Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead Read online

  Also by A.P. Fuchs

  Undead World Trilogy

  Blood of the Dead

  The Axiom-man™ Saga

  (listed in reading order)

  Axiom-man

  Episode No. 0: First Night Out

  Doorway of Darkness

  Episode No. 1: The Dead Land

  City of Ruin

  Of Magic and Men (comic book)

  OTHER Fiction

  A Stranger Dead

  A Red Dark Night

  April (writing as Peter Fox)

  Magic Man (deluxe chapbook)

  The Way of the Fog (The Ark of Light Vol. 1)

  Devil’s Playground (written with Keith Gouveia)

  On Hell’s Wings (written with Keith Gouveia)

  ANTHOLOGIES (as editor)

  Dead Science

  Elements of the Fantastic

  Vicious Verses and Reanimated Rhymes: Zany Zombie Poetry for the Undead Head

  Non-fiction

  Book Marketing for the

  Financially-challenged Author

  Poetry

  The Hand I’ve Been Dealt

  Haunted Melodies and Other Dark Poems

  Still About A Girl

  Coscom Entertainment

  winnipeg

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places, events or persons living or dead or living dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-926712-20-8

  Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead is Copyright © 2010 by Adam P. Fuchs. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce in whole or in part in any form or medium.

  Published by Coscom Entertainment

  www.coscomentertainment.com

  eBook Edition

  Cover Art by Matt Truiano

  Interior “hand” illustrations by A.P. Fuchs

  This is for those who get their face kicked in for a living, those who aspire to get a fist to the face while dishing it out to the other guy, and to those of us who like watching them.

  Author’s Note

  The following is a book about zombies, fighting and . . . well, that’s about it. Although a story has been crafted to book end the tale, its main focus is blood, guts, UFC-style fisticuffs, monsters and cage matches. I mean, robots versus zombies is cool no matter how you lay it down.

  Why did I write a book that’s all about throwing fists? The short answer: I’m a guy and this is what we do.

  Putting it a bit longer: I love kung fu movies, action flicks and, growing up, was a big time Jean Claude Van Damme fan, whose movies were a bit of both. Lionheart? Bloodsport? Death Warrant? Couldn’t tell you how many times I watched those flicks. What I especially liked about his movies was they always had two things in common: he always learned to do the splits at some point during the film, and he always finished off the bad guy with that big 360˚-kick of his.

  I got goosebumps every time I saw that stuff. Nothing but adrenaline-charged fighting.

  Even when I found out the other week they made a third Universal Soldier movie I was geeking out.

  There’s a magic to fight movies that you don’t get anywhere else even with, say, superhero flicks. At the same time, they do have that hero quality, the one where the good guy lands the finishing blow and you geek out inside because the bad guy got what was coming to him.

  Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan, Chuck Norris, Jet Li, Sly Stallone—they all equal fight magic. Battles. Primal violence that deep down we all enjoy—especially guys, the whole hunter-gatherer thing.

  Action.

  And that’s what this book is about. It’s an action flick told in novel form. It’s a B-horror/martial arts movie blend stuffed between two covers.

  Guys and fighting. Good times.

  So with that said—

  Let’s get it on!

  - A.P. Fuchs

  Winnipeg

  March 2010

  Battles

  1: The Problem

  2: The Cure

  3: Ready to Rumble

  4: Vampire vs Zombie

  5: What’s Next?

  6: Samurai vs Zombie

  7: Nachos

  8: Thai Fighter vs Zombie

  9: Gettin’ Ready to Rock and Roll

  10: Axiom-man vs Zombie

  11: So, What do You do?

  12: Minotaur vs Zombie

  13: The Old Guy Beside Him

  14: Zombie vs Zombie

  15: The Bald Guy in the Spider-Man Shirt

  16: Bruce Lee vs Zombie

  17: The Old Man Just Sits There

  18: Robot vs Zombies

  19: Being a Kid Again

  20: Viking vs Zombies

  21: A Hard Kind of Loathing

  22: Werewolf vs Zombies

  23: Of Vomit and Men

  24: Sumo vs Zombie

  25: No Anna

  26: Wrestler vs. Zombie

  27: Option Four

  28: Bigfoot vs Zombies

  29: This is New

  30: Two of a Kind

  31: The Corridor

  32: All Bets Are Off

  Epilogue: What Goes Around . . .

  Bonus battle: Mick’s First Fight: Ninja vs Zombie

  1

  The Problem

  2037 a.d.

  Mick Chelsey couldn’t believe it had come to this.

  He stood outside Blood Bay Arena, hands shaking. His left cheekbone hurt from when his wife, Anna, slapped him. She was right. He was pathetic, an addict and a downright lousy husband.

  Some provider I turned out to be, eight hundred and twenty-one thousand dollars. I’ve gotten us in way over our heads.

  The enormous stone structure of the arena loomed over him like a judge pointing a finger, condemning him to a sentence he wasn’t sure he could face.

  Eight hundred and twenty-one thousand dollars. How could any man repay that?

  How could any man lose that?

  For a moment he wished it was ten years ago and he could get back to being in his late twenties where the biggest bet he lost was a couple hundred bucks. But it was also ten years ago the world changed.

  The story was different depending on who you heard it from, but there was a common thread that united them all: a Middle East chemical spill and a small town. Some folks said the spill occurred near some old tombs outside the town, the mysterious substance having washed over the rocks, drops of it leaking through the cracks and reanimating whatever remains there were within. The only problem Mick had with that story was if indeed this happened, how could these fragments of bone and dust suddenly get up and walk around and, better yet, move the heavy rocks away from the tomb entrance so the once-dead person could roam about?

  Another tale said the spill occurred in the town as the trucker hauling the stuff was passing through. After the accident, the bizarre liquid running everywhere, all who touched it were transformed into something neither living nor dead, but caught somewhere in the middle.

  Mick believed the latter story. There really weren’t any other tales floating around out there that adequately explained it. Nothing plausible, anyway.

  The undead had quickly covered the Middle East, all having a strange need to feed on human flesh. Those they didn’t devour were changed—infected—and became one of them. Somehow, one got on a boat undetected. The infection spread. Soon nearly every country in the world was being overtaken by the mindless creatures.

  The past ten years could have pretty much been divided in two: five years of conquest; five years of revival.

  Nearly every superpower that had the capability wanted to nuke the
creatures. This idea was quickly vetoed at a UN hearing because, given the instability of each nation and the frame of mind of the desperate leaders in charge, nuclear winter would have been sure to follow and humanity would have vanished forever.

  Instead, the slow-but-steady approach was taken and troops were re-trained using Intel gathered from around the globe as to where the dead roamed, how they operated and how they could be disabled.

  Working together, humanity unleashed its forces and slowly but surely overcame the creatures. Millions of troops went out. Less than a quarter of that came home.

  Some of the undead were captured and kept for observation. Some were tortured for fun. Many were bought at a high price by Mr. Tony Sterpanko, a self-made billionaire entrepreneur before what the media had dubbed the “Zompocalypse” and one of the few who found a way to hang onto their cash when money became obsolete for a time. It was these few who led the world economically once order was reestablished, but Sterpanko was the leader of them all.

  He began a little program for all who were willing to come and watch as humanity had its revenge on the undead up close and personal.

  It was called Zombie Fight Night.

  And the whole world was watching either at Blood Bay Arena or on TV or the Internet.

  Fighters from around the world came to exact revenge on the monsters that stole their loved ones and ravaged their cities. Other creatures who once posed a threat to mankind now allied with it to destroy the remainder of the dead. Others thought to be fable now existed and came forward to battle, the Space-Time Continuum having gone bust thanks to the unnatural rebirth of that which was dead. Worlds and universes collided—or so the theorists said—and those out of folklore wandered into our world. Zombie Fight Night was the most profitable business on the planet.

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

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

  Then double or nothing came a’callin’.

  Mick had lost and couldn’t pay.

  Sterpanko wanted his head.

  2

  The Cure

  Two weeks ago:

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

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

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

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

  Tony Sterpanko.

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

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

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

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

  Nose gushing blood, Mick nodded.

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

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

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

  “Irrrmm srrreee . . .”

  “What was that?”

  “Irrrmm srrreee.”

  “You’re sorry?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Well, then, I forgive you.”

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

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

  Mick nodded. He’s going to kill me.

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

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

  “No?” Sterpanko said.

  Mick shook his head, tears leaking out his eyes.

  “Tell me why not.”

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

  Sterpanko nodded to Jumbo. The gag was removed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “One night,” Sterpanko said.


  “One?” Mick whispered.

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

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

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

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

  You’re sick.

  Mick didn’t have a choice.

  Why was Sterpanko doing this?

  3

  Ready to Rumble

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

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