Grave New World (Book 3): Dead Men Don't Skip

by S. P. Blackmore

  Renati, perhaps sensing my horror, clamped his hand down on mine. “It’s all right,” he said.

  It was not all right. It would never be all right again.

  The dead clumped around the two remaining combatants.

  “Where the fuck is Logan?” I demanded. “This is—I can’t sit here and watch this—”

  “Keep looking for him.”

  I skimmed the stands, but could not make him out amidst the crowds. He might well be there, tucked away under a baseball cap…or maybe he wasn’t there at all. What if he’d been caught? What if he couldn’t bring his gun?

  “Opponents!” the announcer crowed. “Claim your rewards!”

  The survivors looked toward our side of the arena. A couple of soldiers had marched themselves out of the dugout, and they held out sticks—no, swords—oh, how nice, weapons for the combatants. The girl took a step back. The boy swung around and tried to sprint toward the soldiers, and instead ran straight into the hungry arms of a zombie. Even from my spot behind the wall I could see blood fountaining out of his throat.

  He went down screaming, attracting the remaining ghouls to him.

  The girl paused to see if the dead were occupied. Then she zipped right over to the soldiers, accepting the bladed weapon shoved into her hand.

  She lifted it into the air. The crowd went ballistic.

  “Game on!” the announcer exclaimed.

  I guess I could have cheered for her. It would have been polite.

  She didn’t go dashing off into the group of ghouls, though. She instead was offered a bottle of water, and followed the soldiers into the doorway in the wall.

  “Where’s she going?” I asked.

  “Bathroom break,” Renati said. He rubbed his knuckles, then cracked them.

  “What a performance! One for the ages!”

  I hoped Logan shot the announcer first.

  “Lara Lexington will be your round one champion! And now, my friends, before we begin the next round, I have a little story for you.”

  He knew when to pause for effect, I’ll give him that. The crowd quieted.

  “Once upon a time, there were some fellows who thought the endtimes should be welcomed. That the dead should inherit the earth!”

  Scattered booing broke out.

  “They conspired to bring down the barriers that keep this city safe!” the announcer hollered.

  The booing increased. They couldn’t possibly believe all this, right? Despite Keller’s best efforts, Hastings was hardly Rome, and you couldn’t turn average American citizens into bloodthirsty spectators in just a few months…could you?

  “What is this?” I whispered.

  “Not so different from that wrestling stuff,” Renati said. “A bit bloodier. Fewer structured storylines.”

  I seized that thought and clung to it. Maybe they all thought this was staged.

  Where the hell was Logan?

  “Fortunately they were caught by Captain Keller and his men—just before they could let the living dead overrun the city!”

  The booing gave way to wild cheers. Oh, holy guacamole, this was bad.

  “How can they believe this?” I whispered. “They’re just…believing it…”

  “What else would you have them do? They haven’t been outside. They don’t know what it’s like. They’re safe here.” Renati turned to me. “They have no reason not to believe Keller.”

  I spotted movement to our right. Two people came out of the home team dugout.

  I stood up. Renati grabbed my arm and jerked me back down. “Don’t. React.”

  My heart thumped wildly against my ribcage. Tony and Dax stopped just outside the dugout and had to be shoved forward by the soldiers guarding it.

  “At least they gave them swords,” Renati said. “Wait. It looks like Dax has an axe.”

  “They don’t know how to use either of those things,” I whispered through a dry mouth. “I mean. I don’t think they do. There isn’t an Eagle Scout badge for disemboweling your enemies, is there? Where the fuck is Logan?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Our plan—our shitty, shitty plan—was about to fail before it even began.

  Renati took my hand. “They can handle a few zombies,” he said.

  Another door opened in the wall opposite us. The place must have been riddled with ways to get in and out—what better way to craft dramatic entries and exits?

  After a few seconds, several figures came staggering out.

  The crowd quieted.

  “Oh, my goodness!” the announcer exclaimed. “This is exciting! Behold! Keller has harnessed the power of the undead!”

  The revenants waved their hands around. More bladed weapons tied or grafted on to dead limbs. Sure—that was harnessing the power of the undead. Why not?

  I searched the stands once more for Logan.

  He wasn’t there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  If you’ve never seen a zombie with a sword, you’re missing out.

  I don’t think you should recreate it on your own, of course. If you want to see it at a zoo or something, that’s on you. I could see where it would be kind of amusing, provided it was viewed from a safe distance.

  Even Holy Ezekiel, the dead Mennonite himself, would probably think this was too much.

  Tony stopped struggling with the soldiers and took a few practice swats with his sword. Then he sucked in some air and squared his shoulders, as if prepping himself for some sort of performance. He did his best to storm out to the center of the stadium, though his bad leg kept him from looking overly impressive. “Hey, Keller!” he sang out. “We who are about to die say fuck you!”

  Renati chuckled. I could have strangled him.

  Dax hung back, holding the axe loosely in his right hand.

  “He doesn’t belong out there,” I said. “He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”

  “Men do remarkable things under duress,” Renati said. “He might surprise you.”

  “They’re making him fight a zombie with an axe.”

  “Every Hector has his Achilles. He will learn to be valiant.”

  Oh, marvelous. Renati had drifted off into The Iliad, leaving me to watch this nightmare unfold on my own.

  Tony saw the dead shambling toward them. He jabbed and sliced at the air with the sword, trying to practice with it in earnest. Maybe this was yet another unknown skill he’d possessed—maybe he fenced in secret after work…

  He sliced downward, and the sword flew right out of his hand, landing in the dirt a few feet away.

  “He’s fucked,” I said amid the hoots of the crowd.

  Tony scooped the sword back up and waved it around a few more times. Then, as if deciding he might as well go out with a bang, he took off toward the ghouls.

  Toward the armed ghouls.

  I covered my eyes, then immediately peeked through my fingers.

  They came at him slowly—not fast-movers, these—but when they lifted their arms to grab at him, their sharpened blades went up as well. He swiped at one on the outside, and it did nothing to block the blow.

  Okay. All he had to do was stay away from the flashing blades. Easy enough. These guys weren’t moving fast.

  He jammed the sword into its face, and it went over like a proper zombie.

  I lowered my hands lightly, but still took in the show mostly through my fingers.

  Tony dodged between the ghouls, aiming for the head, like he would with a gun or a club. They went down fast, not even flailing. The last one to come out did sort of shake its blade at him, but it lost its hands and then its face in short order.

  Tony stood in the center of the dismembered body parts.

  Renati glanced at me. “You were saying?”

  Dax still hovered in front of the dugout. Maybe he hoped everyone had forgotten about him.

  Tony scanned the crowd until he spotted Keller, and then jabbed his sword in the captain’s direction. “That all you got, asshole?”

&nbs
p; “Oh, stop,” I mumbled. “Stop while you’re ahead, you crazy son of a bitch.”

  “In the days of Rome, a good performance from a gladiator could earn him clemency from an emperor,” Renati said.

  “Yes, I saw Gladiator, too.”

  “At least He’s trying.”

  Trying to get himself killed.

  The announcer let out a chortle that crackled out of the speakers. “Quite a beautiful performance you put up, sir,” he said. “Are you ready to face better fighters?”

  Tony scowled up at the crowd. “I’m ready to face your mom,” be barked.

  I hid my face in my hands again.

  The door inside the visiting team’s dugout opened again.

  The revenants that poured out also had swords tied or chained to their hands, but they didn’t walk. They ran.

  “Shit,” Renati said.

  Tony got his sword up, then was nearly rammed by one of the racing ghouls. The other sprinted past him, heading straight for Dax.

  “Fuck.” Oh, now Renati decided to be concerned.

  Dax swung the axe clumsily at the ghoul. It tumbled toward him, lifted up the blade in its hands, and took a genuine swat at him. He shoved the axe out and successfully blocked the blow, but the strike must have been powerful; he staggered beneath it.

  I stood up. Renati tried to haul me back down again, but I shook him off, my heart racing too fast for me to even contemplate holding still.

  Dax got his axe out from under the sword and swung it at the zombie.

  The ghoul fucking dodged and lifted its arms up and to the side like it was about to hit a home run in a ballgame. I swear to God the thing must have had muscle memory of some sort at work.

  I looked up into the stands again, searching for a familiar face, or at least the telltale sign of a gun’s muzzle.

  But nothing.

  Dax screamed. My gaze flew back down to the makeshift arena.

  He pushed the ghoul off him, but red ran freely down the front of his shirt. He held the axe awkwardly in one hand, reaching up with the other to touch the weeping spot on his shoulder.

  “He’s bitten,” I said. “Renati—”

  “I see it.”

  Tony saw it, too, and shoved his blade down the throat of his own opponent. He made his way to Dax and the other zombie.

  “A bite!” the announcer crowed. “It’s a bite! What do we do when someone gets bitten?”

  The eerie foot-stomping I’d heard each time I visited the stadium began. But this time it accompanied a chant:

  “Feed the dead! Feed the dead!”

  Oh, what the hell was this now?

  “Feed the dead to who?” I asked.

  Tony swung his sword at the ghoul and sent its head flying up into the stands. A few people cheered, but the rest continued to shout.

  “Feed the dead!” Even the announcer joined in. “Feed the dead!”

  Dax gaped up into the stands, his mouth hanging open, blood still pouring down his shoulder.

  Oh. Oh, fuck that. There was a small gate between the doctor’s row and the stadium itself. I shoved it open.

  Renati seized my arm and tried to haul me back. “Vibeke! No. Wait. Give it a minute.”

  “He doesn’t have a minute! They’re going to kill him!” I had no idea how. Or why. Or if it would even happen in the next few seconds. But holy fucknuts, I would not stand there and let it happen while I watched.

  “Feed the dead! Feed the dead!” The stomping and shouting merged into one terrible, thunderous sound.

  There was no escaping it. Or this place.

  “Shall we feed them?” the announcer roared. “Shall we set loose the next group?”

  The people shouted even louder: “Feed the dead! Feed the dead!”

  “All right! Let them out!”

  “Stop it,” I whispered.

  No one heard me. No one saw me.

  “Vibeke, wait—”

  Renati’s hand slipped away. I plunged into the stadium before I’d properly thought out what the hell I was doing. I gathered my lung power—what I had of it, anyway—turned to the crowd, and screamed, “Stop it!”

  The announcer paused. The fighters paused. The two guards standing in front of the visiting team’s dugout stayed where they were, presumably holding back the next round of undead fuckery.

  Everyone looked at me.

  This may not have been one of my better ideas.

  But fuck it. I was here. I gestured to Dax and his bleeding wound. “What the hell is wrong with you all? You’re feeding people to zombies!”

  Dax had his hand pressed to his shoulder. Blood streamed down from between his fingers, landing in a puddle in the dirt.

  “Get back here,” Renati called to me. “Get back here, Vibeke, this is not part of the plan—”

  I stared up in Keller’s direction. “Fuck the plan.”

  Nope. I had not thought this through at all.

  “Do you issue a challenge?” the announcer asked, astonishment plain in his voice. Yes, asshole, be amazed by me. I am Vibeke the Bone-Crusher! I will fuck your shit up!

  I rode the mental psyching up as long as I could. “Yes, I issue a fucking challenge! I challenge you not to feed people to the dead!” I pointed at Dax. “He needs help!”

  “If you issue a challenge, you may see to him.”

  “Fine!”

  The two soldiers standing in front of the home team dugout started for me.

  What remained of the color in Renati’s face abruptly drained away. “Wait, Vibeke, you just—”

  One soldier stood guard while the other grabbed my right arm and began dragging me deeper into the arena. “You want to fight?” he asked me. “We’ll let you fight. We’re equal opportunity here.”

  Fight?

  At that point I realized I had made a critical error.

  They hauled me over to the guys, who both stared at me in horror. “What the fuck are you doing?” Tony asked. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Improvising,” I said, because that sounded better than I don’t know. Again I scanned the crowds, but there was no sign of Logan. Maybe he’d been captured. Maybe this was all some fool’s errand. Maybe we’d been Final Destinationed, and Death was finally coming to get us after we’d gotten so good at skirting him.

  “Give her your weapon,” one of the soldiers said to Dax.

  He was hardly in a position to refuse. He shoved the axe toward me. I picked it up one-handed and was dismayed by its weight. I added my other hand to it, trying to remember the one time in my life I had chopped wood.

  “Go to the doctor.” The same soldier pushed Dax in the direction I’d come from.

  Dax stumbled toward Renati, who seemed more interested in sending me panicked looks than actually helping him.

  Once Dax was safely in the stands, the soldiers retreated.

  “You’re stupid,” Tony said. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Bite me.”

  “Let the games recommence!” the announcer crowed. The door inside the visiting team’s dugout opened again, and more ghouls came staggering out. Slow ones this time. Some small mercy there.

  They also had bladed weapons, and they waved them around as they began their steady shamble toward us.

  I took a few practice swings with the axe. Was I supposed to use it like a sharp bat? Or just bring it down on skulls like I was splitting a log? I had never been much good at splitting logs.

  Tony stared at me, his expression grim. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  Why had I done it?

  I lifted the axe overhead and then slammed it into the dirt. My arms rattled as it struck. “I was trying to help.”

  He looked around at the zombies, the armed guards, the people in the bleachers screaming for our blood. “Nice work.”

  Dammit, Logan, where are you?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The ghouls kept spilling out of the dugout much like ants spiraling out of a nest. Six of them. Ten. Tw
elve. Fifteen.

  All of them shambling their way toward us.

  “This seems like overkill,” I said.

  “This might be it, Vibby.”

  I didn’t bother correcting him.

  The dead continued to come. Not slowly, but not quickly, either. They marched almost like trained soldiers.

  Hell, maybe they had been.

  “We had a plan,” I said.

  He watched them creep closer. “Yeah?”

  “We were going to kill Keller and put Durkee back in charge.”

  He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. It was something borne of desperation, his gaze glued to the zombies presently approaching us. “Well, I can’t say you don’t have big ideas.”

  I chanced a glance at the side of the arena. Dax stood there alone, holding gauze to his shoulder. I did not see Renati near him, but when I peered deeper into the stands, I spotted the fluttering white coat moving upward toward Keller and his crew.

  To deliver a message, no doubt. To say he was out of this or that. To make a suggestion.

  To stab him with a scalpel.

  To take as many of the commanders out as he could within a few seconds.

  Meanwhile, we had a gaggle of armed revenants getting closer and closer to us.

  Well, if this was how it ended, so be it. I lifted the axe up and held it over my right shoulder, deciding to treat it as a disturbingly sharp baseball bat for now. “Been nice knowing you, T-bone.”

  Tony scoffed. “T-bone? Seriously?”

  “I’m trying to have a moment.”

  “You suck at it.”

  I braced myself for the oncoming assault.

  And then I saw the lone figure come out.

  She was the last of them, and she emerged unarmed.

  And she looked around in wonder, or perhaps horror, or some other feeling unique to the dead.

  Tony saw me staring. “Vibeke?” He followed my gaze past the oncoming tide of ghouls and to the dugout and the small figure in front of it. “Oh…fuck.”

  The crowd abruptly cheered.

  Someone rushed past me, nearly knocking me out of the way. I recognized Lara, the victor of the previous round, who had apparently gotten her bathroom break and been sent back into the arena to score some more kills and audience goodwill. She reached the group of ghouls quickly and dove right into the fray.