Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead

by A. P. Fuchs

  If he got out of this thing alive, that was.

  Nervous as all get out, he made his way to the front doors, withdrew the ticket Sterpanko had given him from his coat pocket, and went in.

  At first, Mick had wondered why Sterpanko even let him place his bets at the arena. For all intents and purposes, the tycoon could have held him and he could have just bet from whatever holding cell Sterpanko chose. But the answer became clear when Sterpanko informed him that, “Being a man of my word—and believing in old-fashioned luck—you’ll conduct your business as usual.” He cleared his throat. “I’m fully aware gamblers have their own habits and ticks, setting being one of the things that affects their instincts.” With a smile: “I’m a sportsman and I’m going to give you a fair shot.”

  Well, fair shot or not, Mick was thankful he didn’t have to spend any more time near the man. He wasn’t a fool, though, and knew full well he was being watched to ensure he did indeed show up tonight and, more importantly, didn’t skip town and immediately bring the death sentence on him and his wife and all those he cared about.

  Passing through the main gates, Mick went shoulder-to-shoulder with everyone else, each person he brushed against or passed making him wonder if they saw the look of dread on his face.

  Skin warm, a fine film of sweat formed on his back, a thicker film under his arms. He grabbed a program from a stand near a garbage can then checked his ticket. Section B, Row 9, Seat 2. Glancing up, he followed the letters on the hanging signs outside each set of doors that led into the arena proper.

  “B . . . B . . . B . . .” he said. There it was. B. He went in and followed the short set of cement stairs down to Row 9. His chair was the second one in and so far only one other person was in his row. He glanced at his watch. 6:42 p.m. The first fight wasn’t scheduled to start until 7:30. He knew gamblers. Anyone else betting in his row was probably just out in the hallway, calling their “banks” and ensuring their finances were in order before finally making their way in.

  Mick sat down, opened the program and flipped through it.

  Frankly, there wasn’t really a strategy for these fights. The undead were unpredictable. It was easiest and more of a safe bet to roll with the non-zombie as the winner. Comparatively speaking, they did win most of the time. However, the zombies—even the Shamblers—weren’t completely stupid and were known to come out on top now and then as well.

  “Well, we’ll see what happens,” Mick said to himself. His thoughts wandered to Anna. The last thing she said to him was that she hated him. She didn’t mean it. He knew that much. It was just anger. Her eyes were glazed over when she said it and her voice cracked. She was more concerned for their lives than for the money or even for what he had done that screwed them over.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and pulled her picture out of his wallet. She was so beautiful. His finger traced the photo. The long brown hair set in loose ringlets, smooth skin, almond-shaped eyes—even that small scar on the side of her chin that she got from the Zombie War somehow accented her beauty.

  Clenching his teeth, he closed his wallet and shoved it in his back pocket.

  Mick glanced around the arena. It was starting to fill up.

  It was getting close to showtime.

  Up until now, Mick had been feeling more or less okay, but as his watch ticked off closer and closer to 7:30, the more it was as if the cockroaches in his stomach knew the first fight was about to begin and the more agitated they became. The feelings of regret and sorrow were quickly being shuffled away, replaced by pure adrenaline-charged apprehension.

  This was it.

  This was serious.

  This was life or death.

  Mick checked his watch: 7:27.

  His heart raced into his throat and boomed against the back of his neck like no one’s business. He could barely swallow never mind breathe and was forced to lean forward, elbows on his knees, head between his legs.

  “Hey, buddy,” the chubby guy beside him said. “Watch my shoes if you’re gonna puke.” A pause. “You know, the show’s not even started yet. Unless you’re getting flashbacks.”

  Mick glanced up at him, doing everything he could to control his breathing. “No puking here. I’m an old hand at this.”

  The chubby guy furrowed his brow, creating a nest of wrinkles. “Then why the huzzah?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  The guy put his hands up as if in surrender. “Hey, don’t go looking at me for help if you lose yer guts tonight. Just wanted to see if you’re okay, maybe.”

  Mick sat up in his chair and exhaled slowly. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. Been a long weird day, couple of weeks, to tell the truth. My bad.”

  The dude folded his hands over his large stomach. He smelled like hot dogs and spicy burritos. An invisible thick coat of smoke hovered over the guy’s jacket as if from a lifetime of cigarettes. Mick stirred in his seat. The guy shoved a thick hand over to him. “Name’s Jack.”

  Mick took the guy’s greasy hand in his. “Mick.” Firm shake, single pump. He took his hand back, making a conscious effort not to wipe his palm across the front of his shirt.

  Mick pulled his Controller out of a pouch in the back of the seat in front of him and double checked the details of the first fight. The Controller was his lifeline tonight. It was a black box, about six inches square, with a screen and keypad. He swiped his I.D. card through a slot in the side. The screen lit up and welcomed him to Zombie Fight Night. It then displayed the list of fighters for the first battle.

  Make it count, Mick thought, though for this first match it wasn’t easy to say who would come out on top.

  He entered his bet and his choice of winner. Please, God.

  7:29. The seats in the place were full. The shoes and boots on everyone’s feet—except Mick’s—began thumping rhythmically against the cement.

  Jack threw a couple of chubby digits into his mouth and let out a whistle.

  The lights went out.

  4

  Vampire vs Zombie

  Bet: $5,000

  Owing: $821,000

  His name was Ramus, one of the few surviving “Others” ever since mankind regained control of their planet. Before the dead rose and conquered most of the globe, his kind had come first. The problem was, their type of infection—the vampiric virus transferred through blood—had to be administered blood-to-blood. Their victims had to be bleeding, which was no trouble, but the vampires had to be bleeding, too, which made things more difficult. It wasn’t always easy to cut your own tongue before biting down on the neck of another. Instinct to just drink usually took over at that stage of the game and the act of biting down on one’s tongue was often forgotten, which was unfortunate because if more vampires were made, perhaps fighting for the humans would be a thing of the past.

  As it was with the Zombie War, mankind had quickly overcome the vampires by stakes through the heart. They had manufactured firearms capable of expelling steel projectiles a foot long at ferocious speeds. Soon, the number of known vampires worldwide was dwindled down to only a few pockets here and there. Eventually, they were captured and used for Zombie Fight Night as combatants. In exchange for performing, they were given fresh blood from murderers, rapists and thieves as a thank you for their participation.

  It was dark in the arena, as it was before all fights. Ramus stood there, leather-clad hands clenched into tight fists, ready for the lights to shine and for his prey to rise into the cage. He took a step to the side, heavy boots scraping along the cement floor, his tight, leather one-piece suit squeaking a little as he did. He didn’t care about the sound. Stealth wasn’t an issue when facing off against the undead.

  As much as he enjoyed the kill, he didn’t care for administering death to something that was already dead. And the taste . . . well, he could stomach a lump of decaying flesh if it meant the sweet red nectar of human blood shortly after.

  Overhead, the buzzer blared. The place erupted into c
heers, clapping hands and hoots and hollers. The bright white lights flashed on, their focus on the cage. The audience was a mere shadow just beyond.

  It was all automated as no human referee would dare enter the cage before a fight went underway.

  The low whirring of mechanical gears filled Ramus’s hyper-sensitive ears and his keen sense of touch picked up the mild vibrations in the cage’s cement floor.

  About fifteen feet away an iron ring four feet wide lit up bright blue on the ground. The ring slid to the side within the cement, revealing a dark hole.

  The crowd hushed.

  Growls.

  Ramus knew what was about to come through.

  Mechanical gears got to work.

  The dead began to rise.

  It was a Sprinter. Ramus could tell by the ghoul’s pasty white face and bloodshot eyes and red irises. The other kind, the slower ones, were gray-skinned with deep shadows hugging their eye sockets.

  The Sprinter immediately growled and roared and jerked at the electronic restraints shackling his wrists and ankles, the cuffs bound together with a short chain.

  Any moment now someone off to the side would press a button and—

  The buzzer went off again.

  The shackles released from the dead man’s wrists and ankles. They clanged onto the floor by the zombie’s feet.

  It was on.

  The audience cheered, their stomping feet thundering throughout the arena.

  The Sprinter charged toward him. Ramus waited until the ghoul was almost upon him before leaping over the creature’s head and landing on the other side.

  As it was with all fights, Mr. Sterpanko’s words echoed in his head. Give ’em a show, if you want your blood. Nothing quick.

  “Sprinters are never quick kills,” Ramus muttered, spinning on his heels and backhanding the zombie across the skull.

  The creature lurched forward, regained its footing, then whirled around and ran at him, arms outstretched, long dead fingernails zipping through the air like razorblades.

  Ramus stepped to the side, kicked the creature in the back, then brought his heels together, sliding in before administering a side kick to the rear of the creature’s neck. Bone crunched, causing the head to lean at an unnatural angle, but the ghoul didn’t care. It turned around, growled, then ran around the perimeter of the cage.

  “What’s it doing?” Ramus said, remaining where he was.

  The Sprinter darted in circles, at least a dozen times.

  The crowd booed.

  Give ’em a show.

  Just as Ramus was about to make a run for the zombie, the Sprinter changed its course and came at him straight on, slamming its head against his. The force of the blow caused Ramus to bite down on his own tongue. Blood immediately filled his mouth. Something hard caught him in the jaw. A fist. Then fire lit up his midsection as the Sprinter tore its nails across his abdomen.

  Ramus dropped to his knees and the Sprinter grabbed him under the jaw, jerking his head up and nearly separating it from his neck. A bone popped.

  A toe broke as the Sprinter stepped on it. Crunch!

  The Sprinter bit into his skull and tore out a chunk of flesh and bone.

  Ramus licked his own blood from his lips and ignored the pain. “I don’t think so.” He’d heal soon enough anyway.

  Quickly, he latched onto the zombie’s shins, grabbed hard and pulled, tearing the dead man’s legs out from under him. The Sprinter fell back with a thud.

  Shakily, Ramus got to his feet and touched the top of his head. His fingers recoiled upon touching soft, squishy tissue.

  Brain.

  “You’ll heal later,” he told himself and then took off into the air. Feet together, he crashed down on the zombie’s ribcage. Bone sliced through the dead man’s skin like needles through a water balloon. Blood and fine strands of flesh burst upward.

  The Sprinter’s jaws snapped as it struggled beneath Ramus’s weight.

  Ramus tore off the glove on his right hand.

  His shiny, black, talon-like nails glimmered in the overhead lights. With one powerful thrust, he dug them into the Sprinter’s neck, ripping out the creature’s trachea and holding the tubular windpipe up for the crowd to see. They cheered and whistled as the blackened blood dripped onto his face. He smiled, then stuck his hands in again, this time into the soft spot under the ghoul’s chin. Hooking the nails in place, he ripped upward, tearing away the creature’s lower jaw. Barely anything kept the creature’s head attached to its body, its shriveled tongue hanging out like a severed worm.

  Ramus pulled the rest of it away and brought the head to his lips.

  Give ’em a show, Mr. Sterpanko said.

  “Show’s over.”

  Ramus bit down, dead flesh filling his mouth.

  5

  What’s Next?

  Crap. “I’m a dead man,” Mick whispered. The Sprinter was supposed to have that one.

  “What?” Jack asked.

  Mick sighed, his heart hammering inside his chest. “Nothing.”

  “You lost, didn’t you?”

  Mick nodded then cursed himself for doing so. Revealing the outcome of your bet was against the rules.

  Jack slapped him on the shoulder. “Stay strong, my friend. The night’s young.” Jack glanced down at his Controller.

  “How’d you do?” Mick asked, as if Jack’s grin didn’t tell it all to begin with.

  “Little bit here, little bit there,” he said.

  Little bit. Hm. I don’t have time for “a little bit.” And he should keep his mouth shut. Five grand gone. Just like that. I’m down even more now. He bit his lower lip. Money’s not really an issue. Either I win and Sterpanko’s happy, or I lose and can’t pay him anyway ’cause I’ll be dead. Got credit with the House. It’s a game to Sterpanko. He’ll let me bet all I want because either way he wins.

  Mick gripped his own Controller. “I’m in trouble,” he said softly.

  “Heh?” Jack said.

  “Nothing.”

  “You say an awful lot of nothing for a guy who looks like he’s got a lot of something on his mind.”

  Mick smirked. Got to at least make my money back from the last fight. “Double it,” he said, louder than he meant to.

  “Double it. You sure? Unless you’re doubling ten bucks or something.”

  Try betting ten grand. “Or something.” Now keep quiet.

  Mick punched in his bet underneath the display of the upcoming two fighters.

  He glanced around the arena. Some folks were still staring at their Controller screens. Others leaned forward as they slid them back into the pouch in the seat in front of the them. Yet others held their Controllers in their laps, looking elsewhere, as if holding onto them gave them a sense of control over the fight’s outcome.

  Ten grand, Mick thought. Ten. Grand. He rubbed his hands together. Anna, if you could see me now.

  Actually, it was better she couldn’t see him. She’d kill him before Sterpanko could if she knew how much he’d just thrown on the line.

  Mick put his head between his legs and breathed in deep.

  “Sure you okay, dude?” Jack said.

  Mick didn’t answer.

  “I said—”

  He abruptly sat up. “Yes, I’m fine, okay? Just back off.”

  Jack put his hands up. “Okay. Sheesh.” Facing forward, “Guy tries to help you and you bite his head off. Yeah. Cool. Okay.” He folded his arms and coughed while saying, “Fruitcake.”

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I said, ‘what’?”

  “No, what did you just say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  I know what you said. But I deserved it. “Sorry.”

  “It’s cool, hombre. Just sit back and relax. You’ll be fine. After this fight, beer’s on me, ’kay?”

  Might need more than just a beer if this next
fight ends like the last. “Okay.” Then, “Thanks.”

  Jack nodded. “Don’t mention it.” Softly: “You just owe me a ride home.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  The crowd switched from chit-chat to hollering. Feet stomped on the floor.

  The lights went out.

  6

  Samurai vs Zombie

  Bet: $10,000

  Owing: $826,000

  Akashi Yasutomo gripped the handle of the wakizashi—his curved sword, shorter than his katana—with his right hand, the sheath with the other. Once the lights went on, it was time to reclaim his honor, something he had been trying to do for the last eight years.

  A long line of honorable Samurai had come before him and though much of the tradition had been lost over the centuries, the Yasutomo family had been careful to maintain its integrity throughout the ages. Akashi had thought the tradition alone would have saved his family from the zombie hordes, but he was mistaken. Skill with the blade only took you so far. Sometimes there were things you couldn’t fight and a legion of mindless, flesh-hungry drones was one of them.

  The dead came one night when he and his family were sleeping. The children were eaten first, his son and daughter. His father’s screams from the next room jolted him out of bed. Though a trained Samurai himself, his father was no match for them, not for the nine that invaded the room and attacked the eighty-one-year-old man who had lost the use of his legs thanks to an accident while battling another swordsman. By the time Akashi got there, it was too late.

  The dead then came after him and his wife, and as he pulled her along to his room for his sword, they got hold of her. He kept running, grabbed his blade, hoping he’d have enough time to save her. Instead, he was greeted to the sight of her body hanging limp in a dead man’s arms, half her face missing. Swallowing his emotion, he took the blade to them as best he could, but more and more came into the house until all his strength had been sapped and he had no choice but to flee.

  Years of practice, years of training, all tested at once, all used for the first time that terrible night.