Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead

by A. P. Fuchs

  That was eight years ago and he had used his skills ever since, at first in Japan, defending those under attack by the dead when he could. Someone from Sterpanko’s circle had seen him fight and offered him the chance to regain his family’s honor in front of the world.

  Though he was to remain humble and avoid the spotlight at all costs, he chose to consciously ignore those looking on at his battles and instead envisioned his family being his only audience.

  He needed to do them proud. Do things right, the way he should have the first time.

  The lights were still off in the arena.

  The buzzer blared.

  The crowd howled.

  The lights went on.

  Akashi tuned them out, canceling their roars until there was only him, the cage and whatever was about to come through the floor.

  The iron ring lit up, slid to the side and the dead began to rise.

  Gray-skinned with shadowy, sunken eyes and brown and black ragged clothes, the creature stood shackled before him. The thing just stared at him, gaze vacant, as if it didn’t know what it was looking at.

  I’ve done this long enough to know what you are, Akashi thought. A “Shambler,” they call you. No challenge. No honor. He had heard a Sprinter was in the cage the fight before his. Now that would have been a battle worth fighting. Not this.

  The buzzer droned again and the ghoul’s restraints were released.

  Akashi unsheathed his sword and got ready, bringing up his arms and sliding one of his feet back to a basic fighting stance.

  The ghoul looked at its hands as if trying to register where the restraints had gone.

  “I will not attack you,” Akashi said. “You must attack me.”

  The dead man looked up at him. Hunger and a hidden rage suddenly filled the monster’s eyes.

  “Ah, now you see me.” Akashi clamped his mouth shut. No more talking.

  It was time to fight.

  The zombie shambled toward him, steps awkward, arms outstretched. Akashi remained motionless, sword at the ready, waiting. The dead man drew closer, fingers splayed out, ready to grab hold of him and get to work devouring every chunk of flesh it could.

  Groaning, the zombie lurched forward, arms coming down. Akashi ducked to the left, pivoted on his right heel, getting in behind the dead man. Swish! The blade came down, clipping off the zombie’s ear. The crowd roared.

  “Though I believe one blow is sufficient for victory, to simply end you won’t restore honor to my family,” he said. That was for my daughter.

  The zombie put a decaying hand to its ear and didn’t seem fazed by the gooey red-black blood sticking to its palm. It turned around, dropped its hands, then stomped toward Akashi like a gorilla.

  Akashi stepped to the side, drew up his sword and brought it down on the monster’s arm just as it reached out for him. The blade tore through muscle and bone, the arm landing on the concrete with a wet thud, blood quickly puddling around it.

  The Shambler arched backward, growled, then set its dead eyes forward, fixated on Akashi.

  That was for my son, Akashi thought.

  The zombie ran toward him. Akashi brought the blade down. The creature caught his wrist with its remaining hand and shoved his arm and blade backward, the sheer force jerking at Akashi’s shoulder socket. With a kick to the creature’s gut, Akashi gained a few feet of distance and was able to yank his arm free. He put the sword in his other hand and let the other arm rest.

  Quickly, he took a spinning stride forward, crouched, and swept the blade across the zombie’s knees, cleaving the creature at both shins. Thump, thump. The dead man dropped, the bottoms of its legs missing.

  For my father.

  The zombie fell forward, arm out, and took hold of Akashi’s ankles. Growling, it opened its mouth wide and moved to take a chomp out of his ankle.

  Swish!

  In a blur of silver, the blade swept through the zombie’s neck.

  The crowd went silent.

  Thunk. The dead man’s head dropped on top of Akashi’s foot. He kicked it aside.

  For my wife. Four blows. One victory.

  Honor.

  7

  Nachos

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Mick said. Finally. Things seem to be going my way.

  “Did well?” Jack said.

  “Well enough to—” He caught himself this time. Or keep breathing, anyway.

  “Good for you.”

  Mick smiled.

  “Hungry?” Jack said amidst a rush of voices from the crowd.

  “What?”

  “I said, are you hungry?”

  “Oh, kind of, but not sure for what. You know, one of those moods where you want something, but anything you think of sucks?”

  “I hear you.”

  “What do you normally have at these things?”

  Jack snorted, sucking back what sounded like a full nasal cavity of snot. His cheeks puffed out and Mick could only imagine he had a loogie on his tongue. A moment later, Jack swallowed. Mick grimaced. Jack’s eyes watered over and he shook his face as if he suddenly got the chills. He cleared his throat. “Um . . . no real usual. Pretty much tried everything on the menu. The nachos ain’t too bad. Real cheesy. Sometimes the guy making ’em goes scant on the chips, but overall they ain’t bad.”

  Mick scanned the crowd to see if he could spot the on-foot concessions guy. There was a dude dressed in a white milkman-type suit a few aisles over. Mick stood up and put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Took a few tries, but he finally got the guy’s attention. “Hey, buddy! Yeah. Nachos. Here.” The guy in white nodded.

  He sat back down.

  “Good call. You know, he probably would have come over here eventually,” Jack said.

  “Yeah, but I need something to fill me up. Got butterflies.” He didn’t mean to say that last part.

  “What, you won last round, though, didn’t you?”

  No comment.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Mick pressed his lips together, then softly said, “No problem.” He took a deep breath then exhaled slowly. It was time to choose. He grabbed his Controller from the back of the chair in front of him and scrolled to see the info released about the next fight. “Hm.”

  “You’re telling me,” Jack said, eyes glued to his own Controller.

  “What do you think?”

  “You know the rules.”

  “Sorry.” Mick again pressed his lips together. Blood Bay Arena rules were that you spoke to no one about your bet. They had eyes and ears everywhere. Get caught choosing because of someone else’s choice, or because you have someone on the inside, or get input from someone because they’ve seen one or more fighters on the roster fight already—never mind a number of other things—and not only did you automatically lose your bet, you had to pay back double.

  Sterpanko didn’t tolerate cheaters.

  Only guys up to their hair in debt with him, Mick thought absentmindedly.

  The next fight could go any number of ways. Well, two, technically. Either someone won or they lost, but how they won or lost was up in the air and that was a factor in betting as well. You could opt for just a simple straight win-or-lose when choosing your fighter; you could also choose whether you thought they would cream the other guy; and you could also choose how long the fight would last—all for bonus money.

  Mick decided that for now he’d stick with what was simple: someone wins, someone loses. How it came about was up to them.

  I’ve taken enough chances as it is, he thought.

  The nacho guy came by. Mick set down his Controller on his lap and handed the guy his card. The nacho guy swiped the card on his handheld machine and waited for the transaction to go through.

  “Sorry, but it’s declined,” the guy said.

  “I see,” Mick said. Guess Sterpanko doesn’t want me to eat. No sense asking him to try it again. He held out his hand for the card. “Never mind. Thanks.” The guy handed it
back to him then wandered up the aisle to someone else whistling at him.

  “I could have spotted you a couple bucks, you know,” Jack said.

  Why Jack was offering to help him out, Mick didn’t know, especially since the guy was a bit of a jerk earlier. “Thanks, anyway, but I’m all right.”

  “Well, just let me know, yeah?”

  “Sure.”

  Mick’s stomach rumbled. He shifted in his seat. He glanced at the Controller, thought for a moment, then placed his bet.

  Foot stomps and clapping filled the arena as fans got ready for another round.

  “Here we go,” Jack said.

  “Yeah, here we go,” Mick replied.

  The lights went out.

  8

  Thai Fighter vs Zombie

  Bet: $25,000

  Owing: $816,000

  Tep Baharn closed his eyes and got ready. He’d done this a hundred times before, each time demanding a courage no normal human being had within himself. Years of training and discipline only took you so far. Some things, some opponents, took more than just courage. They took the conquest of fear. Especially now, here in the cage, about to take on a monster yet again.

  But this was what he was—a fighter, born as one, destined to die as one, whether here in the cage or as an old man all bent up and worn out from years of exchanging blows with opponents from beyond the grave.

  After the rise of the dead, then after they fell, there was nothing left. No one left. His family had died in the attacks. His friends were gone. He had nothing. Nothing but the skills that saw him through the zombie invasion: hands and feet, elbows and knees. Though revenge was part of why he fought for Mr. Sterpanko, the main reason was to quench the inner need to simply tear apart what he could with his bare hands, a need he discovered deep within himself when it was just him, open land and a million undead.

  He opened his eyes. The arena was dark.

  The buzzer screamed and the lights shot on.

  The iron ring suddenly shone bright then slid to the side.

  The dead began to rise.

  The creature rose to the surface, gray skin dusty and flaking, dark rings beneath its eyes.

  Tep had fought Shamblers before.

  Piece of cake.

  The buzzer droned, the crowd cheered, the dead man’s restraints fell to the ground.

  Tep raised his hands, fists loose but ready, elbows parallel to the floor, forearms set to block anything the dead man threw at him.

  The Shamblers all moved the same: one foot slowly dragged in front of the other, the feet slapping down heel to toe, arms swaying side to side like a pendulum until the creature saw what it wanted then reached out for it.

  The zombie brought its hands up, then quickly brought one down, trying to get a grip on Tep’s shoulder. Tep let it grab him and allowed it to pull him closer.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  The ghoul opened its mouth, about to take a chunk out of Tep’s neck. In a flash, Tep shot his elbow outward, clocking the creature in the side of the jaw. The jaw bone snapped. Then he quickly tagged it with an upper cut, knocking the creature’s head back. The zombie brought both its arms in in an effort to grab him. Tep shoved the arms away, reached out, grabbed the zombie by what little hair it had left, then plowed the dead man’s face into his knee. A front kick with his left leg and Tep sent the zombie stumbling back against the cage.

  Some in the crowd cheered. Others booed and hissed. He couldn’t blame them. Shamblers were only a challenge when there was more than one of them.

  Usually.

  The zombie pushed itself off the cage wall and chugged toward him like a train going up an incline, its head low like some comedic bull aiming for that elusive red cape.

  Tep stood his ground and let the thing stumble closer and closer, a false sense of tension for the crowd’s benefit. Just as it was about to grab him, he moved to the side then in behind the creature and booted it in the backside, sending it sprawling on the floor.

  The crowd laughed. Some guy from somewhere close said, “Gimme a break!”

  Tep didn’t care. This was too much fun.

  The dead man got to his feet, turned around and came at him again. The monster’s jaw hung from its sockets limp and weak and no longer a threat. Tep charged the creature and shoved it into the cage wall and wailed on it with his hands and feet. Each turning kick to the zombie’s midsection shattered its ribs; each hook to its face broke the thing’s cheekbones all the more. Fist. Elbow. Knee. Foot. Fist. Elbow. Knee. Foot. Fist. Elbow. Knee. Foot. Over and over until there was nothing more than a sack of bloody skin filled with shattered bone pressed up against the cage wall.

  The zombie still tried to bite him, but with no working facial muscles—the most movement it got was some kind of relaxed twitch in his face—he merely curled and contracted his lips.

  Tep dropped the creature and let him sprawl out on the floor.

  It was over.

  Piece of cake.

  9

  Gettin’ Ready to Rock and Roll

  Yes! Mick had to make a conscious effort to stay seated and keep his mouth shut. He reminded himself that indicating you won was also against the rules. Sure, you could cheer, boo or hiss during the fight, but the personal outcome of it had to be kept to yourself.

  Jack must have caught him grinning. “Good for you.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Jack smirked then stared at his Controller for a moment. Mick wondered how the big guy did.

  Anna would be happy. Hope so, anyway, Mick thought. As good as all of this was, though, the night was far from over and there was lots coming up, some of the fights, no doubt, making the past few seem like child’s play.

  He stood up and stretched his legs. Jack did the same.

  When the two sat down, Mick glanced around for the nachos guy again. What he wouldn’t give for a bite and a drink. His stomach growled and already the inside of his mouth was getting a bit sticky. Guess Sterpanko wanted him to sweat.

  Mick tapped his palms against his kneecaps. “So . . . how’d you get into coming here?”

  “Me?” Jack said. “Ah, you know, wanted to see what it was all about. Found out I liked watching dead guys get their brains beaten in. Found out I liked making money. Even, weirdly, enjoyed the heart-sinking feeling when you lost it. Yeah, I know, weird, but whatever. Point is, I like the fights. Where else can you come and watch these—I don’t even know what they’re called anymore, these guys that fight them—fighters? Adventurers? Blood-hungry mascots? Psychopaths—whatever—you know? Where else can you come and watch bizarre characters duke it out against guys who once took over this planet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nowhere, that’s where. I have no idea how the guys we watch get involved and, frankly, I don’t care. I’m here for the thrill. And I’m nice and safe here in my seat, too. Just sit and watch and no one—no one being me—gets hurt. All good. Place a few bets, win a few bucks, go home and keep to myself.”

  “Where do you live? I mean, what area?” Mick asked.

  “The upside of down.”

  Mick looked at him, brow scrunched.

  “My answer when folks ask me that. Sorry. Nothing personal. Just like my privacy.”

  “No worries.”

  Jack eyed him for a moment as if to cement his point.

  For a second, Mick wondered if Jack was going to ask him where he lived. Jack didn’t.

  Mick grabbed his Controller and scrolled through the screens until he landed on the just-released details of the next fight. He hated that Blood Bay Arena—namely Sterpanko—only released the who-versus-who just minutes before the next bout. Obviously, it gave the skunk an edge. He knew who was fighting. He paid them, after all. The guy—if he wanted, and probably did—could have all kinds of bets running on each fight, the information he had on each fighter giving him a huge advantage over every other patron in Blood Bay Arena tonight and no o
ne could call him on it. Zombie Fight Night wasn’t regulated. It wasn’t like the old days when these types of things were.

  The very thought of it made Mick grimace. He hoped he pulled through this evening. Perhaps, if and when this was settled, he could somehow settle things with Sterpanko.

  Personally.

  He closed his eyes and suppressed the thought. No point getting all worked up over it right now. There was a fight to bet on and he didn’t want to lose.

  He wondered how Anna was doing and if she was still mad at him. He could envision her doing one of two things: either sitting at home, watching the fights on TV—despite how much she hated them—or frantically pacing their living room, wondering if he was going to come home alive. Either one would fit her character. Just all depended on her mood, and with her, when she was mad, assumed actions were hard to peg.

  Mick studied his Controller and absorbed the details of the next fight. This one should be interesting. One of the fighters was an old hand at combat, and old was an understatement. The fighter might not be grandpa-old, but given his lifestyle, well, surely leading the life that he had would have aged him far more than your average person. It was a tough call. Each fighter had their own type of advantages. That’s what made these fights frustrating to bet on: they were more or less evenly matched, but sometimes the show-boating went too far. The fighters got careless and more than money was lost.

  Mick took a deep breath and soaked in what he read.

  He placed his bet.

  “Ready to rock and roll?” Jack said, leaning over to Mick as he finished replacing the Controller in the back of the seat in front of him.

  “Ready like always.” Kind of.

  “Then this one should be good.”

  “Should be.”

  “Hope so.”

  “Yeah.”

  A couple of minutes later, the arena went dark.

  10

  Axiom-man vs Zombie

  Bet: $100,000

  Owing: $791,000