“Whatever the reason for this shit-show we find ourselves players in, that’s none of my business. Once you step into that line, you’ll be evaluated every second. You can’t let anything seem out of place. You must play the part. One hundred percent.”

— Cindy, outside the Turner Coliseum prefect entrance, Day One of the Triad of the Martyr

Colby and Sid were walking in front of Marshall down an abandoned road. The three men had left their group at first light and were now twisting and turning through the back streets of Atlanta.

“I don’t like this,” Marshall said as he stopped.

“What’s to like,” Sid replied in the same hushed tone. As he turned to join Marshall he reached for a soft pack of Virginia Slim 100’s rolled up in his sleeve, noticed he had only four cigarettes left, and after a moment begrudgingly tucked the pack back into his shirt. He became noticeably agitated.

“Look at this shit,” Marshall continued in the low tone they usually reserved for night trail hikes. “They have solar panels for fuck’s sake and that ambush last night. That was unlike anything we’ve encountered outside of Fort Knox. These guys are squared away and I don’t like it.”

“Relax,” said Colby. “We’ve seen people coming and going from there all morning. So we know they gotta be at least traders right? All we have to do is stick to my story and we’ll be fine. No way do the guys at the gate know we were with the others from yesterday. We’re safe.”

“Safe,” Marshall said as he drastically increased his volume. “Is a relative term!”

Colby and Sid were both taken aback by the loudness of his voice and instinctively raised their weapons to search for incoming Diseased.

“That’s another thing,” Marshall said. “When’s the last time we saw one? We’ve only passed non-infected since we’ve been within the two-eighty-five loop. This isn’t normal and I’ll say it again: I don’t like this.”

Colby and Sid continued searching for Diseased to attack in vain. Marshall continued walking. When his friends decided they were safe, they jogged to catch up to him.

“Jesus, Marshall,” Sid complained. “Give us a warning next time.”

“There aren’t any to warn about. If you guys were more aware of your surroundings, you’d be more able to notice a lack of something.”

“Screw you and the zen horse you rode in on,” Colby began. And then, “So, we’re going with my trader story, or what?”

After a few miles, the lack of Diseased became more apparent through an increase in foot traffic. The people were all walking in the same direction: towards Turner Stadium.

After some consideration, the three men had decided to spread out and carry themselves in a more calm fashion so as not to draw attention. As they did, they noticed a general excitement in the crowds that had begun to form. Many of the people had begun to approach the three men to strike up a conversation.

“What brings you folks to the Coliseum today?” was the general nicety that greeted them.

They tried to keep their answers standard and unengaging and often replied with a polite just passing through. Once this answer started to get a few skeptical looks, Marshall decided to switch up his responses and they got some decent intel on what exactly was going on at Turner Stadium.

“Is this your first Triad?” a woman had asked. She was wearing what appeared to be a white bed sheet that was stained with muck and grime near the ground. Two men wearing faded Miller Lite t-shirts flanked her on either side and were in the middle of negotiations on some type of bet.

Marshall shot Sid and Colby a glance before taking the lead. “It is,” he replied. “Any pointers for us newcomers?”

“Oh, honey,” the woman smiled. “You are in for a treat. My name’s Cindy. This is Jake and Frank. Nevermind them. They’re trying to decide who’s going to win the games. Rumor has it there are some newcomers from last night’s haul that might make a run at the championship.”

“Yeah, we uh—” Sid stumbled. “We heard about the games but don’t know much about them. You mind giving us a rundown, Cindy?”

“Well, where do I begin…” Cindy let the words hang in the air before launching into a detailed explanation and oral history of the games.

The games had been around for three years. Constance, Olympia’s leader, used the games as a means to punish people who did not conform to her rules. Cindy stressed that although she did not personally believe all of the whack-a-do stuff to which most of the people in Olympia adhered, she saw some truth in what Constance preached. Not to mention, Constance was supposedly the one responsible for the safe areas around Olympia.

The games themselves were gladiator style combats. Each month the denizens of Olympia would file into the stands of what was once Turner Stadium. Each contest pitted what Cindy referred to as Believers against Non-Believers. The reverence in her voice when she invoked the word “Believer” led Sid to infer that Believers were what Olympians called Diseased. Sid did not interrupt Cindy’s oration, but shot a glance at Marshall and Colby who both were trying to hide their concern.

The current champion of the monthlies was a big bear of a man by the name of Miller. Cindy did not seem to know if this was a given name, Christian name, or simply a nickname. After conferring with Jake and Frank, the three concluded that Miller, despite being a Non-Believer, was kick ass enough to pull off a single name so what did it matter.

It was rumored that Miller had once been Constance’s right hand man and some say lover. But Cindy stressed that it depended on who was telling the story and anyway she did not see why it was necessary to even put a label on relationships in these times. Whatever the connection between the two, they were most certainly at odds now. Miller had been labeled a Non-Believer and tossed in to fight Believers every month.

Cindy continued to drone as Sid slowed down to let her drift away a few feet. This put him within whispering distance of Marshall and Colby.

“Five bucks says that the guys were taken to where the Non-Believers are held,” said Sid keeping his eyes forward.

“Shit odds,” said Marshall. “I’d give it seven to one.”

“Colby?” asked Sid.

“This place is big enough. I’ll give it three to one.”

“Easy money,” Sid replied.

Just then, Cindy turned to realize that her new companions had fallen behind. She twirled around in a melodramatic fashion and stomped back to the three men.

“Come on, slowpokes. We’re almost there!” exclaimed Cindy as she hooked her arms with Colby and Sid and gave Marshall what he thought was a wink but was poorly executed and turned her face into a happy grimace.

---

As they drew nearer to their destination, Cindy bumped into more and more friends. So many in fact that there were now upwards of twenty people traveling together. They all continued to refer to themselves as pilgrims. The excitement on their faces mirrored what one might expect to see as a group of grade schoolers filed off the bus in the parking lot of a theme park.

As the pilgrims approached the gates of what was being referred to as Turner Coliseum, the excitement got to Cindy and her friends and they broke out into a frenzied run to get into a line of people waiting in what appeared to be a security line. The gates of the coliseum were the original main entrance to the old baseball stadium. A very faded 1996 Olympics Rings above a rusted tower manned by three snipers.

Marshall half expected to see many of the familiar sites he had seen as a kid: long banners of the team’s current all-star lineup, street hustlers asking if anyone needed tickets, and Hammerin Hank himself. However, Hank Aaron’s bronze statue that undoubtedly had captured him at the end of his record-setting swing watching one of his home runs sail into the bleachers had been replaced by a crude carving of a woman. It was to this carving that Cindy’s pilgrims had rushed.

Once there, Cindy waved towards the three men.

“This is her!” she exclaimed over the clamour of the crowd that was continuing to come out of nowhere. “This is Constance! The Savior of Olympia! Come see!”

The men all did their best to smile and wave, but it was Colby who broke first as he turned around to face his friends.

“Just let me do the talking,” said Colby.

“Get out of here with that shit, Colby,” Sid said. “If we let you go in on them, we’ll be strung up from the bleachers before lunch. Our packs are way too small for traders coming to a place like this. They’ll laugh us all the way to the middle of the field to fight a bunch of Diseased. You heard that daffy bitch. This Constance chick is looking for any reason.”

Before Colby had a chance to argue, Marshall did it for him.

“No, he’s right, Sid. Only we’re not going to be trading goods. We’re going to trade services. Check it.”

Marshall pointed to a sign that marked an entrance to the coliseum. The line to get into this entrance was two or three dozen people deep and was dwarfed by the two or three hundred people that seemed to be waiting in line for general admission. The sign above this entrance read Prefect Applicants.

“Prefects?” asked Colby.

“That’s it,” replied Sid.

“What the hell is a prefect,” inquired Colby yet again.

“Ancient Rome,” Sid began. “Prefects were basically cops back in the day. My guess is that that’s a line to sign up to become a security guard or something.”

“Yeah, maybe that’ll give us access to some better information at least,” said Marshall. “And cut down on our search time at best.”

As the three men began to walk towards the Prefect Applicants entrance, Cindy saw them and stepped out of line to run towards them.

“Y’all really going for the prefecture?” she said excitedly.

“I think so,” said Sid. “Any tips?”

Cindy drew in close and motioned for the three to huddle around her. Her chipper attitude faded away and was replaced by serious concern. She seemed to age ten years in front of their eyes.

“Look, I like you guys. You seem like good guys. But if you can’t even fool those two idiots in the Miller Lite shirts, you’re not going to make it into the prefecture.”

“I don’t—” Sid started, but was interrupted.

“Can the shit,” Cindy asserted. “The Triad is supposed to be about unity and celebration. Happy. Cheerful. You three aren’t exuding the same amount of sunshine and rainbows that the rest of these sheep are bringing here. I say again: if those two idiots can spot a Non-Believer, the prefecture sure as shit will. I don’t know what your motivation here is, but if you value your balls being attached to your scrotum I would recommend tightening up your acting skills.”

“Why tell us this?” asked Marshall.

“After the first year, the games started to lose their appeal. Nothing but boring fights because the Believers outnumbered the Non-Believers six to one. They were over way too quick and the number of Believers around the stadium began to grow. Constance had to get creative. She started looking for any reason to add to the gladiator’s ranks. Our parents were taken away for simply not bowing down to Constance when she came out onto her dais behind home plate. My brother tried to sign up for the Prefects in order to track them down. Similar to what I assume you idiots are trying to do. The next month I saw my family fighting in the games against twenty Believers. Dad and mom took out a couple each. Tim took out half a dozen before the rest swarmed and devoured him.”

“Jesus,” murmured Colby.

“Leave his name out of this,” reprimanded Cindy. “Whatever the reason for this shit-show we find ourselves players in, Jesus has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

“That’s not true,” said Marshall. “The Church of the Martyr—”

“I know all about that bullshit story,” Cindy started. “That’s all that is preached around here. Redemption through death and all that bullshit. I don’t buy what they’re selling, but I sure as shit don’t let the salesman know until I have a way out of the car lot. The Church of the Martyr may be responsible for the Disease and they might claim it was in the name of God, but no God I know would ever be kosher with this hell.”

“Whatever you three are here to do, that’s none of my business. I will, however, feel bad if I see the three of you in the fights tonight knowing that I had a chance to give you fair warning. Once you step into that line, you’ll be evaluated every second. You can’t let anything seem out of place. You must play the part. One hundred percent. You understand?”

Colby, Marshall, and Sid all shook their heads in the affirmative.

The three men studied Cindy for a moment. As they did, the angry, spiteful woman that had given them a grave warning disappeared. The youthfulness of the Cindy they had first met in the predawn light earlier this morning was present again and her excited smile was there once more.

“Good luck boys,” she said. “Maybe we can catch a beer once you’re off duty. We’ll be at Papune Pints pretty much every night. It’s the bar overlooking right field. See y’all around!”

Cindy bounced back to the line of pilgrims that was still amassing behind the statue of Constance. She excused herself for breaking line and assured the newcomers behind her that yes these were her friends and that yes she had just stepped out to say goodbye to the three brave men signing up for the prefecture. She waved towards the men and the three waved back. Afterward, she turned her attention back to laughing and smiling with her fellow pilgrims.

“Game faces, gentlemen,” said Colby.

They put on a slightly-serious-yet-happy-to-be-here look and got into the line of applicants for the prefecture.

---

Sid and Colby managed to get through the initial questioning without incident. The man that was asking Marshall questions seemed to be more personal. After the three men were processed they were separated from the other recruits from the day and ushered into an office. A young woman that did not look more than twenty told them to wait for Sub-Commander Rollins.

Sid scoped out the room and after spotting the security cameras whispered, “What the hell did you say to them,” to Marshall.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he responded.

“But who the hell knows what’s ordinary for these people,” Colby chimed in.

The only door to the room burst open. A fit, middle-aged man with close-cropped hair stormed in followed by the young woman. As they entered, the young woman trumpeted, “OFFICER ON DECK.”

The three friends barely acknowledged the call to attention.

“That’ll be all, centurion,” said Sub-Commander Rollins. “Dismissed.”

The young centurion saluted, exited, and closed the door behind her all within two seconds.

“She’s…” Rollins started, “tenacious. Looking for a promotion. All of ’em are. I’m Sub-Commander Wayne Rollins. I’m in charge of the facilities around here. The reason you guys are talking to me instead of going through the normal orientation is because out of all of the applicants today, you are the only ones that look like you can handle yourselves. And I need some people who can handle themselves. Y’all travel here together?”

“Yes,” Marshall spoke up. “From the southwest.”

“Southwest, huh,” Rollins began. “That’s some shit country that way.”

Rollins walked a slow half-circle around the table and stopped in front of a whiteboard mounted to the wall. A hand-drawn map of the Coliseum grounds covered most of it. Patrol routes, staging areas, and shift assignments were marked in red and black dry-erase marker. He studied it the way a man studies a problem he’s already solved.

“You lose anybody getting here?” he asked.

“No,” Marshall said.

“Hm.” Rollins turned from the map. “Most groups coming in from that direction lose at least one. Between the Diseased moving in packs south of the perimeter and the colonists up in Newnan who don’t take kindly to people passing through, it’s a hell of a commute.” He said it without admiration. Just a statement of fact. “What’s your background?”

“Security work,” Marshall said. “Protection details for smaller groups moving through the region. Before that, military.”

“Which branch?”

“Army.”

Rollins looked at Colby.

“Same,” Colby said.

Rollins looked at Sid.

“I stayed home,” Sid said. “But I’ve been in our current field long enough that I expect it doesn’t much matter anymore.”

Rollins appeared to accept this. He pulled a chair from the corner, turned it backward, and straddled it. He crossed his forearms over the backrest and studied the three of them with the unhurried attention of a man who’d gotten very good at reading people under pressure.

“I’m going to ask you something and I need a straight answer,” he said. “Not the answer you think I want. A straight one. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” Marshall said.

“How much do you believe?” Rollins asked. He said it without ceremony. No weight to it. Just a question on a checklist. “In the message. In the rebirth. In all of it.”

The room held still for a moment.

Marshall had been waiting for this since they got in line. He’d run the scenario three different ways since Cindy’s warning. The wrong answer could get them thrown in the gladiator cages. The right answer — if they oversold it — might not be believable from three men who’d just walked out of the open country looking like they’d been fighting for months.

The truth, he’d decided, was the most useful tool available.

“Enough to be here,” Marshall said. “We’ve seen what’s outside those walls. Whatever’s happening in here, it’s better than what’s out there.”

Rollins didn’t react. He just let the answer sit.

“That’s about right,” he said finally. “Most of the prefecture feels the same way. I’m not running a congregation. I’m running a security operation.” He stood, replaced the chair. “The Triad brings in ten thousand pilgrims over three days. My regular staff handles the interior — the Coliseum grounds, the event security, the cages. What I need is overflow coverage. External perimeter, supply access points, satellite positions around the city.”

He moved back to the whiteboard and tapped a quadrant on the northeast side.

“You’ll start here. Sector four. External perimeter, northeast. Two of you on post at a time, rotating shifts, twelve-on and twelve-off with two man coverage at all times. My centurion will walk you through the post specifics before sundown.” He opened a folder on the table and produced three laminated badges on lanyards. He set them down. “Provisional for the first week. You keep your heads down, do the job, provisional comes off. You cause problems, you end up in the cages. Any questions?”

Sid reached forward and picked up one of the badges. Turned it over. PREFECT – PROVISIONAL.

“You said external perimeter,” Sid said. “What are we keeping it secure from? Pilgrims or the Diseased?”

“Both,” Rollins said. “And anything else that wanders in from outside.” He closed the folder. “There’s a third category you’ll figure out quick enough on your own. People leaving. They don’t get to do that.”

Nobody said anything.

“One more thing.” Rollins moved to the door and put his hand on it. “I pulled you three out of that line for one reason. You looked like you could handle yourselves and I need people who can handle themselves. That means I’m extending you a degree of trust that I don’t hand out to every pilgrim who rolls in here looking for a purpose.” He looked at Marshall specifically. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“Understood,” Marshall said.

Rollins opened the door and leaned into the hall. “Mira!”

The centurion materialized from the corridor with her clipboard like she’d been waiting for her name to be called since birth.

“These three. External perimeter. Sector four. Get them processed and assigned before eighteen hundred.” He was already moving down the hall, his voice trailing behind him. “Welcome to Olympia, gentlemen!”

---

The processing took the better part of an hour.

The uniforms — dark grey cargo pants and matching shirts with the Coliseum’s seal on the left breast — came from a supply room two levels up. They fit Marshall and Colby well enough. Sid’s pants were two inches short. He noted this in a tone that suggested the measurement was a personal offense, and Mira noted it on her clipboard without comment.

Their weapons were logged, catalogued, and returned to them with a laminated card outlining the conditions of their use. Any engagement with Olympia citizens or active prefecture personnel required review. Any engagement with pilgrims required a post-incident report filed within twenty-four hours. Any engagement with the Diseased — referred to throughout the card as Believers — required immediate notification to the nearest sub-commander.

Colby read the last line twice.

“They call them Believers on official paperwork,” he said quietly.

“Keep moving,” Marshall said.

Sid reached into his breast pocket as they walked and produced the soft pack of Virginia Slims. He shook out the remaining four cigarettes and stared at them for a moment with the focus of a man doing a calculation he already knows the answer to. He tucked two into the breast pocket of his new uniform shirt and handed the other two to Marshall.

“Hold these.”

“Why me?”

“Because you don’t smoke and you won’t be tempted.” Sid tucked the empty pack back into his sleeve out of habit. “And if something happens to me I’d rather they go to waste than end up in some asshole’s mouth.”

Colby reached over and took one of the cigarettes out of Marshall’s hand.

Marshall looked at him. “You haven’t smoked since high school.”

“I just gave it up,” Colby said.

“Smoking?”

“Quitting,” Colby replied as he tucked the cigarette in his shirt pocket.

Mira led them through a different corridor and up an elevator that opened onto a loading area on the east side of the Coliseum grounds. The afternoon light hit them full in the face after hours of fluorescent hallways and all three of them took a moment to adjust.

The scale of the place met Marshall fresh.

He’d understood it from the numbers — Sam’s maps, the radio traffic, the distance they’d tracked coming in from the northwest. But standing at ground level with the stadium wall rising on his left and Olympia stretching out in every direction, the numbers stopped being numbers. Thousands of pilgrims were already camped in rows across a field the size of a small town. Prefects moved among them in pairs. Food stations worked out of fixed positions along a perimeter fence. Children ran between the tents. Vendors called out to passing pilgrims with the easy confidence of people who knew they had a captive audience.

It was, Marshall thought, the most organized thing he’d seen since Fort Knox. And like Fort Knox, the organization was doing a hell of a job disguising what it actually was.

“Sector four is northeast,” Mira said, walking briskly and not looking back while pointing. “You’ll share the boundary with two of our regular Prefects. They know the sector. Questions go to them first, then to me, then to the sub-commander. Not the other way around.” She stopped and turned. “Standing rules: you do not discuss the games with pilgrims. You do not discuss Patrician business. You do not direct anyone toward the Coliseum interior without a valid access credential. There’s a list of them in your station packet. The red folder. If someone asks about Constance directly, you send them to the information stations at the main gate.” Mira looked at each of them. “Clear?”

“Clear,” Marshall said.

She pointed to a cluster of Prefects near a gate at the far end of the grounds. “That’s your handoff. Get settled and be ready for eighteen hundred.” She glanced at Sid’s pants. “I’ll see about getting you a proper fitting tomorrow.”

Sid looked at her with an expression that might have been gratitude if it weren’t mostly exhaustion.

Mira turned and walked back toward the building. The three men stood in the open air for a moment as the crowd moved around them. The noise was different here — not the stadium-compressed roar they’d heard from the fight last night, but something more constant and diffuse. Talking, laughing, children, the smell of food cooking and unwashed people and the faint chemical undertone of the solar-powered infrastructure holding the whole operation together.

Colby lit the cigarette.

Sid watched him do it with an expression of naked betrayal.

“You’re not even doing it right,” Sid said.

“I’m doing it fine.”

“You’re holding it like a—”

“I’m holding it like a man who just signed up to work security at the world’s worst theme park,” Colby said. “Leave me alone.”

Marshall looked out at the sector four boundary where their new colleagues were waiting. Two Prefects, both standing with the patient posture of men who’d been doing this long enough that it wasn’t interesting anymore. Beyond them, the northeast perimeter fence ran along the edge of a parking structure that had been converted into some kind of storage facility. Beyond that, Atlanta. No Diseased. No movement. Nothing but the silence that had been bothering Marshall since they crossed inside the two-eighty-five loop.

“Colin’s in there somewhere,” Colby said quietly. He was looking at the stadium wall.

“Yeah,” Marshall said.

“You think he’s alright?”

Marshall watched the smoke from Colby’s cigarette trail off into the warm afternoon air. Somewhere inside that building, Colin and Jackson were either still fighting or they weren’t. Either way, the three of them standing out here feeling something about it wasn’t going to change the math.

“He’s alright,” Marshall said. “Now let’s go meet our new neighbors.”

He started walking. After a moment, Colby and Sid fell in behind him.