Zombie Tales Box Set [Books 1-5]

by Macaulay C. Hunter

  Then Dionysus just stopped. He sat there on Son of Zeus’ back and stared dumbly to a funnel, where a dazzling light was shining. People on Ink’s side of the stadium shouted as they noticed it. Someone had screwed up and turned the funnel light on too early. Dionysus’ fingers slackened from Son of Zeus’ head, and Son of Zeus began to struggle harder for his freedom. The announcer said, “What’s this? Are we bored, Dionysus? Is this fight boring you? Oh . . . just a minute here . . .” All of the lights went on around the ring as Dionysus tumbled off Son of Zeus’ back. Now both zombies were entranced, and people whispered in confusion as the announcer told them to hold on.

  Then the jumbo screens exploded into fireworks around a flashing red DISQUALIFIED. It hadn’t been a screw-up on the part of the stadium, but a deliberate move by a manager himself! Not wanting Dionysus to kill his zombie, the manager of Son of Zeus had turned on the light to save him! The match was instantly awarded to Dionysus as a result, and Son of Zeus lost all the points he had earned for his record at the Games.

  The manager had branded himself forever as a cheater. That was far worse than a sore loser, and to do it so publicly! As Son of Zeus was guided out of the ring by an organizer, a second one hefted Dionysus’ hand in the air. People applauded for him and booed Son of Zeus. So he lived, but at what cost? Constanzo didn’t look too pleased in the clubroom about the manner of his zombie’s win. That should have been one of those kills that went viral on the Internet, a zombie cruelly trying to crush another one’s skull as flat as a pancake, and now it would be immortalized forever as Dionysus looking stupid on Son of Zeus’ back.

  The woman with the impossible-to-remember Greek name had vanished down the stairs since Nemesis’ match was up next. The announcer said, “Well, we don’t see a move like that everyday, and thank the Lord on high! I know we all have a special place in our hearts for certain zombies, but when it’s time for them to go, it’s time!” The screens showed a human and a zombie making kissy faces at each other within a big red heart.

  Tattooed Nemesis, his stupid facial prosthetics and his fucked-up arm were taken to the mark. The prosthetics went all the way around his head and his lady manager was so damn lucky to have gotten this far in the Games with those all over him. How many matches ended prematurely when a ripped off prosthetic fell into a zombie’s eyes and blocked his vision of the next fist coming his way? They did have perks, protecting the face from raking nails, but the cons to them far outweighed the pros.

  Adra-whatever-it-was patted Nemesis’ back before turning away to the funnel. She almost looked like she had a crush on her big zombie fighter. Ink wondered if plastic surgeons could fix things like that, overly masculine features on a female, or if a woman was just stuck with them and had to go through life being called handsome rather than pretty. It went both ways. Adolfo had a girly sort of face on a man’s body, too soft and curved of a nose, too round a chin, long eyelashes and no firm set to his brow. If you killed Samson to get me back, Adolfo, the joke is on you.

  The manager of Fightin’ Titan got his man to the mark and held up both of the zombie’s fists to the crowd. The response was underwhelming, except for a contingent of stocky people across the stadium who showed up on the screens with FIGHTIN’ TITAN spelled correctly on their T-shirts. Arse. That had been hysterical. Fightin’ Titan stared into the light with his one eye.

  Then the lights went out. Fightin’ Titan charged over the ring as Nemesis balled up his fists and waited for him to come. That saddened Ink. Samson had done that in a match at the Sweep, just let his opponent come to him, and then rolled backwards onto his arms and kicked out both legs right to the groin. It had been one of the most fantastic sights that Ink had ever seen in a ring. There wasn’t much going on upstairs in any of these fellows, but just like some could hold weapons for a short period of time, others could develop crude strategies of combat. Ink had never known what Samson would think up next, or what old move he’d dust off from his drawer of tricks and bring out to show off again. Standing and waiting like Nemesis was doing now, he had done that once. Hades was another one with a decent ability to strategize, Dionysus too, and Maenad was rather frightening in how good she was at it. In her former life before the virus, she had to have been an excellent chess player.

  Fightin’ Titan reached Nemesis, who ducked under the two-armed grab and ploughed him over. They somersaulted over the ground and both ended up back on their feet. Their fists raised and the jumbo screens caught a little cloud of brown leaving Nemesis’ palm.

  He had thrown dirt in Fightin’ Titan’s face. Into his eye specifically. That was a Maenad-level move, a move that Samson had been growing toward, a brilliant understanding of what resources he had, and what resources his opponent didn’t have when he was minus an eye. Fightin’ Titan was instantly incapacitated, and at Nemesis’ mercy.

  He showed none. Fightin’ Titan was down sheer seconds later, victim of a barrage of hard swings to the nose and head. Nemesis dropped to continue his assault on the unconscious form, and the lights went on to dazzle him. People clapped for Nemesis but didn’t shout his name, since he wasn’t anybody yet. The T-shirt supporters looked on in disappointment at their knocked-out hero. Up in the clubroom, the windows showed a lot of empty seats. This fight hadn’t even been important enough to watch. Ink wished that he could see a little farther into that round room, at the bigwigs perched on the stools at the bar, or sitting in the square of sofas in the back and chatting. That blonde could be freshening up in the bathroom, accepting a towel from the attendant and checking on her cosmetics in the mirror. Making herself pretty for Cantine, an old man who couldn’t possibly get it up any longer. All he could do was shower her with cash and feel up those curves either clothed or bare.

  Nor was the next fight worthy of the bigwigs’ eyes, and Ink only kept one eye on it. The other was on his cell phone. Cauldron of Fire and Bow Down Before Me fought to little attention or enthusiasm and made no moves of note. They just punched and kicked and wrestled and bit, getting bloodier and bloodier as time ran down. In the last minute, they were staggering from their wounds and it looked like Cauldron of Fire’s left shoulder was dislocated. He was only hitting with his right. But that one was still in fine working form, and with it he brought down Bow Down Before Me twenty seconds before the bell.

  “Bow down before that,” the announcer said. Even he sounded bored. Next up was Volcanus and Zombie Jesus. Ink got up from his seat and started down to the bar. He had to go downstairs and ferry Thor to the funnel. He hadn’t been nervous before the men’s melee and then the match against Ares, convinced that Thor was going to lose both times, but he was nervous now.

  “And it’s over!” the announcer said just as Ink reached the top stair. Surprised, he looked down to the ring. In what had to be the shortest battle ever, Volcanus had been declared the winner. Zombie Jesus had gotten nailed while squatting to take a crap. If your zombies weren’t regular, it was best to give them an enema. Ink had always done that with Samson and Medusa.

  Then the announcer called out the next pair and Ink ran like the wind to get down to Thor. Huffing and puffing by the time he got his zombie to the funnel, he panted to the organizer, “I never thought . . . that last match would . . . go so quickly.”

  The woman was young, but had the demeanor of a stern kindergarten teacher. “It is recommended that you be at your zombie’s stall two matches before yours is scheduled.”

  He didn’t need a lecture from this twenty-year-old, minimum-wage earning twit. They walked Thor down the funnel in a tense silence. Dog of Tartarus was already waiting on his mark, and his manager was headed back to the opposite funnel. The announcer was having fun, calling Thor? Thor? Thor, are you scared? It’s okay! Come out, Thor! Come to Mummy!

  People were barking and howling for Dog of Tartarus. He was nothing to look at, and perversely, his ugliness had given him an audience. He was so damn short, skinny but with such flabby cheeks, and he wore a permanently doleful expression
. This was a man who looked old decades before his time. He was squarely in the middle of the 20-35 age group, but already he was graying and had a bald spot that appeared to be increasing its circumference at every competition. It was hard to picture a man or woman shelling out good money to sleep with him. If Dog of Tartarus had belonged to Ink, he would have dyed the zombie’s hair or shaved it all off so he didn’t look like an elderly fighter who had sneaked in to test his strength against the whippersnappers. Actually, if he belonged to Ink, Ink would have sold him. Being allergic to dope put the tiny guy at a major disadvantage.

  “There he is! Finally!” the announcer yelled about Thor. “Look at that worried face. He thinks he’s about to get dogged.” The man bayed over the speakers and the audience echoed it.

  Thor didn’t look like anything. He had his lights, and that was all he needed. Ink got him to the mark and retreated to the funnel. The gate rolled closed and the organizer said testily, “Don’t stick your hands or your feet through the bars during a fight.”

  I bet you’re a hit with the guys, Ink thought. Then he noticed the rainbow flag necklace and amended his internal insult to the ladies. Yeah, ladies were lining up to munch the carpet of this pasty-faced, snotty stadium organizer. She had to beat them off with a stick wherever she went, her junior college library, the store, just going out for her mail.

  The lights were doused and he forgot about her. Dog of Tartarus and Thor took notice of one another, and for several moments, they just stared across the ring to each other. As a cartoon graphic of two zombies holding hands came onto the screen barely visible from Ink’s vantage point, the announcer said, “Apparently, they’re friends! Or boyfriends! Say hello to our cute little pair of lovers, Dog of Tartarus and Thor! Their favorite things to do are walks on the beach at sunset and going out to the movies! Awwww.”

  But lips were curling, teeth were being bared, fingers were flexing and being pulled into fists. They weren’t sizing one another up for friendship or anything else. Then, very slowly, each took a step to the side and they began to circle. Excited, Ink wrapped his hands around the bars and the organizer said, “Don’t touch the gate!”

  “Then get security to arrest me,” Ink snapped. If either of the zombies noticed his fingers and headed over, he had ample time to remove them. Having had her bluff called, the organizer fell into a sulky quiet.

  “They’re doing a little dance for us!” the announcer cried. Whoever he was, Ink hated the dude. This was no dance. Each was waiting for the other to make the first move, and this was far more interesting than Son of Zeus’ frenetic, pointless pinwheels at nothing. Cries echoed down from the stands. Get ’im! Get ’im! Someone get ’im!

  Dog of Tartarus took a step closer. Thor imitated it. They were taunting each other. Over the speakers, the Hokey-Pokey song started to play. People sang along and laughed. Ink was offended on behalf of both zombies. Time was irrelevant to them. That they had an audience didn’t factor in their damaged brains. So everyone needed to shut up and enjoy something a little different than normal.

  “What if nothing happens?” the announcer mused. Very rarely, that did happen. For whatever mysterious reason, two zombies just refused to fight each other. They weren’t related and there was no connection between them that anyone could ever discern. Zombies didn’t feel kinship or make friends. Yet now and then, there was a pair that simply wouldn’t fight, and they just stood there looking at one another until the lights went on. Then they had to be reassigned to other opponents to bring on the frenzy.

  But something was going to happen here. Ink could feel it building. Throwing a glance up to the clubroom, he thought he saw a vague hint of blonde. She was watching Ink’s zombie, and he imagined saying to her, hello, I’m Lincoln Delwich.

  She smiled. In his head, she smiled at him. Intimately, like all of their lives had been leading up to this moment.

  “Thirty seconds and we’re still waiting,” the announcer said.

  And then they moved as one, as if they had rehearsed it. Each jolted into a run at the very same moment. People cheered to see something finally happening and the music stopped playing. The zombies shot over the ring, headed directly for each other, and collided at the center. Thor was taller and weighed more, so the collision worked to his benefit. Little Dog of Tartarus bounced off him and tumbled onto his back. Picking him up by the feet, Thor began to drag him across the ring.

  Shocked out of her silence, the stadium organizer said, “What the hell is he doing?”

  Dog of Tartarus struggled to free himself as Thor pulled him implacably to the side of the ring. Turning around, he wrapped his hands around Dog of Tartarus’ ankles and jerked.

  He swung him. He was swinging that scrawny little fucker in circles! The same way a parent would play airplane with a four-year-old, except by the feet! Ink gaped as Dog of Tartarus picked up speed, helpless in the revolutions. The announcer said, “What the . . .” Everyone pointed and laughed, and a chant picked up of Thor’s name. After trailing off into momentary speechlessness, the announcer asked if any points were given for creativity, because Thor was nothing if not creative.

  He was going to try to hurl Dog of Tartarus over the wall, which went up ten feet into the air. Security was thinking the same thing, because they were spilling down steps and pushing through observers to get over to where Thor was whirling Dog of Tartarus around. Chasers charged over to that area with tranquilizer guns.

  Around and around and around . . . Ink was getting dizzy from watching the zombies spin. Thor was using good form against the diminutive weight of dope-less, tiny Dog of Tartarus. Now this was going to go viral. In all of his years, Ink had never seen such a weird thing. God, he loved zombies. Just when you thought you had seen it all, they showed you something new.

  “Get back!” Security was screaming at the people in the stands over there to get out of the way in case Dog of Tartarus came flying over. But they were hanging over the bar stubbornly, barking and cheering, and most refused to relinquish their prime place to watch. Chasers forced their way through and took aim at Thor and Dog of Tartarus. Cluing in to a potential hazard either by eyes or someone telling him, the announcer asked everyone to step away from the bar.

  Around and around and around . . . and Thor let go. Dog of Tartarus didn’t soar over the wall. He was a little too heavy and Thor wasn’t doped up and the wall was too high to clear. But he soared up just high enough to strike one of the lights placed there to dazzle the zombies. It was doused for the match, but there was an explosion of sparks and smoke. Screams broke out, coming dimly over to Ink at the gate, and now the stadium organizer had her hands wrapped around the bars, too.

  Dog of Tartarus fell to the ground, twitched, and was still. The lights went on, a fresh wave of sparks bursting out of the broken one. Thor saw another light and froze to stare at it.

  “What did we just see?” the announcer roared as the gates rolled open. “What in the world did we just see here right now? Someone find Thor’s manager and ask what kind of psychedelics he mixes into that meat mash, because this . . . this was insane! This was nuts! Bonkers! Crazy! WHAT DID WE JUST SEE?”

  They had seen Lincoln Delwich’s zombie, thank you very much, and he was going on to the brawl.

  Chapter Eight: The Brawl

  Scrapper had been made Prince of the Games, but Ink was the true prince. He was besieged at the stall. Managers and dealers and vendors, people with backstage passes and reporters, security guards and vets and photographers all wanted a piece of him. Items were shoved into his hands, a beer, a burrito, a pen to sign a woman’s chest, business cards, scraps of paper with nothing on them but phone numbers. Nadia glowed in the fawning crowds. Yes, Ink was her husband and Thor was their zombie, and they also had won Prince of the Games!

  “Do you think he’ll win the brawl?” someone shouted to Ink. “Do you think he can take Dionysus? What will Thor do to Dionysus?”

  “Show him some aloha spirit,” Ink said as a joke,
and everyone laughed like it was the funniest thing ever spoken.

  “Fuck Dionysus! What is Thor going to do to Nemesis?” another man shouted.

  “What’s Nemesis going to do to Thor?”

  Ink posed beside Thor, the vet posed beside Thor, then all three of them posed and another shot was taken with Nadia, too. Cameras flashed and flashed. Matthias West pushed over and extended his hand to Ink for a shake. Both of them smiled to the cameras and when a reporter asked if Matthias was bitter about his zombie’s loss to a newbie, he answered like a man who wanted to move up in the business. “You win some and you lose some. That was an amazing fight! We’re going to see great things from Thor in the future.”

  Someone suggested getting a group shot of all five managers for the zombies qualifying for the brawl, but the woman who went for Constanzo was refused admittance to the clubroom to fetch him, a security guard posted outside turning her away since she didn’t have clearance. A man who had gone for the Greek woman came back to say she wasn’t anywhere to be found. Nor could Cauldron of Fire’s manager come for a shot; he had just withdrawn his fighter from the competition. His injuries were too great for a brawl, which might finish him off altogether. Saving his career was more important. So it would only be four competitors in the final battle. Volcanus’ manager showed up at the stall, and there wasn’t any point in a picture of just the two of them.

  Who cared? It left Ink as the sole focus of this happy madness. His stack of little gifts rose higher and higher in a corner of Thor’s stall. Wrapped chicken tacos, sodas, popcorn, a blue rosette to hang on the bars, a first aid kit, a pair of red training gloves . . . A man who peddled brushes and combs insisted on gifting a set in a glossy case to Thor. They were quality pieces, and the vendor namedropped Gorvich and Stanson as two of his regular customers. Gorvich! Stanson! Ink was proud to be in their company even for so small a matter as brushes and combs for a zombie who was shaved bald.