Blood Games (4 page)

Vasilov knew the
trade in and out, who was rising and sinking and holding steady. Very few people argued with his appraisals, and doing it just once was the kiss of death for working with him. If he said the fighter you were selling was worth ten thousand, then that was what it was worth and not a penny more. He wouldn’t go out there and present the zombie as being worth fifteen. If he said the fighter you wanted to buy was worth six thousand and the manager was asking nine, then you and Vasilov did your damnedest to argue the greedy person down to six. He was the blue book of zombies.

Ink always felt a little honored in their dealings.
Vasilov took the time to match a client with the best possible fighter for the money he or she had. His reputation was everything to him, so there would be no bait-and-switch or false advertising in his transactions. The man had too much honor for that, and he scorned dealers who pulled those sorts of tricks. It was Vasilov who had acquired Medusa, Scrapper, Apollo, and Samson for Ink. Medusa had come from an owner who died of a heart attack and was having his possessions liquidated. Dirt cheap. The daughter of the dead man just wanted to offload everything fast. Medusa was largely unproven in the ring, but Vasilov had a hunch on her. A strong hunch, and Ink trusted those. That hunch had been paying Ink’s mortgage for quite some time now.

Apollo was a pretty boy.
He was not a big-time winner, and Vasilov had repeated that several times in their negotiations over the sale. Don’t enroll him in the melee. His eye-hand coordination wasn’t decent enough to handle multiple opponents at the same time. Don’t enroll him in real arms competitions. Although Apollo had enough sense to hold a sword or club and wield it, unlike a lot of zombies, his worth was actually in his good looks. Don’t spoil them. So Ink used him in timed hand-to-hand or wooden weapon matches, where even if it was going badly for Apollo, the lights were going to brighten before he was killed or got hurt too much. Ink made that a condition of his rentals. If Apollo was returned to Ink’s stables damaged in a way that wasn’t going to heal swiftly and without leaving a mark, the deceitful or careless renter was going to have his credit card charged for Apollo’s blue book price, and Ink’s estimation of how much he was going to lose on him from then on. No one had tried to get away with it.

When kids
had gotten popular, Vasilov produced them at once. Even he thought the fad was stupid, although he wouldn’t openly cop to it. It wasn’t his style to smear his livelihood, or what his other clients were investing in. But it was briefly in his face when he was talking up the kids to Ink, and there again when Nadia cooed about how adorable Scrapper was. The only time Nadia had ever been interested in attending one of Vasilov and Ink’s appointments was when it involved the kids. None of them cost over seven hundred dollars except for the quadruplets if they were purchased as a set.

And Samson!
He was an incredible find. Very little experience in the fighting ring, but on his handful of times in unofficial competitions, he had crushed his opposition. He had no papers, which meant he was likely an illegal acquisition. That was irrelevant. Tons of them were, taken from families or construction chain gangs or psychiatric wards, and ferried across America or even overseas. Very few were ever reclaimed. Steal a car in New York, give it a new paint job and change its plates, drive it around in California and who would ever know?

It was actually a kindness
to take them. Families were so heartbroken at how they only had the shell of the loved one left, a loved one who would kill them if the lights weren’t bright enough. The victim of the virus would have to be supported physically and financially for the rest of his or her natural life. Some families accepted the hopelessness of the situation and relinquished them to the state or sold them for work or fighting. Some put them down. Others kept them and struggled on indefinitely, draining their bank accounts and losing their homes, now and then losing their lives to dear Aunt Liz or young Todd if the light bulb burned out.

And
being used for construction! Other managers had seen it for themselves and told Ink all about it over the years, zombies lugging heavy weights in slow motion to commands from their drivers, building up apartment buildings or casinos under blinding lights. Zombie chain gangs were popular because they didn’t have human rights. They couldn’t sue for mistreatment or even talk to complain about it. They could work without whining for a fifteen-minute break every four hours. If one died, there was no fear of repercussion for shoddy work conditions. God! You could beat one to death if you felt like it, and only be convicted of a misdemeanor if the family still had custody and sued. It wasn’t a crime to beat up a wall, and a zombie wasn’t much more than that.

Ink hadn’t pressed about the specifics of Samson’s background.
It wasn’t his business if the guy had been pinched out of a psych ward or a back bedroom. His business was only if Samson could fight. Besides, a quick death or glorious life in a fighting ring was so much better than being locked up for decades in a room, or working construction for little to no pay. Samson couldn’t enjoy the accolades that his wins were racking up, but Ink did. It was no different than an equestrian glowing over the blue ribbon clipped to the horse’s bridle. The horse didn’t care. The horse was just happy to get out of confinement for a spell, to stretch its legs and see something new.

When
Ink woke up the morning after Samson’s murder, it was to the ringing of his cell phone. He blinked at it blearily. Thirty-four missed calls had come in while his phone was on sleep mode, and this new one was from an unknown number. He took the phone with him into the toilet and listened to the dozen messages as he sat upon it. Half were from the same two reporters wanting to know if it was true. Another was from the devastated vet, and the rest had come from incredulous managers. None of them were bigwigs. And why would they be? They had no reason to call Ink. He had been on the brink of becoming someone, but he wasn’t there yet.

Almost. Always
almost
.

Even as he sat there
on the can, another call came in. It was the knacker. Ink let it go to message and then played it. The knacker just wanted him to know the bill for Samson’s body was in the mail. Thanks, asshole.

Days
. Only days from the Games, days from his photo op, days from that oversized check made out in his name . . . what was he supposed to do now? Just show up there with Scrapper and trot him around the ring in his Prince Charming costume? That would be even more shaming than that long-ago day with Gore Fest. Chaos wasn’t fully healed from the show at Filo, and his best fighting was the equivalent of Samson’s worst. People cheered for Medusa, they went nuts for Samson, straight women and gay men sighed at Apollo and everyone giggled at Priapus and Scrapper, but Chaos?

Crickets.
Whether he won or lost, Chaos was
boring
. He was just another face on the circuit, well known but not exciting. He’d done unusually well for himself at Filo, triumphing in the melee and his next two matches, downed in the brawl in fifth place, and had just gotten polite applause from the audience all along. No one cared. Ink had hardly cared. Samson and Apollo were perfect specimens of masculinity while Chaos was thin and plain and uninspiring. In the brawl, the other four zombies had smacked him down and no one groaned in disappointment or shouted for him to get back up. At the post-party for managers later on, the bigwigs couldn’t even remember who Chaos was. Chaos had been standing there on one of the champions’ podiums in the stadium’s clubroom and Ink heard Bayder say to Gorvich
wait,
which one is this?
They knew Samson like the back of their hands, Hades and Maenad and Dionysus, but Chaos . . . whoever had placed the zombies on the podiums around the room had put him on the most unassuming one, the one all the way over in the corner by the generator that would keep the dazzling light on just in case the power to the stadium failed.

But t
he fifth place adult male winner and they couldn’t remember! And that was true of every party, every win that belonged to Chaos. Ink hadn’t planned to take him to the Games. The vet said Chaos needed another month to heal his upper arms, both of which had taken severe injuries that impeded his ability to swing a punch. Ink hadn’t even offered him for rental. Chaos wouldn’t represent Delwich Stables well.

Ink
had to save his reputation. He had to show up at the Games with something besides the kid. If only Medusa was ready! People liked her a lot. But that was beside the point. He had purchased a place for one male in the 20-35 fighting class, and he had to show up with one. If he didn’t, all anyone would talk about was how someone had driven him out of the Games by killing his prize zombie. He had to change their focus, show them that losing one fighter didn’t mean his stables went defunct even if that was true.

It was about image.
Either he showed up with an adult male, or he didn’t show up at all. Showing up with only the kid was
not
an option. Nadia could have her fun in guiding him down the walkway to the stables and waving his hand to people, but only if Ink and a true contender followed them in. Chaos . . . Ink just couldn’t bring himself to trot out that messed-up, yawner of a zombie who was certain to fall first in the melee.

He checked the time.
If Vasilov didn’t want an early morning call, he’d have turned his phone off. Ink scrolled down to his name and clicked on it. The phone was answered on the first ring, the old man’s warm, rumbling voice a soothing sound. “Ink! I was just about to call to express my condolences.”

“You heard?”
Ink asked.

“Oh, my boy, everyone has heard.
The phones have been ringing all night. Everyone is shocked! Scandals, scandals, we’ve all seen them, yes. But this was audacious. Outrageous! Such poor sportsmanship. Fingers will point, yes, fingers are already pointing at Gareth Hodging, but I don’t believe it for a minute. Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I’ve known Gareth since he was a baby on his mother’s knee. I worked with his father before him, yes. The Hodgings are an honorable family, do you know this? They win some. They lose some. They do not take it personally. Their money, their fame, neither comes from zombie shows! It comes from oil, from investments, from real estate. This is a hobby to them, a very serious hobby, yes, but a
hobby
nonetheless. They would never stoop to such tactics. Never! So disgraceful. I have told three people this already. Point those fingers elsewhere. The Hodgings are bringing their Athena to the Games, hoping that she will knock Maenad from her throne once and for all, and Hades for men. It is Athena in which they have more interest. Do you know what Gareth said to me when Hades lost to Samson at Filo? It was no shame to take second to such a glory. Yes, Gareth was happy for you. Hades is good, yes, very good, but Samson was special.”

Yes.
Samson had been that. Vasilov cleared his throat and continued. “The Hodgings are shocked. Absolutely appalled, yes. They told me to pass along to you a discreet query. If you would like to have one of their rentals, they will pay the current renter thrice the fee to get him back for you-”

“Oh, no, no,” Ink said quickly
, stung but touched. One of the bigwigs
had
taken notice of him, far more than just the handshakes and light conversations at post-parties. That was good to know, a sweet cherry on this sour cake. “But that is very kind. Very generous of them. I am most appreciative.” But Ink had to be his own man,
have
his own man, not be indebted.

“I also spoke to the Handleys
just minutes ago. They are shocked too, and wished to know if you would like to sell your place. They felt terrible about bringing it up so soon, but the Games are upon us. They will pay exactly what you did for the place, so you will have no loss there. Bert just picked up a new male, nearly brand new to fighting, and he is eager to give him a whirl.” The slightest, most scant trace of judgment was in Vasilov’s voice. A kindergartener belongs in kindergarten, he had instructed Ink the first time they worked together. A smart kindergartener still belongs in kindergarten, and a very smart kindergartener skips one or two grades at most. But you do not under any circumstances take that very smart kindergartener, no matter how very, very smart he is, and throw him in
college
to see how he does.

“How kind of them,” Ink
said about the Handleys’ offer to purchase his place. He believed the Hodgings were genuinely upset about the loss of Samson, and fearful that someone might stoop to the same level to take out Athena. They were old money, very old money, the cultured face of the aristocracy who elevated events simply by virtue of their attendance. They would not murder Samson to collect the lousy million bucks from Hades’ wrongful win. Almost a billion dollars was what their family was worth. To cheat at the Games was so far beneath them as to be ludicrous.

On the other hand, the
Handleys were only expressing kind sentiments to get to what they really wanted, and they weren’t quite as trustworthy. However, if it was true that their latest male was still fairly young to the ring, taking out Samson to better their odds was a strange ploy. It was like scheming to be elected senator and taking out the president, a nonsensical move. Ink said, “I am going to keep my place. But I need to have a zombie, and fast, Vasilov. It won’t be Samson, I know, but a good up-and-comer that will give everyone a wow if not a win. Who do you have for me?”