Blood Games (12 page)

The next one out of the funnel was Ares and Sofia cried t
o his bloody face, “Good boy!”

An
organizer took pity on her with the canes and helped to lead him away as another employee brought out Nemesis. His facial prosthetics had survived intact, making him look rotten through and through. His lower lip was hanging open, torn a little and bleeding from the fight. Ink slyly looked inside for shaved teeth or some other illegal modification. Those weren’t serious enough to disqualify him altogether, but the organizers would make the owner cap the teeth or remove whatever else was in there. But there was nothing in his mouth except regular old teeth. One of his arms had nasty gashes on it, some fresh and others a little older. And Ink had never seen so many tattoos on one body! They were all drenched in blood.

A
young woman pressed over to claim Nemesis, who was trailing redness in his footprints. She had a sort-of-pretty face, but her features were a tad too strong for a woman. They kept her from being really pretty. With a little agitation, she checked over Nemesis right there and touched the ripped place on his lip. It was a very minor wound. An organizer asked her to move aside so more zombies could be brought out. She took Nemesis by the arm and guided him away, not even dignifying the organizer’s request with an apology.

Something about her disturbed
Ink. Like how you could look at someone and just know you weren’t ever going to be friends even before you’d been introduced. You mysteriously sensed that that person was unpleasant. She hadn’t tried too hard with her Hawaiian outfit either, pairing plain trousers with a black T-shirt that had a little surfboard on it almost as an afterthought. He didn’t recall her being in the atrium for the picture. But Ink hadn’t come here to make friends out of a newbie manager. He’d come to make friends out of the old ones.

Another two zombies came and went, and then Thor
appeared. Covered in blood, he was walking tall. Ink led him to the stall, where the vet looked shocked to see Thor’s good condition. They washed him off and checked him over for wounds. The healing cut on his chest had been reopened, as had the one on the back of his hand, but that was all.

“Thor, you are one lucky fellow,”
Jackie grunted as she lifted his feet to inspect the soles. Then she opened his mouth. Blood was all over his teeth, but it wasn’t his. Ink pressed a tissue to the cut on Thor’s chest, which was bleeding more than the one on his hand, and accepted congratulations from two people walking by the stall.

It would be
some time before the surviving zombies were assigned to match opponents and ring times. Ink dressed the wounds and got peed on for his effort, but he was in such a good mood that he just said, “You old rascal.” One of the items on his checklist was several changes of clothes. Now he had an excuse to get out of these blue shorts. His parrot shirt wouldn’t look so dumb paired with jeans.

No.
It would still look dumb. But all of the bigwigs looked dumb in their Hawaiian shirts, too.

He missed the entertainment and women’s melee, but Medusa wasn’t in it.
Excited updates came from people going back and forth in the aisles. It was a bad day for the heavy hitters! Maenad had made it through the melee, but she was hardly able to stand by the end. Her odds to win the first match had plummeted due to the serious injuries to her legs. Unless she was paired with the most hapless newbie to ever walk into a ring, the unstoppable Maenad might actually go down today. And that would leave a vacancy for the crown of the most vicious female. Ink’s Medusa was already a crowd favorite, and with a little luck, she could seize it for herself.

God, he wanted that
beer.

He should have one.
Thor had made it to his first match! It wouldn’t hurt his finances, especially considering the sapphire in his pocket, to spend three bucks on a beer. But if he made one little concession here, it would lead to another one and another one and another one . . . There was beer in his fridge at home. That was something to add to the checklist for following competitions.

But his mood was too gleeful to stand, and Nadia had left her purse in the locker
room. Her wallet was with her, but the purse was there and she chucked change in it all the time. He rifled through it and swiped nine dollars and sixty-two cents. That was his cash anyway. He bought the beer when the vendor passed through and drank it as Jackie performed the last ministrations on Thor and went off to take care of another client.

“First match!” Vasilov
cried, the rotund fellow coming around the corner. “I had to see this for myself. You must have a second dealer, yes, one with cards up his sleeve that even the great Vasilov does not possess!”

It was spoken cheerfully, but
contained within the message was a warning not to tell anyone of Vasilov’s Zombie Walk recommendation. That would tarnish his reputation. Ink nodded. It would tarnish his own! It was like introducing your lovely, cultured wife at an elegant party and tacking on that you’d met her in a brothel. Ink said, “Yes, I got him through someone else! But there was only one card up his sleeve, I’ll tell you, and Thor was it. One of those flash-in-the-pan dealers. He didn’t know the worth of what he had.”

“Yes, and there are so many of those,” Vasilov agreed, his eyes crawling over
bandaged Thor. “Yes, yes, so many I never bother to keep track of them. People say to me all the time:
you’re a zombie dealer? That is my dream job!
And I just smile but think no, no, it is not. They think I do nothing but sit upon a comfy chair in an office while zombies are trotted before me for appraisals. The truth is that I sit on a plane nine months out of every year, going here, going there, going everywhere to hunt them down, yes. Who likes to sit on a plane? Who finds that glamorous? But that is my life. And I love my life, my boy! But a dream job would not include such a very sore bottom. New dealers learn the truth quick enough and they are gone to greener pastures.”

“Do you know who Thor has been matched against?” Ink asked.

“No, whatever wunderkind who presses the buttons on the computer to make those random pairs has not done so yet. But no matter.” His eyes sharpened on Ink. “You did well. They are speaking of Samson in the clubroom, yes, so much. But they are now
also
beginning to mutter of Thor.”

“And
scream of Poseidon, no doubt.”

“My God!
Cantine is shocked bloodless. This is not how he wanted to end Poseidon’s career, an untimely, ignominious end such as this one. He was going to push Poseidon on to the 36-50 category and watch him smash those older men, even Wrath of Neptune. That battle, Poseidon versus Wrath of Neptune, that battle he has wanted to see for years. But gone! He is well on his way to getting smashed up there, poor man.” His eyes still keen, he said, “I heard Nadia say that you two would be skipping the clubroom post-party to beat traffic. I wanted to express my wish that this is not true. I could have misheard. There were so many people in the atrium, so many voices speaking all at once. But as the winner at Filo, yes, you must be there despite what happened to Samson. You must! And now with this glorious save of Thor’s, you must be there all the more to reroute them from their stories.”

Fucking Nadia!
Vasilov had heard her perfectly well and was extending another warning to get his wife under control. Ink cringed to consider who else had overheard her and hastened to say, “Of course we will not miss the party! She was only complaining, Vasilov. It’s a habit of hers and you must not listen to a word she says about anything. The party goes on so long that there won’t be any traffic by the time we roll ourselves out of there tomorrow night.”

Vasilov patted his
ample belly. “Yes, rolling, rolling indeed. The food is always magnificent, too magnificent in which to not indulge. I will see you then and a shame, such a shame that this new dealer of yours is so soon out of business. A good find, this Thor. What did you pay for him?”

“Two big ones,” Ink said
, letting Vasilov decide if that was two bucks, two hundred bucks, or two thousand bucks. Any of those was too little for a zombie who could survive a melee as well as this one. “Like I said, the dealer didn’t know what he had.”

Chapter Five: The Children’s Melee

The match finally arrived in his email inbox during the last bout of armed combat. Thor had been paired against Ares, match at eight in the evening. Sofia was finally going to get her revenge on Ares’ defeat by Samson when her zombie smashed Thor to pieces. But let the old woman have her fun. Ink had had several beers off Nadia’s money and was feeling fine. The only other message in his inbox was from a disappointed vendor who complained that she had spent every day since Filo hand-knitting Samson scarves and what was she to do with them now?

As there was no merchandizing agreement between them, it wasn’t Ink’s problem in the slightest.
He wrote back as much and blocked her email when she sent an angry reply. Ridiculous. Who was going to buy and wear a scarf in this heat anyway? People were taking off their layers, not piling more on.

Nadia was off getting Scrapper ready for halftime, which
ran from five-thirty to seven. A lot of the stands would empty out for the costume competition, people using the time to pick up dinner and visit the restroom rather than watch the equivalent of what they could see at any elementary school across America on Halloween. Some would come back for the melee, but after the supernova of the men’s, the explosion of the women’s, people didn’t need to see a third one with the kids.

As several zombies abandoned their weapons to go at each o
ther’s throats, the lights went on to dazzle them. A large clutch of security guards went racing past on the ground level of the stands to tackle a group of college-aged guys lifting up their sweatshirts to reveal T-shirts with protest slogans. These people! They just wouldn’t let it alone. A fistfight ensued between the protestors and security, and since the zombies had finished fighting, everyone watched that instead. Popcorn and soda flew through the air, intended for the protestors but landing on the security guards as well. Ink just laughed and watched through his binoculars.
Get a life
, he thought to those stupid boys. Or at least go light your farts and let us have our fun.

The
protestors were removed. Then Ink returned to his cell phone, where a brief text came in from the people who had rented Apollo. They just wanted him to know that he’d done really well. Ink was going to get a cut of the modest prize money there, and that pleased him.

He went back to the match email.
Dionysus had been paired with Hecate, who belonged to a man so ignorant of mythology that he didn’t realize Hecate was the name of a goddess. Once enlightened, he never bothered to change it. Son of Zeus would be fighting Son of Hades, and Burning Bush was up against Zombie Jesus. The computer program had had a sense of humor in the pairs it made. There was also a Bastard of Hades in another match, and he was up against Fightin’ Titan. And Hades, the only Hades who really mattered, was going to make a bloody smear out of Nemesis. Nemesis was another name belonging to a Greek goddess, but both male and female fighters with that name had gone through. Hecate, however, was solely in the province of the women’s games until the sole male one came along.

A
voice rang out to him. It was Sofia, who was coming down the aisle carefully with her canes. She plopped into Nadia’s seat and said with mocking anxiety, “Did I miss the children? Please tell me that I didn’t. You know how much I love to watch the children.”

“You’re just in time,” Ink said.
“I hope you have your camera ready.”

“What a bloody waste!
Ink, I was so sorry to hear about Samson. I know that wasn’t a training accident, so don’t jerk me around with the bullshit Thor story everyone is gabbling about. The knacker lives just down the road from me. Do you have any idea who was responsible for it?”

There was nothing in her eyes but earnestness.
She was a sore loser but a fair fighter. “None,” Ink said.

“How insane.
It occurred to me when I was waiting in line to get in, seeing all those protestors, could this have been their doing?”

Ink hadn’t thought about that.
“Wouldn’t they have killed all of them? Why just sneak in to shoot Samson?” But there wouldn’t have been time for one assailant to go from stall to stall before Ink had gotten there. Still, it wouldn’t have been hard to squeeze off one more shot to take out Scrapper, whose stall was the closest to Samson’s.

“I guess not,” Sofia said.
“They would have waited until you weren’t home and freed them, not killed them. Or they would have shot video of their zombie brothers and sisters in stalls and splashed it all over the Internet as evidence of abuse. I’ll tell you, whoever it was, I’m locking up Ares tight from now on. If this is the level we’re sinking to, I’m disappointed. But what a shame! Samson was such a handsome brute. Not like that wishy-washy crop of young men in the movie I was watching the other night. There wasn’t an androgynous bone in Samson’s body.” She motioned to Ink’s phone. “So, our zombies are having a match, eh? I’ll tell Ares to go easy on Thor, let him get in a few blows before finishing him.”

“That’s what I told Thor,” Ink said, the two of them enjoying the trash talk.
There really was no question about who was going to win. “Let Ares feel good about himself. Don’t just knock him down in your opening blow.”

The
jumbo screens changed to announce the children’s costume contest and Sofia sighed in annoyance. “I saw them downstairs, your wife included, all fussing and fooling over their little babies.” Her voice became frantic, but her eyes were derisive. “Oh, oh, oh, don’t muss your hair, Precious! Put a diaper on him, Molly, in case he goes number two! Too late! He’s had a wee-wee. Get the wipes! Where are the wipes? We forgot the wipes! Oh God in heaven, does anyone have wet wipes?”

She
gagged and clacked her canes together as Ink grinned. That was exactly what it was like down there right this very second. Groaning, she said, “Have a child, a
real
child, and do your fussing and costuming there. Get a dog and dress it up if you’re too old or don’t want your own children. Get a doll! You can buy very lifelike ones designed to your exact specifications. But a zombie brat? I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. Do you get it?”

“Never have, never will,” Ink said.
Since the people in the row in front of him were filing into the aisle for a pee break, he stretched his legs over their seats. Security marched out one last protestor. “I don’t get that either. They paid one hundred dollars, at least one hundred dollars, for a ticket to get in here, show off a shirt, and get thrown out. Was it worth it? Did they get the reaction they wanted? And where do they get this money to toss around at their age? I didn’t have it.”

“I know exactly where they get it at their age,” Sofia said.
“These are the privileged kids, not the Young Joe and Sally Lunchboxes. They’re saving the world on Daddy’s credit card. That’s what you do with those ritzy private school educations, puff up in righteousness about how you would run the world better, and get a bee in your bonnet to show those aging idiots how it’s done. But their lofty principles were all formed on someone else’s dime and they’re too stupid to realize it. If they had to work, if they didn’t know where their next meal was coming from, they wouldn’t be here. It comes from having far too much time and too much security. That’s all. They’ll learn in a few years, or just as soon as dear old Daddy cuts the apron springs.”

“If he ever does.”

“If he ever does! Some of them never do. They raise their children not into adults but just into bigger children. And the
costumes
,” she said, almost spitting upon the last word as a gate opened for the first of the zombie children to be led out. “I wonder if you can pin the fault of that fad on the vendors who used to do women’s costumes when
they
were the halftime show. When that went out of vogue, when people realized that women’s fights were just as exciting and vicious as men’s, when the audience built up to see them, those clothes makers were out of work. So now they do children’s clothes, and look at that one! What did that manager spend on that
dress
? Five hundred dollars?”

The princesses were coming out first, each in a gown that trailed along the ground.
There was glitter and glitz and tiaras, crowns and scepters and tiny heels. One girl no more than two years old was being carried along, dressed up as a fairy princess with a magic wand in her hand and wings attached to her back. Her silver crown was too big for her head, and her manager pushed it back up to keep it out of her eyes.

Little fingers were covered in rings and arms were lathered in bracelets.
Puffed sleeves, trains, dangling earrings, some girls with bouquets of flowers in their arms, one after another they exited the funnel beside their managers who were far outshone by the royalty at their sides. Each girl was featured up on the big screens, and those in the stands who had stayed to watch sighed and pointed at the outfits. Stanson’s two surviving quadruplets had been dressed up as a White Queen and a Black Queen.

Ink just couldn’t believe
that Sofia was behind Samson’s death in any way. The two fell into their friendly mocking of the children as they always did. The last princess came out holding hands with a prince, a set of twins belonging to a manager neither Ink nor Sofia recognized. The children’s hands had been tied together with a white ribbon to keep them holding on.

People cooed at how
adorable they were, and then the princes began. Regal capes with fur trim, toy swords, wrist gauntlets, there was a vampire prince and an Egyptian prince and every other kind of prince under the sun. Then Nadia came out with Scrapper and people clapped. She had rented a barbarian queen costume for herself. It had a slit up the side that showed a black heel with straps that went up to her knee. Her hair was rakishly askew and her hands were cuffed together, but her head was held up proudly. Scrapper appeared to be leading her instead of the other way around. A key dangled from a chain around his wrist. The prince of the land had captured the defiant queen of the barbarians, and the announcer marveled at the cleverness.

“How much did that set you back?” Sofia asked
.

Ink was slumped in his seat, his head in his hand.
“You don’t want to know.” At least he had the sapphire and could recoup part of the losses.

An
other dozen princes came out. One was sitting astride a white carousel horse set on wheels. Three boys were wearing the same costume and the smiles on their managers’ faces were tight. Once they had been paraded around the ring, the managers pulled the three identically dressed princes apart in the line of royalty so it wasn’t so obvious. Two princesses in different gowns that were the same shade of red had also been put at a distance to one another.

Only in a ring like this one did fifty children stand so absolutely still.
Managers were responsible for the only fidgeting, and the proxies for managers since most of the bigwigs were watching from the clubroom. A sword fell from a slackening hand of a boy and his manager picked it up, remaining in his crouch to encourage the child to grasp hold of it again. When it didn’t work, the manager fit it in the little prince’s hand and clasped it shut with his own.

“Get . . . a . . .
dog
,” Sofia hissed at all of them. “There’s an entire aisle of costumes at The Spoiled Pet and a dog can show some affection.”

“And how do you know that about The Spoiled Pet?” Ink teased.

“Because my idiot sister thinks it’s just adorable to dress up her three little fur-angels,” Sofia said. “And every Christmas, I get a holiday card of them dressed up as little elves or little Santas or little ornaments or little reindeer. Bess got all pissy a couple of years ago when she found out I don’t keep those cards to treasure them forever. But I’m not going to walk around calling them my fur-nephews, drive four hours each way to attend their birthday parties, or add them to the photo albums.” The boy on the horse fell off and his manager scooped him up. Heaving him back onto the horse and brushing off the costume, he shouted when the boy fell off on the other side. Ink broke into laughter and Sofia said, “Should have glued him to the seat.”

Nadia was still defiant upon the crowd as Scrapper stood there obliviously.
People liked how she was staying in character. The judges walked around, one handling the boys and the other the girls. They tapped the ones being dismissed, and the disappointed managers retreated ten steps from the line with their kids. The White Queen and Black Queen held out their hands to be shaken, and got tapped anyway. Fifty became forty, forty diminished to thirty, and all three of the boys wearing the same thing were tapped. The manager of a dismissed girl began to argue with the judge, wanting to point out details of the costume that had perchance been overlooked. The announcer said, “Oho! Someone’s not happy!”

“Not a good day for Cantine,” Sofia observed as both of his kids were tapped.

“Cripes, the guy can’t catch a break today,” Ink said, throwing a glance up to the clubroom. The old man wasn’t even seated at the windows, nor was that beautiful blonde that Ink was coveting.

In the row of dismissed children, managers began to surreptitiously swipe pieces of the jewelry off the costumes so they weren’t lost in the melee.
Scrapper still hadn’t been tapped as the number of boys reduced to five. Then the boy on the horse was tapped. His costume was squashed and dirty now from the falls. Security entered the ring when the manager wouldn’t stop arguing with the girls’ judge, and only upon seeing the guards did he give off and pull his zombie child to the line of rejects.