Zombies! (Episode 6): Barriers Collapse

by Ivan Turner

  For a long time, he had wondered what had attracted her to him. She hadn't been classically beautiful as some women were, but she'd turned the head of every man she passed. A pretty face accentuated by a figure that was toned from hours and hours of exercise pushed her well into range of gorgeous while Arrick himself was lanky and thin. He approached his workouts in much the same way as he approached the grading of those essays. It was necessary but not exciting. Maybe it kept some of the pounds off of him, pounds that would collect in his middle as he got older. Maybe it prevented his chest from sinking into his ribcage. But he would never be heavily muscled or well defined. So what had Suzanna seen in him? Even now, a month after her death, he had it narrowed down to two things. The first was that she had secretly wanted to find a good man who would be tolerant with her and love her for who she was. Not likely. The second was that she had mistaken his passive nature for timidity and felt that she could dominate him. He supposed it didn't really matter anymore.

  Though gone these many weeks, the repercussions of his involvement with her were still having their due effect. Suzanna hadn't just died. She'd died and turned into a zombie. And Arrick, caught between his inward nature and the chivalrous hero that lay underneath, had sat with her through her illness and fought with her after she had turned. She had bitten him during the fight. A death sentence for everyone else, the bite had meant nothing more than a few hours of terror and suffering for John Arrick. Though he had exhibited all of the published symptoms of the zombie plague, he had made a full recovery. So full, in fact, that the two officers who had shown up at his door little more than half an hour after the symptoms had disappeared had had no idea that he'd been sick at all. And he wasn't about to tell them.

  That was the next part of his identity crisis. Every day he struggled with the knowledge that he was quite possibly the only person in existence to have recovered from the zombie plague. That made him a coveted prize by the doctors who were working toward a cure. If only they knew about him. A month had gone by and he hadn't told them. He hadn't told anyone. He blamed the missed day of work on his chronic back problems and the fact that he hadn't called in on the medication. He'd lied to the police about not being with Suzanna when she'd died, but confessed to having seen her two days before. Though they found plenty of evidence that he had been in her apartment, they couldn't say when and, as her boyfriend, he'd been there often. Fortunately, they had never checked up on whether or not he'd been tested for the infection. The laws governing medical privacy were still in effect for the moment. Eventually, though, someone would make the testing mandatory. They'd probably lump it into the Patriot Act and call it a matter of national security. For now, though, he was safe. He didn't want to be somebody's lab rat.

  Or was that really the issue?

  One of Arrick's qualities, much to his own detriment, was that he was able to be completely honest with himself if not with anyone else. The fear of the poking and prodding was definitely real. Every time he thought about the road upon which he would have to travel if he gave himself in, he trembled with fear. But there was more to it than just the physical pain and inconvenience. There was the notoriety. He wasn't afraid of just being a savior or of being a hero. He was afraid of being noticed at all. Even if the people who worked wherever it was they took him kept quiet, he would still be the star rat in the lab. The attention he would get would be more than his type of ego could handle.

  But there was still more.

  Just having survived the disease had buoyed his spirits. Even if the apocalypse were to come down that very night, he would be able to survive where others could not. Unless of course, he was eaten. But now that fear was gone as well. His encounter with the two zombies at the deli had shown him that they simply had no interest in him. Perhaps there were remnants of the bacteria in his system. If they could smell it or otherwise sense it, it might turn them off. But he was sure now that he could literally step into a concert hall filled with zombies and move about with complete autonomy. With that sort of power, he could join the police force and clear the city of the creatures without ever being in danger. Or he could go to the address on the back of the business card given to him by the stranger at the deli and fight zombies for money. Or he could just do nothing.

  …and remain ever bored.

  On Friday afternoon he finished his classes and stayed late to grade papers. As an English teacher, the only time he had nothing to grade was at the very beginning of the year when he hadn't yet assigned anything. It was almost five o'clock when he left the building and by then he was bleary eyed. He walked slowly to the train station and sat staring at nothing all the way home. He made himself a quick dinner and then fell asleep in front of the television. He slept that way until almost midnight and then roused himself enough to make it to his bedroom.

  Saturday brought with it a new light. He woke up late and went back to sleep still. He had resolved himself to doing no work. He'd even left all of the papers in the school. When he finally pulled himself out of bed, it was nearing lunch time. He ran in for a shower and then showed himself out the door. There wasn't much for him to do. He browsed in a book store, browsed in a video store, browsed in a clothing store. As the day aged, Arrick realized that each store held more and more of nothing he wanted or needed. Toward dinner time, he stopped in the grocery to pick up a few things and then went home. Once there, he cooked another light dinner and went for the couch and the TV.

  The dirty old business card was on the end table. On the front was the advertisement for Bella D'talia Meats. Arrick had never heard of them. On the back, scribbled hastily down, was the address for the zombie fights. Beneath the address read the words "Fri and Sat only @ 9". Standing from the couch, Arrick went slowly into his bedroom and stared at himself in the full length mirror. He was hardly a fighter. Thinking back on his encounter from the other day, he recognized that he had actually been losing that fight. The only thing that had saved him was the fact that the zombies simply hadn't been interested in eating him. In fact, the first zombie hadn't had any interest in him at all until he'd attempted to keep it from the crowd. If he fought a zombie in the ring and could take it out quickly, he might have a chance.

  Opening his drawers, he pulled out a pair of blue sweat pants and a matching T-shirt. It was early in the evening so he still had time, but he was eager to go. He dressed quickly, used the toilet, washed, and brushed his teeth. It was like he was getting ready for some obscene date. It didn't escape him that his last date had ended in a fight with a zombie.

  By the time he was ready, it was seven o'clock. He went to the computer and punched the address on the card into Google Maps. He got a good view of the area's map and then checked out the satellite photos. The pictures were probably old because they showed a run-down warehouse that looked as if it hadn't been used in ages. Of course, that was just the kind of place you'd want for your zombie fights. After studying the area thoroughly, he printed out subway and walking directions and stuffed them into the pocket of his coat. By 7:30 he was out the door and on his way to a little excitement.

  ***

  THOUGH the satellite pictures had shown the area in the daytime, Arrick was able to get his bearings pretty quickly. There were a lot of people on the train when he boarded but they slowly trickled out as the stops went by. By the time he reached his destination, there were only a few men with him and they all got off. For a moment, he was afraid. The men didn't look dangerous, but something had raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He might be invincible against the zombies, but that didn't mean he'd be any good in a fight with other people. Pretending to search for something in the pockets of his coat, he halted just outside the door of the car. The men paid him no attention and went off toward the station's exit. Forcing regular breaths in and out of his chest, Arrick tried to get control of his apprehension. After several moments, he found his body calmed and moved out into the street.

  It was a twelve block walk from the train station to the
warehouse. He took it casually, knowing he had more than enough time before the fights began. There were some residential buildings by the station, but they dwindled and disappeared within four blocks. After that he saw a corner gas station, long since abandoned, a dilapidated park, a junkyard, and lots and lots of old warehouses. He wondered how he would be able to pick out the one he was looking for.

  Within two blocks, he heard the noise. It was the sound of people talking. Lots and lots of people. As he turned the corner, he spied a well lit lot with one of the warehouses dead center. Outside the building, people stood around talking and laughing and smoking. There were a few men, boys really, patrolling the perimeter. They looked tough and they looked mean, kids who grew up and became rappers. It was a side of society that John Arrick read about or watched on television. Now, like a grand explorer, he was about to enter and become a part of it.

  Moving through the throng, he searched for an entrance to the warehouse. It was getting close to nine and he didn't really know what it was that he had to do to register for the fights. When it didn't seem that he would find the entrance in time, he approached one of the patrolling boys.

  "Do you work here, mate?"

  The boy laughed at him. He wasn't sure if it was because of his accent, because he was asking as if he was in a store, or because he'd used the word mate. Either way, he wasn't inclined to challenge the insult and so waited for the boy to finish.

  When the boy looked back at him, he seemed to sober up quickly. "Oh. You serious."

  Arrick nodded.

  "Whatchoo need?"

  "How do I sign up to fight?"

  The boy looked confused for a minute, then looked around. When he finally looked back at Arrick, there was a doubtful look in his eye. "You want to fight?"

  "That's right." Arrick tried his very best to sound confident.

  The boy looked him up and down and then finally shrugged. "Follow me."

  So Arrick followed him. As they walked through the crowd, the boy began to shout, raising his voice above the din. "Make way!" he cried. "We got us a warrior, here! Make way!"

  Arrick wanted to shrink inside of himself. Of all of the horrors he had imagined associated with his choice, this was not one of them. As they walked, all eyes turned toward the shouting, looked about for a moment, and then found him. He could hear their dubious whispers as he passed. Let them bet against me, he thought. It'll serve them right.

  Past the crowd was the entrance to the warehouse. People were already moving inside, a line forming along the side of the building. There was somebody taking money at the door. Cash only. He was telling people where to go to place their bets. When he saw Arrick and his escort approaching, he stopped the line.

  "We got us a fighter," said Arrick's companion. The man at the door looked Arrick up and down in much the same way the other had. He seemed a bit less judgmental when he ushered them inside.

  They came in underneath a set of gymnasium bleachers. There were several rows of seats and they extended about ten or twelve feet overhead. Between them was a short corridor that led out into a center area, cleared for the fighters and the ring. The ring itself was a standard sized boxing ring. Arrick had like boxing in his youth but something about the way the Americans did it had turned him off. He also couldn't stand those mixed martial arts competitions you'd see on television. There was a dignity to boxing that seemed to be missing when you had two guys kicking, punching, and generally brawling on the ground. The old ring was falling apart. The turnbuckles had long since disappeared, leaving behind nasty metal connections. The ropes were frayed, some of the inside wires showing. Erected around the entire ring was a seven foot chain link fence with a gate. It was laid out like a cage from a professional wrestling event, but the links were a lot lighter and less dangerous than bars. As they moved out of the corridor and into the ring's perimeter, he could see the other fighters standing off to the side. There were four of them, two black, one latino, and a hulking beast of man whose head was bald and face was beet red. He looked more scared than any of the others. His eyes flitted to Arrick and then back to the other side of the ring. They shimmered and glowed and Arrick turned to see what it was that had the man so entranced. As he expected, it was the zombies that they were about to fight.

  There were more than a dozen zombies. Each one stood with its hands bound behind its back and a rubber ball tied into its mouth. Some were in decent shape and others were falling apart. They remained in the clothing in which they had died. One was wearing a hospital gown. How she had gotten from the hospital to this miserable fate, John Arrick couldn't guess. He hoped he didn't have to fight her. There were also three children. Each was small, under twelve years old. But, though their statures remained diminutive, they had lost everything that made them children. Their eyes looked exactly the same as the eyes of the other. In fact, Arrick began to think of them more as zombie dwarves than as children.

  "How many do you want to fight?" his escort was asking him.

  "What?" asked Arrick. "I thought just one."

  The boy shook his head. "No one fights just one. You can fight three if you want."

  Arrick motioned to the big guy. "How many is he fighting?"

  "Three."

  "And the others?"

  "You see the dude with red do rag hid under his cap?"

  Arrick looked and nodded.

  "He's fightin' six."

  "Really? What’s the most anyone's ever fought?"

  The youth thought for a moment. "Some dude took on eight one time. He thought he was hot shit."

  "Did he win?"

  The boy shook his head. "Got tore apart."

  "Can I fight ten?"

  The boy laughed, then stopped. "You ain't got no weapons, right? No weapons allowed." Arrick held up his arms so the boy could search him, but the boy refused. "Don't need that. If you pull out a weapon in the ring, you don't walk out. Zombies are expensive. Got it?"

  Arrick nodded. So, like everything else, the bottom line on the undead plague had come down to money. Zombies were expensive.

  "What's your name?"

  "John…Smith."

  "John Smith? That's what you want to go by? How 'bout Long John Silver?"

  "That's fine," Arrick conceded.

  The boy walked away and Arrick got into line with the other fighters. The big hulking guy tried to look over at Arrick, but he seemed to find it very difficult to look away from the zombies.

  "Did you say you was gonna fight ten?" It was man with the do rag. To Arrick, he looked like he was somewhere in his mid twenties. He wore a stylish red New York Yankees cap with a silver logo. The cap was slightly tilted and the do rag underneath hid all of his hair. There was a nasty scar running from the inside corner if his left eye, over the bridge of his nose, and over his right eye. It looked like a distorted fleshy eyebrow.

  "That's right," Arrick answered.

  "You tryin' to show me up?"

  A little taken aback, Arrick didn't know how to answer the question so he simply said, "No."

  "What makes you think you can take ten of them, man? I mean, look at you?"

  Arrick actually did look down at himself in his long brown coat and grey sweats. He didn't really look like a fighter. "I'm quick on my feet," he answered.

  "Ain't gonna do no good," the large red faced man said. "I've watched three fights and the quickest on the feet are quickest to die."

  "Then why you so scared?" asked do rag. "You don't look quick on your feet all."

  The red faced man still looked at the zombies, even as he answered. "You better be scared too. It's scary. You might think you won and then wake up tomorrow with a bloody nose and a fever. Then it's all over for you."