Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead (8 page)

Owing: $1,146,000

Q
uiet awareness. That would be the secret, especially now, standing in the dark, waiting for the opponent to unveil itself.

Bruce Lee grimaced and got himself ready, fists clenched but not tight, arms strong but loose, like iron chains with iron balls attached to them.

He’d seen these creatures before. He was almost one of them when he first arrived here. He remembered the night at Betty Ting’s house, working. He had a headache so she gave him a painkiller called Equagesic then lay down. The blackness of sleep was suddenly invaded by a bright blue flash and then he found himself on the street, the buildings and cars unusual, smooth, fast. People ran around, screaming as others with white or gray skin chased them down. These “other” people were easy to escape and fight, so easy that after learning what happened and what they really were, he opted to further enhance his skill by fighting them regularly. He only hoped that one day he would find a way home.

The air danced across his naked chest. He mentally checked his feet; they were planted yet light, and he could move at a moment’s notice if he had to. His knees were slightly bent beneath his black pants.

The buzzer sounded and the lights went on.

The iron ring lit up.

And the dead began to rise.

This one was different than the others Bruce had seen. It had the deep gray bags under its eyes like the Shamblers, but had pasty white skin like the Sprinters. A hybrid? Did they crossbreed?
Could
they crossbreed or did someone else
make
them?

I have no fear of opponent in front of me,
he thought then transferred that thought throughout his entire being.
I have made up my mind and you’d better kill me before—

The buzzer sounded and the creature’s restraints clanged to the ground.

Bruce brought his hands up, on guard, and calmly eyed his opponent. He had to be ready for anything. He knew the Sprinters’ and the Shamblers’ ways inside and out since he’d been studying them. But this one . . . this one was different. Whomever made it—if they hadn’t made themselves—might have even made it just for him. Every other one of the dead’s number he had obliterated in under a minute, the Shamblers often in under ten seconds.

The creature took a step toward him. Immediately Bruce slid his foot along the floor, keeping his weight balanced, body guarded, ready for anything. Side-stepping in a circle, Bruce evaded the first lunge from the creature. The thing growled as it missed and quickly swatted a meaty hand toward him. Bruce slapped it down and instinctively his foot flashed out, connecting squarely under the zombie’s chin from the side. The thing’s head snapped back, the rear of its skull lulling over the back of its shoulder blades for a moment before slowly righting itself.

The crowd roared.

Bruce moved in to make quick work of the creature with a swift back fist to its head. He struck the thing’s temple, knocking the head to the side. The zombie’s arms lashed out. One hand swatted him in the shoulder, sending him briefly off balance. The other caught him by the neck. Bruce grabbed its wrist with one hand, snapped another back fist to under the thing’s arm with the other, then quickly took advantage of the creature’s momentary looseness and did a straight arm bar where the zombie’s shoulder met its torso, twisted and folded its arm and shoved the creature to the floor.

Before the zombie landed backward with a wet thud, Bruce was already in the air. The moment the back of the dead man’s skull cracked when it hit the cement, Bruce landed on its ribcage and with a loud, jaguar-like growl, squished the zombie’s lungs.

The audience went silent.

It appeared the fight was over much quicker than everyone had anticipated.

Bruce eyed them all.

A small vibration in his foot let him know all was not what it seemed. The zombie grabbed his ankle with one hand and pressed against his knee with the other, sending him tumbling back. He hit the concrete hard. About to flip his legs under him to get up, he was swiftly knocked down again by the zombie, who shouldn’t have been able to get to its feet so quickly.

The monster got on top of him and dropped its weight over him. Just before the creature’s head descended to meet his own, Bruce got a forearm against the thing’s neck. He pushed against the creature’s weight with all he had. Snapping jaws surged forth then retreated in front of his eyes, every push against the creature getting harder and harder.

Bruce let go with everything he had and sent a sharp left hook across the creature’s head. Black blood splooshed out of its mouth. The force was enough to allow him to pull his other arm away from the creature’s neck. He came back with a right hook, stopping the still-traveling head going one way and sending it back the other.

A double punch to the chest forced the creature to re-shift its weight, allowing him some breathing room underneath it. Like lightning, he came across the zombie’s head again, this time knocking the thing off him.

Bruce flipped onto his feet, kicked the creature in the head then raised his leg to stomp it into oblivion. Just as his foot sped down, the zombie opened its mouth. Bruce quickly adjusted and allowed his foot to stomp hard right beside the creature’s head. He brought his other foot to the other side and squeezed the skull between his feet.

With an animalistic cry and a quick twist of the hips, he broke the zombie’s vertebrae and the momentum was enough to tear the decaying flesh around its neck, severing the head from the body.

The cage stunk of blood.

Bruce spat on the creature as the crowd cheered.

Gung fu is gung fu,
he thought.
It’s not child’s play.

17

The Old Man Just Sits There

E
nter the Dragon,
Mick thought. “Man, that was good.”

Jack nodded. “Ayuh.”

It was probably a safe assumption that Jack won as well. When Bruce fought, it was a no-brainer. Even the very few times the spry Chinese guy was challenged, he quickly was able to pull through. Bruce was the man. Pure and simple.

Mick checked the old man next to him for any sign of emotion. The old timer was as still as a lead weight, eyes still hidden beneath those giant dark sunglasses, head faced forward, hands still on his cane.

Is he a prop placed here to throw me off?
Mick wondered. He nudged Jack, and whispered, “What’s this guy’s story?” He thumbed over to the old man.

Jack took a gander. “Don’t know. Seen him around here. Sits wherever like most of us. Never talked to him. Never heard a name. From what I hear, he never speaks. Could be a mute.”

“Friendly?”

“Don’t know.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Hm.” Mick stared at the old man. The guy hadn’t moved. “He’s not dead, is he?”

Jack let out a loud chuckle. “No. I think I might have seen him scratch his nose earlier. Could have been my imagination, too, though.”

“Haven’t even seen him reach for his Controller.”

“Me neither, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t. Part of being here, right? You don’t just come to watch. That’s for the folks at home.”

“Yeah.”

“How old do you think he is?”

Mick let his eyes follow the deep creases in the old man’s face. You could stick a coin in there and it’d hold. “Probably dead-hundred and ten.”

Jack chuckled again. “Maybe Santa’s gone anorexic and he’s sitting here. That hair is white, man. White-white.”

“Like snow.” Mick leaned back to the center of his seat. He didn’t know why the old man bothered him so much, though that
non-movement
was definitely a big part of it. The guy could be a mannequin in a department store no problem. Put straw on him and stick him in a garden and your crops would be one hundred percent safe.

Mick leaned over a couple inches toward the old guy. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Jack watching him. Mick took a deep breath. To himself: “Okay.” To the old guy: “Hi, how are you?”

The old man didn’t reply.

“Name’s Mick.” He held out his hand.

The old guy nodded.

Movement. Good. He’s alive.
He let his hand linger in the air a couple moments before taking it back. “Having a good time?”

The old guy nodded.

“Can I get you anything?”

The man shook his head slightly.

“Okay, well, you just let me know. I’ll be right over here.”

The man didn’t respond.

“I said, you just let me know, ’kay? I’m right here.”

The man didn’t nod.

Probably part deaf.
“Okay, then.” He went back to Jack. “Well . . . he’s alive.”

“Yup.”

“Doesn’t talk.”

“Nope.”

A pause. “Wanna say something?”

“Nah. Besides, he’s too far.”

“Too far?”

“Have to shout over you.”

Mick put his hands up and wiggled his fingers. “Ooooh. Oh no.”

Jack grinned. “You about done? We got another fight coming up.”

“Yeah, well, at least I said something.”

Jack grabbed his Controller.

Mick did the same. “All right, who’s up next?” He flipped through the screens. “You got to be kidding me.” This was a new one for him. He hated having to consider new fighters. Especially this one. Zombies were unpredictable despite what popular media had taught leading up to the Zombie War. Even Shamblers weren’t as dumb as most people made them out to be. They weren’t geniuses, but their instincts were sharp, so sharp you’d almost think it was some kind of intellect. As for the Sprinters—their smarts were different. Still instinct, but driven by rage and an obsessive need to exercise that rage. It
had
to be expressed. Sometimes, even after a kill, even after tearing up a body, it’d sit or scramble amongst the leftovers, slapping them, ripping the pieces even smaller, biting the blood-soaked ground, as if trying to kill the person all over again.

This next battle was a tough one. It didn’t matter though. He was still in the hole deep and he was about halfway through the evening. It was time to pick up a big shovel and dig himself out of the pit. It was either that or he’d soon find himself in yet another hole, that one six-feet deep.

If there was something left of him to bury, that was.

Mick took another second to think about it then placed his bet. A big one. The biggest one so far. If he won, he’d be well on his way to celebrating. If he lost . . . suicide was a serious option.

He put the Controller in the pouch in front of him then sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach.

The old man beside him still gazed forward.

Jack coughed.

The lights went out.

18

Robot
vs
Zombies

Bet: $450,000

Owing: $1,019,000

I
nitiating scan.

Activating infrared sensors.

Scan complete.

Body heat: Negative.

Object: Humanoid.

Cross-referencing files.

Reading: Dead life form.

External sound: monotonous tone.

Metal on concrete.

Activate combat program.

Engage.

The R-1 stood there, seven feet tall, the combined weight of its parts tipping the scales at over four hundred pounds. It raised its mechanical arm, only now noticing its bright silver metallic body was covered with the flesh of freshly-dead corpses and then sprayed with blood for good measure.

Its objective: annihilate the dead.

Fresh from the factory, this was the R-1’s first fight.

The robot raised its right leg and stomped down a large, heavy metal foot toward its prey. Then the other.

Advance.

Each footfall thumped against the concrete. At first it appeared the zombie in front of it—a deceased headbanger in a torn black Metallica T-shirt—didn’t know what to make of the machine, its sunken dead eyes inside deep purple sockets conveying a sense of puzzlement.

The robot advanced again, and suddenly the zombie became alive with hunger, opening its jaw impossibly large as if it had been broken just prior to its death and rebirth.

Quickly, the zombie plodded forward on unsteady legs and lashed out its arms, grabbing hold of the robot by its motor-powered wrists. Immediately, its yellow teeth mashed down on the metal.
Crunch.
When the dead man removed its mouth, teeth like popcorn kernels spilled out the corners of its mouth.

The robot pulled its arm away with a quick servo-jerk then brought in its opposite arm and clamped its lobster claw-like left hand around the zombie’s neck.

Bzzt.

The claw snapped closed, cutting the dead man’s head from its body.

The moment the zombie’s head thunked against the floor, boos and hisses filled its audio receptors.

The cacophony of a displeased crowd remained on the air for precisely 38.3 seconds before an echoey voice spoke over the intercom system.

“
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Zombie Fight Night.
”

The crowd booed even louder.

R-1 refocused its audio receptors to separate the audience’s disappointed shouts to zero in on the voice coming from the speakers above the cage.