Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead by A P Fuchs

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    E ven the dark was covered in a sheet of red. Bloody and inky.
    The Sprinter didn’t have a beating heart, but his pectoral muscles, like the others in his body, still seemed to work and they, in place of his heart, rapidly twitched their own twisted beat.
    A low growl lingered in the back of its throat, one based on rage, fueled by an anger that had rooted itself in its rotting intestines since the day he was reborn.
    One of his nostrils was plugged, the cartilage having rotted through a long time ago. When, he wasn’t sure. Sometime during the . . . he didn’t know the word for it and only had images: blood, the tearing of flesh, people running, screaming. But the other one worked, just differently than . . . than what he couldn’t remember. The scent was on the air. He didn’t need to breathe it in through his nose—he couldn’t breathe—but the air made its way into his nostril and touched the olfactory nerve cells. What was left of them, anyway.
Decaying meat. Fat and sluggish.
The buzzer sounded and the lights went on.
Dark red to fire red.
Noise all around as countless voices cheered and hollered.
The iron ring lit up then slid to the side.
The dead began to rise.
    A gray-skinned pusbag that must have weighed over four hundred pounds stood before him, its smell so sharp it was no wonder he smelled the creature before it even rose through the floor. The dead man across from him was greasy, with a balding head covered in sticky thin strands of unwashed hair. The guy’s rolls hung over a pair of pale blue boxer shorts, the bottom of his gut nearly touching the knees of his stubby legs. Rotting man-boobs with dried-up nipples hung low and off to the side from his chest. The dead man had no neck, but instead his fat head, no longer appearing to be supported by neck muscles, sank into his shoulders.
Delicious.
Fattie raised his hands to just below his gut, the shackles restraining him jingling as he did.
The buzzer sounded and the shackles fell.
Lunch time.
    Fattie just stood there, as if unsure what to do. All the Sprinter saw was a bag of powdery gray meat hanging off a rack of bones. If the Shambler had a beating heart, the Sprinter was sure he would hear it.
    The Shambler stumbled forward, its steps lame and slow. Only a few inches at a time.
    The Sprinter charged him, mouth open and teeth ready. He raised his hands out to the side and hooked his fingers like a set of talons. He plowed into the fat man, his teeth gouging the flesh of the man’s chest, his fingers digging themselves into the man’s sides. The Sprinter tore out a bite. Black blood oozed from the corners of his mouth.
    Cheering resounded.
    Fattie dropped his head and smacked him in the forehead. Bone cracked and the Sprinter wasn’t sure whose skull gave way. Perhaps both. He withdrew his fingers from Fattie’s sides and checked his forehead. The skull was dented with a sharp ridge down the middle, but it wasn’t split wide open.A heavy set of thick slabs for arms closed in swiftly from the sides and locked him in from the elbows up. The Sprinter jerked and squirmed and, as fast as he could, pulled his arms out then shot them in, digging his fingers into the fat man’s sides. The moment his hands were in the cool flesh, he grabbed hold of whatever he could find then tore them out in a splash of black blood. The liquefying remains of a kidney, liver and some intestine splattered to the floor.
    The Shambler groaned and dropped its head again, this time pushing a set of teeth into the top of the Sprinter’s shoulder. Flesh tore then was removed.
    The Sprinter took the pain, fought once more against the Shambler’s hold, and, still unable to break free, slammed his head up into Fattie’s neck, taking as much into his mouth as he possibly could. The spongy texture of rotted flesh touched his tongue. Instant euphoria flooded through him.
    The Sprinter chewed, swallowed, then pushed his face further into the blubber beneath the