Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead Read Free

columns by the doors and windows. The difference was the concrete dome on top—a safety precaution, it was sometimes called—and glowing red letters mounted across the front entrance reading its name. The parking lot was packed nearly every fight night.
    It was a place Mick knew all too well and one he didn’t care to hang around anymore.
    If he got out of this thing alive, that was.
    Nervous as all get out, he made his way to the front doors, withdrew the ticket Sterpanko had given him from his coat pocket, and went in.
    At first, Mick had wondered why Sterpanko even let him place his bets at the arena. For all intents and purposes, the tycoon could have held him and he could have just bet from whatever holding cell Sterpanko chose. But the answer became clear when Sterpanko informed him that, “Being a man of my word—and believing in old-fashioned luck—you’ll conduct your business as usual.” He cleared his throat. “I’m fully aware gamblers have their own habits and ticks, setting being one of the things that affects their instincts.” With a smile: “I’m a sportsman and I’m going to give you a fair shot.”
    Well, fair shot or not, Mick was thankful he didn’t have to spend any more time near the man. He wasn’t a fool, though, and knew full well he was being watched to ensure he did indeed show up tonight and, more importantly, didn’t skip town and immediately bring the death sentence on him and his wife and all those he cared about.
    Passing through the main gates, Mick went shoulder-to-shoulder with everyone else, each person he brushed against or passed making him wonder if they saw the look of dread on his face.
    Skin warm, a fine film of sweat formed on his back, a thicker film under his arms. He grabbed a program from a stand near a garbage can then checked his ticket. Section B, Row 9, Seat 2. Glancing up, he followed the letters on the hanging signs outside each set of doors that led into the arena proper.
    “B . . . B . . . B . . .” he said. There it was. B. He went in and followed the short set of cement stairs down to Row 9. His chair was the second one in and so far only one other person was in his row. He glanced at his watch. 6:42 p.m. The first fight wasn’t scheduled to start until 7:30. He knew gamblers. Anyone else betting in his row was probably just out in the hallway, calling their “banks” and ensuring their finances were in order before finally making their way in.
    Mick sat down, opened the program and flipped through it.
    Frankly, there wasn’t really a strategy for these fights. The undead were unpredictable. It was easiest and more of a safe bet to roll with the non-zombie as the winner. Comparatively speaking, they did win most of the time. However, the zombies—even the Shamblers—weren’t completely stupid and were known to come out on top now and then as well.
    “Well, we’ll see what happens,” Mick said to himself. His thoughts wandered to Anna. The last thing she said to him was that she hated him. She didn’t mean it. He knew that much. It was just anger. Her eyes were glazed over when she said it and her voice cracked. She was more concerned for their lives than for the money or even for what he had done that screwed them over.
    “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and pulled her picture out of his wallet. She was so beautiful. His finger traced the photo. The long brown hair set in loose ringlets, smooth skin, almond-shaped eyes—even that small scar on the side of her chin that she got from the Zombie War somehow accented her beauty.
Clenching his teeth, he closed his wallet and shoved it in his back pocket.
Mick glanced around the arena. It was starting to fill up.
It was getting close to showtime.
     
     
     
    Up until now, Mick had been feeling more or less okay, but as his watch ticked off closer and closer to 7:30, the more it was as if the cockroaches in his stomach knew the first fight was about to begin and the more agitated they became. The