Blood Games (16 page)

Something about her was still bothering Ink. It was her face, something in her
sort-of-but-not-quite-pretty face that unsettled him. People coming into the stands blocked his view of her and he turned away.

What a good year for newbies it was indeed.
Ink had never heard so much as a whisper about this woman’s Nemesis, or Ultimate Hades either until the Games, and their managers were new to the scene, too. The one who had owned the late Ultimate Hades had gone home. He had gambled and lost, bringing a good new fighter to the hardest competition. Too eager. He should have started with the little Nuveen show in early autumn. Now he was out whatever he had spent on that zombie, and it was likely quite a lot. If the woman who owned Nemesis were smart, she would cede his second match to Fightin’ Titan and rest on her laurels. She had made her entrance, and it was a splash. That could be what she was planning as she watched Son of Zeus and Dionysus, again ignoring the guy who wanted to talk to her. Ink looked up her name in his phone.
Adrasteia Sophoclei.
That was a mouthful. It sounded very Greek, but she didn’t look particularly Greek. Just an everything-European mix like Ink was himself.

In the ring,
Dionysus was playing with Son of Zeus, letting him catch up in his flailing and backing off again. Then Son of Zeus delivered a roundhouse kick to the breeze, and squinted around for his opponent. Behind him, Dionysus charged. They went down to the ground and everyone cheered at the scuffling. Rolling around like kittens, they clawed and scratched and thumped on each other. Then Dionysus pushed Son of Zeus into another roll and fell on his back to pin him there. Trapped, Son of Zeus wriggled around futilely at the great weight holding him down. Dionysus banged Son of Zeus’ face on the ground, and as his victim wriggled even more pathetically, pressed his head to the dirt and began to crush it there.

Then Dionysus just stopped.
He sat there on Son of Zeus’ back and stared dumbly to a funnel, where a dazzling light was shining. People on Ink’s side of the stadium shouted as they noticed it. Someone had screwed up and turned the funnel light on too early. Dionysus’ fingers slackened from Son of Zeus’ head, and Son of Zeus began to struggle harder for his freedom. The announcer said, “What’s this? Are we bored, Dionysus? Is this fight
boring
you? Oh . . . just a minute here . . .” All of the lights went on around the ring as Dionysus tumbled off Son of Zeus’ back. Now both zombies were entranced, and people whispered in confusion as the announcer told them to hold on.

Then the jumbo screen
s exploded into fireworks around a flashing red DISQUALIFIED. It hadn’t been a screw-up on the part of the stadium, but a deliberate move by a manager himself! Not wanting Dionysus to kill his zombie, the manager of Son of Zeus had turned on the light to save him! The match was instantly awarded to Dionysus as a result, and Son of Zeus lost all the points he had earned for his record at the Games.

The manager
had branded himself forever as a cheater. That was far worse than a sore loser, and to do it so publicly! As Son of Zeus was guided out of the ring by an organizer, a second one hefted Dionysus’ hand in the air. People applauded for him and booed Son of Zeus. So he lived, but at what cost? Constanzo didn’t look too pleased in the clubroom about the manner of his zombie’s win. That should have been one of those kills that went viral on the Internet, a zombie cruelly trying to crush another one’s skull as flat as a pancake, and now it would be immortalized forever as Dionysus looking stupid on Son of Zeus’ back.

The woman with the impossible-to-remember Greek name
had vanished down the stairs since Nemesis’ match was up next. The announcer said, “Well, we don’t see a move like that everyday, and thank the Lord on high! I know we all have a special place in our hearts for certain zombies, but when it’s time for them to go, it’s
time
!” The screens showed a human and a zombie making kissy faces at each other within a big red heart.

Tattooed Nemesis
, his stupid facial prosthetics and his fucked-up arm were taken to the mark. The prosthetics went all the way around his head and his lady manager was so damn lucky to have gotten this far in the Games with those all over him. How many matches ended prematurely when a ripped off prosthetic fell into a zombie’s eyes and blocked his vision of the next fist coming his way? They did have perks, protecting the face from raking nails, but the cons to them far outweighed the pros.

Adra-whatever-it-was patted Nemesis’ back before turning
away to the funnel. She almost looked like she had a crush on her big zombie fighter. Ink wondered if plastic surgeons could fix things like that, overly masculine features on a female, or if a woman was just stuck with them and had to go through life being called handsome rather than pretty. It went both ways. Adolfo had a girly sort of face on a man’s body, too soft and curved of a nose, too round a chin, long eyelashes and no firm set to his brow.
If you killed Samson to get me back, Adolfo, the joke is on you.

The manager of Fightin’ Titan got his man to the mark and held up both of the zombie’s fists to the crowd.
The response was underwhelming, except for a contingent of stocky people across the stadium who showed up on the screens with FIGHTIN’ TITAN spelled correctly on their T-shirts.
Arse.
That had been hysterical. Fightin’ Titan stared into the light with his one eye.

The
n the lights went out. Fightin’ Titan charged over the ring as Nemesis balled up his fists and waited for him to come. That saddened Ink. Samson had done that in a match at the Sweep, just let his opponent come to him, and then rolled backwards onto his arms and kicked out both legs right to the groin. It had been one of the most fantastic sights that Ink had ever seen in a ring. There wasn’t much going on upstairs in any of these fellows, but just like some could hold weapons for a short period of time, others could develop crude strategies of combat. Ink had never known what Samson would think up next, or what old move he’d dust off from his drawer of tricks and bring out to show off again. Standing and waiting like Nemesis was doing now, he had done that once. Hades was another one with a decent ability to strategize, Dionysus too, and Maenad was rather frightening in how good she was at it. In her former life before the virus, she had to have been an excellent chess player.

Fightin’ Titan
reached Nemesis, who ducked under the two-armed grab and ploughed him over. They somersaulted over the ground and both ended up back on their feet. Their fists raised and the jumbo screens caught a little cloud of brown leaving Nemesis’ palm.

He had thrown dirt in Fightin’ Titan’s face.
Into his eye specifically. That was a Maenad-level move, a move that Samson had been growing toward, a brilliant understanding of what resources he had, and what resources his opponent
didn’t
have when he was minus an eye. Fightin’ Titan was instantly incapacitated, and at Nemesis’ mercy.

He showed no
ne. Fightin’ Titan was down sheer seconds later, victim of a barrage of hard swings to the nose and head. Nemesis dropped to continue his assault on the unconscious form, and the lights went on to dazzle him. People clapped for Nemesis but didn’t shout his name, since he wasn’t anybody yet. The T-shirt supporters looked on in disappointment at their knocked-out hero. Up in the clubroom, the windows showed a lot of empty seats. This fight hadn’t even been important enough to watch. Ink wished that he could see a little farther into that round room, at the bigwigs perched on the stools at the bar, or sitting in the square of sofas in the back and chatting. That blonde could be freshening up in the bathroom, accepting a towel from the attendant and checking on her cosmetics in the mirror. Making herself pretty for Cantine, an old man who couldn’t possibly get it up any longer. All he could do was shower her with cash and feel up those curves either clothed or bare.

Nor was the next fight worthy of the bigwigs’ eyes, and Ink
only kept one eye on it. The other was on his cell phone. Cauldron of Fire and Bow Down Before Me fought to little attention or enthusiasm and made no moves of note. They just punched and kicked and wrestled and bit, getting bloodier and bloodier as time ran down. In the last minute, they were staggering from their wounds and it looked like Cauldron of Fire’s left shoulder was dislocated. He was only hitting with his right. But that one was still in fine working form, and with it he brought down Bow Down Before Me twenty seconds before the bell.

“Bow down before
that
,” the announcer said. Even he sounded bored. Next up was Volcanus and Zombie Jesus. Ink got up from his seat and started down to the bar. He had to go downstairs and ferry Thor to the funnel. He hadn’t been nervous before the men’s melee and then the match against Ares, convinced that Thor was going to lose both times, but he was nervous now.

“And it’s over!” the announcer said just as Ink
reached the top stair. Surprised, he looked down to the ring. In what had to be the shortest battle ever, Volcanus had been declared the winner. Zombie Jesus had gotten nailed while squatting to take a crap. If your zombies weren’t regular, it was best to give them an enema. Ink had always done that with Samson and Medusa.

Then the announcer called out the next
pair and Ink ran like the wind to get down to Thor. Huffing and puffing by the time he got his zombie to the funnel, he panted to the organizer, “I never thought . . . that last match would . . . go so quickly.”

The woman was young, but had the demeanor of a stern kindergarten teacher.
“It is recommended that you be at your zombie’s stall two matches before yours is scheduled.”

He didn’t need a lecture from this twenty-year-old, minimum-wage earning twit.
They walked Thor down the funnel in a tense silence. Dog of Tartarus was already waiting on his mark, and his manager was headed back to the opposite funnel. The announcer was having fun, calling
Thor? Thor? Thor, are you scared? It’s okay! Come out, Thor! Come to Mummy!

People were barking and howling for Dog of Tartarus.
He was nothing to look at, and perversely, his ugliness had given him an audience. He was so damn short, skinny but with such flabby cheeks, and he wore a permanently doleful expression. This was a man who looked old decades before his time. He was squarely in the middle of the 20-35 age group, but already he was graying and had a bald spot that appeared to be increasing its circumference at every competition. It was hard to picture a man or woman shelling out good money to sleep with him. If Dog of Tartarus had belonged to Ink, he would have dyed the zombie’s hair or shaved it all off so he didn’t look like an elderly fighter who had sneaked in to test his strength against the whippersnappers. Actually, if he belonged to Ink, Ink would have sold him. Being allergic to dope put the tiny guy at a major disadvantage.

“There he is
! Finally!” the announcer yelled about Thor. “Look at that worried face. He thinks he’s about to get
dogged
.” The man bayed over the speakers and the audience echoed it.

Thor didn’t look like anything.
He had his lights, and that was all he needed. Ink got him to the mark and retreated to the funnel. The gate rolled closed and the organizer said testily, “Don’t stick your hands or your feet through the bars during a fight.”

I bet you’re a hit with the guys
, Ink thought. Then he noticed the rainbow flag necklace and amended his internal insult to the ladies. Yeah, ladies were lining up to munch the carpet of this pasty-faced, snotty stadium organizer. She had to beat them off with a stick wherever she went, her junior college library, the store, just going out for her mail.

The lights were doused and he forgot about her.
Dog of Tartarus and Thor took notice of one another, and for several moments, they just stared across the ring to each other. As a cartoon graphic of two zombies holding hands came onto the screen barely visible from Ink’s vantage point, the announcer said, “Apparently, they’re friends! Or boyfriends! Say hello to our cute little pair of lovers, Dog of Tartarus and Thor! Their favorite things to do are walks on the beach at sunset and going out to the movies! Awwww.”

But lips were curling, teeth were being bared, fingers were flexing and being pulled into fists.
They weren’t sizing one another up for friendship or anything else. Then, very slowly, each took a step to the side and they began to circle. Excited, Ink wrapped his hands around the bars and the organizer said, “Don’t touch the gate!”

“Then get security to arrest me,” Ink snapped.
If either of the zombies noticed his fingers and headed over, he had ample time to remove them. Having had her bluff called, the organizer fell into a sulky quiet.

“They’re doing a little dance for us!” the announcer cried.
Whoever he was, Ink hated the dude. This was no dance. Each was waiting for the other to make the first move, and this was far more interesting than Son of Zeus’ frenetic, pointless pinwheels at nothing. Cries echoed down from the stands.
Get ’im! Get ’im! Someone get ’im!

Dog of Tartarus took a step closer.
Thor imitated it. They were taunting each other. Over the speakers, the Hokey-Pokey song started to play. People sang along and laughed. Ink was offended on behalf of both zombies. Time was irrelevant to them. That they had an audience didn’t factor in their damaged brains. So everyone needed to shut up and enjoy something a little different than normal.