against a table and took up a silver hammer, which she struck back and forth between two of the cage’s bars. The jangling sound was optimistically called “the bell” and, just like that, it was go time.
Entering the cage through a door which was locked behind him, Bruno held his hands in the air, forming the shape of a V. There was no referee to have a quick word with, no meeting in the center of the ring before going to respective corners. The age of niceties had been left behind, its staunch tenacity toward decorum abandoned as if it were just another body littering the streets.
When a surge of excitement rippled through the audience and their cheers reached deafening levels, he knew his opponent was being escorted to the cage. Two biker types steered him toward the ring, each one clutching a long rod that ended with a loop of rope. One of these loops pinned his arms to his side and the other encircled his waist, acting as a rudder. In a real fight, he would have been a featherweight and pitting him against a man of Bruno’s stature almost unheard of. But it wasn’t exactly size that mattered in this match. With a black sack over his head, he thrashed and fought against his restraints so violently that the burly handlers moved in jilted staggers, constantly yelling back and forth as they made corrections to the trajectory.
The door on the other side of the ring had a square hole welded out of its center and this allowed the rods to bridge the gap between killing floor and safety as the padlock snapped shut. The thugs yanked him backward so hard that the entire cage shook and another man’s arm snaked through the bars, clutching the black sack as he waited for the agreed signal. In unison, they nodded and the ropes were released as if magically severed as the bag was snatched from his head.
Thinning red hair stuck out in tufts, almost as if he’d just stumbled out of bed, and his yellowed teeth gnashed at the air. He almost looked normal, but it was the little things that gave his condition away. The lack of contraction in his dilated pupils. The creepy stillness of expression that, even to this day, shivered Bruno’s spine with chill bumps. The flesh had that particular look the world had come to know so well, both pasty and waxen at the same time with shadows adding depth to sunken cheeks. A silver band dangled from one nipple and blood from the gunshot wound still matted the curly hair on his chest. The bastard couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes dead, which meant he would still be fast and cagey... but how the organizers found such fresh corpses was one of the many things Bruno didn’t question.
Even if he’d had the inclination to form such questions, he didn’t have the time. Before the rods had even completely withdrew, the thing sprinted across the ring. Its outstretched arms reached toward Bruno with fingers curled into talon-like hooks and the explosive cheer from the crowd was pushed to the periphery. With his concentration focused and the audience no more than muted background noise, Bruno darted in with his gloves held before his face.
The first jab smacked into the thing’s jaw with a flat smack and the force spun the creature around as if the floor had just slipped beneath its feet. Not quite falling, it sprang forward before centrifugal force had even finished its business. But Bruno was ready for that as well. A roundhouse on the side of the thing’s face knocked it off course and its body tumbled across the floor.
This was it. The moment. Only when facing death did Bruno feel most alive. His heart thumped adrenaline through a body that felt as tough and efficient as an old world machine: keenly aware of every muscle, every twitch or spasm, with his feet shuffling their intricate dance and beads of sweet just beginning to cool his brow.
There were no rounds in this fight, no brief respites from combat where he could catch his breath and spit blood into a bucket. The dead were relentless in their single minded pursuit, oblivious to pain or fatigue; they kept coming at their prey time and time again, wearing them down with persistence until superior muscle tone no longer held sway. Only one could remain: kill or be killed, after all, was the law of this post-apocalyptic jungle. Besides, the audience had paid for a show and his share of the prize would make him rich.
In this graveyard of a world, aluminum was the new gold. A single can of pork and beans would net him a good time with any of the Food Whores down by the tracks. Ten tins of sardines would pay his monthly protection to Boss Nash. And there would still be plenty left over. In a land where the dead scoured the ruins for the slightest signs of the living, this was what passed for a playboy lifestyle. And it suited Bruno just fine.
The zombie was on its feet again, scrambling toward him before it had even completely stood. Lacking that spark of life, eyes that were as dusty and emotionless as marbles stared unblinkingly at the intended target. Anxious to keep the initiative in his favor, Bruno moved in like a striking snake. So close to the damn thing that he caught whiffs of its recently voided bowels, he realized his mistake. The zombie had been moving a little more quickly than he realized and he’d overcompensated, ending up close enough that the thing’s fingernails raked across Bruno’s vinyl gloves.
An uppercut to the face only succeeded in piercing the thing’s top lip with a broken tooth A flurry of jabs cracked ribs like twigs, yet the zombie remained unfazed. With its fingers now entangled in the laces, it yanked the glove toward its face. Teeth ripped through the outer shell and tore strands of white stuffing from the hole, which the zombie then released with a shake of the head.
All of Bruno’s skills and training deserted him. The grace was gone from his savage dance and he’d regressed to nothing more than a street fighter. His blows were uncoordinated and sloppy, thrown from his weak arm with no real planning or strategy, and bounced ineffectually off the zombie’s head as it ripped more stuffing from the glove.
The roar of the crowd was thrown back into sharp focus: yells and stomping, glass bottles of moonshine shattering against the walls, some indecipherable chant rising and falling like a wave in the turbulent ocean of noise. Bruno’s throat felt raw and tight as his own scream added to the din and he’d begun kicking with quick thrusts of his legs in hopes of clipping the creature at the knees. The thing had eaten so far into the glove that Bruno felt its chin scissoring over the thin layer of batting, pulling away the only barrier between those teeth and the soft flesh within.
The thing’s hands were totally ensnared in the boxing glove’s laces, making it next to impossible to pull away. They flopped like fish that had been thrown into a cat’s cradle, pulling and stretching until the glove no longer fit as snugly as it once had.
The hundreds of feet stamping against the bleachers had picked up a rhythm now: two quick stomps followed by a single hand clap. For one insane second, Bruno actually expected the crowd to launch into the chorus of We Will Rock You; but then other thoughts pinged through his mind like ricocheting bullets, obliterating one another before they had a chance to fully form. Instead of reason there were only flash bursts of emotion: fear, intense sadness, a nameless longing for something he would never know … but mostly remorse. Like a dirty fighter, regret hits you when you’re not looking. It lurks in the darkness, awaiting its time to pounce before fading back into the shadows. Sensing weakness, the regret didn’t strike and run this time. It stood its ground and shredded the remaining strands of self respect as thoroughly as the zombie did his glove.
Bruno’s hand wiggled like a loose tooth in a socket as he struggled to free himself. He felt the silken lining sliding over his hand and cool air rush in through the gnawed hole. The zombie plunged its face again; with the protection of the glove no longer an issue, it could see the pink flesh of fingers and the sight seemed to throw the thing into a frenzy. It’s hand writhed in the tangle of laces, pushing and pulling, demanding to be freed. Nothing mattered but the feast and the audience ate up every second of it as their voices rose into a thunderous din.
Just as the undead bastard sank its face into the hole, Bruno’s hand plopped free, leaving the abomination to snap a
t empty air. Still operating on pure survival instinct, he immediately launched into a flurry of punches. His taped knuckles slammed into the creature’s face so hard that a fracture-like pain flared in his middle finger. Again and again, jackrabbit fast, ignoring the shock of sudden impact: Bruno was a single-fisted juggernaut whose wild eyes told a story as old as the dinosaurs. Here was life and death splayed out for all to see. Here was the endless struggle for dominance in an uncaring world. It was the type of moment where you could be wholly and completely reborn… or die.
Bruno skirted backward, extending his reach as the zombie lunged, and struck with his gloved hand. His frenzy had been tamed now and each hit was more solid than the last. The zombie’s nose broke with a sharp crack and the jagged bone forced its way through the skin in a bloodless explosion of meat. Teeth plinked like porcelain against the polished, wood floor and Bruno continued his barrage.
The zombie lunged again but the sweat-drenched prizefighter was