by A. P. Fuchs
It had been thirty-one years since it all began, his quest against evil and to stand up for those who couldn’t stand up for themselves.
Thirty-one years. A long time to be doing what was right, to place oneself on the line day in and day out, by anyone’s reckoning.
But that was what Axiom-man did. It was who he was. The call, the gift from the messenger to use his powers wisely—there was no other option, not even when the world fell apart and the dead rose to conquer the living.
Axiom-man had fought, battled, did everything he could to slow their advance and try and save as many lives as possible. It hadn’t been the first time he had gone up against the undead, but he certainly hoped it would have been the last. Day in, day out. Night in, night out. Sleep—there were times when three or four days would go by before he got any and at his age, sleep was as precious a commodity as air.
He had to be extremely careful. All past encounters with the undead demonstrated that if they took a bite out of him and swallowed his flesh or blood, they inherited his powers. Not right away, but eventually. It was dangerous not just for him, but for all who sat under Blood Bay Arena’s roof.
Even now, standing in the dark inside this dank arena, he felt the subtle tingle of fear encompass his heart. His costume no longer gave him the confidence he needed. Dark blue tights, light blue cape and mask—they used to be a symbol to a city that was crumbling around him. Now . . .
His body wasn’t what it used to be, not with permanent nerve damage throughout one arm and leg on the right side of his body, and not with being blind in his left eye. Years of service, years of pain. Many of the scars were only skin deep whereas others were forever embedded within, contained in a heart never fully to be mended.
He should have saved the world. He could have. He had seen the zombie uprising play out on another world. He could have warned humanity. Could have made preparations, but he did none of that. There was no one on Earth more powerful than him. His strength, his gift of flight, the energy beams he could project forth from his eyes—all tools that should have served humanity as they made their final stand against armies of the undead.
Sure, humanity prevailed, but at what cost? Billions were dead. Axiom-man himself had saved tens of thousands of those. But everyone else? He should have saved them, too, or at least died trying.
He supposed that was why he did this now, fighting, beating up on the undead for sport. Still a chance to punish them for all they stole from not only himself, but from the whole world as well. It was just too bad these fights were not just battles of the undead, but also entertainment. He could use his strength, use his flight, and only use his eye beams to nick his opponent instead of blow them apart.
“Don’t want to make it too easy for ya,” Sterpanko had told him back when he started. The only reason Axiom-man listened was because Sterpanko knew his true identity after an ordeal involving him saving Sterpanko one evening while the dead walked the earth, the battle having torn up his costume so much that most of his face was showing. Well, a photoscan on a cell phone and a few computer searches later and Sterpanko knew it all. To keep the identity a secret, Axiom-man had to put on a good show. By now, keeping his identity a secret wasn’t about protecting those he cared for. Nowadays, it was about protecting himself and the world over. He could only imagine a world that knew who he really was, the people who’d constantly beat down his door whether in an attempt to harness his powers somehow or merely use him to accomplish things they could do on their own. At first Sterpanko had wanted to use his knowledge of his secret identity to get him to fight, but had to switch to Plan B when Axiom-man had gone along with it voluntarily.
The buzzer went off.
The lights went on.
The crowd cheered, the older folks in their seats chanting Axiom-man’s name, many with smiles on their faces. The younger crowd, they just wanted to see blood. They hadn’t been around when being a symbol in a cape meant something.
The iron ring shone bright then slid to the side.
The dead began to rise.
It was a Sprinter.
Axiom-man hated these guys. Shamblers were no big deal unless there was more than one of them. Sprinters, however, well, they presented their own challenges, namely in the areas of speed and just plain all-out ferocity.
The buzzer sounded and the Sprinter’s restraints fell to the floor, clanging against the cement.
Axiom-man almost powered up his eyes on instinct, but remembered the rule he was bound by: no eye beams.
Fine. He clenched his fists, locked his feet in place and got ready. An instant later the Sprinter shrieked and darted toward him, bloodshot eyes wide and unblinking, fixated on his own. Teeth bared, the creature lunged for him. Axiom-man stood his ground and shot out both fists, summoning all his strength. His knuckles barely felt the impact as his fists plowed through the Sprinter’s chest, embedding themselves in the dry, rotting flesh and bone beneath.
Axiom-man yanked his arms free and flew over the dead man, landing on the other side.
The crowd went wild.
The Sprinter teetered to the side then spun around, swiping its hand in the process. The back of the zombie’s hand caught Axiom-man across the chin, sending the world into a spin. He dropped down to one knee.
“This never used to be this hard,” he muttered. His knees protested as he tried to stand, the arthritis nice and aggravated. He stood anyway.
The zombie pounced on top of him. Axiom-man got his arms around the creature in a bear hug, hoping to squeeze the thing hard enough to at least break more ribs. The problem was, judging by the severe decay all along the zombie’s face and neck, this one had been dead for quite sometime and—snap, snap, snap—the ribs broke like kindling and didn’t faze the creature.
The Sprinter opened its mouth wide and made a move for Axiom-man’s neck. He’d been in this position with these things before and knew exactly what to do. He jerked his head to the side, the creature getting a clean bite of air. Next, he shoved a palm beneath the zombie’s chin, forcing its head away. Axiom-man wriggled beneath him and got his own face against the zombie’s chest, his mouth hanging over one of the holes he had punched in it earlier. The inside of the monster stunk of rotten meat and foul fish.
Axiom-man held his breath and used his other hand to sock a new hole into the creature’s body, this time into its kidneys. His fingers met dried flesh; he gripped hard and ripped his hand out, tearing with it what he assumed was the remainder of the kidney that once occupied the space.
“More! More! More! More!” the crowd chanted.
Grunting, Axiom-man floated off his back, taking the creature with him, and slammed it up against the roof of the cage. He flew out from underneath it and let the creature drop to the cement below. Swiftly, he darted back toward the ground, aiming to land on the back of the zombie’s neck and use his heel to separate the creature’s head from its body. Instead, the dead man rolled to the side and Axiom-man’s boot firmly planted into the ground. Fiery pain raced through his foot and up his shin and into his knee. A loud SNAP echoed in his ears.
He collapsed, an inferno of pain wracking his right leg.
The Sprinter darted toward him, arms out, and latched onto his shoulders. It brought its head in. Axiom-man raised an arm to block it. The creature bit down onto his right hand and tore it free from his arm.
“Gggrraaaahhhh!” Axiom-man shrieked. Blood spurted from the wound in wild arcs, painting the cement red.
The place went into an uproar and he wasn’t sure if it was over the thrill of seeing blood or over what just happened to him.
Heart racing, body and mind already sinking into shock, the instinct to survive took over. Axiom-man powered up his eyes and readied himself to blast the creature.
The rule, he thought. Screw the rule. I’m going to die! I’m going to—He looked at what was left of his forearm. The creature—if it had ingested his blood, soon enough the thing would have his powers.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He let the energy blast forth from his eyes, cauterizing his wound. The stench of burnt meat and fabric made him gag.
The zombie finished devouring the last of Axiom-man’s hand.
Shaking, Axiom-man knew he couldn’t stand so instead floated to his feet, right foot blazing with pain, right arm limp at his side.
“This could be the last one,” he whispered. “The battle is finally over.”
He flew as fast as he could toward the creature, leading with his left.
WHAM! They collided. The two went sailing through the air. The Sprinter slammed up against the hard wire mesh of the cage.
Axiom-man kept pushing and forced the zombie through it like garlic through a press.
11
So, What do You do?
YES! Mick wanted to jump up and kiss someone. But he didn’t. Keeping his best poker face, he closed his eyes, pictured Anna, and thanked God for the help.
He thought he heard a low rumble in Jack’s throat, but couldn’t be sure.
“Washed up, bugger,” Jack muttered.
Washed up or not, Axiom-man had this one, Mick thought. But he was also bitten. Will he turn? Do zombie bites affect him? I could only imagine a world with a zombie Axiom-man, a zombie with superpowers. I hope it works out for him.
It was hard to discern by Jack’s tone if he was happy or mad. Whatever the feeling, Jack didn’t show it.
Jack rubbed his hands together quickly; the rough skin of going palm-on-palm was like sandpaper on a piece of wood with the bark still on.
“So what do you do for a living?” Mick asked.
Jack stopped rubbing his hands together, sat back, folded his arms and said, “What didn’t I do?”
“Retired?”
“You kidding? Not now nor ever. Besides, we all had a taste of retirement when the dead ran things.”
“Yeah, because running for your life and hiding out is so relaxing.”
“But no work.”
“Was work to me. Don’t know about you, but running the hundred-meter dash in under ten seconds is work for anybody. ’Least it was for me.”
“But you didn’t punch a clock everyday.”
“No. Just zombies.”
Jack smirked. “Didn’t we all.”
“So seriously, what do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Jack smacked his lips. “Little of this, little of that. More of an odd-jobber now than anything. Used to be a lawyer back in the day.”
“Really?” Mick scratched his nose.
“Aw yeah. A darn good one, too.”
“Put anyone away?” Mick realized how stupid the question was after he’d said it.
“Naw, not me. Did more office stuff than anything. Contract law. I’d go to court, sure, but it was more about reaching settlements, staring down the other guy, that sort of thing. Boring, those days were. Long hours. Gained a ton of weight. Lost it during the Zombie War then got it back.”
“I think we all dropped the pounds pretty good back then. No food. Lots of running. Body wanting to give out. Not healthy losing, either. The bad kind. The kind that kills people.”
“If they weren’t eaten first.”
“Yeah, if they weren’t eaten first.”
Jack cleared his throat. “And you?”
“Job?”
Jack nodded.
“Before the war I used to paint cars. Was the guy in the white suit in the shop. All alone. Maybe had help once in a while. Small shop. Nothing fancy. But we did do custom jobs so it was a blast trying to take the client’s design and make it work in 3-D. What folks who came in never realized was that some of that stuff only worked on paper. Cars move in different ways, their bodies. Not just linear—you know, flat—like paper. Had to take the contours and stuff into account before painting something special. Anyway, rambling. Point is, yeah, that’s what I did. Was fun, too. Then the war came and the shop I worked in was blown to bits during one of the army’s efforts to eradicate the undead. What’d you think happens when you blow up a place with loads of paint under pressure? Big explosion. Was not far from the shop when it happened either. Didn’t actually see it, but I sure heard it. Huge boom. Then there was this big orangey-yellow glow against the sky followed by a whole crap ton of black smoke. Nasty.” Mick swallowed, his throat dry. What he wouldn’t give for something to drink. “After the war . . .” He didn’t want to say it, but Jack’s expression was that the guy was genuinely interested in what he had to say, so Mick rolled with it. “After the war I got into, um, coming here.” With a smirk, “You’re sitting in my office.”
Jack chuckled. “You’re sittin’ in mine, too. Guess we’re co-workers.”
Mick chortled. “Guess so.” He thought about prolonging the joke, but held his tongue when he noticed Jack’s face go straight. The big guy leaned forward and grabbed his Controller. Mick did the same. Once he got to the appropriate screen, he wasn’t sure if what he read about the next fight was correct, so he backtracked to the beginning and logged in again. When he got back to the details of the next fight, he was surprised that what he had read the first time was indeed accurate. He’d heard about this upcoming fighter but never saw him. There was a first time for everything.
How do you bet on something like this? “Man . . .” he said then shut his mouth, hoping nobody heard him.
Jack appeared lost in his own Controller screen.
Mick thought long and hard about who he was going to pick for the next bout. He also knew that whomever he chose, he was going to have to bet big to take a sizeable chunk out of what he owed Sterpanko. Immediately he got warm. Sweat oozed from his pores, making his clothes stick to his body. A shiver ran through him.
Just make the right choice, he thought. Yeah, no kidding. He thought about it once more then made his bet. You better be right, man.
Mick put the Controller away just as the lights went out.
He leaned back in his seat and gripped the armrests.
Feet stomped on the floor. Folks cheered.
It was time to begin.
12
Minotaur vs Zombie
Bet: $155,000
Owing: $691,000
The dark reminded him of the labyrinth from long ago, the one built for King Minos. He hated it. Thankfully, those days were long over.
One night in the labyrinth a strange shining blue portal appeared. The Mintoaur thought it might have been summoned by the gods, but he could never be sure. Out of curiosity, he entered the portal and emerged in a world overrun with humans, many which feasted on each other.
The Minotaur stood up proud in the dark, breathing heavily through its nostrils. The dark never bothered him. If anything, it was an ally, especially during battles in the night when men struggled to see. To the Minotaur, night was home.
Despite what people thought of him throughout the ages, he was aware and not just some mindless beast roaming here and there, destroying whom he chose, establishing punishment on a species that kept him in a maze for years and years and years. There was more to him than people thought. He only played the beast card because he could.
The zombie uprising was just punishment on mankind, he thought, and he enjoyed joining the dead in conquering the living. Over the years he also followed them to what he only referred to as their hive, but was soon rounded up by men with rods that, when they poked him with them, lit up his flesh in sharp pain.
Now, he was told, he was to fight these walking dead men and women or else the men would kill him.
Regardless of the threat, the chance to hunt a fearsome creature regularly appealed to the Minotaur on a primal level and it was something he was more than happy to indulge in.
Now, captured, he was forced to settle for becoming an enemy of those which he once helped, so instead devoted his life to destroying the dead shells of human beings when he was let out of his cage.
The buzzer droned.
The lights went on.
The crowd hooted and hollered when they saw him. His presence was always a special treat.
The iron ring shone then slid to the side.
The dead began to rise.
A pasty-faced female rose through the floor, her blonde hair wild, her eyes wide and bloodshot. There was no humanity left in her gaze.
The buzzer sounded again and the dead woman’s restraints fell to the floor. So did the Minotaur’s.
It was time to begin.
The Minotaur dipped his head and gusted out two sharp breaths through his nostrils. Digging his heels into the floor, he pushed off against the pavement with all his might and charged toward the Sprinter. Head bowed, horns cutting through the air, he came at her with all he had. The woman shrieked and ran toward him to meet him head on. The Minotaur ducked his head down even further. Faster. Faster.
Sploish!
His horns punctured deep into her chest. The woman’s body jerked wildly as he straightened then arched his head back, thrashing her limp body about. Thwoopt! The Sprinter flew off his horns and crashed into the cage wall. Her body smacked the floor and blood quickly pooled beneath her.
The Minotaur approached her, knowing full well this wasn’t the end. The woman lay there, face down, two large wet holes as big as saucers on her back. One was by the shoulder blade, the other lower and more toward the middle.
“Get up,” the Minotaur said.
The Sprinter remained motionless a moment longer before slowly getting to its feet. The dead woman looked down at her chest and roamed a pair of white fingers around the bloody holes. Her mouth opened wide as if to scream, but all that came out were raspy gasps.
The Minotaur raised his large hand and slapped her across the face. With the other he sent an upper cut into her chin. She flew back into the cage. Grabbing the chain-link with both hands, she shook it, once more releasing a raspy gasp.
She released the chain-link and came at him. Sharp nails on bony fingers tore into the Minotaur’s flesh, slashing his forearm to ribbons. Another white hand went for his chest. He moved to block it, but her hand and arm were so small and so quick she went around his parry and dug her nails into his chest, digging hard and deep into the left side. The woman ripped her hand out, taking with it a mash of skin, flesh and blood.
