by Ivan Turner
Shawn also seemed a little better today. He had trouble sitting up and Wei had been lazy about changing the bed pan, but the fever seemed to have broken. That meant no hospital, which was good news all around.
The fighters were starting to assemble. There were seven this time. Marcus would have liked to go down and meet them, but didn't see the point. He'd done it the first couple of weeks, more out of curiosity than anything else. He wanted to know what kind of man put himself in that danger. He still couldn’t figure it out. They were all so different. Red Rover was back. He'd probably fight three zombies again. It seemed to suit his style. The odds would be low. If Red Rover stuck with three then he'd be a lock to win the fight. William the Third was back as well. This guy was a little different. He had an ego. He'd beaten five zombies the week before and the crowd had swallowed it up. Marcus made a gentlemen's bet with himself that William would go to six this week. Any higher than that would be crazy. There were only two guys that ever fought more than six zombies and one of them was dead. The other, of course, was John Arrick.
***
JOHN Arrick went from zombie to zombie, checking the bonds on their hands and the ties that held the balls in their mouths. They paid him no mind as he did so, only interested in the meat behind him. Their odd smell filled his nostrils, making him a bit queasy. It didn't smell bad to him but too much was just too much. As he was adjusting the ball in the mouth of a young woman, he though he recognized her as a former student. Out of curiosity, he checked her pockets for identification but found none. When he looked up, Toby was eyeing him curiously, as if he'd been fondling her.
"Don't be stupid," Arrick scolded him.
"Did you ever?" Toby asked. Actually, his boyish curiosity was one of his more endearing qualities.
"With a zombie?" Arrick thought about it. While he'd never considered it up until that moment, he was probably the only person who could get away with it. Was screwing a zombie considered necrophilia? Did it matter? There were some depths to which even John Arrick simply would not sink. "Don't be stupid."
Finishing up with the zombies, he went around the other side of the ring to have a look at the competitors. He recognized Red Rover, who greeted him as Long John Silver.
"Working for the man, now?"
Arrick nodded, accepting the big man's hand. "It seemed like a good idea."
Red Rover nodded. "Considering your talents, I'd say so."
He also recognized William the Third. There were five others and a sixth was just coming up the corridor, escorted by PJ. Arrick glanced at the new fighter and then looked again, marveling at the coincidence. Just the day before, while visiting Abby at Push Ups, he'd been surprised by the presence of one of the two officers that had come to see him regarding Suzanna's death. And now here it was a day later and he was surprised at the sight of the other one.
***
PJ didn't care too much for John Arrick. The man had seemed off when he'd checked in to fight the week before, but that had been just a feeling. After watching him walk among the zombies without even the hint of danger put the young man ill at ease. But Marcus liked him. He really liked him. Whenever Arrick's name came up in conversation, Marcus glowed. Finding Arrick had been like striking oil, he'd said. Now, as he led the new fighter toward the ring, Arrick gave them a look, then turned quickly and walked away. More odd behavior to pile on top of the already overburdened stack of odd behavior.
While Marcus was thinking that this was going to be the best night of the brief life of their business, PJ was getting the willies about the whole thing. The crowd outside the arena was bigger than he'd ever seen. He wasn't even sure they'd all fit. Having Arrick to get the zombies took a huge burden off of him and the boys, but it made it seem too easy. You never get something for nothing, his mother had always said. Of course, she'd gotten six kids and a whole lot of nothing else. Out of all of them, PJ was the most successful. He was the oldest now, since his two older brothers had both been killed. The others were still coming up. Lena had dropped out of high school and his younger brother and sister were well on their way to following in her footsteps. In all fairness, she had followed in his. The baby, who was now eight, had a real head on his shoulders, though. If PJ made enough money doing this with Marcus, he'd help out his baby brother and kick his mom's ass but good. Of course, he'd first have to survive the night.
With so many bad omens piling up one on top of the other, PJ wasn't surprised by the new fighter. Number eight was the worst omen of all. Calling himself St. Francis, this guy brought with him an air of finality that couldn’t be ignored. PJ rushed him to the line and dashed off to go see Marcus. It was a good thing the crowd hadn't come in yet otherwise it would have taken him five or ten minutes to cross the arena. Now he could just run across and head up the stairs. Standing at the railing, Marcus saw him coming.
"What is it?" he asked.
"You see that new fighter? Number eight?"
Marcus nodded. "What about him."
"He's a cop."
"We get lots of cops in here."
PJ sighed. "Nah, man, not just any cop. He's the one that nearly busted us a coupla months back. You remember when Toby and me and Leron took the zombie for a walk?"
Marcus remembered. That was the first night he'd seen Shawn after Shawn's jail sentence had been suspended. The three of them had taken their first zombie out on the town to gauge the reaction regular people would have. But they'd crossed the wrong regular person because a man had come to her rescue and shot the zombie in the head. And now that man was there.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. He's mean like you never forget. You can read it in his face. I seen that expression in my dad."
Marcus smiled. "Inflate the odds against him. Give people an excuse to bet on the zombies."
PJ didn't move, didn't say anything at all at first. Then, "Are you hearing me, man?"
Marcus nodded. If there were police at his doorstep, it was already too late to do anything about it. If this mean cop wanted to fight zombies, then Marcus was all too happy to let him do so.
***
WAITING outside in the cold, Abby, Melissa, and Peter were drawing lots of stares. As far as the eye could see, men were laughing and joking, mostly at the expense of the poor victims of the zombie infection. But you could still hear the odd conversation about sports. With the impending NFL playoffs, there was an awful lot to talk about. At first, Abby couldn't figure out why so many people were looking at them, but she eventually got it. She and Melissa were the only two women in the crowd. Still, it was Peter who looked the most anxious. Being one of only two women was one thing. Being the only man with the only two women was something else entirely. And there was this ever present feeling of lawlessness. The scene was something out of Thunderdome. If there was a zombie apocalypse, would this business die or thrive?
Shortly, the crowd started to move toward the entrance.
"Here we go," Peter muttered, his voice strained.
"If you're not up for it, you can go home," Melissa said. It was the first time she had shown bitterness toward Peter.
He didn't seem to notice. "I think the walk to the train is probably way more dangerous than whatever's inside there."
They found their place in the crowd, gravitating toward the outskirts. They didn't need to have good seats and they were afraid of getting split up. Just through the entrance there were four teens taking cash for tickets. It was six dollars to get in, which was hardly pricey. But they handed each of them a betting ticket and it seemed that everyone was expected to bet.
"I am not betting on zombie fights," Peter spat when they were out of earshot.
"Just hold onto that ticket," Abby told him.
There was a corridor that led under the bleachers and into the center. The crowd was ushered away from that, intentionally split off to the left and the right. Abby, Peter, and Melissa followed the group to the left, walking slowly, listening to the sounds of the conversation around the
m.
"…tore his arm off…"
"…made them look like the animals they are…"
"…won a c-note on Red Rover…"
"…didn't even look at him…"
No one was talking about football anymore. Abby could smell their sweaty anticipation. She knew that smell. Men got excited about two things. Fights and sex. To Abby, they smelled the same on men. Even Martin got that smell every once in a while. He'd been a fighter in his youth and she could always tell when he wanted to let that part himself out of the cage. As far as sex was concerned, well… Martin was hers and that made all the difference.
The rows in the front filled up fast. Even the bleachers were filling, men jamming in next to one another. There were some shouting matches and a few punches were thrown, but things generally settled themselves. Peter pointed high up into the second tier and they made for that. Abby knew she was going to see blood that night. She didn't want to smell it also.
After they were seated, they relaxed and waited for the show to start. Melissa, on Abby's left, tugged at her sleeve and pointed to the row of zombies bound and gagged next to the ring. The ring itself was in pretty sorry shape, but surrounded by a chain link fence with a gate on the opposite side. Near it were the fighters, eight men brave and true. Morons one and all, if you were to ask Abby Benhamin.
Shortly, a young man in flashy clothing and lots of bling jumped into the ring and began howling into a wireless microphone. He was introducing the fighters one by one. Abby didn't catch their names, except for Red Rover because she'd heard someone talking about him. Each of them came into the ring as he was introduced. Some made spectacles of themselves while others were more reserved. Once all of the introductions were made, the man gave them quick instructions on how to fill out their betting tickets and made motion to four tables in four corridors. Bets could be placed at any of the tables. It took almost forty minutes for all of the people to place their bets and return to their seats. During that time, Abby remained still, watching the fighters. Though she couldn't see their expressions at that distance, she could feel their fear.
Who were they?
Why were they doing this?
As the first fighter, Red Rover, was ushered into the ring, a thin man began walking over three zombies. That was also a job Abby couldn't understand. She could understand cleaning the toilets in a subway station, but she could not understand being the keeper for the undead. Especially if that man was already an English teacher in New York City public school system.
***
AS Red Rover stepped into the ring, Marcus scanned the crowd. He was seeing a lot of familiar faces. People just couldn't get enough of the violence. His thoughts were much the same as Abby's thoughts. If civilization fell today, he'd probably still be in business. And then he noticed Abby Benjamin. And Melissa Benford next to her. He didn't know either of them, had never seen them before in his life. Still, the presence of women in the crowd set him on edge.
He nudged PJ, still standing next to him, and pointed.
"No shit," PJ said, when he finally homed in on the two women. "What do you think? Wives, girlfriends? Mothers?"
"I don't care," Marcus answered, his eyes on the two as they nudged and spoke to one another. "I don't like it. With women in the crowd, there's the threat of exposure. Is that guy with them?"
"The one on the left?"
"No. The one on the right. Look at his face."
PJ shrugged. "Young guy. Clean cut. A piece of whitebread. So what?"
"He's not glad to be here."
PJ shrugged. "Then what's he doing here?"
As he said it, the young man, Peter Ventura, leaned in to say something to Abby. It confirmed that they were together. "I don't know. We need to watch them and that cop. St. Francis. Spread the word."
PJ hesitated. "You sound like one of those villain type guys, you know that? Like, from Batman or something."
Marcus didn't even look at him. "Fuck off."
***
THE pain in Shawn's side was starting to ease up. After a week of living on aspirin and ibuprofen, it was nice to be able to take a breath without biting his cheek. Throughout the course of that week, he had had few lucid moments. He knew he'd been shot. He knew Marcus had shot him. Why he had bothered to save Shawn's life was a mystery. Clearly, he hadn't been taken to a hospital where the infection would have been stopped immediately and the bullet would have been taken out by a surgeon and the wound properly stitched. Though he was perpetually wrapped in bandages, Shawn had gotten a chance to look at the injury when someone had come in to clean him up and change the dressing. It wasn't pretty, probably made worse by the "medical" attention he'd received immediately following the incident. It was going to be some scar.
While in his fever induced state, he had considered a lot of things, not the least of which being his feelings for Marcus and his reason for seeking out the confrontation in the first place. He chastised himself for being so foolish. Covered in the blood of zombies and fresh from his successful bout with Lodi, Shawn had felt emboldened. It's funny how, no matter how stupid your actions, you only feel stupid after it's all done. Marcus had come to see him many times. At least a few of those times had been real and not fever induced hallucinations. Like the kind that had shown him Mr. Arrick, his English teacher. What, of all of the crazy things in his mind, had made him dream of his English teacher?
Marcus had sat beside him and held his hand. There were times when he thought Marcus was weeping and other times when he caught him laughing hysterically. He shouted at people that interrupted them, and, one time, Shawn was sure that Marcus was climbing on top of him. That one was definitely a dream. Mostly, Marcus just talked. He talked about their relationship and about how much he loved Shawn and wished they could go back. It was difficult for Shawn to hear, even though much of it echoed his own thoughts. In fact, much of it probably was his own thoughts projected onto a mirage.
There was an IV hooked up to his arm. He tested the slack on the tube and found he had a decent range of movement. The tubes had been removed from his nose. He could see several tanks, presumably used up, standing idly in the corner to his left. He tried to sit up just once and then learned his lesson. He could scream, but what would be the point. Judging by the noise filtering in through the door, he guessed that it was either Friday or Saturday and the house was packed with people who wanted to watch zombies fight. Jackals! If it was fight night, that meant he'd been there at least a week. He doubted that Marcus had had the decency to tell his parents what had happened. And what about Heron? He'd texted Heron from Angus Construction when he'd been hunting the zombies, but had left before the lieutenant had shown up. With no sign of Shawn and no leads, what could Heron have concluded? What would he have told Shawn's parents?
Outside his room the crowd roared. Settling back into his cot, he tried to drown out the noise by filling his head with the memory of music.
***
DESPITE her utter revulsion at the display, Abby marveled at Red Rover's ability to keep the zombies off balance and at a distance. It was almost as if he was dancing with them. For the first few minutes of the fight, she just watched in awe. The lurching steps of the zombies as they tried to close in on Red Rover worked in perfect concert with his own surprisingly agile movements. It was when he finally moved in for the kill that she was shocked back into reality. Though he approached it without rage, almost without emotion, it was still mired in such brutality that she felt herself becoming sick. Even at that distance, she could still see the blood splash as the zombie's head collided with the turnbuckle. Red Rover's hand became thick with the gore. And yet he took no notice of it. He simply removed it as the zombie fell to the mat, wiped the slick stuff onto his pants, and continued the ballet.
"I've seen enough," she said.
