by Ivan Turner
Taking careful aim, he fired the gun at the padlock. The lock bounced in its place but didn't shatter. He fired again. And again. He kept firing until the gun was empty of the bullets and the lock was a dented and mangled thing. But still it held. Cursing some more, he popped the clip and loaded in the spare. This time he took aim at the eyelets in the wall. It took two bullets per eyelet (three for one of them) but they eventually fell free of the stone wall. With a cry of triumph, he turned to the door again. He reached for the handle before realizing that he had hardly any bullets left. But it was too late. The zombies were pushing against the handle and the door came open with a groan. He leveled his weapon and fired at the first zombie. He didn't miss. But he didn't hit anything worthwhile. In an instant, they were upon him, grabbing at his arms and legs, tearing at his face and belly. They were ripping his clothing away so that they could get to his flesh. He fired wildly and without direction, emptying the gun without effect. The last thing he saw before his mind shut down was the face of his son, Kyle, scrabbling through the pack so that he could have his pound of flesh.
***
It was getting late by the time Shawn pulled himself up through the sheets and into the waking world. Marcus wasn't in the bed but he could be heard in the other room, clinking plates and glasses and whatnot.
“Good morning,” Marcus said to Shawn as he padded into the kitchen. “Brunch?”
Shawn shrugged. He'd been spending most of his weekends at Marcus' place over the last few weeks, although Marcus himself had been out late most Saturday nights and some Fridays.. He was pretty sure his mom suspected the extent of their relationship but she'd had the decency not to speculate out loud. His dad was clueless, which was better for everyone. Shawn went to the table and sat down. There was a newspaper there and he fiddled with it a moment before deciding it wasn't even worth putting up the pretense of being interested in it.
“What's on your mind?” Marcus said, placing a plate of eggs and toast and bacon in front of him and sitting down opposite.
“Nothing."
“Lies now?” Marcus asked.
“It's not about us,” Shawn told him. “Just some stuff at school.”
“What stuff?”
Shawn fiddled with the paper, then went to his fork. He managed to put a forkful of eggs into his mouth and chew, stalling against the inevitable. “It's Heron.”
“The detective?” Marcus asked bitterly. “Is he giving you grief?”
Shawn shrugged, plowing into his food now. “It's been a few weeks since I was let out and I ain't given him nothing yet.”
“Does he expect you to make things up?”
Shawn shook his head. “I don't think so. He's been pretty good about giving me my space. In fact, I'm pretty sure this whole informant thing was just some bullshit he made up so that he could get me out of jail.”
“Why would he do that?”
“'Cause I didn't do nothin' wrong,” Shawn blurted defensively.
“Okay, okay,” Marcus acquiesced. “Then what's the problem?”
“Nothing,” Shawn said, going back to his food. “Forget it.”
For a few minutes, Marcus did just that. He steepled his hands and rested his chin upon them, just staring at Shawn. When he felt that Shawn was just about at his breaking point, he said, “You've found something, haven't you? You've got something to tell the cop?”
Eyes down, Shawn nodded.
“What is it?”
“It don't matter.”
“It does matter. Are you going to let this cop control you forever?”
“I told you, it ain't about that.”
“What then? What's it about?”
“It's about people getting hurt, you know?” Shawn dropped his fork onto his plate. “A bunch of the guys I know are going out and hunting zombies tonight. They say there's some dude who'll pay good money for them. You know, alive?”
Marcus lifted his chin from his hands and wriggled his fingers. He was thinking. Shawn always knew when Marcus was thinking. It wasn't a change in expression or anything physical that could be identified. It was almost as if his aura changed. And the two of them were so in tune that Shawn could just tell.
“Stay out of it, Shawn,” Marcus said finally.
“I can't really do that, Marcus. If Heron finds out about kids getting involved with zombies and I haven't tipped him off...”
“He won't do anything. That's not why he got you out. You said so yourself.”
“Yeah, but the guys could...”
“Just don't get involved,” Marcus ordered him. It was an actual order and Shawn was inclined to follow it. Though Shawn didn't notice it and might not have admitted it if he did, that was the nature of their relationship. Marcus didn't necessarily abuse his power, but he definitely held it. “I've been keeping track of all of this zombie nonsense on the news. It's dangerous, Shawn, and I don't want you involved in it.”
“You my mom, now?”
“No,” Marcus said. “It's not like that. Look, Shawn, I love you, okay? I love you and I'm afraid that cop is taking advantage of you because you're a kid and you're afraid of going back to jail. He's going to get you killed or worse.”
Though he had no retort, Shawn was no closer to a solution to his own problem. He wanted to help Heron because these zombies scared the hell out of him. It had been bad enough when they hadn't been common. Now there were news stories every day. Even someone like Shawn, who avoided current events as best he could, couldn't steer clear of hearing the latest zombie tale. The kids were talking about it in school. No one had bugged out like before. That episode of mass hysteria had played itself out. Now that the danger was real, people were hunkering down and adjusting to the new environment. Shawn, though, was beside himself. He was in an almost constant state of unease that sometimes bordered on panic. He wondered if hiding his head in the sand was just making his problems worse. Still, though, Marcus was right. If he told Heron about the hunting party, what would the detective do next? Would that be enough to clear his record? And then there was the matter of the guys going out to hunt? They were Shawn's buddies and though they were a bad lot in general, he didn't feel right snitching on them. And if they found out he was a snitch, he'd be better off in a room full of zombies.
“Your eggs are getting cold,” Marcus said. There was a tinge of annoyance in his voice, but Shawn was sure it had nothing to do with the eggs.
He looked down at the plate of food. He was hardly hungry but he didn't want to upset Marcus any more than he already had so he ate and every mouthful dropped into his stomach like a moldy brick.
***
Leron and Toby had the unpopular task of checking the stock this afternoon. They had to pick out six or seven of the best and worst specimens and pull them from the pen so they could be prepared for the night's show. Of all of the things that Leron had to do as part of this enterprise, this was the worst. But someone had to do it.
The two of them were dressed from head to toe in thick dark clothing. They wore at least three layers. It helped to hide their scent which seemed to keep the zombies fairly docile while they were being moved. Ski masks made breathing a bit harder but cut down on the smell; oddly enough, Leron didn't mind the smell so much. They wore goggles and gloves and high laced up boots. In addition, the zombies themselves had their hands bound behind their backs and rubber balls tied into their mouths. No one took any chances.
The pen seemed crowded but they knew that they had barely enough zombies for the night. They had twenty two, a mixture of races and genders and ages. Some of the really sick bastards liked to get into the ring with children. From what Leron had heard, fighting the children was harder because they were kind of wiry. And that's what this was all about. Fighting zombies. The Ultimate Zombie Fighting Championship. When Marcus had first come up with the plan, Leron had thought it was stupid. Of course, he thought most of Marcus' ideas were stupid. Then again, Marcus was wildly successful in just about everything he did while
Leron had pretty much been living in his shadow ever since they'd met.
So Marcus had told him to go out and find a zombie, see if it was all true. That was weeks ago and Leron had laughed at him. What the hell are we gonna do with a zombie? But he'd done as Marcus asked because all of Marcus' stupid plans made money. Then Marcus had asked him to find a warehouse. So he'd done that. Leron could find almost anything but never had the money or the knowledge to acquire it. Actually, now that he thought about it, he and Marcus made a decent team. Yeah, that's what they were! A team!
Marcus told Leron that he thought morons would want to show off their bravado and get into the ring with zombies. It would be kind of like Fight Club, everyday blue and white collar nobodies grabbing for a few minutes of glory in vanquishing the undead. And for every guy that wanted to get into the ring, there would be a hundred other guys who would pay just to watch. Ticket sales alone would hold up their enterprise, but the intake from the betting would be more than they'd ever seen before.
Marcus was their chief investor, which spared him from this kind of work. Leron didn't really care. He was more than happy to do the dirty jobs and collect on the profits. Well, he was more than happy to collect on the profits. These dirty jobs was dirtier than most and he was finding that he didn't really have the stomach for it. Literally. Every time he had to go into the pen, he wound up puking afterwards.
This was going to be their third weekend. The first had seemed like a bust. They'd managed to drum up some interest with the gang sect. It was made into an initiation, which didn't make Marcus happy. But the fights were real and as the word spread, more and more guys showed up with money in their hands. That first Friday night had been dead (ha ha). They'd taken a huge loss. But by Saturday night they were getting people who wouldn't normally even watch stories of that neighborhood on the news. Leron took great pleasure in the guilty expressions on the faces of all of the Wall Street white guys. He imagined they had the same looks on their faces while huddled in the corners of their apartments scrolling through page after page of internet porn.
Toby stood by the door to the cage with a prod while Leron went inside. The zombies all looked up as the door squeaked open. That awful low moan came from some of them. It was muffled by the rubber balls but the combined sounds echoed about the place like a sorrowful wind. They were slow to react to Leron's prodding, the cold affecting them badly. That had been an important discovery. Keeping them cold didn't harm them, but it did slow their reactions. It was much safer moving about a roomful of cold zombies than it was a roomful of warm ones. Leron wondered what they would do come spring.
“The pickings are slim,” he said to Toby, as he moved through the pen and inspected the stock. They were going to need more zombies.
As he continued with his work, the dead became more agitated. They were confused by him, this man in motion with a muffled scent. They pulled at their bonds and stuck their noses at him to try and get a better understanding. He pushed them away, sometimes aggressively. To this they had no reaction. The zombie sense of self preservation was nil. When he finally found one good enough for the Saturday night game, he directed it through the throng and pushed it towards Toby.
“How we doing?” Toby asked. He was referring to time. Their time with the zombies was always short. As docile as they were at the moment, just about anything could spark them once the warmth of a body reached their senses. Even bound and gagged, they were dangerous. If they swarmed him and he got scratched, he could become infected.
Leron shrugged. “I gotta get three more. That ought to start us off okay.”
He went back in. Toby set to work checking the bindings on the zombie's hands mouth. All the work was done when they were put into the pen but sometimes guys got careless. Tying up the hands wasn't really much of a problem but you had to do it first. They hated the gag and they'd fight like bobcats if they had their hands. A couple of times, some lazy idiot had done a superficial job with the bonds and just shoved the guy into the pen. This particular zombie seemed well restrained. He was a ganger from last week, a couple of years younger than Toby, maybe fourteen or fifteen. He'd botched the initiation, a zombie fight, and wound up as stock. He was pretty fresh so he was likely to put on a good show.
Leron came out with two more a minute after that. There was a woman in a police outfit, but the uniform wasn't legit. She'd been a stripper who'd taken a bad job. She wasn't even hot, really, an older bitch whose time had come and gone. Now literally. The other one was a white guy, dark suit, trimmed beard, no hair. Leron always picked one of the white guys.
“One more,” he said as he went back in.
“Maybe not,” Toby answered, as he went to work on the stripper. “They're shuffling around pretty good in there.
“I won't be picky.”
Leron moved back inside, determined to keep his promise. The first one was an older guy, maybe sixty or even seventy years old. The elderly seemed to get stronger as zombies. Maybe it's because they weren't so worried about breaking a hip. Still, not so good for the show. An opening act? Nah, not tonight. Not on a Saturday. He pushed that one aside and homed in on a beefy guy with one arm. The one arm wasn't generally a problem if the zombie was big enough. It skewed the bets because people didn't really understand how little of a handicap it was. That was generally good for the house. It was going to be the one armed guy for sure.
As Leron moved in for the grab, he felt something tug on his shoulder from behind. His first instinct was to pull away. He knew that a zombie had come up behind him and was interested now in more than investigation. He also knew that its hands were free. It didn't really concern him because it would still be gagged. At this stage, he could pull away. In a few minutes, they would be all over him. But as he tugged away, he felt something hook under his left elbow and yank his arm back. Spinning, he let out a cry and shoved hard with his right hand. It was the old man, teeth bared. Damn! Just two minutes before, this thing had been trussed up like a Christmas pig. Before he could push the old man away, those teeth nicked his gloved hand. It pissed him off more than anything else and he shoved the old guy hard. The hapless zombie stumbled into a middle aged woman and the two of them went to the ground. With a curse, Leron turned back to the one armed zombie, grabbed it by its shirt front and yanked it out of the pen. Toby was there to quickly subdue it.
“What happened?” Toby asked him when the four zombies were lined up.
“Old fucker got free and twisted my arm back. If we weren't so short on stock, I'd bash his brains in.”
“You didn't get bit, did you?”
Leron shoved him and made a show of his clothing. “Through all this? Don't be stupid.” But as they began herding the night's performers toward the preparation area, his finger began to throb.
***
Marcus showed up a couple of hours later. He went looking first for Leron, but couldn't find him. Instead, he grabbed Toby and asked about the state of their stock.
“We don't have a lot. And they're not good ones.”
“How many did you pull for tonight?”
“Four.”
Marcus rubbed his eyes. “That's it? We've been doubling the crowd every week. We'll go through at least twelve tonight, probably closer to twenty.”
Toby put up his hands. “I know. I know. Leron was gonna help me but he disappeared after we pulled the first four. I ain't goin' in there alone.”
“What do you mean, he disappeared?”
Toby shrugged. “I just ain't seen him is all. He was gonna meet me and didn't.”
“Did something happen?”
Toby shrugged again. “Leron got into it with one of the things, but it wasn't nothin'”
“One got free? Was he bitten?”
“Well...no. At least he said he wasn't. It just twisted his arm.”
“Okay. Okay.” Marcus made sure he looked relieved even if he didn't feel it. “Get, um, is Damon here?”