Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead Page 8

  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.

  22

  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 f
or 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.

  23

  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.”

  24

  Sumo vs Zombie

  Bet: $500,000

  Owing: $1,144,000

  Adamu stood, ready, centering himself before the lights went on and the match began. B
efore 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.