Zombie Fight Night A P Fuchs

The zombies marched toward it.

Recall.

Priority: Sprinter x 2

Maneuver: ?

One of the male zombies, a Sprinter, locked onto its leg, chomping down on it like it was a soup bone. R-1 raised its leg with the zombie still attached and hyper extended its steel-coated fingers of its right hand until sharp blades popped out. It dug the blades into the Sprinter’s back and pulled out a chunk of flesh. The Sprinter stopped biting for a moment then went right back to it. This time R-1 shoved its blades into the back of the creature’s skull, squeezed, and tore out its brain.

The Sprinter stopped moving.

R-1 kicked the body off its leg and into the air where it collided with a Shambler coming toward it.

A female Shambler slapped her hands on R-1’s shoulders from behind and began climbing up its back like a ladder. R-1 reached back and stuck its bladed hand into the creature like a fork and jerked her over its shoulder. It slammed the body on the ground. Just as the Shambler was about to get up, it stomped on its head, sending out a spray of bone and brain matter into the feet and ankles of the other female Shambler stumbling toward it.

R-1 brought forth its pincers and activated the servo-mechanism on its wrist. A soft whirring sound accompanied the now-spinning claw, turning it into a bizarre kind of drill. R-1 stuck its spinning hand into the female Shambler’s face, stirring up the bone and flesh like decayed stew in a mixing bowl, the hand splooshing out the back side of its skull until its force was enough to spin the head right off the neck. A stream of black blood shot up from the neck and the body dropped to the floor.

The male Sprinter was off to the side, digging its fingernails into the chest cavity of the last Shambler.

R-1 advanced toward it with heavy, mechanical footfalls. When the Sprinter caught sight of it, he picked up the Shambler’s body and threw it at the robot. The Shambler glommed onto the R-1 like an octopus around its prey, the creature still very much alive in undeath . . . and hungry. It brought its heavy head down where a coating of flesh was wrapped around R-1’s neck. It bit through the meat, its powerful jaws enough to crack the metal casing around the robot’s neck and into the wires beneath.

Bright blue sparks shot up and around the robot’s face. Some struck the zombie’s skin, burning it in the process. It didn’t care, and kept on eating.

The Sprinter came in, jumped into the air, and struck R-1 feet-first in the chest, sending the robot crashing backward against the pavement. The Sprinter dove into the other side of its neck and began working its way through the metallic casing on that side.

Recall.

Priority: Sprinter x 2

Objective failed.

Maneuver: Rotating claw.

Target: Head. Nearest dead life form.

R-1 drew up its still-rotating wrist and shoved it into the back of the Shambler’s skull. Within seconds it stirred up the head and brain, leaving nothing but a mass of chewed up bone, stringy flesh and oodles of black blood. The Shambler’s body stopped moving.

The rotating hand went for the Sprinter. The Sprinter swatted the mechanical arm away. R-1 went in again. The Sprinter pulled away from its neck, grabbed the rotating arm and tore the spinning pincers from it. Like a wild man, the Sprinter struck R-1 until its visual sensors blacked out. Only the left sensor came back on when the backup optical sensor kicked in. Disabled, R-1 activated the arm-blade; machete-like blades protruded from its arm from shoulder to wrist on its right side.

Internal sensor 1a: Power failing.

The Sprinter worked hard on R-1’s neck, devouring the flesh coating it as well as the wires beneath.

R-1 swooped its bladed-arm in from the side, connecting hard with the Sprinter, cleaving it nearly down the middle of the length of its body. Its skull split in two and toppled to the side like a sliced watermelon.

Objective: Complete.

Being a Kid Again

Mick put a hand over his mouth in an effort to stifle his heavy breathing.

“That’s so unfair,” he said quietly. What about those who just won on their original bet? Is there a payout? Hard to have “let it ride” otherwise. Sterpanko’s cheating.

“Shhh . . .” Jack said.

“What?”

“I heard you.”

“Which part?” Had he said it aloud instead of thought it?

“What part?”

“Yeah, what part?”

“The unfair part.”

Mick was relieved. “But it is.”

“I know.”

Mick bit his tongue and was convinced this was Sterpanko’s move against him and the whole place was now paying for it.

Whatever. As if you expected this to be easy. Just roll with it. Okay, fine. So now we’re getting somewhere. Won that last one. Good. Movement. Progress. Yeah, good stuff. Onward and upward and all that. Stop rambling. But if I had put down more . . . . No, can’t think like that.

Amidst the booing during the last fight thanks to that surprise announcement, he was going to bet even more. But if he lost he’d be in way worse and recovery would have been nigh impossible so he kept his bet as was. During that last bout, though, he didn’t know if the robot would make it. Machines were capable of so much, but that was the problem: so much. Once the limit was reached, that would be it. This was one of the reasons he had a hard time buying all those end-of-the-world movies—especially now since he’d gone through an apocalypse firsthand—you know, the ones with robots taking over the globe with mankind at their mercy. In the end, machines were still machines, each with limits, each with a power source. All someone had to do was pull the plug and one person usually did with those Electro-magnetic Pulse things. Why they never pulled the EMP out at the beginning of the movie and just won never made sense. But then there wouldn’t have been a movie, now, right?

Mick’s breathing slowed. He pulled his hand away from his mouth.

Jack sat slouched beside him, hands on his gut, twiddling his thumbs. The man merely sat there, staring ahead, subtly tapping his top and bottom teeth together.

Bad round, Mick thought, yet Jack also seemed the kind of guy who could keep a pretty mean poker face if he wanted to.

Mick glanced down at his shoes and, while tapping one foot, did a quick calculation as to where he was at with Sterpanko. Not where I’d like to be.

He wondered what would happen if he ended up winning big today and came out on top. Would Sterpanko pay him or would any extra won be moot? A part of him thought he might make a big stink about it if he ended up coming out ahead. Another part thought he’d just pretend he never got in the black and would hopefully go home with a blank slate. And even if he did win huge and could have pocketed, say, fifty grand or something, he couldn’t tell Anna. She’d either be mad at him for not trying to keep it if he forfeited it—after all, every dollar counted as they tried to re-set up their lives after the Zombie War—or she’d scold him for taking it because that kind of surplus would be too much of a temptation for him to come back to Blood Bay Arena and blow it on more fights. Mick hated to admit it, but Anna would be right about that last part. He had the bug. He loved the thrill, the “what if?” and the amazing gratification that came from scoring big on a fight you thought you’d lose.

Jack cleared his throat. “You listening?”

“Huh?” Mick said.

“Seems they’re changing things up a bit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last one had more than one zombie.”

“Yeah. Maybe they’re trying to make it more fair. I don’t remember seeing a robot take on more than one at a time.” Fair. Yeah right.

“Either that or that bucket of bolts had a few upgrades so they had to compensate.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“What?”

“About making it more fair.”

Jack arced an eyebrow. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you—look, point is, things are changing up a bit. Got it?”

“Don’t give me lip, man.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Jack huffed and crossed his arms.

Mick grinned to himself. Tonight might be the last night he could act like a kid. He figured he might as well.

He pulled out his Controller and checked to see what was going down for the next bout. When he found the screen, he took a long hard look at it. Some of these fighters—he couldn’t help but wonder if they were set-ups of some kind, actors on Sterpanko’s payroll. The Space-Time Continuum truly held no meaning anymore, at least not in the way it used to.

Regardless, here he was, in Blood Bay Arena, life as the world used to know it totally screwed up, puked out and messed up.

He thought about his bet. It’d be great if he could drop what he owed by at least half.

His fingers had a hard time committing to the Controller’s buttons. Once a bet was placed, there was no do-overs, not even if you made an honest mistake and mistyped something. What was done was done. Game over, win, lose or draw.

Mick forced his fingers to comply with his thoughts.

He put the Controller back and waited for the lights to go out.

Viking vs ZombieS

Bet: $225,000

Owing: $569,000

Abel Meginbjörn stood strong, the weight of his chain mail shirt nothing he wasn’t used to. Neither was he clenching the handle of his sword. At least, not yet. Not until the dead rose. He’d battled many times before, first against men of lesser standing, most not knowing how to wield a sword or axe to save their life. Stealing from them had been easy, whether it was precious metals, food, women or drink. But those days were behind him now. He didn’t quite know what happened to his comrades. One moment they were sailing the sea, laughing, drinking and scouting the horizon for land. Some of his friends were known for ritually sharpening their blades before an attack, whereas others preferred their fists and hadn’t used their knives and swords the last time they made landfall and took what they wanted. So there, on the sea, he gazed off into the darkening sky, sharpening his blade, the mist of black rain hitting the water somewhere off in the distance.

A bolt of lightning cracked overhead. Thunder followed. Then another bolt struck the ship, right where he was standing, striking his sword. A shock raged through him and all went bright blue, then white, then he was in a land not his own. Those he encountered on the ravaged streets suggested his armor would do him well as there were straggling “dead men” about. He encountered one, too, his shield protecting him from the ghoulish man’s snapping jaws and sprays of blood coughed up from between cracked, yellow teeth.

The thrill of running that dead man through left him hungry for more, and as time went on, he discovered he was quite good at it and so eventually made his way here to fight the dead every chance he was allotted.

Abel Meginbjörn didn’t care much for going home. Not anymore. Why pillage a small town or settlement when you could earn so much more by slaughtering the dead and protecting not just oneself, but the living as well?

He adjusted his helmet so it sat more comfortably on his head, enabling him to see just a little bit better. His helmet. Someone who was part of this . . . fighting circuit . . . showed him a picture of what was supposed to be a Viking. The fellow in the picture had horns sticking out of his helmet. Where such a notion came from, Abel didn’t know. It didn’t matter. He was here now, setting history straight, showcasing to those looking on that Vikings were not to be trifled with.

As he stood there in the dark, he wondered how many of the dead he would have to fight today. Sometimes there was just one, usually the slow ones, which he found to be an insult. One quick swipe with his sword, a splash of black blood, and the creature would drop. The other ones—Sprinters—were much worse, but still manageable thanks to his armor. Two times in the past he had to fight two of the dead, both Shamblers each time.

The buzzer sounded and the lights went on.

The iron ring lit up.

And the dead began to rise.

Two of them. One a Sprinter. The other the slower kind, it seemed.

“For my country, for my men. Today I will cut off your heads!” Abel shouted, raising his sword, gripping the handle tight. He ran toward the dead men.

The crowd shouted and cheered. “Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

“GRRRAAAHHHH!” Abel growled and ran his blade through the shoulder of the slower, dead man. The other one, the Sprinter, was gone.

Abel whirled around, bringing his blade about in a wild arc. He connected with something and a moment later took note of the severed arm on the floor. The Sprinter in front of him shrieked and charged at him, fingers curled good and stiff, sharp nails ready to tear through his flesh, chain mail or not.

Abel moved to the side and the Sprinter moved past him, burying its hands into the chest of its slower counterpart. The Viking drew up his sword and ran it through the back of the Sprinter, piercing both that zombie and the one beyond.

The dead men twisted with the impact and black blood and globs of flesh splashed onto the floor.

Tugging at his sword, Abel hoped to rip it out then bring it up and around for a swipe at the men’s heads. The blade wouldn’t budge; the dead men’s torsos twisted, one to the left, the other to the right, his sword lodged between flesh and bones.

Quickly, Abel brought up his shield and brought its heavy metal frame down onto the Sprinter’s head, crushing its skull. The dead man beyond groaned and tried to pull itself free from the sword. Instead, it only tore up its torso, glops of lung, stomach and intestines splashing onto the concrete floor.

Abel withdrew his soax and plunged it into the slower man’s head. The dead man’s eyes went wide . . . then he went limp, his body still hanging on the sword.

“Boooooo . . .” the crowd droned.

Abel guided the dead men to the floor, placed a heavy foot on the Sprinter’s torso, braced himself, then yanked hard, jerking the blood-covered blade out of both men’s bodies.

“Boooooo . . .” the crowd continued. Others hissed. Many stomped their feet in protest.

Let them howl, Abel thought. The world is now less two evils.

The buzzer droned and instead of the cage opening as always, it remained shut.

“Boooooo . . .”

The lights went out.

A few sharp whistles from the crowd, then a few more. Soon the whole place began screaming, “Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

Abel didn’t know what to make of it. This wasn’t how things went. He held his sword at the ready, his soax also gripped tightly with his other hand.

The iron ring lit up, casting blue light on a shadowy figure rising from the dark. This wasn’t a zombie, or, at least, didn’t seem like the others. This one was wider and wore something on its head.

The buzzer droned and the arena lights went on.

Primal cheers crashed through the air. It was all Abel could do to concentrate on what was before him.

A dead man.

A dead brother.

Another Viking, this one with the red eyes of a Sprinter, glaring at him from beneath a tarnished helmet. Its chain mail was old and worn, its face hollow with slash marks on the cheekbones. It was then Abel recognized the beard, the muddy brown hair that covered the Norse man’s chin and extended near a foot down his chest. Abel had known only one man in his life with a beard like that: Hári. The man was as fast as a rabbit, if Abel’s memory served him correctly.

A flash back to the boat. The lightning. Hári standing beside him, not fast enough to get out of the way. The lightning must have brought him here, too, though not to the same place. Hári must have been changed to the dead at some other point and was gathered to be here.

Gathered to fight.

To the death.

“Forgive me, brother, for I knew you well,” Abel said.

Hári only stared at him. The shackles fell from his wrists and ankles. Hári charged.

Abel moved to bring his blade clean across Hári’s neck, but just as he was about to do so, he withdrew and stepped to the side; Hári ran past him.

“I cannot believe you are here,” Abel said.

Hári merely growled, his bloodshot eyes no longer carrying even a hint of the man Abel once knew.

A warrior’s spirit was a strong one and Hári proved it by pulling his sword from its sheath.

The crowd gasped.

Abel hadn’t known any of the dead to fight with a weapon.

The two Vikings ran at each other, swords slicing through the air, each ready to massacre the other. The blades clashed mid air; a shockwave zipped through Abel’s arm. Quickly he dipped down, bent at the knees, and brought his soax across the inside of Hári’s thigh. Blood immediately spurt out.

Still bent over, Hári brought his blade down on Abel’s exposed back, the force of the blow sending him to the ground. His knuckles hit the concrete first, fingers still gripping his weapons. A dead weight suddenly plowed into his back, pressing him against the ground. A sharp pain shot through his arm and he didn’t need to look at it to know Hári had ran his blade through it.

Screaming, Abel tried to pull himself out from under his former comrade. Instead, the most he could do was rock his body side to side and hope to loose him.

Searing pain lit up his pierced arm. He glanced over. Hári was chewing through it. Abel tugged and tugged, intentionally loosening the muscle and fat for the undead Viking. With a wet tear, he pulled what was left of his arm free, in turn getting him the leverage he needed to jerk out from under Hári’s weight and crawl off to the side.

Hári sat on his knees, hunched over the arm, devouring the flesh off the bone. Blood trailed in a long, thick puddle from the arm over to where Abel sat off to the side, shaking from the pain.

The crowd’s screams droning in his ears, all going blurry before him, Abel wondered about his mates back home and if, even now, they looked upon the deck of the Snake of the North to where he once stood, still wondering what happened to their friends and if they wound up overboard.

Abel plunged the tip of his sword into the ground and used it to help himself to his feet. Seemingly sensing that he did so, Hári got to his feet as well, dropped the arm and looked at him.

“Remember yourself, Hári,” Abel said.

Hári charged him.

Abel brought up his sword . . . and brought it down.

A Hard Kind of Loathing

If Mick had a crowbar, he’d take it to his own head right now. Either that, or take the hooked end, wedge it in his eye sockets and pop his eyes out. At least that way he could claim he could no longer see the Controller and make an informed choice. Bottom line: he lost again, and still owed close to eight hundred grand. It was as if Sterpanko was somehow rigging it—even the fighters. Maybe the money didn’t mean anything to Sterpanko and instead the guy who ran Zombie Fight Night was just a sick freak who enjoyed blood, guts and, well, zombies.

Like before, Mick resigned once again to just spend-spend-spend and hope for the best. No time to even hope for a payout at the end. Now it was all about staying alive and seeing the night through. Once—if—he got to the end of it, then he could focus on just getting home, seeing Anna, crawling into bed and, hopefully, waking up tomorrow morning and pretending it was all a bad dream.

If only.

“Hmph,” Mick said.

“You say something?” Jack asked.

Mick shook his head. He didn’t feel like talking. Even if he did, he doubted he could even find the strength to speak. It was one of those moments where the words were locked in his throat, as if the words and phrases had hit some kind of ceiling and merely bounced off and dropped back down into his stomach.

There were few times in Mick’s life where he genuinely hated himself. Sure, he had moments like everyone where he wished he was someone else—but no, this was different. This was one of those moments where loathing himself was his reality, the kind of hatred where if he could step outside himself, he’d kick himself in the nuts, tell himself off and kill himself—just to make a point and hurt himself so bad out of pure, rage-filled disgust.

It was one of those moments where he couldn’t believe he was himself, the one with the problem, the problem that was insurmountable, deadly and, above all things—and which made it sting even more—could have been completely avoided had he merely kept a decent level of self control.

A hard kind of loathing.

It was the kind of problem where you simply wanted to turn it off, call it a day and say good night. Except, the irony of those problems were they couldn’t be turned off by a simple solution. This kind took an all-out war just to face the music never mind actually solving it.

He was so sick of dwelling on it. He’d been doing that all evening.

New resolution: not only did he no longer care about the money, he no longer cared about himself.

It was the only way to stay sane. Just write yourself off, call it a day and say good night.

After one more bet.

He pulled out the Controller from the seat in front him and just held it. Every few seconds his eyes would begin to drift to the screen, but he’d pull them back and force them to stare forward again past the fight cage and to the rows of seats beyond. Even the faces weren’t digestible. Just blurred beige and brown circles, dotted with tiny black specks and squiggly lines.

A sharp pain sparked in his ribs and his first inclination was his muscles were spasming from the stress, but it was Jack, sticking a thick elbow into him.

“Better make up your mind, friend. Show’s coming down the pike, you know?” Jack said.

“Yeah.” Mick mouthed the words more than said them. He didn’t have to look at Jack to know the guy knew something was wrong. He had to be careful. The betting had to stay personal. Mick cleared his throat and forced the word out again: “Yeah.”

“Then get ’er done.”

Mick nodded and forced himself to look at the pale blue glow of the Controller screen. At first the details of the next fight didn’t even register. He had to read the notes two more times before it sunk in. You could only see the word “zombie” so many times before the death machine it represented didn’t carry any weight anymore. But there was another word there that did carry some weight.

Mick gazed passed the Controller to his feet. He tapped his left, then his right, then his left again. He bounced the rhythm back and forth a few times as if the stalling would somehow make the decision easier. And honestly, it did. When he entered his bet, he felt better and, for the first time this evening, felt like he made the right choice.

He had to feel for the pouch in the rear of the seat in front of him because the lights had gone out before he had a chance to put the Controller back.

Werewolf vs ZombieS

Bet: $350,000

Owing: $794,000

Her name was Ursula.

When the buzzer sounded and the lights went on, she wasn’t surprised the audience readily booed and hissed at her. After all, she was only four-foot-four, a little over a hundred pounds, blonde, petite and only seventeen. Whichever dead man—slow or quick—rose from the iron ring would surely tear her to shreds.

Ursula wasn’t a stranger to insults or being frequently underestimated. If anything, her home life had taught her insults and condescension was the norm. Her father kept calling her a “skank just like your mother,” and her mother always brought up that if she was any more introverted, she’d turn into a hopeless toad like her father.

It was amazing what could happen to a person when you kept getting told the same things over and over again. By the time Ursula was thirteen, she had already had six boyfriends. By the time she was fourteen, she was up to ten. At fifteen, she took things to the next level with them and the back seat of a car never looked the same again.

His name had been Tom Hudlemon. Cute. Brown hair. A little extra meat on the bones, but nothing disgusting. He was known to be the kind of guy who had a new girl hanging off his arm every few weeks. He was also known for his vintage 2001 Corvette, still red and glossy after all these years. It was in this ’Vette that Ursula knew she could seduce Tom into taking things around the bases.

One night, after grabbing a couple Slurpees, the two eventually found their way onto a darkened street with very few houses left since the world fell apart and the dead were bombed to smithereens in every city. It didn’t take long for Tom to set his Slurpee down and reach over to her. At first, she didn’t mind, the car being dark from the lack of moonlight thanks to the thick clouds overhead. Ursula let him take hold of her, draw her close and start running his hand up her leg. Within a few seconds, the interior of the car grew lighter as the full moon above revealed itself from behind a dark gray cloud. Ursula pulled away, fearing the light being shone on the vehicle might reveal a little too much for any passersby or someone looking out their window.

Then the heat filled her body. It was as if her blood had been replaced with boiling water. Screaming, she jerked and twisted, one of her feet snapping up and connecting square with Tom’s chin. Ursula’s skin burned and when she looked down, thick hair shot forth from beneath her skin, covering her arms, hands—everything. Something sharp jabbed into her bottom lip. When she ran her tongue across it, she was shocked to find her teeth had grown exponentially.

Tom just stared at her, eyes wide, jaw open. Then the heat returned and all she wanted was to taste the flesh inside him.

Here, in the ring, Ursula figured it was the best way to satisfy the wolf within, something that manifested itself more and more since that night with Tom. Just last year, she was finally able to control it and transform at will, except for the nights when it was a full moon. On those nights, willpower was irrelevant and there was nothing else but the need to feed and dominate. And at least here, fighting the dead, she wouldn’t be a good-for-nothin’ like her parents made her out to be. In this ring, she was somebody. Somebody with a name people knew and somebody with more money than they knew what to do with.

The iron ring lit up and the dead began to rise.

Ursula got ready, one foot back, the other forward, weight distributed evenly.

The crowd’s tone changed and began yipping and hollering. They were obviously cheering for the zombie because if they had seen her fight before, they’d know what she was and wouldn’t have booed her earlier.

The dead man before her appeared to have been young when he died, Asian, with a slim athletic build that would make any guy envious. Even a girl. His face was open on its right side, the skin dried and leathery, folded over his nose and mouth like a flap, one eye staring out from a mess of dark red flesh, the other amidst lightly tanned skin. His eyes were red. A Sprinter.

“Ready to rock?” she asked.

The dead man didn’t reply, but instead glanced down at his open torn black overshirt, bare chest and black jeans.

The buzzer sounded again and the Asian man’s chains fell to the ground.

“Rock and roll,” Ursula said and ran away from the Sprinter.

The crowd booed as expected.

It was all a show. Let them think one thing then do a one-eighty.

She hit the chain-link of the cage with her back and ducked when the Sprinter took a swipe at her with his nails. Left then right. Quick, quick.

Go!

Ursula turned around and climbed the chain-link until she was at the top.

The Sprinter below backed up a few steps then charged at the chain-link. The impact from his body hitting it shook all the way up the cage and Ursula nearly lost her grip. Reaching up and across from herself, she took the chain-link ceiling of the cage in her fingers and began crossing them to the other side like a pair of monkey bars.

The Sprinter jumped and clawed at the air in an attempt to catch her legs. No go.

“Ha! You suck!” she said and kept swinging across.

The Sprinter jumped again and this time snagged her sneaker. Her shoe fell to the floor. Ursula reached the other side and remained up there until—

The chain-link shook all around her. Below, to either side, were two more Sprinters. The Asian one in the middle charged at the chain-link, dove into it, and shook the cage hard, forcing her to fall.

Ursula hit the ground on all fours.

Heat filled her veins and she tore off on her hands and feet across the cement floor just as the three Sprinters attempted to pounce on her. They missed, each smacking the cement good and hard.

Her skin on fire, Ursula braced for the millions of spiky hairs that were about to burst forth from her flesh.

With a loud growl, she let loose, her muscles bursting beneath her skin, increasing in size. Fur ripped through her skin and coated her in a rich brown. She tucked her upper lip back as two long canine teeth grew on either side of her tongue.

The smell.

The dead reeked; worse than they had when she was human. Yet . . . there was an appeal there as well, a foul stench that reminded her of marked territory.

Her hands now fingered paws, she barked and growled as dark, thick claws replaced her fingernails.

The crowd went silent.

The Sprinters before her appeared to be confused, as if wondering where the little girl who was here a moment before had gone off to.

“It’s me, gents,” she said, voice raw and gravelly.

The rabid dead men charged her, nothing but death and murder in their eyes. Ursula leaped over to them and pounced on one of the men’s backs, ripping the fella’s gray hair out with her claws then bringing her maw down on his head, biting hard and deep into his skull. With her powerful jaws, she tore out his brain, swallowed some, then spat the rest off to the side. She rode the zombie’s body to the ground as he fell, then she turned to face the other two.

One of them—as white as they came with pale skin, white-blonde hair and next to no pigment anywhere else—slipped off to the side as if he had no interest in her, then suddenly came rushing at her, mouth open, red eyes like rubies against white satin.

Barking, Ursula howled and sprinted at him. She leaped into the air, paws out. She punctured his guts, tore her paws down and emptied his insides all over his legs and feet. He grabbed her shoulders, lifted her up, then brought her chest to his mouth for a bite. She swatted his temple, forcing his head to the side, and bit down into his neck, tearing out his trachea. He attempted to snap at her, but instead she nipped back, this time ripping his rotting face off the bone then returning with an even wider maw to swallow his head. She bit down on his skull. It crushed beneath her powerful jaws like a raw egg, blood and brain and bone mashing between her teeth and oozing out the sides of her mouth.

A sharp pain spiked in her hind leg. The Asian had her foot in his mouth. With a quick snap of his head, he tore her right paw off. Ursula howled. Blood gushed from the wound.

She dove on top of him, landing square on his chest. Her weight crushed his ribs and her severed foot along with blood burst forth from his mouth. She bit down on his neck just as he did hers. Hot pain ran from her shoulder right to the back of her head and in behind her ear. A moment later warm blood snaked its way between her fur, heating her skin.

She bit harder.

And harder.

Of Vomit and Men

The nerve endings in Mick’s face tingled. It wasn’t long until his cheeks and lips were numb. His heart beat quick and hard, the muscle inside his chest vibrating. He thought it might be a heart attack. It would be wonderful if it was, but his left arm felt fine and his chest wasn’t tight, just active. That last one should have been a no-brainer. He saw it was a girl listed on the roster. Commonsense dictated that the undead would win. Sure, he had known tough women off and on during the Zombie War, but history had shown, physically speaking, that women were usually weaker. His bet made sense.

But he should have seen through the smokescreen. No doubt Sterpanko had thrown that girl onto the roster as a kind of red herring to throw Mick off. Even someone as sick as Sterpanko wouldn’t have sent an innocent little girl into the ring with a zombie for sport. Humanity still had laws against that. Despite how twisted things had become, there was still decency out there and sending a child to fight a zombie should have been obvious to Mick as a ploy.

Now he was in the hole. Big time. And by the time the night was over, yeah, he’d be buried.

“You okay, mate?” Jack said. “You don’t look so good.”

Mick swallowed what felt like a ball of dry flesh at the back of his throat. His stomach spasmed and dizziness filled his head. He pitched forward, opened his mouth, and let out a solid litre of sour throw up in between his shoes. He shivered from its acidy taste: orange juice with a hint of cheese and burnt shrimp. The back of his throat went instantly dry as stomach acid scorched the tender flesh.

“Oh, dude . . .” Jack said.

Mick wiped the tears from his eyes and the gob of snot that was dangling off his nose. “I’ll be . . .” His voice caught. “I’ll . . . be . . . okay.”

“Aw, man, that’s rancid.”

Several people around them stirred in their seats. Many turned around or leaned forward from the row behind him to take a look and see what was going on.

Great, now people will know something is wrong. I’ve violated the rules. Security’s gonna come and take me away. Sterpanko’s going to beat my head in and I’m doomed. Mick spat out the wad of sour goop in his mouth.

He was thirsty. He cleared his throat and sat up straight. Everyone around stared at him. Even though he’d just been close to it, the smell of the puke seemed worse up here. “Sorry,” he rasped. Many folks grimaced. Mick thought he heard one guy stifle off a round of throwing up himself.

“I’m tired,” Mick said softly.

Jack had a hand over his mouth and nose. “You realize many of us are going to have to move, don’t you?”

Mick nodded then looked over to the old guy beside him. The old fella still sat there, staring forward, the puke not seeming to faze him. “Sorry,” Mick told him.

A minute later, a security guard came to the edge of the row. “Hey, buddy, what’s going on?” He sniffed the air. “Ah, that’s nasty.”

Jack sucked himself further back against his seat to allow the security guard room to lean over and talk to Mick. The guard obviously had no trouble singling out who the troublemaker was.

Just what I need.

“Get up. Get out.” The guard thumbed toward the aisle.

Mick nodded, got up slowly, and, careful not to slip, made his way over to the guard.

“Let’s go,” the guard said and gripped him firmly by the biceps.

He no doubt knows who I am, Mick thought. And if not, it won’t take long for whoever ends up seeing me to inform Sterpanko. Guess it’s over now. Was fun while it lasted even though I blew it big time tonight.

He glanced back once at Jack. The big guy just remained in his seat, eyes toward the cage on the floor. Many others followed Mick with their eyes as he was escorted out of the arena proper and into the hallway beyond. From there, the security guy took him to the bathroom.

“Clean up,” he told Mick.

Mick just looked at him, not sure what to make of it.

“You heard me: clean up.”

“Okay.” Mick went into the bathroom and immediately to the sink where he splashed water on his face several times. Guess I gotta look my best before I say my prayers and get beaten to death. He placed both palms on either side of the sink and stared into the basin, water dripping off his face. “I’m sorry, Anna.”

“You should be.”

Mick turned his head. Anna punched him in the mouth. Where’d she—Blood gushed from his lip. The next moment, her fist came for his face again. Then it went dark.

A spike of pain blossomed at the back of his head and something cool was against his back, its cold seeping through his clothes. He opened his eyes to find himself on the bathroom floor, staring up into the face of the security guard who had brought him to the bathroom to begin with.

“Anna!” Mick shouted. He sat up quickly. Dizziness soon took over and he fell to the side. He used his forearm to break his fall, ignored the pain in his elbow from the impact, and waited a moment for the tidal wave of blood in his brain to pass. Softly: “Anna. Where is she?”

“Get up.” The guard tugged him to his feet.

“My wife. She was here. She was—” Mick’s eyes hurt. His nose was on fire. “Anna.”

The guard pulled him by the arm. Mick tripped. The guard yanked him up and dragged him out of the bathroom.

“Anna . . . Anna . . . she was here. She hit me. She was here,” Mick said. The guard pulled him along. Mick planted his feet down, forcing the guard to stop. “Hey, I’m talking, man.” The guard grimaced. “Where’s my wife?” Mick pointed back in the direction of the bathroom. “Let me say this slowly so you understand: there’s a woman here. She’s my wife. She was in the bathroom. She hit me.”

The guard pulled on his arm and dragged him a couple steps.

“Are you even listening to me?”

The guard kept pulling.

“Hey!” Mick shouted and swatted the guard in the back of the head. The guard pitched forward, regained his balance, then pulled out his baton, spun around and brought it across Mick’s face.

The world spun and things went dark again.

The next thing he felt was his butt slamming into something. When his head began to clear and he slowly opened his eyes, he found himself back in his seat, his left cheekbone aching, the Controller in his lap. No puke by his seat.

“Rough time?” Jack asked. “They cleaned things up while you were gone. Still stinks though. They might have left a tad, I don’t know.”

“I . . . I don’t—” I don’t know. I don’t . . . I don’t know what I saw or what’s going on anymore. Anna was there. I saw her. She hit me. I’m here. In the chair. Face hurts. Blood. My blood. Anna. In the bathroom. She hit me.

“Better place your bet, mate,” Jack said. “Show’s about to start.”

Sumo vs Zombie

Bet: $500,000

Owing: $1,144,000

Adamu stood, ready, centering himself before the lights went on and the match began. Before the Zombie War, and despite the influence of the training place he lived in, the heya, he had made a good living from knocking other men to the floor or out of the ring. For someone like him, thirty thousand US dollars a month was not out of the question and usually it was a bit more.

But money didn’t matter now, at least, not as much. Though Sterpanko paid him, it was nowhere near what he used to make. Adamu originally thought he’d earn equal to or the same as his pre-war earnings, considering every time he stepped into the ring he was putting his life on the line. Such was not the case at Blood Bay Arena, yet Adamu had no real place to go to honor his fathers. The life of a rikishi was lost during the war. So far as he knew, he was the only one left though he suspected there were others out there, somewhere, practicing their art. He just wished he knew where.

The problem was he couldn’t search for them even if he wanted to. Sterpanko owned him, and if he did try to travel and find others, he’d either be stopped at borders, denied air travel or, worse, made an example of to any others in Sterpanko’s fighting stable that wanted a way out.

Standing tall and weighing two-hundred-fifty-six pounds, Adamu had done well in the ring. Though the rules here were different than traditional Sumo bouts, the object was the same: knock your opponent to the ground or out of the ring. But in this case, ensure they didn’t get back up or get back in. Adamu had done quite well on the former. The latter was impossible unless you were gifted with unnatural strength like that Axiom-man fellow. The cage was sealed off on all sides and on top.

Even now, after many bouts here, Adamu still remembered what it was like to boldly walk into the ring with the other wrestlers, proudly wearing his kesho-mawashi—an elaborate, embroidered silk apron—and participate in a brief ritual before returning to his dressing room to change into his fighting mawashi. Nowadays, it was mawashi only. No prior ceremonies. No respect. Just wrestling, money, and answering the call of the fighter within.

Briefly, Adamu wondered what type of the undead he’d be battling today. He knew he’d find out soon enough.

And he did. The buzzer sounded and the house lights went on. The iron ring lit up and the dead began to rise.

A Shambler stood before him, wrists bound in chains.

Adamu didn’t know him personally, but this time Sterpanko had the guts to actually put a real rikishi in front of him and not just some mindless, bag of dead skin and guts.

It was a Sumo.

Though the ring here was not a traditional dohyō, he wondered if the creature across from him even knew what a dohyō was anymore. Regardless, Adamu got busy stomping his legs in a shiko exercise to drive away any evil spirits in the ring. He mentally went through the purification ritual of rinsing his mouth with chikara-mizu (power water) and drying it with chikara-gami (power paper).

He squatted, clapped his hands, showing the dead man he had no weapons, then mentally sprinkled salt into the ring to purify it.

It was time to begin and those in the shadows controlling the bout knew it.

The buzzer rang again and the undead Sumo’s chains dropped to the floor.

Adamu launched his initial charge, the tachi-ai, something that, in the upper divisions, he didn’t normally do, but here, it was charge or die. The other Sumo seemed to be doing the same thing. They plowed into each other. The thud as healthy and dead flesh collided echoed all the way up Adamu’s chest. Immediately, the zombie Sumo—Zumo?—began biting, his flappy jowls pushing into him as he tried to take a chunk of meat out of Adamu’s shoulder.

Adamu shoved his head into the Zumo’s, pushing with enough might to knock the dead man’s giant head away from his flesh.

Quick, Adamu said to himself. With that, he jerked his chest and gut forward, bumping the Zumo back. The force was hard enough that, had this been the old days, it would have forced the Zumo to stumble out of the dohyō no problem. The thing with the fights now was the victor had to be the one left alive. If you died outside the cage due to a fatal wound, you were still considered the victor.

When the Zumo straightened himself, he crouched down and made a second charge. Adamu ran into him, putting all his weight behind himself like a freight train. Sweaty thick flesh slapped together. Adamu grabbed the Zumo by his mawashi, hoisted him a couple feet from the floor, then twisted to the side, tossing the Zumo to the ground.

The crowd cheered.

Adamu kept a straight face, leaned forward slightly, and braced himself for the Zumo’s next move.

The Zumo got up, turned around and ambled toward him. Adamu charged him, this time keeping his elbows in front of his body and using them as a battering ram against the mass of gray flesh before him. The Zumo took the blow to the chest, stumbled backward, then once more regained his footing.

The two men latched onto each other, Adamu wriggling the top half of himself enough to keep his shoulders and chest away from the zombie’s hungry mouth. Bodies pressed together, Adamu held firm to the decaying flesh. The two moved forward then back, then twisted in a circle as each tried to take advantage of the other.

All the Zumo cared about was a sizable snack, Adamu knew. Well, he wasn’t going to let him have it.

The Zumo growled and quicker than expected adjusted its arms and used them to shove Adamu backward. His bare heels caught on the cement floor and he fell onto his behind. The Zumo charged him. Rocking to the side a couple of times and building momentum, Adamu released at the last moment and rolled over as the Zumo charged past.

He got up, crouched, then held out his hands as the Zumo ran toward him. The two latched onto each other again. Adamu squeezed his elbows against the monster’s flesh, hoping the dead skin would give way and maybe his elbows could puncture the zombie and cause it to bleed. The skin, though squishy, held.

Teeth began to clamp on his shoulder. Adamu jerked himself away, denying the Zumo its chance.

Nothing more than a scrape, he thought.

He quickly grabbed on again, hoisted the Zumo up a bit, then swung the creature over his leg and to the ground a couple feet away.

The Zumo scrambled on the ground on all fours, mouth open, its aim apparently for Adamu’s shins or thighs.

Adamu let him come. Closer. Closer. And closer until the Zumo was a breath away. Adamu parted his legs and the Zumo stuck his head right between his thighs. As fast and as fluidly as he could, Adamu clamped his legs together, jumped up, then swung his legs out in front of him, crushing the Zumo’s head beneath his bottom, at the same time bringing clamped hands down onto the Zumo’s spine, breaking it.

A gush of cool liquid oozed beneath Adamu’s thighs as the dead man’s blood squirted out to either side of him.

The crowd roared.

Adamu got up, careful to keep his feet and ankles away from the Zumo just in case the creature was still alive.

The Zumo lay face down against the concrete.

Adamu kept his eye on him, and after a few moments turned his back and stepped up to the edge of the cage and stared out into the audience.

The crowd cheered. Then they cheered louder.

Suddenly, strong hands grabbed Adamu’s waist from behind and something slick rubbed up against the back of his thighs. He shoved himself off the cage into the air and came crashing down on the Zumo’s body about mid back, flattening the creature. He reached down, grabbed the Zumo’s head under the chin and pulled up until the rotting flesh of the zombie’s neck gave way, then the ligaments, then the bones.

Adamu got up, holding the head in his left hand by the hair.

He held it up for the audience to see.

No Anna

Mick had barely paid attention to the last fight. Anna was here. He saw her. He had the sore cheekbone and bloody lip to prove it. He wiped the sweat from his brow then put his palm to his chest to try and slow his racing heart. It had been pounding so hard since being plopped back down in his chair that the muscle was beginning to ache and he feared a heart attack.

His hands trembled. He glanced around the sea of faces in the arena for any sign of Anna. Though he doubted she’d be sitting somewhere in the stands, he couldn’t help himself but look.

“She’s here. She’s here. I know she’s here,” he whispered, twisting around in his seat so he could get a good look at the folks all around.

“Got a mouse in your pants?” Jack asked.

“No. Fine. Just fine. I’m fine.”

“Don’t sound it.”

Mick stood. “SHUT UP!”

Jack’s eyes went wide. So did those of the other people seated around them.

Mick took a deep breath and sat down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blow up on you like that.”

The big man shrugged. “Yeah, whatever, mate. Seems to me you got a lot riding tonight. I’ve seen paranoid. I mean, really seen it. What you got, I don’t know. Some kind of crazy, that’s for sure.”

“Well, that may be. I honestly don’t know what I’m feeling anymore.”

“Should see a doctor.”

“Or a shrink.”

Jack looked at him crossly. “Or an exorcist.”

“Never mind.” Anna. Where is she?

Mick stood again with the mind to take another walk to the bathroom. One stern look from the greasy security guard standing by the door to the hallway told him he’d better sit his butt down lest he get a baton placed somewhere inconvenient. Mick sat. He wiped his face and coughed.

Jack was already flipping through the screens of his Controller.

“Anything good?” Mick said without meaning to. He knew the rules.

“Shhh.”

“Sorry.” Mick still couldn’t fathom how Sterpanko or anyone else could monitor all the conversations going on in this place.

Unless each seat was bugged.

Sterpanko was a goon, pure and simple, and the fact Mick had given him so much of his livelihood—it finally set in and what felt like a peeled grapefruit made its way from Mick’s chest down into his stomach. He could even taste the sourness at the back of his throat he felt so guilty.

Where was Anna?

If I let it go, then she’s walking around here somewhere somehow tied into all this. If I try and find her, I’ll get my nose broke. Mick sniffed. How are you even involved in this, Anna? I just don’t—

Jack nudged Mick with his elbow. “Better get thinking, partner. Battle’s about to go down.”

“Sure. Thanks.” Jack keeps reminding me to bet. I have to stay focused. Mick pulled out his Controller and took in the details of the next bout. It looked interesting, that was for sure. This thing with Anna, though—He had to figure out a way to find her or see her somehow. He also needed to try and focus and win back as much cash as he could otherwise, whether he found her or not, he wouldn’t be seeing her again after tonight.

“What do you do when the Reaper’s coming for you?” he muttered, then placed his bet.

Wrestler vs Zombie

Bet: $275,000

Owing: $644,000

There were few places on Earth that Shanna could be herself. The first and most immediate was at home with her husband, Steph, the second—well, the second wasn’t around anymore, but it had been with her family, growing up with them, sharing meals, getting lessons—all before the Zombie War. Now they were but a memory, gone to the waves of time along with the security that came with the knowledge that despite her enormous size, she was still perceived as a woman and not some sort of man-made-lady that many thought her to be.

The last place she was comfortable was here in Blood Bay Arena, in the ring. Here she was expected to be out of the ordinary. A six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound woman? Sure, you betchya. We see those sorts of things here all the time. A muscular frame that would make a grown man think he’s looking at Arnold in his prime, you say? Them’s the norm around these parts. Move along, nothing to see here.

However, being a pro wrestler on Zombie Fight Night wasn’t too bad a gig. Shanna got paid well enough and Mr. Sterpanko seemed to have taken a shining to her for some strange reason. Why? She didn’t know. But here . . . yeah, here, she could be herself. Be human again and not some large woman that people pointed or children stared at. “Look, Mom, she’s stronger than Daddy.” Or, “Must be on the juice. Nobody gets that big naturally.” That last part was a common misconception when it came to how she got to be the way she was. It did come naturally. Her body had polycystic ovary syndrome, and produced far more testosterone than your average female, thanks to cysts on her ovaries. Her estrogen output was just enough to cover the basics and give her the right desires God intended, but other than that, she had the body of Mr. Universe, and some unfortunate health issues to go along with it.

It first started back during puberty. Grade four for her. In gym class she noticed she was better at the games than most of the other girls. While their swings at bat during baseball sent the ball as far as short stop, hers cleared the field most of the time. She was even made starting pitcher one season of softball. Coach said her arm moved swift like a windmill and delivered a ball with the punch of a hurricane to the catcher beyond.

Soon she grew much faster than the other girls and even by grade nine she was near six feet. Some guys loved the height; others called her “beanstalk” or “oak lady.” Many of those boys wound up with a black eye at the end of the day and she got consecutive trips to the principal’s office in return.

Muscle-gaining came easy and she hit the weights for the first time when she was fifteen years old. Soon, she got involved in inter-school wrestling. After high school, she wrestled in the university league. After that, she turned pro and scored two heavyweight titles in the women’s division then quickly suggested to the league owners they let her compete against the men. They were afraid a woman competing against a man for the title would stir up controversy, but she convinced them to utilize that to their advantage and reap the financial benefits such a scandal would cause. She took on Thunder Guns, the reigning champ at the time, and had him pinned inside of four minutes even though it was originally planned she should throw the fight. They let her keep the title for a few weeks before firing her for disobedience. The fans thought she had merely been written out of the story.

Then the Zombie War came and after it ended, she found herself back in an industry that once destroyed her livelihood. Still, to be herself and not some freak was wonderful and she didn’t mind being a part of the biz again if it meant a means to let loose some of her aggression and not have to worry about what other people thought about her.

As she stood there in the dark, she clenched her fists, then relaxed her hands and adjusted her leather corset. She double checked the long braid of her blonde hair to make sure it was in place, and she stamped her heels against the ground, psyching herself up.

She was ready. It was time to show these people what she was made of.

The buzzer sounded and the lights went on.

The iron ring lit up and the dead began to rise.

Blood Bay Arena did its best to match the zombie to the fighter, something to give the crowd their money’s worth. Shanna’s matches were no exception and standing before her was a hulk of a man, gray-skinned and purple-veined, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. Red gauges dotted the man’s skin. It looked as if he was a seasoned fighter and the damage had been done by a werewolf or other creature. He had short, greasy black hair, and wrinkly, gray circles around his eyes. The man’s hands were like baseball mitts. Unfortunately, he was a Shambler, and combining that with his appeared weight of two-hundred-fifty-or-so pounds, the guy was going to move slow.

You could end this quickly and be in a hot bath inside of ten minutes, Shanna thought. She wasn’t sure if she was in the mood to give everybody a show or not, yet it would still be something sweet to see a big blonde take out a large dead man.

The buzzer rang and the dead man’s chains fell to the concrete floor.

Lights shining bright above, Shanna took a quick second to say a prayer of help, then focused herself at what needed doing. The secret here, as always, was to not get bit. If you kept away from a zombie’s mouth, you had an eighty percent chance of survival already. The other trick was to stay away from their hands. Once those slapped down on you, they dragged and pulled you in until the undead could lock their teeth around your neck or shoulder. Being near their arms was okay. The undead didn’t really use them to reel you in. It was the hands—the grab-and-pull—that was dangerous. The other advantage was the zombies normally led with their face, mouth-first, so you knew where they were aiming for on your body and you could then avoid them.

The zombie stumbled toward her. Shanna side-stepped, forcing it to follow her in a circular pattern.

The creature lunged at her. She stepped to the side and the zombie grabbed nothing but air. She maneuvered around it so she was behind, grabbed the zombie by the waist, bent her knees, then thrust upward with all her might, throwing the zombie over her shoulder in a well-executed suplex.

Releasing him, she got up, took two quick steps so she was alongside the zombie, then cocked her elbow and put her bodyweight behind it as she plowed it into his spine, crashing down on top of him.

The crowd cheered, loving every minute of it.

Giving in to a bit of showmanship, Shanna squatted over the zombie, facing his feet, then dropped her backside onto the small of his back. With a firm grip, she took up the zombie’s ankles and pulled hard, forcing the legs toward her and turning the zombie’s body into a perfect U: pure Boston Crab.

Hoots and whistles filled the arena.

Shanna smiled, released the dead man, got to her feet and strode over to one side of the cage, tossing her arms up.

“Yeah? Yeah? You want more? Huh! Okay, you got it!” she growled.

More whistles.

The zombie was getting to his feet. Shanna ran over to him and stomped her foot into his ribcage, stopping him. The decayed flesh gave way and a gush of blood followed by a glop of rotting intestine poured out.

The zombie fell onto his side.

Shanna took a step away and raised a fist to the crowd.

The dead man slowly got up, shook his head as if he was trying to shake the cobwebs out, then lumbered over to her, arms outstretched, moving them up and down like flesh-made scissors.

Shanna weaved under the arms, once, twice—and on the third the zombie caught her and began pulling her in. The man’s hands were rough and heavy, like lead-filled balloons, with a strength that made his fingers dig deep into her skin. She kicked at the ground, trying to push away. The zombie lost its grip for a moment but quickly re-established it. Mouth open, he pulled her in toward it.

With a swift right hook, she knocked the zombie’s jaw to the side, then came back with an uppercut and landed her fist squared where the jaw met the neck. The zombie’s head snapped back and she hoped the force of the blow was enough to break his neck. The zombie released her, stumbled back a few steps, then slowly brought his head forward again.

“Are you serious?” she said.

She snapped out her arm and ran at him, quickly veering to the side at the last moment and took the zombie down with a mighty clothesline.

She stomped on the zombie’s back. The undead man jerked, his sudden move so unexpected that the jolt of his girth was enough to knock her off balance. She fell backward on her behind.

The crowd screamed. She thought she heard someone shout, “Look out!”

She tried to roll to the side just as the zombie grabbed her legs, but it was too late. The creature had her and was tugging at her boot, trying to figure a way around the laces and into the tender flesh beneath.

She kicked her feet as hard as she could, gave it all she had in a mad scramble to gain some distance.

“Don’t get close. Don’t get close,” she told herself. Getting close will kill you.

One foot . . . two. She was free.

She ran to the other side of the cage, bounced off the chain-link, and charged straight at the zombie just as he was standing up. She leaped into the air and sent both feet into the dead man’s chest. The creature slammed back against the cage on the other side. Shanna landed on her back.

A sudden woosh of dizziness overtook her and black fuzz lined her vision. A moment later and a searing pain ignited at the back of her head. It took a moment, but the two words “head” and “impact” bounced around inside her skull. Ears buzzing, she caught sight of something big and gray lumbering toward her.

A man.

A dead man.

A zombie!

Shanna rolled over to the side, face down. For a second she forgot what she was trying to do and her heart sped up in panic. Meaty hands grabbed her waist and yanked her to her feet.

Her head lolled back, then she quickly jerked it forward just as a set of yellow teeth snapped at her cheek.

Screeching, the crowd roaring for blood, pain already lighting up the back of her skull, she tossed her head back in one swift jerk and head butted the zombie, somewhere hopefully between the eyes, enough to daze him for a second.

She pressed down on the zombie’s hands, releasing his hold on her.

Giving in to the whirlwind of instinct flooding through her, she stepped forward, grabbed the zombie by the neck, and forced him to bend at the waist. Then she wrapped her arms under him, jerked the dead man’s body and legs up so he was inverted, pulled him up even higher . . .

. . . and let that pusbag have a Power Bomb, sending him crashing to the floor with all her might.

She stomped forward and slammed her foot down on the back of the zombie’s head.

The skull cracked beneath her foot and brain oozed out like rotten banana from its peel.

Option Four

“I’m a genius,” Mick said quietly. Thank you very much, I’m almost out. It took everything he had to keep a smile from forming on his face.

Okay, just breathe. Brreeeaaatthhe. He let out a slow exhale.

In his peripheral, he caught Jack shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

That last one mustn’t have gone so well for him, he thought. He pretended he hadn’t noticed.

“I really need to go to the can,” Mick said.

“Again?”

“That last visit was to wash the puke off. Besides, I got a bladder like an infant.”

“Hmph. Come to think of it, actually, I gotta tinkle, too.”

Mick chuckled, trying to convince any secret onlookers he was settling back in instead of wondering where the heck Anna was. He had to find her.

Jack got up. “You coming?”

“In a sec.”

Jack left.

Mick needed to find his wife.

Option One: try and make a break for it past the security guard. Naw. Wouldn’t work. Another would catch up to him right away and clobber him.

Option Two: try to sneak away and get back in time for the next fight and hope no one notices. But he wasn’t a ninja, so that one was out as well.

Option Three: hire a ninja?

Mick shook his head, wondering where that last thought came from.

Option Four:

Mick bent at the waist and untied his boot. He flipped it over and inspected the sole. Clumps of dirt from Blood Bay’s floor and a chunky sheen of puke from the incident earlier coated the bottom of his boot.

As discreetly as he could, he took a whiff of the sole. The sharp stench pierced his nostrils, the fumes enough to prime his gag reflex. Then with as wide a mouth as he could manage, he stuck out his tongue and ran it up and down the length of his boot, licking off as much of the funky gooey slop as he could. The spongy, mud-like mixture sat in a ball on his tongue. He rolled it around in his mouth a couple of times before swallowing.

Instantly, his stomach revolted and a stream of puke launched out of his mouth. Mick made sure to shake his head a little as the stuff came out so as to get it everywhere and cause an even bigger scene.

However, the old guy sitting next to him didn’t seem to notice.

Mick stood hunched over, retching, when a pair of hands grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out into the aisle.

“I oughtta beat you down to a pulp, you know that?” a voice said.

Mick glanced up through watery eyes to a meaty security guard, this one not the guy standing by the door to the hallway.

The big man grabbed him under his arm and dragged him up the steps to the door, Mick’s insides still convulsing all the way.

At least I’m on my way out, Mick thought. “Bathroom . . .”

“Not this time,” the guard said.

Just as they passed through the door, Mick bumped into Jack.

“Hey, man, what gives?” Jack said, arms outstretched.

Mick didn’t have a chance to reply as he was taken down the hallway to a metal door at the far end, up six flights of concrete steps, and was brought into another hallway, the walls lined with yellow bricks.

His stomach muscles were still contracting and little chunks were coming up again. He could barely keep his feet under him.

The guard hauled him to the room at the far end, shoved him inside the dark room, then closed the door behind them, keeping a firm hand on Mick’s shoulder. A moment later, the light went on.

“Why are you doing this, Mick?” Sterpanko moved from the far side of the plainly-furnished room. There was a large window behind him overlooking the cage below. A row of four black leather chairs were positioned in front of the window. That was it. Nothing else other than gray carpeting and charcoal black-painted walls.

“Doing what?” Mick said.

“You come here, screw me over, and I by my good graces decide to give you a chance to get out of this mess and all you do is lose money, cause a scene” —he snapped up the first two fingers of his right hand— “twice yack all over the place—SENSELESS! You really do live like a man with nothing to lose, don’t you?”

Mick swallowed, winced, and cleared his throat.

“Want to say something?” Sterpanko said.

“No. Just a cough.”

“You’ve done enough of that already, don’t you think?”

Mick didn’t answer.

“I asked you a question.”

The guard tightened his grip on Mick’s shoulder, digging his thumb deep into the flesh.

“Yes,” Mick said. “Sorry.”

“You should be. And now here we are.” Sterpanko pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket, stuck it in his mouth, lit it, then put the lighter back in his pocket. He exhaled a thick plume of smoke. “I’ve already given you the speech about what will happen if you don’t perform today, so I’ll spare saying it again.”

Sterpanko walked over to the large window, looked down and didn’t say anything. A moment later, he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a cordless Controller.

The guard walked Mick over to him. Sterpanko handed him the device.

Mick just held it.

“Are you going to place a bet?” Sterpanko asked.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

Sighing, Mick registered himself with the machine and flipped through the screens to see what the next fight held. He made his selection and handed the Controller back. “There.”

Sterpanko put the device back in his pocket. “Let’s see what happens.”

Bigfoot vs ZombieS

Bet: $369,000

Owing: $369,000

The flashes came only once and a while now. There used to be a time when they came quite regularly, shots of a world from long ago from a time that was no more.

The Bigfoot’s mind wasn’t as underdeveloped as most people thought. His name was Stalla. Though not his pack’s Alpha Male, he most definitely was one of the fiercest. He knew that much. Reason and process-of-thought wasn’t beyond him either. He prided himself on that and reflected on it often. Sometimes, for amusement, he’d pretend he didn’t understand what Steer-payn-koh and those with him were saying, or would feign just enough understanding to comply with what they wanted but only half-heartedly. It seemed to appease them enough.

Those flashes. Bright images of hairy beasts, large hands, pushed-in noses and glorious fangs. His people. His kind.

Of which he was the last.

The muptigs, as his people referred to them, had caused so much trouble before, building cities out of the fruits of the woods, killing trees just to harvest their strong interiors beneath the bark. The muptigs were what forced Stalla and his family to retreat further into the trees. It was a tradition—though Stalla had trouble recalling from where—for one to retreat deeper into the forest at the first sign of a muptig. He only knew two things in regards to those smaller and balder versions of themselves: retreat into the forest; cover your head while doing so. The stories passed down from his grandfather said that the muptig were able to shoot hard things from their hands, so fast and with so much force that those hard things would penetrate your skull if you weren’t careful. They were even strong enough to make your blood run freely on the ground and end your life.

It was the muptigs’ ability to shoot hard things from their hands that created the fear inside the world of the Bigfoots. It was the only thing they feared.

Until that day when the muptigs came, this time appearing differently than before. Their skin was lighter, wounded, and their foul smell was even worse than their original scent. These muptigs—thwellers, as they became known amongst the Bigfoot—did not shoot hard things from their hands. To a degree, they were like the Bigfoot and devoured their prey with their teeth, sometimes using their claws to reel their meals in.

Stalla always believed in the idea that muptigs would be afraid of his kind if they were presented to them. Everyone in his tribe thought he was crazy. But he was right because one night—before the thwellers arrived—a muptig was moving through the woods, appearing to be searching for something. Stalla had stepped out from behind a tree and startled the muptig. The muptig screamed and on wobbly legs tried to run away only to trip and fall to the forest floor. Stalla had braced himself for the impact of a hard thing from the muptig’s hands, only to find that nothing came from the muptig’s hands at all. Stalla left that muptig there in the dark and returned to his tribe with the news of what he’d done. No one believed him, except one—the tribe’s leader and Alpha Male, Yugta.

To show the leader that muptigs were actually harmless, the two set out the next night in search of one. The night went on and no muptigs were found. However, after wandering through the forest all night and just before the sun came up, Stalla saw one and called Yugta over. He told Yugta to stay behind the bush and watch him go up to the muptig and scare it. Being the Alpha Male of the group, that didn’t sit well with Yugta and he instead pushed past Stalla and strode into the path of the muptig. The muptig didn’t scream, as Stalla expected. Instead, it merely looked quizzically at Yugta, as if trying to process that which was before it. Then, with a quick jerk of its body, it jumped onto Yugta and sunk its teeth into his neck. Dark streams of blood arced from the wound and stained the green and brown of the forest trees and bushes. Yugta fell and the muptig kept eating.

Stalla watched from behind the trees. He so desperately wanted to howl over losing his friend, but instead found himself pinned with fear and unable to move. This wasn’t a muptig like the other night. This thing eating his friend was something else. Some kind of . . . thweller, an “eater.”

When he returned to his tribe, they were already under attack, thwellers everywhere, chasing and eating and cutting open all those he loved.

Stalla ran.

Now, in the dark of the arena, a flash of blood-coated hair danced before his eyes.

A sound droned overhead. The lights went on.

Blue light lit a circle on the floor and a thweller began to rise.

This thweller had eyes like blood, pale skin, and pure hate upon its face.

The joyous screams of muptigs filled Stalla’s ears.

A loud noise droned again and that which bound the thweller fell to the floor.

The thweller moved instantly, charging straight toward him.

Stalla took a giant step to the side, hoping the thweller would run on past him and he could attack the creature from behind. Instead, the thweller matched his movement and went to the left with him, plowing mouth first into Stalla’s big and hairy chest. The monster’s mouth tried to work its way through the mats of hair, searching for flesh. He grabbed the thweller on either side of the head and yanked the creature off, the thweller bringing a mouthful of thick brown hair between its teeth along with it.

This was going to be easy.

The thweller grumbled and groaned as Stalla held either side of its head, keeping the creature’s body from touching the ground. Then, using his chest and shoulder muscles, Stalla squeezed his hands together. There was a split second of resistance, then the thweller’s head burst open at the top, brain and blood shooting out of it like a jam-packed pumpkin. Its mouth slowly moved up and down, as if it realized that its life had just ended, yet even then it still yearned for one last taste of solid meat.

Stalla dropped the body at his feet then stepped on it toward the creature’s legs, his massive weight pulverizing the corpse like he did that coyote that one time, leaving only a sack of skin filled with mushed meat behind.

Stalla raised his massive hands and arms skyward, howling at the audience as they cheered. Others in the crowd made a different sound, one low and long: “Booooo.” Stalla growled.

Soon the droning hisses and low booing from the crowd blended with wild cheering and, eventually, was replaced. Stalla searched the cage for the source of their amusement. Rising out of the iron ring stood three more thwellers, two males and one female. Each had a head of brown hair. One of the thwellers had hair on its face, the other two did not. Blood coated their torn clothes, all of them wearing white. Stalla was amazed that the blood remained splotched clearly in its place, bringing a sharp contrast to the white of their clothing. It was almost beautiful.

This was a new trick. So far in his career battling in the cage, the enemy had only been offered to him one at a time, and each of the thwellers that stood before him were the aggressive sort, the ones that ran instead of walked. The ones that charged instead of wobbled toward you like some kind of half-asleep beast.

The moment the three thwellers rose so their feet were level with the cage floor the chains were released and all of them made a mad dash for Stalla. He threw out his big hairy arms to either side and ran at them, slamming his biceps into two of their necks, forcing them to fall backward to the floor. The third—the female—just simply rushed past. Stalla kept her in his peripheral and spun around on his leathery-soled feet and met her head-on as she sped toward him, growling and shrieking like an eagle in the night.

Stalla slammed his palms down on the cage floor and used them as leverage and vaulted himself into the air, coming at her feet-first. The sharp claws at the end of his toes connected squarely with her face, two of his toes lodging themselves deep in her eyes. He jerked his legs back, ripping her eyes from their sockets, doing so accidentally shoving his heel into her mouth. Her teeth clamped down. Stalla howled, then yelped when she tore the bottom of his foot away as he fell to the floor.

Ignoring the pain, he stood up and met the two males that had now gotten to their feet. In an instant he swiped a gigantic paw at them and cleaved off one of the thweller’s faces. He then leaped away from the second as it came at him, jaws snapping, and finished the female off by digging his claws into her skull, then peeling the bone back like de-boning a fish. Brain and blood glopped out of her cranium and she hit the floor.

A male thweller latched onto Stalla’s back and bit hard and deep to where his neck met his shoulder. The sharp sting of his hair being torn from his skin was quickly masked when the flesh beneath the hair gave way and blood and meat started to splash out.

He reached over his shoulder, grabbed the thweller just underneath its jaw with both hands, and flipped the creature over his shoulder. The thweller hit the concrete floor with such force that its skull cracked on impact, blood immediately beginning to pool around it. Stalla bent down and opened his mouth wide and bit off the thweller’s face, opening its skull, then stood and spat the bloody skin and flesh and shards of bone toward the audience. Most of them cheered. A few hissed.

Stalla didn’t care.

The zombie didn’t move.

Suddenly the pain in his heel ignited as if he had been bitten afresh and he had no choice but to not step on it otherwise his leg would surely fold beneath him.

The faceless zombie tugged on his hand as if trying to free a stray branch from a rushing stream. Stalla jerked his fist toward himself, bringing the thweller along with it. The thweller had its mouth open and when its head connected with Stalla’s, it took a bite out of the Bigfoot’s lip. Blood sprayed on both of them. Stalla growled and dug his claws deep into the thweller’s chest and pulled out anything that would quickly give: bone, meat, veins, heart—glory.

The thweller didn’t seem to mind and kept snapping its jaws.

Blood continued to gush from Stalla’s wounds and his vision began to go blurry. The only thing he was certain of at the moment was the pain and the snapping jaws in front of him.

He fell to his knees, dragging down the thweller with him. His vision grew darker around the edges and the inside of his head felt lighter and lighter, as if something was removing the bones from beneath his skin. He didn’t know what to call the sensation but wanted more than anything to just sleep.

Snapping jaws.

Stalla couldn’t let it win.

He reached into the creature’s mouth. The thweller’s teeth bit through his paw. He didn’t care. He teetered backward, fell over, the thweller now resting on top of him, its blood cool and soaking through the hair on his chest and stomach.

Stalla turned his paw over inside the thweller’s mouth so his claws dug into its roof, and with one swift-yet-effort-filled motion, jerked his hand upward, ripping off the top of the thweller’s head. The creature fell lifeless on top of him.

Stalla’s vision darkened.

The crowd cheered somewhere distant.

This was for Yugta.

This is New

Mick stood there, heart pounding, his mind playing the last few moments of the fight over and over. A draw? Mick couldn’t recall the last time that happened, if at all. But he also hadn’t seen every single zombie fight either.

He turned to Sterpanko. “Now what?”

The man pressed his lips together and for the briefest of moments, Mick thought he didn’t know what to do. Yet, of course, Mick knew that wasn’t the case. If Sterpanko was anything, he was smart and calculating. He was the type of guy who had Plans A through D for everything. Surely the scenario of a draw had been taken into account when Zombie Fight Night was first created, especially given the contenders.

Sterpanko reached for the Controller and began tapping buttons. A few moments later, he stopped. “That was quite a bet, Mick. If you had won, we’d be even.”

“I did win, though. I bet on Bigfoot. The zombies are dead. All four of them.”

“Yes, but Bigfoot is dead, too, isn’t he?”

“So if that happens, rules say last one alive is the victor.”

Sterpanko eyed him coolly. “We continue.”

“What?”

Sterpanko narrowed his eyes.

“You’re serious?”

“I don’t joke, Mick. You ought to know that by now.”

“So that last fight—”

“Doesn’t count.”

Without thought, Mick lunged at him. In a flash, the security guard was at Sterpanko’s side. Another instant later and Mick’s face lit up with bright red pain. He hit the floor and looked up at Sterpanko. The guard beside him rubbed his fist.

“Seems you got a hard head on you. Marcus here usually doesn’t wince when taking care of business for me,” Sterpanko said.

Marcus took a step toward Mick then glanced back at Sterpanko as if waiting for instruction.

Sterpanko put up a hand. “Leave him be.” He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and tossed it down to Mick. “Wipe your face. You’re getting blood all over the carpet.”

Mick pinched his bloody nose with the handkerchief and held it tight.

From out of the shadows behind Sterpanko, a familiar figure stepped forward.

“Anna!” Mick said then coughed.

She put a hand on Sterpanko’s shoulder.

“Is he out?” she asked him.

Sterpanko shook his head. “Not yet. Came close on that last one, though.”

“Figures,” she said, giving Mick a cold glare.

“Anna, what are you doing here?” Mick said. “It was you I saw. You hit me. You f—”

Marcus delivered his boot under Mick’s chin, snapping his mouth shut and sending him toppling backward so he lay on the floor.

“Can’t have you swearing in front of the lady,” Marcus said.

“Go to hell.”

He heard Marcus take a step forward then Sterpanko said, “It’s okay.”

“Told you he couldn’t deliver,” Anna said.

Mick felt around his head and torso for the handkerchief that had fallen out of his hand. He located it beside his shoulder then put it against his bleeding nose and mouth. “How could you, Anna?” he said through the cloth. “How could you?”

She came close and knelt down beside him. She took his hand in hers. When she spoke, her voice was like the calm after a storm. “You ruined us. You took what was ours and squandered it. You put your addiction above you and I.” Her tone changed and Mick knew she was fighting back tears. “I wanted to forgive you. I love you, and I did forgive you. But it just got worse. I didn’t know what you owed. I thought maybe it was a few hundred dollars. Instead you deprived us of nearly a million. One. Million.” She squeezed his hand. Tears were pooled in her eyes but they did not leak. “And you know what? It’s not even about the money. It’s about you risking to destroy us after those we loved were destroyed. After all those people we saw killed when the dead ruled our planet. After all that madness, you took it a step further and gambled with life. Our lives. And you lost.”

The tears came. Anna kept quiet for a few minutes as she sobbed.

“I’m sorry, sweetie, I truly am,” Mick said.

She sniffled. “So am I, so much so I thought I could get Tony to forgive the debt.”

Wait. “What do you mean ‘get’?” He watched her closely. She glanced at Sterpanko. The man gave her a gentle smile then turned his cool-as-death eyes onto Mick.

His breath caught. Tears gushed forth. “NO!” he screamed. “NO, NOT ANNA, NO!”

He cried.

She let go of his hand.

“How—how could you?” he said. “I thought it was just you and me, always you and me.”

Anna shook her head amidst the tears. “It was. Then it was just you. It’s your fault, Mick.” She stood and walked back to Sterpanko.

“No . . . please, no. Not him. Not you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Enough,” Sterpanko said.

Marcus walked over to Mick and jerked him to his feet by the arms. Mick’s head swam from the sudden shift in position. A violent shove in between his shoulder blades sent him stumbling toward Sterpanko and Anna. He looked at his wife. He noticed she wasn’t wearing her ring anymore. A sharp pain jabbed his heart, settled, boiled and exploded.

He had nothing to lose now. Nothing.

“Thank you, my dear,” Sterpanko said and gave her a peck on the cheek.

She gave him a warm smile then walked off, not even looking at Mick once.

This wasn’t the woman he married. Anna—whoever she was now . . . . He couldn’t even form the thought. All he knew was that it was over.

Just like him.

He swung out and delivered a swift hook to Sterpanko’s jaw. The next thing he knew something struck the back of his knees then a split second later the side of his head. He hit the floor, resting on his shins. He touched his ear and pulled away a pair of bloody fingers..

Concussion.

“Kill me,” Mick said.

“Nice shot,” Sterpanko said. “I’ll give you that. As I mentioned, I’m a fair man.”

“Bullsh—”

“Ta ta ta. Play nice.”

Mick didn’t care about the handkerchief anymore. Most of the bleeding had stopped anyway. As if it mattered at this point. “All right, you win,” he said quietly.

“I already knew that before we started.”

“Then kill me and get it over with.”

Sterpanko went on as if he never heard him. “But as I said, I’m a fair man. That last fight ended in a draw. Normally the winnings would be split fifty-fifty, but what we’re doing here today isn’t normal.”

Mick just shook his head. It was hard to believe what he was hearing yet Sterpanko was a snake so it wasn’t surprising either. Man of fairness? As if. Fair to him, maybe, but most certainly not to anyone else.

Anna. I love you, Anna. And you betrayed me. Tears leaked from his eyes anew. But I betrayed you first.

“One more fight, Mick. Just one more,” Sterpanko said.

Strong hands brought Mick to his feet again. He wanted to snap his elbow back and deliver it straight into Marcus’s gut, but he didn’t. It wouldn’t get him anywhere except maybe . . . dead? With a smirk he twisted to the right, his elbow tight against his body. Large hands behind him caught the elbow. Mick spun around, bringing about his left fist for a hook into Marcus’s head.

The blow was stopped.

Mick’s mouth fell open.

A familiar face stared back at him.

Two of a Kind

“Hello, friend,” Jack said.

“Hey, Jack,” Mick said.

The two just stared at each other. It looked like Jack was going to say something, the words bubbling somewhere beneath the surface of that big head of his. Mick had no idea what the man would say. Or what he could say. Mick supposed that it kind of made sense the big fella was here.

“So this whole time, what, you were supposed to keep an eye on me?” Mick asked.

Jack nodded. “Just needed to make sure you played by the rules.”

Well, we didn’t do that one hundred percent, now, did we? Mick thought. “Suppose I told Sterpanko that you let me—”

“No.”

And that was all it took. Behind Jack’s gruff exterior, a light briefly shone then began to dim. His face said it all. Sterpanko was using him, too. Mick knew that look. He’d seen it in his own mirror many times on those sleepless nights where he tried to find counsel in his reflection. Jack was in deep with Sterpanko as well and his family was under threat.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Mick said.

“Me, too.”

“Wish we could have had more time.”

“Not me.” Jack winked.

“Either way.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, man.”

“I know. I’m sorry, too.”

Mick turned to Sterpanko. “What now?”

The man clasped his hands together then pointed at him with both index fingers. “One more fight.”

“And Jack?”

Sterpanko didn’t even look Jack’s way. “Don’t worry about him. He and I have our own arrangement.”

Mick glanced back at Jack. The man’s face was ashen.

He’s going to kill you and you’re just standing there?

Mick surveyed the room. It was just him, Sterpanko, Jack and Marcus.

“When’s the next bout?” Mick said over his shoulder.

“Soon,” Sterpanko said. “Better pick up your Controller.”

“And Jack?”

“I said, never you mind.”

Mick held out his hand to Jack. “Awkward but fun, huh?”

“Yeah, who would have thought it?”

“Not me. But you’re a good man, ’kay?”

“Used to be.”

“Still are.”

“Your opinion.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Sterpanko said.

“Do you really want to die today?” Mick asked Jack.

“Yeah, just like any other. You?”

Anna was gone. Everything was gone. Sterpanko was going to win either way. “Yeah.”

The two men exchanged stares as if reading each other’s thoughts.

“Then let’s get to it,” Jack said.

Mick headed for Sterpanko; Jack for Marcus.

It didn’t take more than a couple of swift punches to the face to knock Sterpanko down. Mick glanced at Jack. It appeared Jack had dove on top of Marcus and was now straddling his chest, delivering blow after blow into the man’s face.

“Come on, let’s go!” Mick shouted.

Jack gave one last quick shot to the guard’s face then got off him. He and Mick ran for the door.

Thunder rocked the room when Mick’s hand touched the door handle. He turned around to see Jack behind him, a dark red rose blossoming on his chest. Just behind him, Sterpanko held a gun out.

“Go,” Jack said and fell to his knees.

“I can’t leave you.”

“I’m already dead.” He winced and let out a grunt. “You’re not. Go.”

Sterpanko began his walk toward them. “Hand off the handle, Mick.”

His fingers gripped the handle harder for some reason. Panic, maybe. He had to force himself to let go.

“That’s it. Nice and easy,” Sterpanko said, gun still aimed at him. When the man was almost upon him, he added, “One more fight, Mick. One more. Win or lose. No draw this time.”

Then it was over. Mick looked at Jack. The big man lay face down on the carpet.

Sterpanko drew closer. The security guard groaned somewhere in the background.

“Now, Mick,” Sterpanko said.

Mick raised his hands in surrender and slowly walked toward him.

A moment later, Sterpanko suddenly dropped from his line of sight. The next thing Mick knew, Jack was on top of Sterpanko, delivering feeble punch after feeble punch.

When Jack spoke, it was a cross between a whisper and a cough. “Run.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Mick said, and with tears in his eyes, turned and ran out of the room.

He hit the hallway beyond. Gunshots rang behind the door. He wanted to go back in and see if Jack was all right. Yet, there was no telling who had been shot. He hoped it was Sterpanko.

Mick tore off down the hallway and searched for a way out.

It didn’t take long before security guards were on his tail.

The Corridor

Mick stumbled through each step, the toils of the day seeming to saturate every blood cell in his veins.

“Just hit the door,” he said to himself softly. Wait. The guards at the front doors must have been alerted to his escape by now. If he went for the doors, he’d surely be caught. The back? Was there even a back door to this place?

Whatever, he thought and pumped his legs as fast as he could, weaving in and out between the people who were not in the arena in search of stale hot dogs, cold beer and maybe a T-shirt or two.

“Hey!” a guard shouted behind him.

“Somebody stop that guy!” shouted the other.

Ignore them. Keep running, Mick told himself. He glanced over his shoulder. The guards were about ten meters back. No matter how hard he dug his heels into the linoleum floor, attaining more speed was impossible. But there was no giving up. If he was going to go down, he was going to go down fighting. In brief reflection, Mick thought it strange that earlier tonight he didn’t care at all about the outcome of the evening. Now, faced with life or death—life mattered, and if he was to die, he was going to die living.

He looked back over his shoulder once more and when he faced back front, he rammed smack into a hefty woman, middle-aged with a gold-yellow perm. The two went tumbling head over heels. Mick thought he heard something crack as he went over with her except he didn’t feel a thing in his body. She must have broken something.

“So sorry,” he said quickly as he scrambled to his feet. The guards were nearly upon him.

Panting, he made a sharp turn to the left, took the five steps down in a single leap, landed in a crouched position—then kept running.

He heard the frantic footfalls of the guards taking the stairs behind him.

There was a gray door on his left. Mick turned again, ran for it, then yanked it open. He pulled it closed behind him. He didn’t know if the guards saw him go in here or not. It wasn’t worth hanging around to find out.

Mick jogged a few steps forward and found another set of stairs that led down to a white-painted brick hallway below. He took the steps, stood in the hall for a second and looked left and right. Both directions appeared the same: white walls, a few gray doors off to either side, each end of the hallway ending in perpendicular hallways, also white-bricked and gray-floored.

He went right, somehow in his mind thinking the rear of the building was somewhere in that direction. He wasn’t completely sure, though.

Mick ran. No sooner had his legs been pumping for a few seconds did a figure appear at the end of the hallway. He didn’t know who it was. The only thing he was sure of was that it wasn’t a security guard.

He skidded to a stop, spun around, and bolted in the other direction.

More footfalls echoed in the cement-enclosed hallway. The weird part was they were coming from somewhere ahead.

He glanced over his shoulder.

A being with white skin, white hands with claws and a blood-red cloak zipped through the air toward him like a jet out of control.

Screaming, Mick ran as fast as he could. At the end of the hallway before him, a couple of security guards appeared though Mick was pretty sure they weren’t the same ones from just a few minutes back. It didn’t matter. He was trapped and was already past the door with the stairs where he first entered this hallway. There was no doubling back.

“Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap . . .” The words rolled off his tongue like boulders down a hill.

His shoulders suddenly seized up and multiple spikes of pain raced through them as well as his arms. He was brought to a halt. Glancing at his shoulders he saw white hands on either side, the red of his blood clashing against the sharp sallow nails digging into his flesh.

Movement was impossible. Whatever demon had him caught from behind wouldn’t let him move.

“One more fight,” the thing behind him hissed.

The security guards caught up to them.

With a growl, the creature threw Mick forward and into the guards’ arms.

Mick took in the beast. He knew that facial structure: the pronounced forehead, the wrinkled skin, pale as all get out, the bold cheekbones, that dash of stark white hair on top. Though the creature didn’t have his giant sunglasses on, Mick knew it was the old man that had been sitting motionless beside him during this evening’s fights. He didn’t know what the old guy was—a vampire, maybe—and it became clear that he, like Jack, was meant to keep an eye on him.

The creature stood before him, each breath it took seeming to heave his chest up and down with rage. The old man’s eyes were bright white, with red irises and golden-yellow pupils. The man didn’t blink.

“I want . . . to . . . drink,” the old man said. His voice was precise, each word enunciated perfectly as if a science.

“No,” one of the guards said. “This man is for the boss. Thank you for your service. You will receive your payment in full as promised.”

The old man grimaced then bore all his teeth, eyes wide and bright like an inferno. The vampire lashed out at the security guard, the old man’s claws slicing the guard’s forearm off. The man howled, and immediately cradled his arm. Mick wondered if he should take the opportunity to make a break for it.

The next instant, the vampire came at Mick. The other guard jumped in front, pounced forward and took the vampire down to the floor with him. A quick flip of the bodies and the vampire was on top. Quickly, the old man made fast work of biting into the guard’s neck.

Blood gushed and sprayed. Mick could only wonder if there was more than one set of teeth inside the vampire’s mouth for it seemed a few litres of blood were suddenly released from the man’s body all at once.

Something whistled past his ear and a silver projectile protruded from the vampire’s back on the left side.

The vampire jumped to his feet and spun around in one fluid motion, hands palm forward, claws curled, mouth wide, revealing two rows of teeth. The old man hissed and dove into the air, heading for Mick. Another whistle, and the vampire was quickly blasted backwards. He hit the floor, the silver spike that had been in his back slammed through into his chest the rest of the way, a brand new one sticking out of his heart.

The old man kicked and screamed profanities as his skin boiled and thick smoke rose off him. Then he melted away, nothing but gooey skin left behind amidst the red cloak.

Mick turned to the guard on the floor, his body prone, arm outstretched with some kind of large gun in his remaining hand. Blood was pooled around the body. The guard shook.

“Thank you,” Mick said.

The guard went limp, dead.

Mick glanced up and down the hallway. “Go,” he told himself and began to run.

Just then another set of guards appeared at the end of the corridor, guns raised.

“Don’t move!” one shouted.

Mick raised his hands. So close.

The guards caught up to him.

“What happened here?” said the bigger of the two.

The other guard grimaced and gave Mick a stern look. A moment later his baton came out and all Mick saw was a blur of black heading for between his eyes.

All Bets Are Off

It was pitch black and Mick didn’t need a light on to tell him where he was. His ears told him everything: he was in the main arena—in the cage.

One more fight, was what Sterpanko told him. He just never thought the fight would be his own. How Sterpanko could even get away with this was beyond him. Was the man’s power limitless, or was he just good at pulling a blind one over everybody?

Mick’s heart pounded in his chest. Watching the fights from the stands or from the couch at home was one thing. Here, in Blood Bay Arena, enclosed in a cage—he wasn’t surprised when he found his throat sand-dry and had a hard time swallowing.

His legs were like Jell-O; his palms sweaty.

I am not a fighter, he thought. A couple punches here and there, sure, but this? This is something different. This is —the thought struck him like a kick between the legs—life or death.

Time seemed to slow here in the dark. He wondered if the other fighters felt the same way as they waited for their opponent to appear.

“Those guys are trained,” he whispered. “Fighting is what they do.” Yet a part of him felt that no matter how tough you were, fear was still there, lurking in the veins, always operating on the principles of “what if?” and “just in case.”

Anna did this: his being here; his impending death; Sterpanko willing to kill him. Even that last part made more sense now. Sure, the man was ruthless and probably didn’t give a crap about Mick’s life . . . but at the same time now had a reason to want him dead other than for money: Anna. How long they had been together or even planned to take him out, he didn’t know. As well, Sterpanko’s almost softness in terms of Mick’s case also kind of made sense. Perhaps he was supposed to just get knocked off for non-payment and that would be that? Maybe Anna had convinced Tony Sterpanko to see if Mick could earn the funds back? There was no way to know and, right now, Mick really didn’t even want to know.

Tonight . . . tonight he lost everything, even a man who, though not a friend, took a bullet for him and charged him to run. Tears welled up in Mick’s eyes when he realized he couldn’t even do that right.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” he said softly. “And, Anna? I don’t know what to say to you anymore. What you did—” He hated it when the words didn’t come and even now they wouldn’t form. Emotion overload.

Life sucked. Good thing it’d be over soon.

The iron ring on the floor lit up.

Wrong order, Mick thought. The lights go on first. Obviously, this change is for me.

Some in the crowd cheered and whistled; others murmured.

The dead began to rise.

The zombie stood on the platform, bound at the wrists, its face and body concealed mostly in shadow, the blue light only shining on the thing’s legs.

Mick wondered if he was expected to play by the rules. The thought of just running up to the creature right now and taking it out crossed his mind, but if he did that, yeah, he’d be dead for sure.

The lights went on. The buzzer sounded. The crowd roared.

Mick’s heart sank.

The dead man before him . . . it was Jack. The bullet mark on his chest was still there, his clothes saturated in blood. Another bullet hole was on his neck. That was where he must have been shot when Mick left the room.

“Dude . . .” Mick said.

Jack’s restraints fell to the floor and he fixed his red eyes on Mick.

The enormity of it—Jack, a zombie. Not long ago the two were sitting side-by-side, watching the fights. Now . . . he was a walking dead man. How could—then it all made sense.

Zombies. The world. The war. The fights. The evil. And now Jack.

Jack was a zombie. Jack only died twenty or so minutes ago. The only way people became zombies after the attacks was if one bit them. Sterpanko, Marcus—they were human last he saw.

Sterpanko.

He was behind it all.

Mick shook from the revelation and had to force his legs to move beneath him as Jack charged at him. Mick ran around the cage, Jack chasing him, the crowd beyond booing and laughing.

Who else knew? Was it all him or—Mick dropped to the ground and crunched up into a ball. Jack plowed into him with his legs and went tumbling over him. Mick grunted with the impact, got up, and ran the other way.

“I have to tell somebody,” Mick said. He ran to the cage wall, gripped the chain-link and shook it with all his might. “Hey! Listen! It was Sterpanko! It was Sterpanko!” The roar of the crowd drowned him out.

Mick turned around. “Ahh!” He moved to the side and Jack crashed into the cage.

“Jack, I don’t want to do this, man,” Mick said. “Can you hear me? Is it still you? What about your—” He was about to say, “What about your family?” but choked on his own words when an image of Anna flashed before his mind. Was she watching this? Was she behind throwing him to the dead so that she and Sterpanko could live happily ever after? No way. He still thought she was the one who persuaded Sterpanko to let him try and earn back what was owed. If he was going to die tonight, he wanted to go out thinking the best of her . . . and the worst of himself.

Jack came for him. Mick took careful note to avoid Jack’s hands and teeth. He put his hands up and balled them into fists. As hard and as fast as he could, he drove his fists into Jack’s face. One-two. One-two. Fast. Like lightning. Jack’s nose burst with blood. The zombie growled, nothing but rage contained in the shell of a big man who wasn’t as bad as Mick first thought him to be.

Jack swatted Mick across the arm, knocking his hand down and sending him tumbling to the ground. Mick rolled across the floor, trying his best to ignore the jolt from the impact and the bruises he already felt forming.

He lay there, panting, sweaty, blood moistening the skin on his shoulder. Jack must have cut him with his nails.

“You can’t stay down here,” Mick said to himself. He’s not Jack anymore. You know that. Get up. All bets are off. Time to get it done, and if I die, I die giving it all I got!

Mick pushed against the floor. The crowd cheered. Jack was already upon him, jaws snapping. Mick twisted his body and slammed his elbow into Jack’s mouth just as the big man was about to clamp down on his neck. Jack growled at the impact. Mick noticed a tooth fly from the man’s mouth.

Kicking his legs, trying to loosen Jack’s grip, Mick twisted to the other side and shot his other elbow into Jack’s face.

The force was enough to make Jack drop him. Mick hit the ground running and got as much distance as he could.

Jack brought his palms to the floor then charged at him like a lion, propelling himself forward with all fours. Mick tried to move out of the way and managed a step to the side before Jack quickly altered course and dove into the air and collided with him. The impact from Jack’s heavy body was like getting nailed with a bag of sand. Mick coughed out the air from his lungs and was having a hard time trying to regain his breath.

Jack dug his nails into Mick’s side. At first there was only profound pressure, then Mick heard the squishy pop of his flesh giving way and Jack’s fingers invading his body.

“No! Anna! Jack! Help!” The words were pure instinct.

Heart racing, his gut going numb, the warmth of blood beginning to flow, Mick brought his face down and he latched onto Jack’s ear with his teeth. Jack growled. Mick jerked his head back, ripping the ear off Jack’s head. Blood oozed from the wound.

Mick spat out the ear—Jack’s blood still tasting like copper, still warm, even though he had been expecting something else, perhaps something tangy and sharp—then just as quickly, he met Jack’s chomping jaws head on. The two locked mouths; Mick’s upper teeth over Jack’s top lip, his bottom teeth digging into Jack’s uppers, forcing their way to the roof of Jack’s mouth. Jack clamped down on Mick’s bottom teeth, Jack’s lower teeth splicing through the flesh beneath Mick’s chin.

Blood gushed up and to the sides in wild arcs. Some got in Mick’s eye, blinding him. He bit down with all he had, refusing to let go.

Jack’s hands pulled out from his sides.

Mick’s body relaxed, as if in relief. Then suddenly he felt . . . lighter, as if his mid section was floating away. Something mushy and wet slipped along his sides.

He felt the grip of his bite beginning to loosen. He fought it and brought his hands up and pummelled them against Jack wherever there was an opening. Jack shook his head, tossing Mick with his mouth, forcing him to let go of his clamp on Jack’s face.

Mick hit the cold floor on his back, nothing but blood around him in his peripheral.

The crowd went silent.

Jack growled and rushed toward him.

Mick closed his eyes as the lights went out.

Epilogue

What Goes Around . . .

It was late. The crowds had gone home nearly an hour ago. Anna stood inside the cage, the house lights overhead casting a burning yellow glow on the cement. The parts where it hit the blood were a deep orange.

With arms crossed, she fought back the tears as she stared at the long bloodstain on the ground that was once her husband, bits of flesh and hair, teeth and bone spackling the cement like bad stucco. Though not all of the remains were Mick’s, she almost felt as if she could pick out his because she knew him so well.

Knew, she reminded herself and her heart stung. Their marriage wasn’t supposed to end like this. ’Til death would they part, sure, but death wasn’t supposed to come as it did tonight.

“My fault,” she said.

At the time, when she snuck away that one night and cut a deal with Sterpanko, fiery hate for Mick for what he’d done drove every action and every word. Now—now she didn’t know if she was still angry or not. It seemed as if Mick’s death was the water that put that hating fire out.

She took a few steps back when hot red water splashed against her toes, soaking through the gaps in her high heels and burned her skin.

“Gah!” she said as her foot folded beneath her and her ankle was rubbed hard against a shard of bone, cutting her open.

The small Chinese man in the dusty blue jumpsuit didn’t seem to see her as he sprayed out the cage.

“Hey, watch it!” she said. “Ow.”

He merely looked up at her, nodded with a smile, then got back to spraying, the steam from the hot water beginning to fill the cage. There was a foot-square drain sloped off to the side, the grill wide enough where it needed to be to allow all the bits of gore and bone to fall through no problem.

Her foot throbbed. Probably sprained. She did her best to stand on it, swallowed the pain, and ignored the cut and burn. She deserved this. This was part of a self-imposed penance she planned to institute starting now.

She allowed her eyes to follow the flow of the water as this nameless stranger in the cage with her washed what was left of her husband away.

This was Zombie Fight Night. This was what Mick loved.

This was what killed him in the end.

Was it worth dying for?

Was it worth her killing for?

She bent down and checked her foot. From what she could see the blood flow was minimal. She still had a hard time standing on it. She stood, then closed her eyes when a pair of hands ran themselves around her shoulders from behind.

“Ready?” Tony Sterpanko said.

“Almost,” she replied. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye.

“Do you want to be left alone?”

Anna opened her eyes and settled them on the water flowing toward the drain. It was already beginning to run clear. It was also beginning to be difficult to see with all the steam. “No. Not anymore.” Good bye, Mick.

She turned and stepped through the cage door with Sterpanko. He didn’t seem to notice her limping.As he walked with her with his arm tight around her waist she didn’t know what she’d do now that Mick was gone. Her sacrifice in teaming with Sterpanko was meant to save Mick’s life not end it. Even with how she treated Mick, she thought it’d be enough to show Sterpanko she was on his side and he’d let Mick go. Only the first part came true. If only he hadn’t fought.

Anna stumbled and knelt down and massaged her foot near the wound. Her skin was still moist from getting sprayed. The burn was bright red. A little more blood oozed out.

“What happened?” Sterpanko asked.

“Nothing. Just a little accident.”

“You okay?”

“I think so.” She re-examined the wound again.

She stood up, took Sterpanko’s arm and moved a couple of steps. Heat filled her foot and she collapsed, screaming.

“Anna! What’s wrong?” Sterpanko asked, immediately down by her side.

“I don’t know. I don’t—my foot. The water. I—” Man, did it hurt.

Her heart beat faster and faster, thundering in her chest in wild panic. Then, almost as quickly as it sped up, it calmed down.

She moved to wipe the blood forming over her eyes but no matter what she did, she couldn’t wipe the redness away.

Calm inside. Utter calm.

Then nothing.

She was neither hot nor cold.

Just pissed off . . . and hungry.

Bonus Battle

Mick’s First Fight

Ninja vs Zombie

Bet: $30

This wasn’t how it was supposed to work, Mick Chelsey knew. In the old days, you went out, got a job and gave it your best in the hopes of getting a raise so you could provide a better life for your family.

Nowadays, it was more about just getting back on your feet after the economic system collapsed during the Zombie War. During those dark times, money faded, currencies lost their value, and any that did survive were restructured into a new financial system. The computers had gone down and the backup data was destroyed in one bomb-ignited inferno after another. Everybody was at square one.

Except the elite, of course. Somehow, they managed to hang onto their fortunes and if any portion was lost, the amount was manageable compared to what remained.

Mick, unfortunately, lost everything. The only money he had left over was the little he and his wife, Anna, had kept on their person during the Zombie War—all four hundred-eighty-three dollars of it—and the fifty dollars he now had in his pocket.

They had a house, one of the few left standing after the Zombie War. It was in rough shape, but it did the trick. Since a lot of the records of who owned what had perished during the war—as did most of those who owned property—remaining houses were up for grabs. Humanity had taken on an all-for-one attitude during the war, but the moment the undead were captured and victory was declared, it was back to the old ways of every man for himself. The big houses left standing were the first to be occupied, then slowly the average-sized abodes then, finally, the small stuff. After that, the small stuff in the old bad parts of town. That’s where Mick got his house, he and Anna’s journey back into the city taking more than a week. By the time they got back, pretty much everything was taken.

Mick double checked the bills in his pocket. Fifty bucks.

Anna deserves better than what she’s getting, he thought. She was a princess, pure and simple. Princesses deserved castles and right now the poor girl was living like a pauper. Mick wouldn’t have it; especially after all they’d gone through. The bloodshed, the terror, the running, the pain—they needed their life back and not just that, but a normal life, one where you didn’t have to worry about where your next meal came from or reaching into your pocket and pulling nothing out other than lint.

Blood Bay Arena’s parking lot was full tonight. Mick had heard a couple guys talking outside Stevie’s Pub that they’d made a nice chunk of change here, something to the tune of seven hundred bucks. Boy, he could use that kind of money. He wondered if he could turn this fifty he had into something more.

Anna wasn’t expecting him home for a while. Going in and placing a bet might be a good way to pass the time.

Mick slowly strolled over to the building, hoping he was making the right decision. When he entered the front doors he walked up a short flight of stairs then noticed a couple of burly security guards taking tickets. He glanced around the foyer and spotted the ticket counter on the left. He went over. The chubby lady with short black hair behind it spoke in between smacks of her gum.

“Welcome to Blood Bay Arena,” she said. “Here for the show?”

Mick cleared his throat. “Um, yeah.”

“How close you want it?”

“Um . . . to the fight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know, whatever’s cheapest. I really don’t care.”

“Okay.” She tapped her touch screen. “Twenty dollars even and you’re in.”

“Twenty?”

“Twenty.”

He fished out his wallet from his pocket and pulled out a wrinkly twenty-dollar bill. He slid it through the small opening at the bottom of the Plexiglas window. She grabbed it, checked its authenticity under a black light, then stuck it in the till and punched a few numbers on her register. A ticket spat out of a small slit in the brushed nickel countertop in front of her. She passed it to him.

“Enjoy the show,” she said.

“Yeah.” He wondered if he should inquire here about betting or just wait until he was past the guards. “Thanks.”

He went back in the direction he came, gave the guard his ticket and was let through no problem.

The next set of doors was set up almost like a toll booth except instead of passing cars, it was passing people. Mick waited in line and about five minutes later was speaking to a skinny bald man with a headset and a nametag that read nicky.

“I.D., please,” Nicky said.

Mick pulled out his wallet again and sifted out his I.D. card. He gave it to the man.

Nicky swiped it in a slot beside his computer monitor. “Pot?”

“Excuse me?”

“Pot.”

“Pot? I thought—”

“How much are you putting in your pot? You know, the thing you draw from when betting on the fights?”

“Oh. Um, here.” He handed the man the remaining thirty dollars.

The man took it, punched a few numbers on his touch screen, then re-swiped Mick’s I.D. He handed the card back to him.

“Look, obviously you’re new here,” Nicky said. He pointed to the door just outside his booth. “You’ll hear a buzzer. Go through there, find your seat, then take a Controller out of the seat in front of you.”

“A Controller?”

“Yeah, a little black box thing. You won’t miss it. It’s a small computer. It’ll tell you about who’s fighting. Slide your I.D. through the machine, pick your winner, and then wait for the fight to start. If you win, you come back here on the way out and we’ll swipe your card. You’ll get your money and you’ll go. If you lose and end up owing the House, then you’ll pay up. Got it, cowboy?”

Mick nodded. Take a Controller and make a bet. Oh, and swipe my card in it, too. “Sure. Um, thanks.”

Nicky nodded. “Go to the door. I’ll let you in.”

Mick did. A low drone sounded. He opened the door and entered.

Once inside the hallway beyond, he checked his ticket for his seat assignment and made his way there.

It was pretty far back, the nosebleeds. He didn’t care. It was the cheapest ticket.

“Twenty bucks for this?” he said and sat down. “Let’s just get screwed even more.” Story of my life.

Below, past the sea of heads, there was a giant circle-shaped cage that looked to have a radius of some thirty feet. Its floor was cement. The walls and ceiling of it were made of what appeared to be a strong chain-link mesh of some kind. On opposite sides of the circle’s floor were two large iron rings.

Mick tapped his feet then grabbed the Controller out of the seat in front of him.

“Okay, let’s see here,” he said. The moment his finger tapped the screen, it flashed on.

Swipe I.D. card, it read.

Mick got out his I.D. and swiped it along the side of the machine.

Thank you.

Processing . . .

Welcome to Zombie Fight Night, Mick Chelsey. Please review the information for the first bout.

Mick tapped the appropriate button on the screen and was treated to the details of the next fight. “Interesting. Who else is up tonight?” But he couldn’t find a next button or anything indicating such. Can only see the info of one fight at a time? “Hm.” He shrugged his shoulders.

Staring at the two fighters he wondered who he should pick. He’d seen both people and zombies prevail over each other during the Zombie War. Hard to say who’d win on this one.

“Well, let’s go with this guy,” he said. He was then prompted to place his bet. He had only thirty bucks in the pot and not a whole heck of a lot of time to waste here at Blood Bay Arena so he decided to lay it all down. Not only did he pick a winner, but he guessed the length of the bout and who of the two would be pulverized over the other. Ten-to-one shot at winning, but he figured it’d be a nice payout if he nailed it.

Thank you. Enjoy the fight, the screen said.

Mick put the Controller back, folded his hands and waited.

Not long after, the lights went out.

Being one with the dark wasn’t anything new for Kanaye. If anything, the past fifteen years were nothing but living in the dark, half the time physically, the other half mentally.

No one knew he was a ninja, not even his family. Though ninja’s weren’t heroes, he took up the mantle of one during the Zombie War, sticking to the shadows, tracking his mother’s and sister’s movements each day for ten long years as they moved from place to place, trying to stay alive and ward off the undead. There was a price, though. His mother and sister thought he was dead. Before the war, when he first donned his black shinobi shōzoku and covered his face with a tenugui, he never told them. Even before then he never told them about the long hours after school and university studying ninjutsu, mastering the art. Even the school he studied at was a secret. It didn’t even have a name, but instead was led in an old abandoned warehouse on a Tokyo pier by Master Xu—a seventh generation ninja—four nights a week.

He knew his mother would never understand fighting nor would his sister. Both were conservative women and despite their strong sense of tradition, they abhorred violence for it was brutality that took Kanaye’s father away from them when Kanaye was just eight years old. His father had been the target of a ninja assassin. The murderer was never found, but the theory was his father bore a remarkable resemblance to a criminal leader at the time and was mistakenly killed as a result.

Kanaye took up ninjutsu as a means of vengeance, unaware in those early days there was more than one ninja clan in Japan. He thought that by joining he’d work his way up the ranks and discover who his father’s killer had been. It never came to pass.

The darkness. It was where he kept himself in daylight hours, the real Kanaye secluded deep within his mind, the ninja inside clinging to the shadows of his heart while on the outside emitting the façade of a student fascinated with computer science.

He wasn’t home when the Zombie War began and his mother and sister had escaped the house while he was at school. That same night he was to go on a field exercise for Master Xu, but instead of doing so he donned his shinobi shōzoku and set out to find his family.

He rescued them as a pack of zombies tried to corner them near Satō Noodles.

After the war, he didn’t know if he could face his family and tell them he was still alive. They already grieved for him and appeared to be moving on. Besides, he still hadn’t found his father’s killer. When Zombie Fight Night started, he thought maybe there his father’s assassin would surface if the fiend was still alive, so he made his way into the fighting circuit, hoping that eventually he and the assassin would cross paths.

Now, the darkness surrounding Kanaye was like a warm blanket, a sense of comfort. He dreaded the moment when the lights would burst on, not for their brightness but for what they represented: life away from the shadows. He had been secreting himself in the night for so long that living in the light like most others . . . . He didn’t know if he could do it or even remember how.

The buzzer sounded and the arena lit up.

Kanaye let his eyes adjust as the iron ring across from him filled with blue light.

It slid to the side and the dead began to rise.

The zombie came to the surface, filthy baggy clothes and all. The tarnished shackles around its wrists matched the leathery blotches marking its gray skin. Its facial hair was patchy and wiry. It wore a bandana, one that was red and ripped on the left side, a puff of crusty and dry black hair poking out. The sash around the creature’s waist was especially interesting and bore a gold embroidered flower against a satiny-smooth brown that was clean and out of place against the filthy ghoul. The stench of rot and years of decay caused Kanaye’s stomach to twitch despite his years of training to withstand unpleasant smells and bad foods.

Pirates, Kanaye thought. The one before him must have come from another time because he hadn’t heard of the pirates of today still wearing their clothes of old, yet he also didn’t discount the possibility. The oceans and seas were vast and there were still many islands and secret inlets yet to be discovered. Some crews could have held up in those covert places for generations enjoying their previous spoils.

The buzzer sounded again and the pirate’s shackles clanged to the floor.

The man shuffled toward Kanaye, arms outstretched. This was going to be easy. Analyzing his opponent was ingrained within him and each of the zombie’s movements—obvious or subtle—registered inside a couple of seconds. Slow shuffle of feet. Hands shaky thanks to the rotting arms with barely the strength to hold themselves up. Mouth open, ready to bite down hard. One eye gouged to pieces; the other missing an eyelid. Options to counter: plenty.

Unlike the other fighters Kanaye knew of, he wasn’t obligated to give the audience a show. If anything, the only preference Tony Sterpanko gave him was to “do that spinning stuff you guys do and jump around a lot,” and even then, those items weren’t mandatory.

Kanaye let the zombie get close and just when the dead pirate moved to grab him, Kanaye ducked and slid to the left, executing a sharp side kick into the zombie’s ribs. The pirate folded to the right, his body now nearly in half. He stumbled a few steps away. If Kanaye hadn’t withheld his strength, he could have easily sent his foot through the zombie’s flesh.

The dead man growled. Kanaye covered ground quickly, crossing one foot in front of the other. He jumped in the air, spun and snapped his foot out, the side of his foot spiking the zombie in the nose. The creature’s head jerked back from the impact.

The crowd cheered.

Kanaye stepped in, not allowing the zombie to recover, and delivered two swift punches to the creature’s chest, a fast right hook to its face, then a spinning back hand hard against its jaw. The ghoul teetered to the side, confusion written on its face.

Practice dummy, Kanaye thought. Upon studying these creatures, they didn’t seem to feel pain but instead only impacts and jolts, anything that upset their stride.

Kanaye decided to pour on the assault, but not before drawing some blood. He viewed this particular fight as training. The pirate moved in. Kanaye let it grab his arm. He then took its wrist in one hand and slammed the palm of the other against the creature’s elbow, popping the bone through the flesh. Creamy black blood splashed out. With a swift heel, he stomped on the zombie’s knee, his foot cleaving the knee cap off. Blood stained the creature’s pants. He kicked the same spot again, folding the knee against the joint. The dead man’s leg went inward then snapped off completely. Kanaye avoided a quick nip to his hand and socked the creature in the face, derailing its searching mouth for a moment, then grabbed the thing by the collar, dragged it around and punched it straight in the chest. The zombie’s severed leg fell out of its pants as the creature flew back against the cage.

A look of almost disbelief and anger flashed across its face, as if saying all it wanted was a meal and Kanaye denied him that.

You better believe I did, Kanaye thought.

The dead man pushed off from the cage, teetered on the one leg, then began falling forward.

Kanaye darted in, brought his lead foot around in a sharp crescent kick from inside right to outside left and snapped his heel across the zombie’s head so fast that, combined with the dead man falling face first, he swiftly guided the creature to the ground, his foot still against its head.

Sticking his fingers out and hardening his hand like a board, Kanaye shoved his wooden-like fingertips into the back of the zombie’s neck, breaking it. Another hit and he punctured the flesh. A quick jerk upward with his other hand holding the zombie’s tuft of hair through the bandana and the head was removed from the body. Blood leaked out from the neck.

Kanaye stood, dropped the head, then waited for the lights to go out so he could vanish once more.

I won! Mick thought. I won! Man, three hundred bucks just like that. In the old days that took me two days to earn, a whole sixteen hours. Three hundred beans. Clams. Moola.

Anna was going to be thrilled, he knew, and, boy, did they need the cash. Now they could get a fresh batch of groceries, get some much-needed clothing and not feel the pinch for once.

“She’s gonna love me for this,” he said softly.

He leaned forward and picked up the Controller and scrolled to the next fight. He liked what he saw.

Okay, quick debate: I could go and give Anna the money. She’ll kiss me and we might even make love tonight. It’s been a long time since we did that, her mood kind of deterring things in that arena. Anna. Her perfect—okay, focus. Go, or stay here and see what happens. Maybe just a small bet, like, ten bucks? I could double that. Three-twenty. ’Kay, fifty bucks. If I win, I’m up to four hundred. Oh man. Yeah. Four hundred. His heart rate picked up at the thought. Three hundred. Wow, but double or nothing could mean six hundred beans before the night’s out. That’s groceries, clothes, maybe a new front door ’cause the one we have now has a huge crack in it. And doors weren’t cheap. Six hundred. Six hundred. Six hundred . . .

He let out a slow exhale through pursed lips. Quietly to himself: “Six hundred, if I win.” He squeezed the Controller tight. “Just do it.” His fingers wouldn’t move. I should go. But his legs wouldn’t budge either. Six hundred, maybe more if I put a guess on someone just obliterating the other guy. “Six hundred.” He exhaled slowly again. “Okay, just get it out. Just do it.” He worked his fingers quickly, laying it all down on the line.

Man, I’m stupid. Dumb move. He checked the screen to see if there was an option to cancel his bet. There wasn’t. No turning back now. Anna’s gonna kill me if I blow it. But I also don’t have to tell her. Just say I lost the fifty bucks I started with and it’s all good. She can live with that. I hope.

He put the Controller back and tried to ignore the sweat forming all over his body.

Thee hundred bucks on the line.

Double or nothing.

What could go wrong?

About the Author

A.P. Fuchs is the author of many novels and short stories, most of which have been published. He is also known for his superhero series, The Axiom-man Saga, and is the author of Blood of the Dead, the first novel in the shoot ’em up zombie trilogy, Undead World. He also edited the zombie anthologies Dead Science and Vicious Verses and Reanimated Rhymes: Zany Zombie Poetry for the Undead Head.

Fuchs lives and writes in Winnipeg, Manitoba, with his wife, Roxanne, and two sons, Gabriel and Lewis.

Visit his corner of the Web at

www.canisterx.com

Check out the Undead World Trilogy at www.undeadworldtrilogy.com