by Al K. Line
This was his business: capturing infected and using them for special fights. Events that were becoming more and more attractive in many parts of the UK as society went rogue. Most people attending had no idea that they could be next in the ring though, many of them were followed and captured themselves for future spectacles where humanity fought the infected, turned if they failed to agree or got too bothersome. Business was booming, he and his team amassed a lot of goods in return for their services and special events. Zombies were either kept and fights put on where people paid to gain entry, or they were bartered with others for a high price so they could put on their own private shows. The business was becoming huge but today was going to be a private event for the two groups to let off some steam. Boss-man was pretty pleased with the swap actually, he hadn't had a woman in a while. The last one got to be too pathetic and he threw her to the infected in disgust one afternoon, after she refused to stop weeping and just lay huddled on the floor after a particularly energetic bout of rape and beating he had dished out following an unsuccessful day of zombie hunting.
No matter, this new one looked feisty, she would be a real wriggler in the sack, he was sure of that.
Back to business. He barked out orders, and Al was thrown down into the pit, numerous eyes peering down eagerly from above as the first infected was led into the ring and unchained.
"So, let's see what you're made of then big guy. You fucking stupid Dutch lump."
"I. Am. Not. Being Dutch," said Al through gritted teeth, as he swung his giant fist at the zombie running toward him at a sprint, wailing and clawing the air as if to draw the flesh toward him.
The zombie went down, dead for the last time as Al's fist connected with its throat and smashed it to a pulp, the neck horribly disfigured instantly as blood pooled beneath massive internal damage.
Al had not even changed his stance, he merely swung out with an arm and put the zombie down.
The crowd above went wild. They roared and shouted, laughed and placed new bets. Nobody could quite believe how nonchalantly he had dealt with what promised to be only one of many more zombie opponents that day.
As the day wore on Al stripped off clothes, clothes that became too tattered to be anything but a hindrance.
He was smeared in blood, rivulets of it washing away in the slight downpour that played itself out in seconds then repeated sporadically all through the fighting bouts.
Al's torso was a criss-cross of scratches and raised welts. Many times he had been close to succumbing to the onslaughts he faced — having no weapon certainly didn't help. He punched, kicked, squeezed, roared and snapped, dealing with lone attackers one after the other. Then it was two at a time, now three. He knew he couldn't take much more and the pile of bodies in the arena was becoming a severe hindrance to movement now it had grown to such epic proportions.
"Food, I am needing the food now," he panted, before the three zombies were unchained.
"Yeah right, fancy a cup of tea too?" sneered the boss.
"No, I am wanting the fizzy pop to be drinking," he wheezed. "One zombie, two zombie, now there are being three dead zombies. Four zombies, now..."
"What the fuck?" said the boss.
"He needs food or he will likely just keel over and gibber to himself," said Kyle, taking the opportunity to try to see if he could get Al some obviously much needed sustenance. The big guy was sure to do something really stupid if he didn't have a seriously monumental snack soon.
"This isn't a bloody tea party you know."
"Look, if you want him to fight then you better feed him. He's autistic and he is totally obsessed with food. Something to do with his brain chemistry or something," offered Kyle helpfully.
"Fine, whatever." The boss was annoyed at having the fighting interrupted, but wanted to enjoy it as long as possible. Al really was a wonder to watch. He could see that they had made some serious money with the bets that had been placed.
Orders were issued, so his team began throwing food and drink into the arena, laughing and joking as Al scampered about grabbing up huge handfuls, stuffing his mouth full, unaware of the dirt and foulness that covered much of it. He ate and ate until the food was no more, then a barked order brought him back to his senses.
"Enough. You've had your snack, now get busy and enjoy your last few minutes of life."
"I will not be dieing, Al does not die like this." There was no doubt in his voice. He stood proud, staring at the boss-man defiantly.
"We'll see," said the boss, signaling for the three chained zombies to be let loose.
The fight began. Again.
Al was exhausted, the food did little to restore his energy — it simply wasn't enough. He had fought so much already, he didn't know how much more of it he could take. But he put such thoughts aside, trying to focus fully on the fight at hand.
A loud cheer came up from the crowd, each shouting for their bet to become victorious. Fewer were backing Al now, the exhaustion was obvious.
Al was like some kind of huge, ancient battered troll come out from under its bridge. His trousers were in tatters, still clinging to him but torn badly, the lower half of one trouser leg ripped clean off. His knotted calf muscles strained as he took a crouching stance, arms wide. His legs were planted solid, thighs burning with lactic acid, veins actually visible criss-crossing his quadriceps, pumped full of blood like the rest of his body. His upper torso was a mess of veins, blond going on ginger hair, mud and the many liquids from the vanquished zombies. His huge frame was pumped up as if he had spent a day in the gym lifting weights. Veins carried the newly ingested nutrients around his body, refueling him just enough to continue his fight. Muscles were stretched taught over his not exactly ripped body. Al had a good layer of fat, he wasn't a slim guy, but the muscles were there in abundance beneath a thick layer, a huge strongman in build, muscles impossible to ignore, bulging with the expended energy. His arms were the one part of him always without fat. Thick coiled veins meandered back and forth, forearms incredibly swollen from the battle, multiple scratches and thick gloves of blood darkening them black, looking more like something forged on an anvil than flesh and bone.
The zombies attacked. Mindless and beyond anger after their weeks without food, chained up and treated like nothing more than a commodity. They were relentless with ferocity, all their hate, hunger and humiliation (if they could feel such things) focused in Al's direction. They charged as one. Al saw it coming so dropped low, pushed back on a trunk of a leg and dove straight at them, legs leaving the ground, arms wide ready for a death embrace.
He caught one as the other two went past and behind him. The forward momentum sending him crashing to the ground on top of his captive. Kyle could hear the crack of bone from up above where he stood, and he just hoped it wasn't one of Al's. With a huge push on a badly cut hand Al got to his feet, slammed a booted foot down on the chest of the fallen zombie, ribcage cracking, but holding shape. As he went for a boot to the head he was beset by the other two, forgotten for an instant. One leapt onto his back, sending Al careening around the arena wildly, trying to shake it off to no avail. The other snapping at his front, going for the softer flesh of the neck. Al batted it away as he tried to smack at the hands of the one on his back as it tried to gouge his face, aiming to make him blind and defeat him. Al slammed into the wall, again, and again. The limpet-like one on his back slumped to the ground, a thick line of blood and brain smearing down the wall as it collapsed, the rear of its head caved in.
The first one down was up by now, one arm hanging limply where the tendons had been smashed, tearing away the triceps from the bone, Kyle could see it bunched in a knot near its shoulder, no longer stretched taut.
Al stared around wildly, looking for a way to get ahead in the fight. Kyle could only stare on in wonder that Al could fight so viscously after being in the ring for so long already. There was a hush from the spectators, nobody could believe quite how well the man-mountain fought after already having gone thro
ugh an actual pile of bodies.
Al ran to the zombie he had smashed against the wall. He bent and dragged a leg of the already mangled body over his thigh. He smashed at it repeatedly with his forearm until the lower leg clung onto the upper by just gristle and torn tendon. He grabbed by the shin, twisting quickly in circles, weakening the remaining strands until they released their grisly grip. Al swung the severed leg at the two remaining, smacking into them wetly with the foot of the new weapon. It wasn't doing enough, so Al smashed it against the wall fast, harder and harder, until the foot was pulped to nothing and the flesh was ripped away. Al grabbed a rag of clothing from the floor then wiped the top of the bone jutting out from the top of the leg. He gripped vice-like and pulled with all his might. A partial bone ripped free, the sucking squelch actually bringing gasps and groans of "gross" from the hardened crowd.
As he finished making his gruesome weapon he was beset again, turning in time to plunge the broken shard of gleaming bone deep into the throat of one attacker, dodging the other as momentum carried it forward, careening into the wall.
Al grabbed it by the wispy strands of hair at the back of its head and slammed it with a wet thwack twice more into the wall. The body fell limp, a mess of a face staring lifelessly up into the dark void above.
Al stood stock still, panting deeply, hammering chest rising and falling with utter exhaustion. His body was blackened with mud, blood and brains of the now twice dead.
His eyes were defiant.
Kyle was in awe, as were the rest of the crowd. Kyle turned to see Mandy staring at Al in wonder, she was wide-eyed and there was a glimmer of hope in her eyes. She seemed to have drawn energy and vigor from witnessing the foul acts in the arena, maybe clinging to the hope that she thought had been lost.
Kyle was aware of the hush, aware that nobody was saying a word.
Then noise, louder and louder, as the crowd, both those that had backed Al and those that bet against him, cheered his victory, chanted out his name.
It's like bloody Gladiator or something, thought Kyle. Not sure what this meant in terms of their lives, but sure that it was better than if Al had lost, or not had the backing of the crowd.
"Send in four," said the boss. Loud boos rose from the crowd, even the hardest and meanest of them thought he had fought enough and deserved to be allowed to live.
"I said send in four, now. What the hell are you waiting for?" said the boss. Turning to his right-hand-man that was to go and oversee the bringing of new zombie fighters.
The reluctant man didn't say a word, just pointed at the cause of his silence, before he ran as fast as his legs could take him away from the zombie horde that was heading straight toward them like a poison arrow. Headed by a man in a kilt and a slightly overweight black Labrador that looked like it was a little bit on the pissed off side.
The boss grabbed Kyle by the arm, sticking a knife against his ribs, and directed him to the army truck. One of his women had Mandy held fast. With a nod of the head from the boss she was dragged along too. Panic in the eyes of the slavers told Kyle all he needed to know. They were going to leave — with him and Mandy.
They were manhandled to the truck, unceremoniously shoved in and shackled to the benches with chains that ran along both sides. No way to get out of it without the key.
Just how are we going to get out of this, thought Kyle.
Al was still in the arena — with a zombie horde bearing down on him fast.
This Gal Ain't for Sale
"Guess it's down to us then guys," said Ven.
Bos Bos wagged, Tomas gurgled, Ven just felt sick to her stomach.
How the hell was she going to rescue Kyle and Al from zombie, and human, slave traders with just a baby and a dog as her backup team? It wasn't going to be a walk in the park, that she could take for granted.
A plan, she needed a plan. A really, really, really bloody good one.
"Um," said Ven to Tomas, "any sparks of brilliance?" She stuck out her tongue in concentration as she wrote down various ideas on the paper in front of her, using her favorite pink felt tip pen.
She felt extremely alone on the bus, and not a little bit afraid she wasn't too proud to admit. She realized how much she missed the noise of the guys, the constant chatter of Al and Kyle a comfort in this dangerous new world. But not only that, they were her friends, something that was impossible to articulate just how much it meant to her. Until now always a loner, she regretted deeply not having had the company of good people for more of her life. Not that she had been unhappy with her previous life, a loving husband and a beautiful baby boy were all that she had wanted in terms of human company.
Now she understood the true value of friendship there was no goddamn way that she wasn't going to go get them back.
When Bos Bos had arrived back at the bus, covered in mud, panting and looking a little rabid with foam dropping in thick strings from his mouth, it was obvious something was seriously wrong. After the encounter with the alpha zombie she was none too keen on venturing into the woods, but she put aside her deep anxiety, following cautiously where Bos Bos led her.
He wasn't exactly what you would call a tracker extraordinaire, no Lassie. But Bos Bos did his best — he unerringly led Ven to where the fight and capture had recently taken place. She scouted around for a while, until she eventually came to a break in the trees that gave her her first view of the zombie slavers. Creeping closer, making sure Tomas was asleep and snug, that Bos Bos was close, she got near enough to get a better look at what was going on. She just caught the guys being loaded into the truck, followed by a girl that absolutely had to be rescued, before she saw the groups of well armed men, and women (which was a shock), finish off their dealings while a large number of zombies were loaded into a closed white van. The infected were shackled, and it seemed to her that these people were using them as a currency of some description. What for she really wasn't sure.
Eventually they all packed up, and made their way in their vehicles, as well as on foot, around the side of the large building, strangely not entering. Rather they went a short distance and into the ravaged remains of what was obviously once upon a time a very well maintained garden. Broken trees, trampled shrubs and mud everywhere, little remained of what was once a beautiful and serene place. In the center of the shredded shrubbery was a large sunken circular area. The eight foot high stone walls crafted by professionals, the large open space was lined with benches, steps led down from the paved space around it, and what was most disconcerting of all was that off to one side, away from the groups of people, were piles of bodies in all manner of states of decay. Some fresh, some little more than pulp, the stench was palpable but obviously didn't seem to worry those now hustling to occupy the spaces around the pit.
Sentries were posted all around, it would be suicide to try to get closer. People stood in small groups, chatting, drinking and smoking.
Tires had completely ruined the grassy areas, they were little more than wet mud now. But a lot of the area was either paved or graveled, with decorative shapes where random topiary, crafted over decades of careful pruning, still clung to life.
A man went over to a van and pulled out a line of zombies chained together. They were prodded with shock batons if they resisted, all the time roaring and clawing for flesh. The captor merely laughed.
More infected, numbering maybe in the hundreds, were chained together in huge groups, massive long runs of high tension wire strung for at least a hundred meters well overhead. Each one chained to its neighbor in a line, then additionally chained to the overhead cable, allowing them to move side to side slightly, but definitely well contained. She recognized people from the funfair, noting one large but skinny man seemed to be in charge. He shouted orders, directed men and women to keep the large number of infected under control, while another smaller group were laughing and joking with him between his barked commands.
They had their own smaller contingent of zombies crammed into a van it seemed, as
well as another van that was eerily quiet.
Ven watched as a woman wearing a big parka with a fluffy lined hood opened the rear of the vehicle. A wall of moaning and begging for mercy hit Ven's ears.
People.
Alive.
Captive.
What the hell was going on here?
A young man was dragged out, already beaten badly, one eye swollen shut, the lid as big as a golf ball. He struggled and shouted, but was forced to the stairs leading to the pit and pushed repeatedly down the steps.
He was thrown to the ground at the bottom by the woman — constantly shouting at him as she threw a short knife into the ring.
There was much discussion between the tall man and the leader of the other group. They appeared to be arguing about which ones to pick, but eventually the tall man gave an order and two infected were unchained from the large line.
All the while a balding, rotund man sat quietly at a desk, a rickety chair just taking his weight. He was fat, very fat.
Stacks of paper and piles of cigarettes, booze and more were lined up on the table and the floor next to him. People were stepping forward, arguing and exchanging goods for bits of paper. Others seemed to be making their own bets between themselves.
Understanding hit Ven like a smack in the face with a wet kipper. How could she have been so stupid as to not see what was going on sooner?
Slavers.
Zombie slavers. Human slavers. And fight pits. They were betting on who would win: humans versus zombies. She felt sick to her stomach.