Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead (6 page)

WHAM!
They collided. The two went sailing through the air. The Sprinter slammed up against the hard wire mesh of the cage.

Axiom-man kept pushing and forced the zombie through it like garlic through a press.

11

So, What do You do?

Y
ES!
Mick wanted to jump up and kiss someone. But he didn’t. Keeping his best poker face, he closed his eyes, pictured Anna, and thanked God for the help.

He thought he heard a low rumble in Jack’s throat, but couldn’t be sure.

“Washed up, bugger,” Jack muttered.

Washed up or not, Axiom-man had this one,
Mick thought.
But he was also bitten. Will he turn? Do zombie bites affect him? I could only imagine a world with a zombie Axiom-man, a zombie with superpowers. I hope it works out for him.

It was hard to discern by Jack’s tone if he was happy or mad. Whatever the feeling, Jack didn’t show it.

Jack rubbed his hands together quickly; the rough skin of going palm-on-palm was like sandpaper on a piece of wood with the bark still on.

“So what do you do for a living?” Mick asked.

Jack stopped rubbing his hands together, sat back, folded his arms and said, “What didn’t I do?”

“Retired?”

“You kidding? Not now nor ever. Besides, we all had a taste of retirement when the dead ran things.”

“Yeah, because running for your life and hiding out is so relaxing.”

“But no work.”

“Was work to me. Don’t know about you, but running the hundred-meter dash in under ten seconds is work for anybody. ’Least it was for me.”

“But you didn’t punch a clock everyday.”

“No. Just zombies.”

Jack smirked. “Didn’t we all.”

“So seriously, what do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Jack smacked his lips. “Little of this, little of that. More of an odd-jobber now than anything. Used to be a lawyer back in the day.”

“Really?” Mick scratched his nose.

“Aw yeah. A darn good one, too.”

“Put anyone away?” Mick realized how stupid the question was after he’d said it.

“Naw, not me. Did more office stuff than anything. Contract law. I’d go to court, sure, but it was more about reaching settlements, staring down the other guy, that sort of thing. Boring, those days were. Long hours. Gained a ton of weight. Lost it during the Zombie War then got it back.”

“I think we all dropped the pounds pretty good back then. No food. Lots of running. Body wanting to give out. Not healthy losing, either. The bad kind. The kind that kills people.”

“If they weren’t eaten first.”

“Yeah, if they weren’t eaten first.”

Jack cleared his throat. “And you?”

“Job?”

Jack nodded.

“Before the war I used to paint cars. Was the guy in the white suit in the shop. All alone. Maybe had help once in a while. Small shop. Nothing fancy. But we did do custom jobs so it was a blast trying to take the client’s design and make it work in 3-D. What folks who came in never realized was that some of that stuff only worked on paper. Cars move in different ways, their bodies. Not just linear—you know, flat—like paper. Had to take the contours and stuff into account before painting something special. Anyway, rambling. Point is, yeah, that’s what I did. Was fun, too. Then the war came and the shop I worked in was blown to bits during one of the army’s efforts to eradicate the undead. What’d you think happens when you blow up a place with loads of paint under pressure? Big explosion. Was not far from the shop when it happened either. Didn’t actually see it, but I sure heard it. Huge boom. Then there was this big orangey-yellow glow against the sky followed by a whole crap ton of black smoke. Nasty.” Mick swallowed, his throat dry. What he wouldn’t give for something to drink. “After the war . . .” He didn’t want to say it, but Jack’s expression was that the guy was genuinely interested in what he had to say, so Mick rolled with it. “After the war I got into, um, coming here.” With a smirk, “You’re sitting in my office.”

Jack chuckled. “You’re sittin’ in mine, too. Guess we’re co-workers.”

Mick chortled. “Guess so.” He thought about prolonging the joke, but held his tongue when he noticed Jack’s face go straight. The big guy leaned forward and grabbed his Controller. Mick did the same. Once he got to the appropriate screen, he wasn’t sure if what he read about the next fight was correct, so he backtracked to the beginning and logged in again. When he got back to the details of the next fight, he was surprised that what he had read the first time was indeed accurate. He’d heard about this upcoming fighter but never saw him. There was a first time for everything.

How do you bet on something like this?
“Man . . .” he said then shut his mouth, hoping nobody heard him.

Jack appeared lost in his own Controller screen.

Mick thought long and hard about who he was going to pick for the next bout. He also knew that whomever he chose, he was going to have to bet big to take a sizeable chunk out of what he owed Sterpanko. Immediately he got warm. Sweat oozed from his pores, making his clothes stick to his body. A shiver ran through him.

Just make the right choice,
he thought.
Yeah, no kidding.
He thought about it once more then made his bet.
You better be right, man.

Mick put the Controller away just as the lights went out.

He leaned back in his seat and gripped the armrests.

Feet stomped on the floor. Folks cheered.

It was time to begin.

12

Minotaur
vs
Zombie

Bet: $155,000

Owing: $691,000

T
he dark reminded him of the labyrinth from long ago, the one built for King Minos. He hated it. Thankfully, those days were long over.

One night in the labyrinth a strange shining blue portal appeared. The Mintoaur thought it might have been summoned by the gods, but he could never be sure. Out of curiosity, he entered the portal and emerged in a world overrun with humans, many which feasted on each other.

The Minotaur stood up proud in the dark, breathing heavily through its nostrils. The dark never bothered him. If anything, it was an ally, especially during battles in the night when men struggled to see. To the Minotaur, night was home.

Despite what people thought of him throughout the ages, he was
aware
and not just some mindless beast roaming here and there, destroying whom he chose, establishing punishment on a species that kept him in a maze for years and years and years. There was more to him than people thought. He only played the beast card because he could.

The zombie uprising was just punishment on mankind, he thought, and he enjoyed joining the dead in conquering the living. Over the years he also followed them to what he only referred to as their hive, but was soon rounded up by men with rods that, when they poked him with them, lit up his flesh in sharp pain.

Now, he was told, he was to fight these walking dead men and women or else the men would kill him.

Regardless of the threat, the chance to hunt a fearsome creature regularly appealed to the Minotaur on a primal level and it was something he was more than happy to indulge in.

Now, captured, he was forced to settle for becoming an enemy of those which he once helped, so instead devoted his life to destroying the dead shells of human beings when he was let out of his cage.

The buzzer droned.

The lights went on.

The crowd hooted and hollered when they saw him. His presence was always a special treat.

The iron ring shone then slid to the side.

The dead began to rise.

A pasty-faced female rose through the floor, her blonde hair wild, her eyes wide and bloodshot. There was no humanity left in her gaze.

The buzzer sounded again and the dead woman’s restraints fell to the floor. So did the Minotaur’s.

It was time to begin.

The Minotaur dipped his head and gusted out two sharp breaths through his nostrils. Digging his heels into the floor, he pushed off against the pavement with all his might and charged toward the Sprinter. Head bowed, horns cutting through the air, he came at her with all he had. The woman shrieked and ran toward him to meet him head on. The Minotaur ducked his head down even further. Faster. Faster.

Sploish!

His horns punctured deep into her chest. The woman’s body jerked wildly as he straightened then arched his head back, thrashing her limp body about.
Thwoopt!
The Sprinter flew off his horns and crashed into the cage wall. Her body smacked the floor and blood quickly pooled beneath her.

The Minotaur approached her, knowing full well this wasn’t the end. The woman lay there, face down, two large wet holes as big as saucers on her back. One was by the shoulder blade, the other lower and more toward the middle.

“Get up,” the Minotaur said.

The Sprinter remained motionless a moment longer before slowly getting to its feet. The dead woman looked down at her chest and roamed a pair of white fingers around the bloody holes. Her mouth opened wide as if to scream, but all that came out were raspy gasps.

The Minotaur raised his large hand and slapped her across the face. With the other he sent an upper cut into her chin. She flew back into the cage. Grabbing the chain-link with both hands, she shook it, once more releasing a raspy gasp.

She released the chain-link and came at him. Sharp nails on bony fingers tore into the Minotaur’s flesh, slashing his forearm to ribbons. Another white hand went for his chest. He moved to block it, but her hand and arm were so small and so quick she went around his parry and dug her nails into his chest, digging hard and deep into the left side. The woman ripped her hand out, taking with it a mash of skin, flesh and blood.

The Minotaur stumbled back and a collective “Ooooh” swept over the audience.

His heart rate quickened. He placed his hand over the hole in his chest. Any deeper and the woman would have ripped out his heart and part of the rib covering it.

It had to end now.

He lowered his head, gravity forcing blood to gush from the wound.

He charged.

Just as his horns were about to slice through her midsection, the woman leaped into the air and landed on his back, her weight sending him sprawling on the floor. Fist after fist beat upon his shoulder blades and the rear of his neck, tearing and ripping.

The Minotaur put his hands beside himself, disbelief and shock that a creature so small had gotten the better of him flooding his system, and pushed against the floor in a kind of push up.

A sharp pain tore into the back of his neck, hard and different.

Not nails from a bony hand.

Teeth.

13

The Old Guy Beside Him

M
ick wished he had a gun. One bullet. Right to the temple. Oh, just to have it lodge in his head and end it. Nothing but blackness then a bold step into the afterlife.

As
manly
as he tried to be, the tears brimming the bottoms of his eyes brought him down about fifteen levels and back to the way he felt when he first got here tonight. Actually, he felt worse since he was now deeper in debt than when he first got going on the fights this evening. He turned his head so Jack wouldn’t catch him on the edge of a breakdown.

A few moments later, Mick grabbed his Controller and verified that he did indeed lose the last fight.

How could a Minotaur lose to a freakin’ zombie? That was like a dog losing to a squirrel. Even though the sucker was a Sprinter, a zombie was still a zombie, and muscle was still muscle. The Minotaur had had enough muscle to pulverize the dead woman no problem. Stupid mistake? Freak luck? Whatever you wanted to call it, that Sprinter took the big guy down and now Mick was paying for it.

He glanced at Jack. The guy was grinning ear-to-ear.

“Have a good time?” Mick asked.

“Can’t say who I picked, but who would have known hitting the wrong button would . . . well, you know.”

“Good times,” Mick muttered. He could only imagine Jack’s payout right now. No one in their right mind would have opted for the Sprinter last round. But David versus Goliath stuff still happened and the last fight decided to be one of those times.

He was glad Anna wasn’t with him. She’d tear out his throat for the way that one went down.

He wanted to call her, check in, and assure her he was still alive and still in the game.

If you want to still be in the game, you’re going to need to really crank things up and bet with nothing to lose.
He sat up straight and folded his hands between his legs.
Nothing to lose. Guess that’s my new strategy now. Gonna have to pretend it’s just me, no Anna, money’s not owing and not give a rip about the outcome. Live. Die. Don’t matter. All the same.

Oddly, there was something liberating about the notion. Who would have thought apathy could be its own therapy?

“Gonna go to the john,” Jack said. Then, with a wink, “Save my seat.”

“No worries there,” Mick said.

Jack left.

The guy on Mick’s other side was a wrinkly geezer that looked about a thousand years old. If the guy’s skin was any paler, the old-timer would pass off just fine as one of the dead. Huge, black visor-like sunglasses hid the man’s eyes. A neat little tuft of white hair sat on the man’s head like a dollop of whipped cream. The old coot kept his gaze fixed forward, cane between his legs, hands folded atop it. The man’s dark red coat, as big and thick as a blanket, appeared cozy and warm.