Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead (7 page)

Mick thought about introducing himself, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to appear to whomever was watching him that he was having too good a time or was getting friendly with everyone around him.

He sat back in his seat and folded his arms. Without the smoky smell of Jack’s jacket, the old guy beside him emanated a strong odor of ancient skin and warm meat.

The old guy kept staring forward. Part of Mick wondered what he was thinking about; another part wondered if the guy was dead. The Controller directly in front of the man was lit up, so the guy was definitely betting on something. Maybe the old-timer was a Zen master or some such and was meditating.

Mick rubbed his hands together and pulled out the Controller for details on the next fight. He hated what he saw. It was one of those bouts that flipping a coin would give you the same chances as consciously choosing.

“One for the money, two for the show . . .” Mick said.
Three to get ready . . .

He played out the next fight in his mind’s eye as best he could. No one delivered the final blow. He’d have to wing this one.

Jack came back and plopped down beside him with a heavy sigh.

“All’s well?” Mick said though he didn’t know why.

“Didn’t fall in.”

Mick chuckled.

So did Jack. “How much time?”

Mick checked his watch then double-checked the time of the fight on the Controller. “Not much.”

“Let’s see here,” Jack said and took his Controller from the seat in front of him.

Mick put his eyes back on his own screen. “And four to go,” he mouthed.

To get out of the hole he was in, he’d have to bet gigantic.

Apathy is my policy.
He laid down a ton. If he won, he’d be on his way to the top.

If he lost . . . he’d be on his way to six feet under.

The lights went out.

14

Zombie
vs
Zombie

Bet: $300,000

Owing: $846,000

E
ven the dark was covered in a sheet of red. Bloody and inky.

The Sprinter didn’t have a beating heart, but his pectoral muscles, like the others in his body, still seemed to work and they, in place of his heart, rapidly twitched their own twisted beat.

A low growl lingered in the back of its throat, one based on rage, fueled by an anger that had rooted itself in its rotting intestines since the day he was reborn.

One of his nostrils was plugged, the cartilage having rotted through a long time ago. When, he wasn’t sure. Sometime during the . . . he didn’t know the word for it and only had images: blood, the tearing of flesh, people running, screaming. But the other one worked, just differently than . . . than what he couldn’t remember. The scent was on the air. He didn’t need to breathe it in through his nose—he couldn’t breathe—but the air made its way into his nostril and touched the olfactory nerve cells. What was left of them, anyway.

Decaying meat. Fat and sluggish.

The buzzer sounded and the lights went on.

Dark red to fire red.

Noise all around as countless voices cheered and hollered.

The iron ring lit up then slid to the side.

The dead began to rise.

A gray-skinned pusbag that must have weighed over four hundred pounds stood before him, its smell so sharp it was no wonder he smelled the creature before it even rose through the floor. The dead man across from him was greasy, with a balding head covered in sticky thin strands of unwashed hair. The guy’s rolls hung over a pair of pale blue boxer shorts, the bottom of his gut nearly touching the knees of his stubby legs. Rotting man-boobs with dried-up nipples hung low and off to the side from his chest. The dead man had no neck, but instead his fat head, no longer appearing to be supported by neck muscles, sank into his shoulders.

Delicious.

Fattie raised his hands to just below his gut, the shackles restraining him jingling as he did.

The buzzer sounded and the shackles fell.

Lunch time.

Fattie just stood there, as if unsure what to do. All the Sprinter saw was a bag of powdery gray meat hanging off a rack of bones. If the Shambler had a beating heart, the Sprinter was sure he would hear it.

The Shambler stumbled forward, its steps lame and slow. Only a few inches at a time.

The Sprinter charged him, mouth open and teeth ready. He raised his hands out to the side and hooked his fingers like a set of talons. He plowed into the fat man, his teeth gouging the flesh of the man’s chest, his fingers digging themselves into the man’s sides. The Sprinter tore out a bite. Black blood oozed from the corners of his mouth.

Cheering resounded.

Fattie dropped his head and smacked him in the forehead. Bone cracked and the Sprinter wasn’t sure whose skull gave way. Perhaps both. He withdrew his fingers from Fattie’s sides and checked his forehead. The skull was dented with a sharp ridge down the middle, but it wasn’t split wide open.A heavy set of thick slabs for arms closed in swiftly from the sides and locked him in from the elbows up. The Sprinter jerked and squirmed and, as fast as he could, pulled his arms out then shot them in, digging his fingers into the fat man’s sides. The moment his hands were in the cool flesh, he grabbed hold of whatever he could find then tore them out in a splash of black blood. The liquefying remains of a kidney, liver and some intestine splattered to the floor.

The Shambler groaned and dropped its head again, this time pushing a set of teeth into the top of the Sprinter’s shoulder. Flesh tore then was removed.

The Sprinter took the pain, fought once more against the Shambler’s hold, and, still unable to break free, slammed his head up into Fattie’s neck, taking as much into his mouth as he possibly could. The spongy texture of rotted flesh touched his tongue. Instant euphoria flooded through him.

The Sprinter chewed, swallowed, then pushed his face further into the blubber beneath the fat man’s chin and slowly ate his way into the man’s neck. The head was detaching. Just when he thought he was about to eat through clear to the other side, gravity took them and four hundred pounds of dead flesh pulled him down with it. They hit the cement floor with a resounding smack. The Sprinter felt the front of his skull give way upon impact. Then something else.

Something heavy fell from his skull as if his head was taking a dump.

It was his brain.

15

The Bald Guy in the

Spider-Man Shirt

M
ick wanted to take a baseball bat to his head and bash his own brains in. How could he have been so stupid? Was it the Controller? Did he mistype?

Zombie versus zombie, a ridiculous fight that should never have happened to begin with. And now he lost, owing over three hundred grand more than the original debt that landed him here at Blood Bay Arena in the first place.

Careful to not show any emotion, he checked the Controller and verified his input for the last bout. As if Sterpanko would buy the excuse of a wrong-betting entry anyway. Mick had meant to choose the Shambler over the Sprinter. The idea was the Shambler’s baser instincts and tolerance for pain would allow it to plow through any of the Sprinter’s assaults and just go to town on the other zombie’s neck. Subconsciously, though, he opted for the Sprinter and that ended up being his bet. On some level there was comfort. He
knew
better despite his mistake. Perhaps he could get that instinct to work for him as the night went on.

He glanced over at Jack. The man’s brow was furrowed, deep creases on his forehead. Mick took in the old guy on his left. No expression. He just sat there, staring forward, hands on his cane; the epitome of tranquility. Maybe he
was
dead?

A part of Mick expected that any minute now one of Sterpanko’s cronies would come along, scoop him out of his chair, take him to a backroom somewhere and beat his brains in.

No. Sterpanko’s probably enjoying this,
Mick thought.
He knows exactly how I’m doing. Probably torn between being ticked over my losing and being overjoyed that he’ll personally put a bullet between my eyes. After he carves me like a turkey, that is.

Mick stood up. “Excuse me, Jack.”

Jack pulled in his legs and Mick ebbed out onto the aisle and made his way up the concrete steps leading to a pair of doors at the top. He went through them and went a ways down the wide hallway beyond to the bathroom. There was a line trailing out the door, but nothing too terrible. He could wait. More than anything he just wanted to splash some cold water on his face. He hoped that wouldn’t be too telling to the other patrons.

As he stood there, hands in his pockets, Mick once again caught himself eyeing everyone else, wondering who, if anyone, was in the hole deep like him. The men in line, the other men and women walking by—they all looked as if they had it together.

But it’s all surface. Remember that,
Mick thought.

He followed the line into the bathroom, did his thing, washed up, then came back out. As he followed the numbers hanging above each doorway leading back into the arena proper, he ended up bumping into the guy in front of him, a burly guy, over six feet with a gargoyle tattoo on his neck.

“Sorry,” Mick said.

The guy gave him a sour look and Mick thought the dude was about to deliver a giant fist into his kisser, but instead the guy stepped to the side and let him pass. Once ten or so steps away, Mick glanced back over his shoulder at him. The guy was already caught up in another conversation. A white guy with no hair and sunglasses wearing a Spider-Man shirt stepped passed the man Mick bumped into. Mick recognized him as he had been in the john with him.

Mick kept going, stopped for a sip at a water fountain, then looked back in the direction he came. The Spider-Man shirt guy stood not far off, looking at posters of fighters on the wall next to one of the entrances back into the arena.

“Uh huh . . .” Mick said, clucked his tongue, then picked up his pace.

He silently counted to ten then peeked over his shoulder again. The Spider-Man guy was not far behind him, walking.

“Great,” Mick said.
Sterpanko’s sent someone to come and do me in early.
“Fighting’s not even over yet.”
Guess he thinks it’s hopeless. Coming to collect now, it seems.

Heart leaping into overdrive, Mick made a conscious effort not to look over his shoulder. Quickly, he weaved in and out of the crowd, zig-zagging his way toward the entrance to his section, hoping he’d lose the guy.

Carefully, he feigned needing to check a sign on the wall thus enabling him to glance out his left peripheral to see if the guy was still following him. The bald guy was not far off, appearing as if he was searching the crowd, looking for something particular.

“Couple more gates,” Mick said quietly. He hoped he could lose him. Then again, if the guy really had been sent by Sterpanko then he surely already knew where Mick’s seat was.

He pictured the Spider-Man guy following him to his seat, causing some trouble and Jack coming to his rescue. Then he thought about how lame that was and if the guy behind him was indeed a leg-breaker of some kind, the guy was obviously a professional and Mick was in for a world of hurt if he was caught.

Mick darted between a few more people then dipped down and slipped off into the entrance of his section. He didn’t look back to see if the Spider-Man guy was behind him.

He reached the end of his aisle. “Ex—” The words caught in his throat. “Excuse me.”

Jack tucked his legs in.

Mick went to his seat, but not before noticing the Spider-Man guy coming down the steps toward his section.

Just stay calm. Just stay calm.
He exhaled through pursed lips and eased himself onto his seat, expecting any second now to be asked to “come with me, please” and taken to some backroom and beaten worse than he had been before.

The Spider-Man guy was a few steps away.

Here we go,
Mick thought.

The Spider-Man guy was at his row.

Mick pretended not to see him.

The man went past and went to a seat a few rows ahead of Mick’s. The guy sat down and began talking to another man beside him.

“Hot out there?” Jack asked.

“Hm? What?” Mick said.

“I said, is it hot out there?”

Mick tried to catch his breath. “Um, no.”

“Did you run?”

“What?”

Jack pointed toward Mick’s forehead. Mick put his fingers to his skin. It was soaked with sweat. “Oh, ah, no. Just . . . yeah, hot, but not out there. Lots of bodies in here. Fight coming up.” He quickly busied himself with his Controller. There probably wasn’t long before the next bout and he had yet to place his bet.

“Tell me about it. I probably lost fifteen pounds just sitting here.” He tapped his round tummy with his palms. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Why not take your jacket off?”

“Um . . . it’s a thing I do. The jacket. Can’t say too much else, right?”

“Right.” Mick smirked then flipped through the screens for info on the next fight. He whispered, “This one’s easy.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

The lights went out.

16

Bruce Lee
vs
Zombie

Bet: $127,000