asked, 
finishing her meal, "can I have one of those large trash bags?" When he 
gave her one, she unfolded it while ducking back under the cooler 
recesses of the spectator stands to where employees stored waste 
between contests to keep the paths clean. There was one bright-red 
dumpster marked for bloody trash. 

Stopping at a large trash container, Hotshot half-filled the bag with
empty plastic cups and food wrappers. Waiting for the current contest 
to end, she went back to the arena, searching for the spikes she'd 
buried earlier. They'd served their function. Better to get them out of 
there. 

After looking around, the girl extracted the sharp metal objects,
jamming them into her bag of trash. Throwing it over one shoulder, she 
meandered back to where Ted was working on the other car, pretending to 
help him as her mother and Sammy played and won their second contest. 

"Aren't you gonna watch?" Ted asked, half under the vehicle. 

"Why? I know they'll win. Hey! Tell Ma I'm going to turn in my uniform.
I don't need it anymore." 

"Okey dokie." Knowing the girl, Ted thought it strange of her, but it
wasn't any of his business. 

After heaving her trash-bag under a spectator stand, Hotshot turned in
her player's uniform. Actually, she wanted to avoid speaking to her 
mother, afraid of an ass-chewing session. 

She needn't have worried. By the time the girl returned, her team had
won and all three of her companions were busy getting the alternate 
Ford ready. The machine gun had to be taken from the other vehicle and 
mounted on the new one, as well as everything from adjusting the 
mirrors and driver's seat to double-checking tire pressures. Nobody 
bothered Hotshot. 

Since the contest was down to only two teams, the orange and the blues,
and the sun low in the east, there was little time to get ready. As 
soon as the referees finished clearing the playing field, the game 
would resume. If the blue team won, the prize and side-bets would total 
over three-million dollars, split between the six-car team. 

Their car, again with Sammy driving and Sally shooting, sped over to
their position in the lineup. Seeing it off, Hotshot, now in street 
clothes, picked up her trash-bag and slowly sauntered over to the 
orange team area. Of course, all eyes were on the last contest of the 
game, and there was nobody at the rear of the space reserved for the 
orange team. 

Seeing she was alone, Hotshot searched the immediate vicinity until she
found what she wanted, an ammo box containing a few loose, unlinked, 
rounds. With a pocketful of ammunition, she crept under a discarded 
wrecked vehicle pulled off the course and opened her bag. 

Inside among the trash was a disassembled rifle. It was a single-shot,
long-barreled target rifle which, by no coincidence, shot the same 
ammunition as the machine guns. Hotshot settled herself prone behind 
the wrecked vehicle, finding a piece of timber to use as a barrel-rest. 


Once the contest was underway, the girl began shooting at tires on the
orange vehicles, eventually forcing two of them to compete with 
multiple flats, slowing them down and making it tough on their gunners 
to aim. With all that money at stake, nobody quit because of a flat 
tire or three. She timed her shots to coincide with the longer machine 
gun bursts. Naturally, her blue team won. 

In the excitement at the end of the game, she simply hid the weapon
under the back seat of their wrecked blue Ford where it wouldn't be 
found and went back to stand with Ted as their winning car came back 
in. There was no reason to search cars or players after the games were 
finished. Not to mention the chaos as everyone attempted to leave the 
arena at one time. The gates were simply opened as security directed 
traffic onto nearby highways. 

On the way home after the ceremonies and with a winning check, Sally
turned to Ted. "I was sorta disappointed," she said, "in how easy that 
final round went. While Jerry and his car shot the ball in, we played 
interference. The oranges' tires seemed to deflate by themselves. They 
were going so slow and bumpy I had plenty of time to aim." 

Hotshot smiled but said nothing. 

After expenses, the team was happy to split a little over $600,000 among
the four of them. It was their portion of the four-million-plus purse. 
Of course, Hotshot received a much smaller share. Actually, because she 
was underage, it went to her mother. 

The girl was already planning tricks two years in advance, when she
could legally sign on as a shooter. 

The End.  hvysmker


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