Zombie Tales Box Set [Books 1-5]

by Macaulay C. Hunter

  “That’s mine!” a manager shouted, shoving over another one and trying to open his fist. “That belongs to my kid.” A catfight broke out between two women about the owner of a brooch.

  It looked almost as crazy as a melee. No dignity. When it came to zombie kids, there was just no dignity in any of it. Ink half-expected a crowd of high school students to gather around and chant fight fight fight. Nadia tumbled onto her back, an outraged man prying open her fingers and shouting, “That’s not yours! You weren’t even showing a princess!”

  She kicked at his groin and he let go as she cried, “My prince had a bracelet on each wrist! Where’s my other one?”

  Scrapper hadn’t had a bracelet on. There was no level to which Nadia would not sink. Ink left them to it before she noticed him and expected a husband’s defense of his thieving wife.

  The beer brightening his mood, he wobbled on his way to the stall. He wasn’t drunk, just mildly buzzed, but the excitement of making it to the first match and the silliness of the children’s melee had made him giddy. When they got home, he was going to raid Nadia’s clothes and suitcase and help himself to any jewels she had stolen from here. Added to the sapphire, he’d have a down payment for another zombie.

  He took a wrong turn and ended up lost, turning around in baffled circles in an aisle full of sheet-covered stalls until a woman pointed him the right way. Maybe he was more than a little buzzed. He was tempted to jerk down the sheets as he walked on. Zombies weren’t modest about where they pissed and shit or who saw them do it. They didn’t care if the population of the entire planet watched them eat like animals or scratch their genitals. So there wasn’t any need to be modest on their behalf. It denied who they were when managers kept trying to fit their zombies’ square pegs into humanity’s round holes. Ink saw his zombies for who they were, and what they needed.

  He wasn’t so drunk that he pulled any of the sheets down, or even peeked behind them. He was still conscious of who he was and where he was, and what was appropriate and expected of him. He just thought it was stupid and kept his opinion to himself. One moron had even hung a sign atop a sheet with a message of Shhhh! He’s sleeping! Ink went around the aisle and found his own, where only one person of the sixteen stalls this way had covered it up.

  Jackie was already in the stall and checking over Thor’s minor injuries. “He’ll be good to go soon,” she said.

  “Death row walk,” Ink said.

  “Oh, don’t jinx him. He made it through the melee and who saw that coming? I lost a bet on that,” Jackie said. “Shame on me, huh, Thor?”

  The battle between Son of Hades and Son of Zeus was scheduled before theirs. Ink walked Thor down the funnel and to the gate to watch through the bars as the two zombies beat on each other. It wasn’t a very exciting battle. Son of Zeus threw out his fists everywhere, half of them not even connecting with his opponent. Son of Hades took a bad step all on his own and almost went down, letting Son of Zeus get the upper hand had he the sense to take it. He didn’t. The judges weren’t going to award too many points here for form or expediency.

  Then the zombies twirled around in circles, hands locked at each other’s throats. Ink glanced up to the stands, where people watched but their cheering was perfunctory. Son of Zeus and Son of Hades hadn’t built up their names yet. Neither was attractive nor owned by a popular manager. These two were just slabs of doped-up muscle. If they had any special qualities, they had yet to let anyone know. The announcer cried, “Will this ever end?” If neither killed or maimed each other too badly to fight within five minutes, their scores on moves would determine the winner. It was unusual for a match to end that way, but it looked like this one would. Across the ring, Sofia and Ares were visible through the bars of a gate at another funnel.

  Standing on Thor’s other side, the stadium organizer yawned in boredom. “Son of Hades, Son of Zeus, son-of-a-bitch, just end it.”

  Whenever Ink had stood here with Samson, at a gate and waiting for a match, he had been nervous to the point of nausea. Right now, he wasn’t anything. He just wanted to get it over with and find another beer. The cheers for Thor were going to be just as perfunctory, if not more so, than they were for the two currently fighting in the ring. He was a total nobody. The screams were going to be for Ares, the black-haired stalwart staring fixedly to the light over his head in the other funnel. That one had ripped out his own chest hair after defeating opponents at other competitions. If there didn’t happen to be anyone around to attack, he’d go after himself.

  “You see the kids’ melee?” the employee asked, snapping gum. “It was great.”

  “Yeah, I saw,” Ink said. “Nice panties there. That guy should have worn a belt.”

  “I heard him yelling that he was going to sue. Sue the pants off the stadium’s sponsor! The owner, the announcer, the manager of that princess, everyone. But he’s the only one whose pants came off. Crybaby.”

  “He was told to get out of there,” Ink said.

  “Exactly! What else are we going to do? Do we have to escort everyone out personally by the hand? Apparently we do.” The guy snapped his gum again and leaned on the wall as he watched the never-ending battle. “Oh, please, whichever son you are, take the other one down.”

  It ran all the way to the bell and the lights went on. The two let off their fighting and stared. Their managers were released from the other two funnels and came out to the ring to stand by their injured zombies. Everyone waited while the scores were tallied, and several minutes later, the announcer called it for Son of Zeus. His bloody hand was raised into the air and people clapped for a few seconds.

  “Good luck, Thor,” the employee said as Son of Hades and Son of Zeus were walked to their funnels.

  Ink shrugged as the announcer called out the names of the next pair. He had needed luck the night Samson died. “Thor’s going down.”

  The gum snapped as the gate rolled open. “Think positive thoughts, man.”

  Ink held up his hand to keep up the image of an excited manager and walked Thor in to his starting mark. Hanging back at her gate and raising a cane, Sofia let the stadium employee on that side get Ares to his mark. Everyone was going nuts for Ares as Ink returned to the gate. In one of the stands, four bare-chested men stood at the bar. Each had a thick red letter painted on his skin, and altogether it spelled ARSE. The big screens caught it and everyone howled with laughter at the misspelling, even though the men with S and E had hastily reshuffled to correct it.

  “ARSE! ARSE! ARSE!” the announcer cheered. “I mean ARES!”

  The gates closed. The employee choked on his gum as he snickered about the error. “God, I love my job.”

  The brightest lights were doused. The afternoon had faded away and now other lights were on to shine over the ring, but none at the necessary intensity to dazzle the zombies. Ares and Thor took instant notice of each other. They bolted over the ground between them, eyes locked and fingers clenching into fists. Ink felt a momentary flash of pity for the blind kid. His friend was on his way to zombie heaven.

  “Farts,” Ink said. “You ever light them?”

  “Excuse me?” the employee asked.

  Ink didn’t repeat the question, and the employee didn’t ask for clarification. The two zombies had reached one another. Ares threw a heavy fist at Thor, who whirled around, came up short behind Ares, and leaped onto his back. Both men at the gate said, “Holy shit!” Ares reeled around off-balance and threw up his hands to rip at Thor’s face. But Thor had already gone for his neck and bitten in.

  Blood came out in an arc that went several feet away. The audience gasped as Thor refastened his teeth and hung on like a dog. Ares whirled around and around like an ungraceful ballerina, his staggers growing more pronounced until he fell over backwards. Thor took the brunt of the impact, which forced him to let go. A bloody piece of meat was knocked out of his teeth. He wriggled out from underneath and kicked out hard just as a stunned Ares began to turn over.

  Ink h
eard a crack. Ares slumped and went still. The timer on the screen read 0:29 and stayed there. Thor threw himself at Ares as the lights went on, and then he stopped to stare.

  It was dead silent in the stands. Then it exploded.

  “Oh my God!” the employee at Ink’s side shouted. “Oh my God, did you see that? Did you fucking see that?”

  Ink had seen. He didn’t believe it, but he had seen. The gates rolled open and he stepped out into a swelling hubbub. People were going bonkers at the bars and standing at their seats. The announcer cried, “Thor defeats Ares! Thor defeats Ares in less than half a bleeding minute!” The employee stationed at the other gate came out and rushed over to check on Ares. Sofia just stood there dumbly, gripping her canes for all she was worth.

  They weren’t going to be friendly for the rest of the Games. She wouldn’t forgive this for a very long time. Ares had been her best shot at winning a seat in the clubroom this year, and Thor had dropped him after a fight so short that it was shameful.

  The employee knelt down within a growing pool of blood beside Ares. Then he raised his head to the announcer’s box and made a cutting motion with his arms. Ares was dead. Good God! Thor had torn out his neck and then broken it, and Ink knew in his heart that the very long time to forgiveness he was anticipating was going to extend to the grave. The screaming of the crowds overcame the announcer, and all Ink heard was, “THOR! THOR! THOR!”

  Whoever had killed Samson could go fuck himself or herself, because Ink was now the manager of the zombie who had taken down Ares at the biggest zombie competition in the United States. This was going to make the sports section of the papers. A tiny blurb on a back page, but it would be in there as one of the biggest upsets in the Games.

  Two employees jogged out with a stretcher to collect the remains as Ink guided Thor to the funnel. It was impossible to tell how much he was hurt with the blood saturating his face and chest. But he was walking strong, and Ink fancied the zombie could feel a little of the pride at being the cause of the stadium’s hysterics.

  Once in the funnel, the gate closed. The announcer couldn’t even call the next pair because everyone in the stands was still roaring. The employee clapped, saying, “What did I tell you, man? Positive thinking!”

  It wasn’t the power of positive thinking and it wasn’t luck either. God Himself was smiling down on Ink.

  In the stall, Ink washed Thor off tenderly. Nine-tenths of the blood on him belonged to Ares. The last tenth was coming from his chest, the wound having opened an inconsequential amount, and from his gums. He had taken a pretty hard blow to the back when Ares tipped over onto him, but it couldn’t have been that serious or Thor wouldn’t be walking and standing so well.

  He was unhurt. Jackie confirmed it and then they just stared at each other and at him until people flooded over to the bars. Cameras clicked, everyone wanting a shot and a few of them asking for Ink’s autograph. He smiled and spoke, shook hands and answered questions, did everything he had once done with Samson. A fighter’s audience was built partially on how accessible his manager was, how personable, and each visitor that went away thrilled and pleased was a new fan of Delwich Stables’ Thor.

  The excitement at the bars lasted a whole hour, with updates coming at regular intervals about other fights. Some people were darting back and forth between the stables and the stadium; others were just watching a live stream on their cell phones. Dionysus won his match, no surprise there, and his opponent Hecate was now short an ear. Bastard of Hades was hurt so badly at his match that he had to be euthanized, and how did Fightin’ Titan ever pull that off? God liked Ink, that was certain, but He also had some strange affection for that one-eyed lug nut of a zombie.

  Dog of Tartarus won, as did Cauldron of Fire. Ultimate Hades’ brand spanking new career came to a swift end against the far more experienced Volcanus, who turned him, as one visitor to Thor’s stall said, into a little puddle of goo and facial prosthetics. Zombie Jesus triumphed over Burning Bush and it served the latter’s stupid manager right. Purposely wearing out your zombie before a show was idiotic. Especially the Games.

  The Immortal met his maker in Bow Down Before Me, and then there was another upset in Nemesis defeating Hades himself. The only Hades that mattered! That was what finally drew people away from Thor’s stall. That blurb in the paper was going to be shared, or perhaps there would be a longer article about how two total newbies had overturned the Games.

  Ink watched replays on his cell phone when all was quiet around Thor. Dionysus had done nearly as well, ending the match in a scant thirty-eight seconds. The manager of Bastard of Hades had embarrassed himself by throwing a punch at the manager of Fightin’ Titan after their match. Ink clicked Dog of Tartarus’ fight against One True God. Dog of Tartarus was a shrimp of a dude, but fast and vicious. So-and-so had told so-and-so had told so-and-so had told Jackie that Dog of Tartarus was reacting so poorly to each new doping regimen that they had had to stop giving him drugs altogether. Ink could see the evidence. Like Thor, Dog of Tartarus was fighting only with natural muscle, and that was on the skimpy side. He had been much more imposing in his musculature a year and a half ago. But he still won against One True God, his speed beating the tank of dope that was his opponent.

  The Hades-Nemesis battle was very exciting, running three minutes but all of it a flurry of legs and arms and teeth. That manager had sent Nemesis out with his dumb facial prosthetics still on, and they must have been fastened with industrial glue because he finished the match with all of them doing fine. And those tattoos! You could barely tell the zombie’s skin tone with the tattoos that heavily laden. All of them were black. Black flames, black swirls, black skulls, black characters, black suns and stars . . . they ran from the back of each hand up to his shoulders, down his chest and all over his legs. His back was covered in a black dragon caught in a massive cobweb. You couldn’t even see the guy underneath. You just saw those tattoos. The guy had been into major body art before he got infected with the virus.

  The cuts he had on one of his arms were nasty, but they hadn’t slowed him down in the fight. In Ink’s opinion, it was a lucky strike that had finished Hades for the match. One misstep, one split second finding balance . . . Unlike Son of Zeus, who hadn’t jumped on the chance when Son of Hades staggered, Nemesis was on the real Hades like a fly on shit.

  A man sidled up to the bars and gave Ink a bright smile. Ink returned it, believing this person to be another fan, and then the man said, “How much?”

  He wanted to buy Thor! Ink didn’t know him from anywhere. “What are you offering?”

  “What are you asking?”

  Ink just laughed, refusing to show his cards before the man showed his. The man laughed along, a little tightly, and said, “My client was thinking five hundred, six. Open to negotiation, of course.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Ink would have asked ten times that plus a little more for wiry, unexciting Chaos. If the opening bid was a pitiful five to six hundred, the client wasn’t likely to go over a thousand tops. And for a fighter who had just downed Ares and stolen the show, a thousand was an insult. No real dealer would have made this offer. Ink asked, “What’s your name? And what’s the client’s strategy for him?”

  “I’m Maxim and who cares? As long as you get your money,” the dealer said obsequiously. One name. Only Vasilov had one name, and he had earned the right.

  “I get attached to my fighters,” Ink said with a fake show of sheepishness.

  Maxim’s laughter got even tighter. “He’s planning to pull Thor, cede the second match to his opponent, give him some training-” his eyes lingered on Thor’s unenhanced musculature, “-and start him on the small ring circuit. Build him up from there. A career should start small and grow big, not the other way around.”

  Such wisdom from a dealer that Ink had never seen or heard of before! He’d been knee-deep in zombies for twenty years and knew the people who mattered. This Maxim wasn’t anyone. “Why don’t you leave your card
and I’ll think about it?”

  The man slid his hand into his coat pocket and then withdrew it. “I must have left them in my truck. What’s there to think about? As I said, he’s willing to negotiate.”

  “I just don’t like to make decisions on the spot,” Ink said. What dealer didn’t have cards? One just looking to make a quick buck at the Games. “Give me your number and I’ll call later. I’ll remember it.”

  The man rattled it off and Ink committed the information to the shakiest shelf of his short-term memory. It would be gone before the man rounded the aisle. Maxim stuck around a few minutes longer to admire Thor and see if Ink would change his mind, and then his phone rang and he answered it as he walked away. Just another flash-in-the-pan dealer, here one season and gone the next. People thought it was a get-rich-quick scheme, but unless you were one of the rare few hit by a lightning strike of luck or had family connections, it was just another career to build from the ground floor up over time.

  Ink had done this from the ground floor. He had earned every decibel of that screaming at the end of the first match, every eager face at the bars and pair of hands thrusting out a pad of paper and a pen. Thinking that he had to find some dinner, he hesitated about leaving Thor unattended. There were cameras and security all over, but losing another fighter was going to kill him. So he sat there and waited for the food vendors to go through. He had no idea where Nadia had gone, back to the motel or up in the stands, or if she was in the hospital for brawling over jewelry that wasn’t even hers. Or maybe she was hunting down a locksmith to get those cuffs off if the key hadn’t been in the pile. Scrapper was in his stall, covered heavily in bandages, but sadly alive. Ink dumped some meat mash into his trough, but only after he’d fed Thor.