fat man’s chin and slowly ate his way into the man’s neck. The head was detaching. Just when he thought he was about to eat through clear to the other side, gravity took them and four hundred pounds of dead flesh pulled him down with it. They hit the cement floor with a resounding smack. The Sprinter felt the front of his skull give way upon impact. Then something else.
Something heavy fell from his skull as if his head was taking a dump.
It was his brain.
15
The Bald Guy in the
Spider-Man Shirt
M ick wanted to take a baseball bat to his head and bash his own brains in. How could he have been so stupid? Was it the Controller? Did he mistype?
Zombie versus zombie, a ridiculous fight that should never have happened to begin with. And now he lost, owing over three hundred grand more than the original debt that landed him here at Blood Bay Arena in the first place.
Careful to not show any emotion, he checked the Controller and verified his input for the last bout. As if Sterpanko would buy the excuse of a wrong-betting entry anyway. Mick had meant to choose the Shambler over the Sprinter. The idea was the Shambler’s baser instincts and tolerance for pain would allow it to plow through any of the Sprinter’s assaults and just go to town on the other zombie’s neck. Subconsciously, though, he opted for the Sprinter and that ended up being his bet. On some level there was comfort. He knew better despite his mistake. Perhaps he could get that instinct to work for him as the night went on.
He glanced over at Jack. The man’s brow was furrowed, deep creases on his forehead. Mick took in the old guy on his left. No expression. He just sat there, staring forward, hands on his cane; the epitome of tranquility. Maybe he was dead?
A part of Mick expected that any minute now one of Sterpanko’s cronies would come along, scoop him out of his chair, take him to a backroom somewhere and beat his brains in.
No. Sterpanko’s probably enjoying this, Mick thought. He knows exactly how I’m doing. Probably torn between being ticked over my losing and being overjoyed that he’ll personally put a bullet between my eyes. After he carves me like a turkey, that is.
Mick stood up. “Excuse me, Jack.”
Jack pulled in his legs and Mick ebbed out onto the aisle and made his way up the concrete steps leading to a pair of doors at the top. He went through them and went a ways down the wide hallway beyond to the bathroom. There was a line trailing out the door, but nothing too terrible. He could wait. More than anything he just wanted to splash some cold water on his face. He hoped that wouldn’t be too telling to the other patrons.
As he stood there, hands in his pockets, Mick once again caught himself eyeing everyone else, wondering who, if anyone, was in the hole deep like him. The men in line, the other men and women walking by—they all looked as if they had it together.
But it’s all surface. Remember that, Mick thought.
He followed the line into the bathroom, did his thing, washed up, then came back out. As he followed the numbers hanging above each doorway leading back into the arena proper, he ended up bumping into the guy in front of him, a burly guy, over six feet with a gargoyle tattoo on his neck.
“Sorry,” Mick said.
The guy gave him a sour look and Mick thought the dude was about to deliver a giant fist into his kisser, but instead the guy stepped to the side and let him pass. Once ten or so steps away, Mick glanced back over his shoulder at him. The guy was already caught up in another conversation. A white guy with no hair and sunglasses wearing a Spider-Man shirt stepped passed the man Mick bumped into. Mick recognized him as he had been in the john with him.
Mick kept going, stopped for a sip at a water fountain, then looked back in the direction he came. The Spider-Man shirt guy stood not far off, looking at posters of fighters on the wall next to one of the entrances back into the
Something heavy fell from his skull as if his head was taking a dump.
It was his brain.
15
The Bald Guy in the
Spider-Man Shirt
M ick wanted to take a baseball bat to his head and bash his own brains in. How could he have been so stupid? Was it the Controller? Did he mistype?
Zombie versus zombie, a ridiculous fight that should never have happened to begin with. And now he lost, owing over three hundred grand more than the original debt that landed him here at Blood Bay Arena in the first place.
Careful to not show any emotion, he checked the Controller and verified his input for the last bout. As if Sterpanko would buy the excuse of a wrong-betting entry anyway. Mick had meant to choose the Shambler over the Sprinter. The idea was the Shambler’s baser instincts and tolerance for pain would allow it to plow through any of the Sprinter’s assaults and just go to town on the other zombie’s neck. Subconsciously, though, he opted for the Sprinter and that ended up being his bet. On some level there was comfort. He knew better despite his mistake. Perhaps he could get that instinct to work for him as the night went on.
He glanced over at Jack. The man’s brow was furrowed, deep creases on his forehead. Mick took in the old guy on his left. No expression. He just sat there, staring forward, hands on his cane; the epitome of tranquility. Maybe he was dead?
A part of Mick expected that any minute now one of Sterpanko’s cronies would come along, scoop him out of his chair, take him to a backroom somewhere and beat his brains in.
No. Sterpanko’s probably enjoying this, Mick thought. He knows exactly how I’m doing. Probably torn between being ticked over my losing and being overjoyed that he’ll personally put a bullet between my eyes. After he carves me like a turkey, that is.
Mick stood up. “Excuse me, Jack.”
Jack pulled in his legs and Mick ebbed out onto the aisle and made his way up the concrete steps leading to a pair of doors at the top. He went through them and went a ways down the wide hallway beyond to the bathroom. There was a line trailing out the door, but nothing too terrible. He could wait. More than anything he just wanted to splash some cold water on his face. He hoped that wouldn’t be too telling to the other patrons.
As he stood there, hands in his pockets, Mick once again caught himself eyeing everyone else, wondering who, if anyone, was in the hole deep like him. The men in line, the other men and women walking by—they all looked as if they had it together.
But it’s all surface. Remember that, Mick thought.
He followed the line into the bathroom, did his thing, washed up, then came back out. As he followed the numbers hanging above each doorway leading back into the arena proper, he ended up bumping into the guy in front of him, a burly guy, over six feet with a gargoyle tattoo on his neck.
“Sorry,” Mick said.
The guy gave him a sour look and Mick thought the dude was about to deliver a giant fist into his kisser, but instead the guy stepped to the side and let him pass. Once ten or so steps away, Mick glanced back over his shoulder at him. The guy was already caught up in another conversation. A white guy with no hair and sunglasses wearing a Spider-Man shirt stepped passed the man Mick bumped into. Mick recognized him as he had been in the john with him.
Mick kept going, stopped for a sip at a water fountain, then looked back in the direction he came. The Spider-Man shirt guy stood not far off, looking at posters of fighters on the wall next to one of the entrances back into the
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