Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead

by A. P. Fuchs

  Briefly, Adamu wondered what type of the undead he’d be battling today. He knew he’d find out soon enough.

  And he did. The buzzer sounded and the house lights went on. The iron ring lit up and the dead began to rise.

  A Shambler stood before him, wrists bound in chains.

  Adamu didn’t know him personally, but this time Sterpanko had the guts to actually put a real rikishi in front of him and not just some mindless, bag of dead skin and guts.

  It was a Sumo.

  Though the ring here was not a traditional dohyō, he wondered if the creature across from him even knew what a dohyō was anymore. Regardless, Adamu got busy stomping his legs in a shiko exercise to drive away any evil spirits in the ring. He mentally went through the purification ritual of rinsing his mouth with chikara-mizu (power water) and drying it with chikara-gami (power paper).

  He squatted, clapped his hands, showing the dead man he had no weapons, then mentally sprinkled salt into the ring to purify it.

  It was time to begin and those in the shadows controlling the bout knew it.

  The buzzer rang again and the undead Sumo’s chains dropped to the floor.

  Adamu launched his initial charge, the tachi-ai, something that, in the upper divisions, he didn’t normally do, but here, it was charge or die. The other Sumo seemed to be doing the same thing. They plowed into each other. The thud as healthy and dead flesh collided echoed all the way up Adamu’s chest. Immediately, the zombie Sumo—Zumo?—began biting, his flappy jowls pushing into him as he tried to take a chunk of meat out of Adamu’s shoulder.

  Adamu shoved his head into the Zumo’s, pushing with enough might to knock the dead man’s giant head away from his flesh.

  Quick, Adamu said to himself. With that, he jerked his chest and gut forward, bumping the Zumo back. The force was hard enough that, had this been the old days, it would have forced the Zumo to stumble out of the dohyō no problem. The thing with the fights now was the victor had to be the one left alive. If you died outside the cage due to a fatal wound, you were still considered the victor.

  When the Zumo straightened himself, he crouched down and made a second charge. Adamu ran into him, putting all his weight behind himself like a freight train. Sweaty thick flesh slapped together. Adamu grabbed the Zumo by his mawashi, hoisted him a couple feet from the floor, then twisted to the side, tossing the Zumo to the ground.

  The crowd cheered.

  Adamu kept a straight face, leaned forward slightly, and braced himself for the Zumo’s next move.

  The Zumo got up, turned around and ambled toward him. Adamu charged him, this time keeping his elbows in front of his body and using them as a battering ram against the mass of gray flesh before him. The Zumo took the blow to the chest, stumbled backward, then once more regained his footing.

  The two men latched onto each other, Adamu wriggling the top half of himself enough to keep his shoulders and chest away from the zombie’s hungry mouth. Bodies pressed together, Adamu held firm to the decaying flesh. The two moved forward then back, then twisted in a circle as each tried to take advantage of the other.

  All the Zumo cared about was a sizable snack, Adamu knew. Well, he wasn’t going to let him have it.

  The Zumo growled and quicker than expected adjusted its arms and used them to shove Adamu backward. His bare heels caught on the cement floor and he fell onto his behind. The Zumo charged him. Rocking to the side a couple of times and building momentum, Adamu released at the last moment and rolled over as the Zumo charged past.

  He got up, crouched, then held out his hands as the Zumo ran toward him. The two latched onto each other again. Adamu squeezed his elbows against the monster’s flesh, hoping the dead skin would give way and maybe his elbows could puncture the zombie and cause it to bleed. The skin, though squishy, held.

  Teeth began to clamp on his shoulder. Adamu jerked himself away, denying the Zumo its chance.

  Nothing more than a scrape, he thought.

  He quickly grabbed on again, hoisted the Zumo up a bit, then swung the creature over his leg and to the ground a couple feet away.

  The Zumo scrambled on the ground on all fours, mouth open, its aim apparently for Adamu’s shins or thighs.

  Adamu let him come. Closer. Closer. And closer until the Zumo was a breath away. Adamu parted his legs and the Zumo stuck his head right between his thighs. As fast and as fluidly as he could, Adamu clamped his legs together, jumped up, then swung his legs out in front of him, crushing the Zumo’s head beneath his bottom, at the same time bringing clamped hands down onto the Zumo’s spine, breaking it.

  A gush of cool liquid oozed beneath Adamu’s thighs as the dead man’s blood squirted out to either side of him.

  The crowd roared.

  Adamu got up, careful to keep his feet and ankles away from the Zumo just in case the creature was still alive.

  The Zumo lay face down against the concrete.

  Adamu kept his eye on him, and after a few moments turned his back and stepped up to the edge of the cage and stared out into the audience.

  The crowd cheered. Then they cheered louder.

  Suddenly, strong hands grabbed Adamu’s waist from behind and something slick rubbed up against the back of his thighs. He shoved himself off the cage into the air and came crashing down on the Zumo’s body about mid back, flattening the creature. He reached down, grabbed the Zumo’s head under the chin and pulled up until the rotting flesh of the zombie’s neck gave way, then the ligaments, then the bones.

  Adamu got up, holding the head in his left hand by the hair.

  He held it up for the audience to see.

  25

  No Anna

  Mick had barely paid attention to the last fight. Anna was here. He saw her. He had the sore cheekbone and bloody lip to prove it. He wiped the sweat from his brow then put his palm to his chest to try and slow his racing heart. It had been pounding so hard since being plopped back down in his chair that the muscle was beginning to ache and he feared a heart attack.

  His hands trembled. He glanced around the sea of faces in the arena for any sign of Anna. Though he doubted she’d be sitting somewhere in the stands, he couldn’t help himself but look.

  “She’s here. She’s here. I know she’s here,” he whispered, twisting around in his seat so he could get a good look at the folks all around.

  “Got a mouse in your pants?” Jack asked.

  “No. Fine. Just fine. I’m fine.”

  “Don’t sound it.”

  Mick stood. “SHUT UP!”

  Jack’s eyes went wide. So did those of the other people seated around them.

  Mick took a deep breath and sat down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blow up on you like that.”

  The big man shrugged. “Yeah, whatever, mate. Seems to me you got a lot riding tonight. I’ve seen paranoid. I mean, really seen it. What you got, I don’t know. Some kind of crazy, that’s for sure.”

  “Well, that may be. I honestly don’t know what I’m feeling anymore.”

  “Should see a doctor.”

  “Or a shrink.”

  Jack looked at him crossly. “Or an exorcist.”

  “Never mind.” Anna. Where is she?

  Mick stood again with the mind to take another walk to the bathroom. One stern look from the greasy security guard standing by the door to the hallway told him he’d better sit his butt down lest he get a baton placed somewhere inconvenient. Mick sat. He wiped his face and coughed.

  Jack was already flipping through the screens of his Controller.

  “Anything good?” Mick said without meaning to. He knew the rules.

  “Shhh.”

  “Sorry.” Mick still couldn’t fathom how Sterpanko or anyone else could monitor all the conversations going on in this place.

  Unless each seat was bugged.

  Sterpanko was a goon, pure and simple, and the fact Mick had given him so much of his livelihood—it finally set in and what felt like a peeled grapefruit made
its way from Mick’s chest down into his stomach. He could even taste the sourness at the back of his throat he felt so guilty.

  Where was Anna?

  If I let it go, then she’s walking around here somewhere somehow tied into all this. If I try and find her, I’ll get my nose broke. Mick sniffed. How are you even involved in this, Anna? I just don’t—

  Jack nudged Mick with his elbow. “Better get thinking, partner. Battle’s about to go down.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” Jack keeps reminding me to bet. I have to stay focused. Mick pulled out his Controller and took in the details of the next bout. It looked interesting, that was for sure. This thing with Anna, though—He had to figure out a way to find her or see her somehow. He also needed to try and focus and win back as much cash as he could otherwise, whether he found her or not, he wouldn’t be seeing her again after tonight.

  “What do you do when the Reaper’s coming for you?” he muttered, then placed his bet.

  26

  Wrestler vs Zombie

  Bet: $275,000

  Owing: $644,000

  There were few places on Earth that Shanna could be herself. The first and most immediate was at home with her husband, Steph, the second—well, the second wasn’t around anymore, but it had been with her family, growing up with them, sharing meals, getting lessons—all before the Zombie War. Now they were but a memory, gone to the waves of time along with the security that came with the knowledge that despite her enormous size, she was still perceived as a woman and not some sort of man-made-lady that many thought her to be.

  The last place she was comfortable was here in Blood Bay Arena, in the ring. Here she was expected to be out of the ordinary. A six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound woman? Sure, you betchya. We see those sorts of things here all the time. A muscular frame that would make a grown man think he’s looking at Arnold in his prime, you say? Them’s the norm around these parts. Move along, nothing to see here.

  However, being a pro wrestler on Zombie Fight Night wasn’t too bad a gig. Shanna got paid well enough and Mr. Sterpanko seemed to have taken a shining to her for some strange reason. Why? She didn’t know. But here . . . yeah, here, she could be herself. Be human again and not some large woman that people pointed or children stared at. “Look, Mom, she’s stronger than Daddy.” Or, “Must be on the juice. Nobody gets that big naturally.” That last part was a common misconception when it came to how she got to be the way she was. It did come naturally. Her body had polycystic ovary syndrome, and produced far more testosterone than your average female, thanks to cysts on her ovaries. Her estrogen output was just enough to cover the basics and give her the right desires God intended, but other than that, she had the body of Mr. Universe, and some unfortunate health issues to go along with it.

  It first started back during puberty. Grade four for her. In gym class she noticed she was better at the games than most of the other girls. While their swings at bat during baseball sent the ball as far as short stop, hers cleared the field most of the time. She was even made starting pitcher one season of softball. Coach said her arm moved swift like a windmill and delivered a ball with the punch of a hurricane to the catcher beyond.

  Soon she grew much faster than the other girls and even by grade nine she was near six feet. Some guys loved the height; others called her “beanstalk” or “oak lady.” Many of those boys wound up with a black eye at the end of the day and she got consecutive trips to the principal’s office in return.

  Muscle-gaining came easy and she hit the weights for the first time when she was fifteen years old. Soon, she got involved in inter-school wrestling. After high school, she wrestled in the university league. After that, she turned pro and scored two heavyweight titles in the women’s division then quickly suggested to the league owners they let her compete against the men. They were afraid a woman competing against a man for the title would stir up controversy, but she convinced them to utilize that to their advantage and reap the financial benefits such a scandal would cause. She took on Thunder Guns, the reigning champ at the time, and had him pinned inside of four minutes even though it was originally planned she should throw the fight. They let her keep the title for a few weeks before firing her for disobedience. The fans thought she had merely been written out of the story.

  Then the Zombie War came and after it ended, she found herself back in an industry that once destroyed her livelihood. Still, to be herself and not some freak was wonderful and she didn’t mind being a part of the biz again if it meant a means to let loose some of her aggression and not have to worry about what other people thought about her.

  As she stood there in the dark, she clenched her fists, then relaxed her hands and adjusted her leather corset. She double checked the long braid of her blonde hair to make sure it was in place, and she stamped her heels against the ground, psyching herself up.

  She was ready. It was time to show these people what she was made of.

  The buzzer sounded and the lights went on.

  The iron ring lit up and the dead began to rise.

  Blood Bay Arena did its best to match the zombie to the fighter, something to give the crowd their money’s worth. Shanna’s matches were no exception and standing before her was a hulk of a man, gray-skinned and purple-veined, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. Red gauges dotted the man’s skin. It looked as if he was a seasoned fighter and the damage had been done by a werewolf or other creature. He had short, greasy black hair, and wrinkly, gray circles around his eyes. The man’s hands were like baseball mitts. Unfortunately, he was a Shambler, and combining that with his appeared weight of two-hundred-fifty-or-so pounds, the guy was going to move slow.

  You could end this quickly and be in a hot bath inside of ten minutes, Shanna thought. She wasn’t sure if she was in the mood to give everybody a show or not, yet it would still be something sweet to see a big blonde take out a large dead man.

  The buzzer rang and the dead man’s chains fell to the concrete floor.

  Lights shining bright above, Shanna took a quick second to say a prayer of help, then focused herself at what needed doing. The secret here, as always, was to not get bit. If you kept away from a zombie’s mouth, you had an eighty percent chance of survival already. The other trick was to stay away from their hands. Once those slapped down on you, they dragged and pulled you in until the undead could lock their teeth around your neck or shoulder. Being near their arms was okay. The undead didn’t really use them to reel you in. It was the hands—the grab-and-pull—that was dangerous. The other advantage was the zombies normally led with their face, mouth-first, so you knew where they were aiming for on your body and you could then avoid them.

  The zombie stumbled toward her. Shanna side-stepped, forcing it to follow her in a circular pattern.

  The creature lunged at her. She stepped to the side and the zombie grabbed nothing but air. She maneuvered around it so she was behind, grabbed the zombie by the waist, bent her knees, then thrust upward with all her might, throwing the zombie over her shoulder in a well-executed suplex.

  Releasing him, she got up, took two quick steps so she was alongside the zombie, then cocked her elbow and put her bodyweight behind it as she plowed it into his spine, crashing down on top of him.

  The crowd cheered, loving every minute of it.

  Giving in to a bit of showmanship, Shanna squatted over the zombie, facing his feet, then dropped her backside onto the small of his back. With a firm grip, she took up the zombie’s ankles and pulled hard, forcing the legs toward her and turning the zombie’s body into a perfect U: pure Boston Crab.

  Hoots and whistles filled the arena.

  Shanna smiled, released the dead man, got to her feet and strode over to one side of the cage, tossing her arms up.

  “Yeah? Yeah? You want more? Huh! Okay, you got it!” she growled.

  More whistles.

  The zombie was getting to his feet. Shanna ran over to him and stomped her foot into his ribcage, stopping
him. The decayed flesh gave way and a gush of blood followed by a glop of rotting intestine poured out.

  The zombie fell onto his side.

  Shanna took a step away and raised a fist to the crowd.

  The dead man slowly got up, shook his head as if he was trying to shake the cobwebs out, then lumbered over to her, arms outstretched, moving them up and down like flesh-made scissors.

  Shanna weaved under the arms, once, twice—and on the third the zombie caught her and began pulling her in. The man’s hands were rough and heavy, like lead-filled balloons, with a strength that made his fingers dig deep into her skin. She kicked at the ground, trying to push away. The zombie lost its grip for a moment but quickly re-established it. Mouth open, he pulled her in toward it.

  With a swift right hook, she knocked the zombie’s jaw to the side, then came back with an uppercut and landed her fist squared where the jaw met the neck. The zombie’s head snapped back and she hoped the force of the blow was enough to break his neck. The zombie released her, stumbled back a few steps, then slowly brought his head forward again.

  “Are you serious?” she said.

  She snapped out her arm and ran at him, quickly veering to the side at the last moment and took the zombie down with a mighty clothesline.

  She stomped on the zombie’s back. The undead man jerked, his sudden move so unexpected that the jolt of his girth was enough to knock her off balance. She fell backward on her behind.

  The crowd screamed. She thought she heard someone shout, “Look out!”

  She tried to roll to the side just as the zombie grabbed her legs, but it was too late. The creature had her and was tugging at her boot, trying to figure a way around the laces and into the tender flesh beneath.

  She kicked her feet as hard as she could, gave it all she had in a mad scramble to gain some distance.