4. Undead Fight Club

The tunnel was steep and led deep underground. Measuring distance in the surrounding uniformity was difficult, but Nick judged they were at least a quarter mile away from the bar. When dealing with the undead, distance was the golden rule. All it took was one shambler getting out of a pen and it was all over. Nick looked up at the tunnel ceiling. It looked sturdy enough, but there were small grey boxes placed every ten feet on the ceiling. At a guess, they were explosives, rigged to collapse the tunnel on command. At least he’s being smart about it. There was nothing smart about willingly going near the undead, but it was the thought that counted.

In his brief distraction, Nick hardly noticed the growing din of a crowd. The tunnel’s slope flattened and curved gently to the right. As they rounded the corner, it widened, revealing a towering antechamber. Crystal lights swayed from the vaulted ceiling in the slight breeze of an air conditioner. The room widened with each step, making room for elaborate stalls and shops flanking its edges. At the end was a large stone archway with a neon sign reading: ‘The Pits’.

“Of course, Martin wouldn’t be happy with any old fighting pit.” Martin was skittish by nature, but also deeply insecure. In practice, it made for a personality full of bravado and treachery. Remembering their previous encounter, Nick scanned the area for potential exits. Unfortunately, the only way out seemed to be the way they had come.

“Holy hell.” James looked around the room in wide-eyed excitement. “I haven’t seen anything like this since…”

“Yes, the black market you got us kicked out of. Remind me a gain and I’m liable to get pissy.”

“Seems like you’re halfway there,” said Shirley.

Nick grunted and ignored her, turning his attention to the crowded stalls instead. The mix of snacks, souvenirs and undoubtedly illegal goods warmed his heart. Strange smokey aromas wafted through the air and a rabble of bargaining, insults, and betting made a fitting chorus to match. The feeling of fully functioning illegal commerce on a massive scale was difficult to beat. He took a deep breath and held the smell of the place. The underworld was always trying to kill him, but he also didn’t know what life would be like without it.

“It’s beautiful,” said Lopsang.

“It’s highly illegal,” replied Shirley, keeping her voice low.

“It’s perfect.” Nick hated to admit that Martin had done something right, but credit where credit was due. Together, the four of them walked into the bustling crowd, joining the rabble. They passed by a stand selling undead creatures in various states of decay. The bony bastards skittered around metal cages. Nick saw monkeys, ferrets, and a few other creatures he couldn’t identify. A single bite from any of them could cause an outbreak.

James wandered over toward the cages. “Where do you think they find all the—”

All the animals began to chitter, hoot and shriek at the same time. A monkey that was more bones than anything slammed its fists on the cage bars, rattling the entire stand.

The shopkeeper, a gangly man with a wizard-like beard shooed James away. “If they don’t like you, I don’t like you!” He spat on the ground. “You’re banned.”

James’s face flushed and he backed away.

Nick made a mental note to follow up later. James wasn’t technically undead, but he had been to the other side and back before. Maybe there was something in the creatures that could sense him.

“The paperwork I’m going to have to do for all of this.” Shirley’s voice held no awe for the surroundings and was instead filled with exhaustion.

Nick shook his head. “You promised you’d be cool about this, Shirley. That means the beautiful abomination around you stays exactly as it is. No corporate goons, no regulation.”

“I promised no such thing.” Shirley’s eyes flicked around the various stalls, no doubt coding and cataloguing their illegal contents.

“It was worth a try.”

“Think they sell Witch’s brew?” asked Lopsang, half joking.

Nick bit back vomit. “In a place like this, I’m sure they do, and I can’t even imagine what else they’ve got.” He tried to focus on the task at hand, but the environment was overwhelming. Finding a shadow priest hardly seemed interesting when there was a four-headed corpse spit roasting over an open fire.

“Is that a Cerberus?” asked James.

A burly man in a black apron brought out a plastic jug filled with brown liquid and poured it slowly over the cooking meat.

“You don’t see that every day. Looks a bit better than the one we roasted in the sewers, doesn’t it?” Nick could still remember the stench from that night. Pumping a hell hound full of thermite next to a gas main was not an experience one forgot easily.

James wrinkled his nose. “I’ll be honest, still smells the same.”

Nick nodded in agreement. “But we have to try it, right?”

“We are here on a mission,” reminded Shirley, looking momentarily stern. “But, if you think your stomachs can handle it, we might as well.”

Nick felt regret and joy in the same instant. Whatever was in illegal Cerberus roast was not likely to end well for them, but it was too late to back down.

Shirley stared at him, a flicker of the curious tabloid reporter she had once been showing through. “What’s the matter, Nick? I thought you were game for anything?”

“Well, if our commanding officer is going to allow it, I guess we have to.” The four of them made their way to the stand. Prices were scrawled on a crude wooden board next to the rotating meat. Nick gave the man a small handful of bills, and in exchange, he returned with four shish kababs of blackened meat.

Lopsang took the first bite, and when his teeth pierced the skin, they made an audible crunch. He chewed, trying to get a mouthful, but found it difficult. After several gnashing attempts, he ripped a ragged hunk from the bone. Near immediate nausea brimmed on his face.

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The rest of the group followed suit and shared a look of revulsion.

“Alright, maybe just because it’s exotic, doesn’t mean it’s worth the time and effort.”

“Yeah, I guess that comes from them being so damned quick. This is practically all gristle.” James dropped his kebab in the nearest trash bin, trying to do so out of the vendor’s sight. “Some things are just better left for the imagination.”

While the meat was tough, Nick realized he was starving and did his best to swallow a few mouthfuls before ditching his own. Any sort of buffer between his stomach lining and the whiskey he had just consumed was welcome. He could already feel bile rising. “Alright, Shirley, I got you in, now what?”

Shirley chucked her kebab in the garbage. “Now, we find Martin and ask him a few questions about our friend The Read Death.”

“Right, should be easy enough. Knowing Martin, he’s got a box overlooking the action, and he can’t resist a chat with an old friend.”

“I thought you weren’t friends?”

Nick mulled it over. “The line between enemies and friends is so thin, but if he still hates me, this will be easy.” He pointed to a security camera hanging just above the kebab shop. “Martin already knows we’re here.” Nick walked off in the direction of the roaring crowd. He passed under the neon-emblazoned archway and into a wide concrete path, circling the outside of grandstands. Tilted passageways led up to higher seats, and through them, Nick caught a glimpse of blood-stained glass. Curiosity got the better of him, and he hurried up the ramp to get a better look.

The transparent barrier overlooked a sand arena where two zombies clad in metal armor were doing their best to chase a man wielding a flaming great sword. The living man wore nothing aside from sweatpants and a red headband to keep long locks of black hair out of his eyes. A mix of boos and cheers resonated from the stands as the man deftly avoided the two shambling corpses.

At least he knows what he’s doing. People always assumed killing the zombie was the tricky part. In fact, the real trick was getting close enough to do so without inadvertent exposure. Zombie blood was filled with all sorts of nastiness, and if even one drop got into the human bloodstream, it was game over. Unless of course, someone had a hatchet nearby, and the victim didn’t mind losing a limb.

Nick looked up at the roaring crowd. The stands were simple bleachers running up in concentric circles to a vaulted ceiling. Boxes with small balconies were set against the back wall. The clientele felt like a mix of a NASCAR race and a murder trial. Patrons hurled slurs and curse words that would have made the blackest heart flush, and the look in their eyes showed an uncomfortable passion for blood sport.

Conversely, the men and women sitting in the boxes looked reserved and well-dressed. Several of them had small binoculars that would have been at home in the opera. Martin’s benefactors. The man might have been a coward, but his silver tongue kept him flush with cash. Usually it came with strings, but Martin was often long gone by the time they were pulled.

Shirley stepped up to his side. “So, this is what you wanted me to ‘be cool’ about?”

“It’s a tale as old as time, Shirley. Unlucky commoners competing for glory in the arena, hoping to elevate their status.” Or being forced into it by circumstance and desperate need. Nick knew the moral points against arena fighting but didn’t feel like getting into an argument about them while surrounded by people who burned witches for less.

One of the two zombies got ahold of the living man’s arm and bit a chunk from it. Blood sprayed the sand and the man pulled away, grasping at the wound with sudden, horrible realization.

“It’s barbaric,” commented Shirley.

“And the covert operations of The Sixth Side aren’t? At least the fighting pits are honest about it.”

The man in the arena fell to his knees, staring at his arm. “Ah, come on,” he groaned. The veins leading out from his wound turned black and swelled to twice their normal size

“That’s a fast infection,” noted Nick.

“What the Sixth Side does is protect--”

“That’s disgusting!” interrupted Lopsang, stepping up behind them.

James followed and grimaced. “Really feel like we might be on the wrong side here,”

The man in the ring frothed at the mouth and doubled over, puking a vile substance into the sand. Foam dripped in great bloody gobs from his mouth. His fingers gripped the earth with suicidal force, and then slackened. When he lifted his head, his eyes had gone completely white.

“And that’s the ballgame.”

An announcer’s voice boomed through the crowd. “Oooh, and that’s another for our gruesome twosome tonight folks!” A boxing-style bell tolled in the arena and a scoreboard shifted reflecting the one-point change. The board read: Living 2 – Infected 15.

“That’s a busy night. Normally you don’t keep a place like this open with those odds. They must pay well.” Despite his better senses, Nick wondered how much he could make for going a few rounds.

The crowd roared.

“Let’s get this over with and get the hell out of here.”

Nick nodded and pointed toward the boxes. “Martin’s patrons are sitting up there. Knowing the little weasel, he’s with them, greasing their palms. You don’t get a place like this built without a bit of groveling.”

“Let’s move.” Shirley started off, but Nick reached out a hand and pulled her back.

“Hold on. How are we expecting to get up there? There’s going to be guards, and if we get caught, then we’re going to be next out there.”

Shirley laughed and tossed her hair to the side. “Clearly you’ve never traveled with a woman before.”

Nick smirked. “It can’t be that easy.”

“Want to bet on it?”

“Fine, what are the stakes?” A honey pot wasn’t going to fool Martin. He was a creature built for survival and suspicion.

“I win, you let me shut this place down. You win, you can drink as much as you like on The Sixth Side’s tab for the rest of the operation.”

Nick’s head spun at the sheer amount of top-shelf booze she was offering. Fantasies of benders that lasted weeks and ended on IV drips flashed before his eyes. With an unlimited budget, he could start doing the work—the work of turning his brain into a fine sludge and forgetting the events of the past twenty years. “Fine. James, Lopsang, you’re my witnesses.”

James nodded. “You better share that newfound wealth when you win.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Shirley turned on her heel and motioned for them to follow.

As expected, when they reached the entrance to the luxury suites, a pair of burly guards stood sentinel at the door. The implication of the two military-grade shotguns they carried was not lost on the quartet as they approached. Nick said a silent prayer that Shirley knew what she was doing, even if it meant he would lose the bet.

Shirley was not phased and walked straight up to the guards.

Nick’s guts churned being so close to the barrel of a shotgun, but he followed anyway. He waited, breath held to see how Shirley planned to get her way through security. She reached into her pocket, pulled out four tickets, and presented them to the burlier of the two men.

The guard took the tickets and scrutinized them, occasionally pausing to look back up at Shirley. Eventually, he pressed the call button on the elevator doors behind him. The doors slid open, revealing a lavish interior. “Have a good night and thank you for choosing Martin’s for your undead fighting needs.”

“Thank you kindly,” said Shirley and stepped past.

Lopsang and James followed, but fear rooted Nick to the spot; partly for what lay beyond the elevator, and partly for the quick and shitty outcome of his bet. He took a last look at the seedy underground around them. In a few days, the place would be swarming with government agents. Every grimy detail would be swept clean, collapsed, and forgotten. The beautiful monument to humanity’s baser instincts would be nothing more than a footnote in a post-mission report.

“Sir?” asked the guard.

“Come on Nick, the next bout is going to start,” called Shirley.

Nick sighed and stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut behind him with a dull thud. The elevator hummed and they moved upward.

Shirley shot Nick a smirking grin.

“Oh come off it, you had tickets.”

“A bet is a bet,” she replied.

Nick ran a hand through his hair, unhappy with the level of grease he found. “Right, a bet is a bet.”

Just as Nick was about to be overwhelmed by self-pity, the doors opened with a chime. Eager to be out of the ‘I told you so’ conversation, Nick stepped out. Unfortunately, in his haste, he failed to notice the black-clad armed guards standing with submachine guns pointed at the elevator doors.

“I think that’s far enough,” said the man in the lead.

Reflexively, Nick raised his hands above his head. “These your friends, Shirley?”

Shirley stepped out with her hands up as well. “I wish.”

“We’re employed by your good friend, Martin, Mr. Ventner. He’d like to have a little chat.”