Zombie Tales Box Set [Books 1-5]

by Macaulay C. Hunter

  Ink hadn’t pressed about the specifics of Samson’s background. It wasn’t his business if the guy had been pinched out of a psych ward or a back bedroom. His business was only if Samson could fight. Besides, a quick death or glorious life in a fighting ring was so much better than being locked up for decades in a room, or working construction for little to no pay. Samson couldn’t enjoy the accolades that his wins were racking up, but Ink did. It was no different than an equestrian glowing over the blue ribbon clipped to the horse’s bridle. The horse didn’t care. The horse was just happy to get out of confinement for a spell, to stretch its legs and see something new.

  When Ink woke up the morning after Samson’s murder, it was to the ringing of his cell phone. He blinked at it blearily. Thirty-four missed calls had come in while his phone was on sleep mode, and this new one was from an unknown number. He took the phone with him into the toilet and listened to the dozen messages as he sat upon it. Half were from the same two reporters wanting to know if it was true. Another was from the devastated vet, and the rest had come from incredulous managers. None of them were bigwigs. And why would they be? They had no reason to call Ink. He had been on the brink of becoming someone, but he wasn’t there yet.

  Almost. Always almost.

  Even as he sat there on the can, another call came in. It was the knacker. Ink let it go to message and then played it. The knacker just wanted him to know the bill for Samson’s body was in the mail. Thanks, asshole.

  Days. Only days from the Games, days from his photo op, days from that oversized check made out in his name . . . what was he supposed to do now? Just show up there with Scrapper and trot him around the ring in his Prince Charming costume? That would be even more shaming than that long-ago day with Gore Fest. Chaos wasn’t fully healed from the show at Filo, and his best fighting was the equivalent of Samson’s worst. People cheered for Medusa, they went nuts for Samson, straight women and gay men sighed at Apollo and everyone giggled at Priapus and Scrapper, but Chaos?

  Crickets. Whether he won or lost, Chaos was boring. He was just another face on the circuit, well known but not exciting. He’d done unusually well for himself at Filo, triumphing in the melee and his next two matches, downed in the brawl in fifth place, and had just gotten polite applause from the audience all along. No one cared. Ink had hardly cared. Samson and Apollo were perfect specimens of masculinity while Chaos was thin and plain and uninspiring. In the brawl, the other four zombies had smacked him down and no one groaned in disappointment or shouted for him to get back up. At the post-party for managers later on, the bigwigs couldn’t even remember who Chaos was. Chaos had been standing there on one of the champions’ podiums in the stadium’s clubroom and Ink heard Bayder say to Gorvich wait, which one is this? They knew Samson like the back of their hands, Hades and Maenad and Dionysus, but Chaos . . . whoever had placed the zombies on the podiums around the room had put him on the most unassuming one, the one all the way over in the corner by the generator that would keep the dazzling light on just in case the power to the stadium failed.

  But the fifth place adult male winner and they couldn’t remember! And that was true of every party, every win that belonged to Chaos. Ink hadn’t planned to take him to the Games. The vet said Chaos needed another month to heal his upper arms, both of which had taken severe injuries that impeded his ability to swing a punch. Ink hadn’t even offered him for rental. Chaos wouldn’t represent Delwich Stables well.

  Ink had to save his reputation. He had to show up at the Games with something besides the kid. If only Medusa was ready! People liked her a lot. But that was beside the point. He had purchased a place for one male in the 20-35 fighting class, and he had to show up with one. If he didn’t, all anyone would talk about was how someone had driven him out of the Games by killing his prize zombie. He had to change their focus, show them that losing one fighter didn’t mean his stables went defunct even if that was true.

  It was about image. Either he showed up with an adult male, or he didn’t show up at all. Showing up with only the kid was not an option. Nadia could have her fun in guiding him down the walkway to the stables and waving his hand to people, but only if Ink and a true contender followed them in. Chaos . . . Ink just couldn’t bring himself to trot out that messed-up, yawner of a zombie who was certain to fall first in the melee.

  He checked the time. If Vasilov didn’t want an early morning call, he’d have turned his phone off. Ink scrolled down to his name and clicked on it. The phone was answered on the first ring, the old man’s warm, rumbling voice a soothing sound. “Ink! I was just about to call to express my condolences.”

  “You heard?” Ink asked.

  “Oh, my boy, everyone has heard. The phones have been ringing all night. Everyone is shocked! Scandals, scandals, we’ve all seen them, yes. But this was audacious. Outrageous! Such poor sportsmanship. Fingers will point, yes, fingers are already pointing at Gareth Hodging, but I don’t believe it for a minute. Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “I’ve known Gareth since he was a baby on his mother’s knee. I worked with his father before him, yes. The Hodgings are an honorable family, do you know this? They win some. They lose some. They do not take it personally. Their money, their fame, neither comes from zombie shows! It comes from oil, from investments, from real estate. This is a hobby to them, a very serious hobby, yes, but a hobby nonetheless. They would never stoop to such tactics. Never! So disgraceful. I have told three people this already. Point those fingers elsewhere. The Hodgings are bringing their Athena to the Games, hoping that she will knock Maenad from her throne once and for all, and Hades for men. It is Athena in which they have more interest. Do you know what Gareth said to me when Hades lost to Samson at Filo? It was no shame to take second to such a glory. Yes, Gareth was happy for you. Hades is good, yes, very good, but Samson was special.”

  Yes. Samson had been that.

  Vasilov cleared his throat and continued. “The Hodgings are shocked. Absolutely appalled, yes. They told me to pass along to you a discreet query. If you would like to have one of their rentals, they will pay the current renter thrice the fee to get him back for you-”

  “Oh, no, no,” Ink said quickly, stung but touched. One of the bigwigs had taken notice of him, far more than just the handshakes and light conversations at post-parties. That was good to know, a sweet cherry on this sour cake. “But that is very kind. Very generous of them. I am most appreciative.” But Ink had to be his own man, have his own man, not be indebted.

  “I also spoke to the Handleys just minutes ago. They are shocked too, and wished to know if you would like to sell your place. They felt terrible about bringing it up so soon, but the Games are upon us. They will pay exactly what you did for the place, so you will have no loss there. Bert just picked up a new male, nearly brand new to fighting, and he is eager to give him a whirl.”

  The slightest, most scant trace of judgment was in Vasilov’s voice. A kindergartener belongs in kindergarten, he had instructed Ink the first time they worked together. A smart kindergartener still belongs in kindergarten, and a very smart kindergartener skips one or two grades at most. But you do not under any circumstances take that very smart kindergartener, no matter how very, very smart he is, and throw him in college to see how he does.

  “How kind of them,” Ink said about the Handleys’ offer to purchase his place. He believed the Hodgings were genuinely upset about the loss of Samson, and fearful that someone might stoop to the same level to take out Athena. They were old money, very old money, the cultured face of the aristocracy who elevated events simply by virtue of their attendance. They would not murder Samson to collect the lousy million bucks from Hades’ wrongful win. Almost a billion dollars was what their family was worth. To cheat at the Games was so far beneath them as to be ludicrous.

  On the other hand, the Handleys were only expressing kind sentiments to get to what they really wanted, and they weren’t quite as trustworthy. However, i
f it was true that their latest male was still fairly young to the ring, taking out Samson to better their odds was a strange ploy. It was like scheming to be elected senator and taking out the president, a nonsensical move. Ink said, “I am going to keep my place. But I need to have a zombie, and fast, Vasilov. It won’t be Samson, I know, but a good up-and-comer that will give everyone a wow if not a win. Who do you have for me?”

  “Oh, my boy, my boy, my boy,” Vasilov said regretfully. “It is too close to the Games. All of the good ones have been scooped up. All of the bad ones have been scooped up! All of the old ones, the children, the crippled, the half-dead, if they could be yanked out of the grave and reanimated, those walking corpses would be at the Games, too! Everyone has been bought and paid for two, three times over, yes. I have nothing.”

  That was impossible. Vasilov always had something. Ink swallowed hard, dreading the thought of showing up at the Games with wounded Chaos and stupid Scrapper. “I will pay top dollar.” He’d take out a loan from the bank. He’d rob a bank. “Anyone, Vasilov. There must be something you can do.”

  “Alas, no. But the Games will come again in two years, Ink. That is more than enough time to build up a new fighter. Next month I will be flying out of the country to procure some new specimens. Mexico, South America . . .That vaccine never reaches everyone, no, it does not. Oh!” Ink’s spirits lightened, but then Vasilov said, “This autumn I will be going to the southeastern states. There are whole communities of people living there who refuse the vaccine for reasons of God or poverty, or believe that vaccines are part of a mind-control government conspiracy, and are genetically susceptible to the virus. I will find you a prize, Ink. I will bring you a champion!”

  “But the Games,” Ink said, trying to keep wheedling out of his voice. “What am I to do about the Games? I cannot possibly skip them! It will ruin my name.” He would be known as the manager who was beaten out of the ring.

  Silence. It stretched out between them and broke his heart. There was nothing to be done. He closed his eyes and Vasilov sighed heavily. “I would not insult you with the suggestion.”

  “Insult me,” Ink said.

  “I would not have this insult be spoken any further than from my mouth to your ear.”

  “It won’t. I swear to you. I will do anything to save face.”

  Another silence settled over the line. “You are in southern California, yes. You could try the Zombie Walk in Venice. That is the closest one to you. There is a market there, in a little alley near the boardwalk. But I am ashamed to mention this to you. Ashamed, Ink. You are a good client. A good manager. You want quality, as I do. You want magnificence. These things are everything to men like us. Ramshackle creatures are sold at Venice for herbal medication, heavy lifting, backyard fighting . . . even satanic sacrifices.” Vasilov spat and Ink knew that the man was crossing himself. “If I were in your shoes, my boy, my dear boy . . .”

  “I will not stay home!”

  “Of course you will not! You must not! And neither would I! You and I, my boy, we came from nothing. I have made myself Vasilov from a poor boy with rocks in his lunchbox! I dine with the richest people in the world today, and they will fall over themselves for the honor of paying for my meal. They request me for their guidance. They treat my word as law. And I was nothing to them once, a child in rags who held out his beggar’s cup in the hopes that their pennies might clink inside. And you, you are making yourself over just as I did long ago. So I would march myself to every pathetic Zombie Walk in America and buy any flea-bitten, lice-ridden, mange-y creature that can stand up straight and throw a punch! I would clean him up and trot him to the stadium under some grand name, some name that inflames the heart and senses! And when people ask about Samson, as they will by the loads, I would say this is my new fighter, and he slew Samson! Get them talking and control what they are talking about!”

  Vasilov was now roaring into the phone. Ink did not draw away, hinged on the man’s voice for his sanity. “You write the script, Ink, and you tell people their lines! Not poor Delwich, did you hear what someone did to him? They should say Delwich! My God, look at his new zombie! This one brought down Samson the Great! Would that we could have seen that battle! You shall talk about how someone cut the electricity to your stables and this is how it happened, or better yet, you paired them in your home rink to train Samson, and ended up training the new one instead. Yes, this new one will lose at the Games, you will say you expect him to lose, because Samson put up a hard fight on his way to the grave. Give the new one a cut or two to prove some grand battle indeed took place. So when he loses in the melee, as he will, people will expect it because you did. Then you will save your pennies over the next months and I will bring you another Samson. This is what you will do, my brave boy! Someone has seized the reins from you, but a winner seizes them back!”

  When they got off the phone, Ink took a shower and got dressed in grim purpose. Venice was going to be a long drive and he didn’t have a minute to waste. Nadia was already out and about, tending to her packed schedule of meeting friends for coffee, having a session with her personal trainer followed by a massage, and then an afternoon of shopping for an outfit to match Scrapper’s costume. Her life was a feckless thing from sunrise to sunset, one of a princess relieved of all affairs of state. The biggest mistake in Ink’s life had been his marriage, but all of the bigwigs were married, if not faithful, and one did as they did. At least not all of them had children. Ink didn’t have the money for it, and fortunately Nadia didn’t want the stretch marks or the bother.

  Samson. He never left Ink’s mind on the hours of the drive, a trailer being dragged along behind him. Although Ink hadn’t cared last night who was responsible for this, now he was desperate to know. He was hungry for revenge. Samson’s biggest threats in the ring were Hades, Ares, and Dionysus. None of the others had much chance, so removing Samson wasn’t going to boost their odds in any useful way. Ink couldn’t eliminate them from suspicion, but the possibility of them being the culprit was lessened.

  It couldn’t be the Hodgings. For God’s sake, they blew gold coins into their tissues when they sneezed. Gareth managed his family’s zombies now. He clapped and cheered for Hades from his seat in the clubroom at various stadiums, as Ink had watched from the stands. But when Athena was fighting! The man was riveted to every move in the ring. Were he going to take out anyone, and Ink would never believe it, the victim would be one of Gorvich’s most fearsome women, or Maenad. Neither Gareth nor Ink participated in mixed-sex battles at lesser shows. Samson and Athena would not have been in competition at the Games except at the very end when the best male and best female had their points tallied on performance. They only competed in the judges’ calculators. But again, the Hodgings did not need the prize money, and going to Hawaii was nothing new to them. They had homes spread out over half the world, and vacation homes in the other half. Athena was destined to have an impressive career whether she swept the Games or came in second to the top male. And Gareth had enough foresight to predict that all eyes would turn to him with Samson’s murder. It behooved Ink to attend the Games and speak very kindly of the Hodgings to draw those eyes somewhere else.

  Since this couldn’t have been done on Hades’ behalf, Ink considered the others. Sofia Stuart owned Ares. Now she was hungry for fame and fortune. A retired school administrator, she was a woman on the waning side of middle age who walked with two canes for support. Had she been the one to do this, she would have had to hire it out. But they were friends! In the wary way of competitors, true, but they had maintained a friendly relationship for years. They often sat next to one another to make mocking comments about the children in the halftime show. Sofia wanted to get into the old boys’ club just like Ink did, but she refused to waste a penny on a child zombie that needed fancy clothes and to be replaced fairly often after melees. There was such a lack of finesse in the garrulous woman that she never even turned around to see who was listening when she made such a pronounce
ment.

  Ink liked Sofia too much to even think about this! She loathed Nadia and Nadia loathed her, and Ink had been red from restraining his laughter when the two women had met several months ago. Nadia had rarely attended shows until they acquired Scrapper, and making the mistake of describing herself as Scrapper’s manager upon their introduction, Sofia quickly disabused Ink’s wife of her pretensions. No one managed children. Children were a fad, and anyone foolish enough to try to build a career on a fad was soon going to find herself out of business. Nadia hadn’t said a word to her since.

  This attack had been devious. Underhanded. Sofia was a hammer blow of a personality. She was bitter when Ares lost to Samson in shows, her goodbyes to Ink frosty, but all was forgiven the next time they met. And she was an honest woman. Hungry but honest. When another manager had been caught giving sleeping aids to his zombie’s biggest competitor, she had found it detestable. If Sofia had masterminded this murder, Ink would be shocked speechless.

  What about the owner of handsome Dionysus? Ink wasn’t friendly with Constanzo Rolf. No one was. He was a bigwig who always stood in the corner of the clubroom windows to watch, not speaking to or looking at any of his jovial compatriots. Dionysus had had a long run as champion and was on his way down. Like Poseidon, the zombie was aging, and soon to age out of the 20-35 category. This would be the last Games in which he fought in the most popular group. Constanzo could have killed Samson to secure one more big win for his prize Dionysus! End the best stage of his career with a bang.