Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead (2 page)

Mick had wanted a piece of it. He had had a few bucks on his person during the whole time the zombies were in charge. On a whim, he took it to one of the earliest zombie fights. He won and doubled his money. He bet again, double or nothing, and won. He bet, he won. He bet, he won. For weeks he’d go to the fights, betting on all, winning most. Any losses were quickly recovered.

Soon he and his wife had so much money they could start a new life anywhere. Over four hundred grand.

Then double or nothing came a’callin’.

Mick had lost and couldn’t pay.

Sterpanko wanted his head.

2

The Cure

T
wo weeks ago:

Mick’s head torqued to the side as a giant mitt of a hand came crashing across his face. His left eye nearly swollen shut and barely able to see, he spat out a glob of blood then slurped the rest into his mouth for fear of losing more. The skin around his wrists stung against the coarse ropes binding him to an old wooden chair.

“You pay or die,” the seven-foot Native man in front of him said then brought another giant hand across Mick’s face, this time on the jaw. Mick heard and felt a
crunch
inside as his jaw temporarily dislocated then slipped back into place. No blood this time. Just eyeballs that felt like someone was squeezing them from inside his head, and a brain that was no doubt on its way to swelling double its size if the beatings didn’t stop.

The big guy stomped on Mick’s foot, breaking his toe. Mick howled, but was quickly silenced as a twisted black rag looped over his head, found its way into his mouth, then yanked him backward tight against the chair. The chalky fabric was strangely soothing to the wounds within.

The behemoth in front of him stepped to the side and another man stepped forward from the shadows.

Tony Sterpanko.

“Good day, Mick,” Sterpanko said, rubbing his palms together then bringing them across his head to smooth back his pepper-gray hair. He wore a dark suit, black button-down done up to the top, no tie. The man didn’t look as old as he was. Mick could only imagine the cost of the Botox and dermatological care.

The mild crow’s-feet on either side of Sterpanko’s eyes suggested he once was a happy fellow. Though this was no doubt true—the guy bled green and had a dozen giant homes abroad; a new girl every night despite being married, and a business empire that spanned the globe—there was something else now in his gaze that made it appear those other things weren’t enough or that something he held dear had been stolen from him during the Zompocalypse.

“I said, ‘Good day, Mick.’” Sterpanko licked his lips then stepped to the side.

The big Native man punched Mick in the face, caught the chair on its way back, and brought Mick forward again. “You answer when the boss speaks, okay?”

Nose gushing blood, Mick nodded.

Sterpanko stepped forward. “Let’s try this again: Good day, Mick.”

Mick’s head lolled to the side.
Answer him.
“Mrrmmm drrrgg.”
Good day.

“Close enough.” Sterpanko bent at the waist before him, as if talking to a child. “You owe me quite a bit of money, Mr. Chelsey. Eight hundred and twenty-one thousand dollars to be exact. The value of such a sum is much more than it used to be.” He smirked. “
De
flation, you know.”

“Irrrmm srrreee . . .”

“What was that?”

“Irrrmm srrreee.”

“You’re sorry?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Well, then, I forgive you.”

What?
The pain swimming inside Mick’s head suddenly lessened.

“Actually, I don’t,” Sterpanko said. “If it was, say, eight dollars and twenty-one cents, I’d be happy to let you slide. Even for perhaps eighty dollars, but eight hundred thousand is quite a lot more than that. Even at eight hundred dollars I’d personally break your knees and wrists. Get what I’m saying?”

Mick nodded.
He’s going to kill me.

“Jumbo,” Sterpanko said to the big man in the room. To Mick: “See, I do have a sense of humor.” To Jumbo: “Mr. Chelsey owes me more money than most people see in their lifetimes. As you know, it is my business to calculate the cost of a life. Mr. Chelsey’s is not worth nearly what he owes.” Sterpanko’s eyes brightened. “But if both him and his wife paid, then that should take care of the debt.”

“Nhhmmm. NHHMMM!” Mick screamed against the gag. A hard swat to the face silenced him.

“No?” Sterpanko said.

Mick shook his head, tears leaking out his eyes.

“Tell me why not.”

Anna. Not Anna. She’s my wife. I love her. I made a mistake. No. Not Anna. Never Anna. No. No. NO!
“Mrrrmmmgg . . .”

Sterpanko nodded to Jumbo. The gag was removed.

Mouth dry, the insides of his cheeks stinging, the taste of stale blood on his tongue, Mick could barely speak. “P-pl-ease. I beg you . . . d-don’t.” He licked his lips. “Not . . . wife.” A whisper: “Kill me. Not her.”

Sterpanko glanced up and pressed his lips together. He sighed. “You’re fortunate I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. You’re
unfortunate
because I’m going to kill you anyway.”

Like lightning, Sterpanko jerked his hips and a split second later an Armani shoe caught Mick in the temple. The chair fell to the side, Mick along with it. His head hit the cold cement floor.

Darkness crawled over his field of vision and an intelligible whisper caught his ear as if Sterpanko was a hundred yards away rather than staring down at him.

The coppery stench of blood filled Mick’s nostrils, keeping him in the moment. Coughing, he tried to get up, but wrestled against the ropes and the chair.
Still on the floor.
The puddle of blood oozing around his face was also running into his mouth. He envisioned the side of his head, the one against the floor, cracked open, blood and gunk slowly leaking out.

“Help me,” he whispered. He didn’t have the strength to say more. Just then what felt like two iron clamps had him by the shoulders. Vertigo set in once the chair was upright. The room spun; his vision was blurry.

A man stood before him. He looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. Then he recognized the voice.

“One night,” Sterpanko said.

“One?” Mick whispered.

“It works like this: you get yourself together. We watch. You come to Blood Bay Arena. You start small. You try and win what you owe me. What you bet is what you get. If you get it all back, we’re done. If you don’t—even if you’re off by
one
penny—I will kill you, your wife, and every single family member that might be wandering what’s left of this planet.”

Mick’s heart ached. What Sterpanko was saying would be impossible. A continuous winning streak? Or winning nearly all the fights? He’d have to bet big. Huge. Colossal. Insane amounts just for the sake of this. He’d have to burn as bright as a candle’s flame just before extinguishing.

He couldn’t risk it. “Can you just kill me now?”

“I can, but I’ve decided to not spare your wife after all. Mine wasn’t spared. Why should yours be? And your family? We’ll find them.”

You’re sick.

Mick didn’t have a choice.

Why was Sterpanko doing this?

3

Ready to Rumble

B
lood Bay Arena wasn’t the kind of place you’d want to spend too much time around. From the outside, it was reminiscent of a Roman coliseum, round in shape, tall columns by the doors and windows. The difference was the concrete dome on top—a safety precaution, it was sometimes called—and glowing red letters mounted across the front entrance reading its name. The parking lot was packed nearly every fight night.

It was a place Mick knew all too well and one he didn’t care to hang around anymore.

If he got out of this thing alive, that was.

Nervous as all get out, he made his way to the front doors, withdrew the ticket Sterpanko had given him from his coat pocket, and went in.

At first, Mick had wondered why Sterpanko even let him place his bets
at
the arena. For all intents and purposes, the tycoon could have held him and he could have just bet from whatever holding cell Sterpanko chose. But the answer became clear when Sterpanko informed him that, “Being a man of my word—and believing in old-fashioned luck—you’ll conduct your business as usual.” He cleared his throat. “I’m fully aware gamblers have their own habits and ticks, setting being one of the things that affects their instincts.” With a smile: “I’m a sportsman and I’m going to give you a fair shot.”

Well, fair shot or not, Mick was thankful he didn’t have to spend any more time near the man. He wasn’t a fool, though, and knew full well he was being watched to ensure he did indeed show up tonight and, more importantly, didn’t skip town and immediately bring the death sentence on him and his wife and all those he cared about.

Passing through the main gates, Mick went shoulder-to-shoulder with everyone else, each person he brushed against or passed making him wonder if they saw the look of dread on his face.

Skin warm, a fine film of sweat formed on his back, a thicker film under his arms. He grabbed a program from a stand near a garbage can then checked his ticket. Section B, Row 9, Seat 2. Glancing up, he followed the letters on the hanging signs outside each set of doors that led into the arena proper.

“B . . . B . . . B . . .” he said. There it was. B. He went in and followed the short set of cement stairs down to Row 9. His chair was the second one in and so far only one other person was in his row. He glanced at his watch. 6:42 p.m. The first fight wasn’t scheduled to start until 7:30. He knew gamblers. Anyone else betting in his row was probably just out in the hallway, calling their “banks” and ensuring their finances were in order before finally making their way in.

Mick sat down, opened the program and flipped through it.

Frankly, there wasn’t really a strategy for these fights. The undead were unpredictable. It was easiest and more of a safe bet to roll with the non-zombie as the winner. Comparatively speaking, they did win most of the time. However, the zombies—even the Shamblers—weren’t completely stupid and were known to come out on top now and then as well.

“Well, we’ll see what happens,” Mick said to himself. His thoughts wandered to Anna. The last thing she said to him was that she hated him.
She didn’t mean it.
He knew that much. It was just anger. Her eyes were glazed over when she said it and her voice cracked. She was more concerned for their lives than for the money or even for what he had done that screwed them over.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and pulled her picture out of his wallet. She was so beautiful. His finger traced the photo. The long brown hair set in loose ringlets, smooth skin, almond-shaped eyes—even that small scar on the side of her chin that she got from the Zombie War somehow accented her beauty.

Clenching his teeth, he closed his wallet and shoved it in his back pocket.

Mick glanced around the arena. It was starting to fill up.

It was getting close to showtime.

Up until now, Mick had been feeling more or less okay, but as his watch ticked off closer and closer to 7:30, the more it was as if the cockroaches in his stomach knew the first fight was about to begin and the more agitated they became. The feelings of regret and sorrow were quickly being shuffled away, replaced by pure adrenaline-charged apprehension.

This was it.

This was serious.

This was life or death.

Mick checked his watch: 7:27.

His heart raced into his throat and boomed against the back of his neck like no one’s business. He could barely swallow never mind breathe and was forced to lean forward, elbows on his knees, head between his legs.

“Hey, buddy,” the chubby guy beside him said. “Watch my shoes if you’re gonna puke.” A pause. “You know, the show’s not even started yet. Unless you’re getting flashbacks.”

Mick glanced up at him, doing everything he could to control his breathing. “No puking here. I’m an old hand at this.”

The chubby guy furrowed his brow, creating a nest of wrinkles. “Then why the huzzah?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business?”

The guy put his hands up as if in surrender. “Hey, don’t go looking at me for help if you lose yer guts tonight. Just wanted to see if you’re okay, maybe.”

Mick sat up in his chair and exhaled slowly. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. Been a long weird day, couple of weeks, to tell the truth. My bad.”

The dude folded his hands over his large stomach. He smelled like hot dogs and spicy burritos. An invisible thick coat of smoke hovered over the guy’s jacket as if from a lifetime of cigarettes. Mick stirred in his seat. The guy shoved a thick hand over to him. “Name’s Jack.”