feelings of regret and sorrow were quickly being shuffled away, replaced by pure adrenaline-charged apprehension.
This was it.
This was serious.
This was life or death.
Mick checked his watch: 7:27.
His heart raced into his throat and boomed against the back of his neck like no one’s business. He could barely swallow never mind breathe and was forced to lean forward, elbows on his knees, head between his legs.
“Hey, buddy,” the chubby guy beside him said. “Watch my shoes if you’re gonna puke.” A pause. “You know, the show’s not even started yet. Unless you’re getting flashbacks.”
Mick glanced up at him, doing everything he could to control his breathing. “No puking here. I’m an old hand at this.”
The chubby guy furrowed his brow, creating a nest of wrinkles. “Then why the huzzah?”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?”
The guy put his hands up as if in surrender. “Hey, don’t go looking at me for help if you lose yer guts tonight. Just wanted to see if you’re okay, maybe.”
Mick sat up in his chair and exhaled slowly. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. Been a long weird day, couple of weeks, to tell the truth. My bad.”
The dude folded his hands over his large stomach. He smelled like hot dogs and spicy burritos. An invisible thick coat of smoke hovered over the guy’s jacket as if from a lifetime of cigarettes. Mick stirred in his seat. The guy shoved a thick hand over to him. “Name’s Jack.”
Mick took the guy’s greasy hand in his. “Mick.” Firm shake, single pump. He took his hand back, making a conscious effort not to wipe his palm across the front of his shirt.
Mick pulled his Controller out of a pouch in the back of the seat in front of him and double checked the details of the first fight. The Controller was his lifeline tonight. It was a black box, about six inches square, with a screen and keypad. He swiped his I.D. card through a slot in the side. The screen lit up and welcomed him to Zombie Fight Night. It then displayed the list of fighters for the first battle.
Make it count, Mick thought, though for this first match it wasn’t easy to say who would come out on top.
He entered his bet and his choice of winner. Please, God.
7:29. The seats in the place were full. The shoes and boots on everyone’s feet—except Mick’s—began thumping rhythmically against the cement.
Jack threw a couple of chubby digits into his mouth and let out a whistle.
The lights went out.
4
Vampire vs Zombie
Bet: $5,000
Owing: $821,000
H is name was Ramus, one of the few surviving “Others” ever since mankind regained control of their planet. Before the dead rose and conquered most of the globe, his kind had come first. The problem was, their type of infection—the vampiric virus transferred through blood—had to be administered blood-to-blood. Their victims had to be bleeding, which was no trouble, but the vampires had to be bleeding, too, which made things more difficult. It wasn’t always easy to cut your own tongue before biting down on the neck of another. Instinct to just drink usually took over at that stage of the game and the act of biting down on one’s tongue was often forgotten, which was unfortunate because if more vampires were made, perhaps fighting for the humans would be a thing of the past.
As it was with the Zombie War, mankind had quickly overcome the vampires by stakes through the heart. They had manufactured firearms capable of expelling steel projectiles a foot long at ferocious speeds. Soon, the number of known vampires worldwide was dwindled down to only a few pockets here and there. Eventually, they were captured and used for Zombie Fight Night as combatants. In exchange for performing, they were given fresh blood from murderers, rapists and thieves as a thank you for their participation.
It was dark in the arena, as it was before all fights. Ramus stood there, leather-clad hands clenched into tight fists, ready for
This was it.
This was serious.
This was life or death.
Mick checked his watch: 7:27.
His heart raced into his throat and boomed against the back of his neck like no one’s business. He could barely swallow never mind breathe and was forced to lean forward, elbows on his knees, head between his legs.
“Hey, buddy,” the chubby guy beside him said. “Watch my shoes if you’re gonna puke.” A pause. “You know, the show’s not even started yet. Unless you’re getting flashbacks.”
Mick glanced up at him, doing everything he could to control his breathing. “No puking here. I’m an old hand at this.”
The chubby guy furrowed his brow, creating a nest of wrinkles. “Then why the huzzah?”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?”
The guy put his hands up as if in surrender. “Hey, don’t go looking at me for help if you lose yer guts tonight. Just wanted to see if you’re okay, maybe.”
Mick sat up in his chair and exhaled slowly. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. Been a long weird day, couple of weeks, to tell the truth. My bad.”
The dude folded his hands over his large stomach. He smelled like hot dogs and spicy burritos. An invisible thick coat of smoke hovered over the guy’s jacket as if from a lifetime of cigarettes. Mick stirred in his seat. The guy shoved a thick hand over to him. “Name’s Jack.”
Mick took the guy’s greasy hand in his. “Mick.” Firm shake, single pump. He took his hand back, making a conscious effort not to wipe his palm across the front of his shirt.
Mick pulled his Controller out of a pouch in the back of the seat in front of him and double checked the details of the first fight. The Controller was his lifeline tonight. It was a black box, about six inches square, with a screen and keypad. He swiped his I.D. card through a slot in the side. The screen lit up and welcomed him to Zombie Fight Night. It then displayed the list of fighters for the first battle.
Make it count, Mick thought, though for this first match it wasn’t easy to say who would come out on top.
He entered his bet and his choice of winner. Please, God.
7:29. The seats in the place were full. The shoes and boots on everyone’s feet—except Mick’s—began thumping rhythmically against the cement.
Jack threw a couple of chubby digits into his mouth and let out a whistle.
The lights went out.
4
Vampire vs Zombie
Bet: $5,000
Owing: $821,000
H is name was Ramus, one of the few surviving “Others” ever since mankind regained control of their planet. Before the dead rose and conquered most of the globe, his kind had come first. The problem was, their type of infection—the vampiric virus transferred through blood—had to be administered blood-to-blood. Their victims had to be bleeding, which was no trouble, but the vampires had to be bleeding, too, which made things more difficult. It wasn’t always easy to cut your own tongue before biting down on the neck of another. Instinct to just drink usually took over at that stage of the game and the act of biting down on one’s tongue was often forgotten, which was unfortunate because if more vampires were made, perhaps fighting for the humans would be a thing of the past.
As it was with the Zombie War, mankind had quickly overcome the vampires by stakes through the heart. They had manufactured firearms capable of expelling steel projectiles a foot long at ferocious speeds. Soon, the number of known vampires worldwide was dwindled down to only a few pockets here and there. Eventually, they were captured and used for Zombie Fight Night as combatants. In exchange for performing, they were given fresh blood from murderers, rapists and thieves as a thank you for their participation.
It was dark in the arena, as it was before all fights. Ramus stood there, leather-clad hands clenched into tight fists, ready for
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