It was a monumental occasion for me. It was my first night on the job as Zeputy Ian Slater of the Zombie Patrol: ZP for short. I knew my mom and dad would have been proud, had they not been eaten by my brother and two little sisters. But that’s all in the past. Years of therapy served me well and allowed me the opportunity to embark on a new phase in my life. I was no longer going to be a survivor, hiding cowardly behind thick steel doors while others risked their lives to protect our community. No, I had put myself on the front lines.

To be honest, I couldn’t have been more excited.

I know it’s not PC to say this, but I’m probably just as happy as when I first heard the news that all eleven PETZ members—short for People for the Ethical Treatment of Zombies—were taken out by a flesh-eating freak they so ardently tried to protect. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t happy to see people die, especially in the fashion they did, but they hindered the ZP from doing what would eventually become my job. Like any effective protestor group, they always seemed to be in the right place at the worst conceivable time. With anti-ZP posters and loud megaphones raising havoc, the PETZ attempted to get the message across that the ZP had no right to terminate anyone inflicted with disability-Z or, in laymen’s terms, a zombie. Their goal was to stop what they believed to be nothing more than a ruthless and immoral desecration of dead persons. They weren’t interested in what these “dead persons” were doing to us, the living. I think I even remembered hearing one of them say that it was unfair to put the same standards on zombies because persons suffering from disability-Z were no longer able to think or do for themselves in the same manner of surviving humans. As for what happened to them, I can sum it up in one, nice little five-letter word: irony.

In another twist of fate, the zombie for which we have to thank for the PETZ’s demise just happened to be paralyzed from the neck down and confined to a wheelchair. You see, it was common knowledge that if something didn’t work before you turned into a zombie, it didn’t work afterwards, hence this particular zombie and its wheelchair. I’m guessing the PETZ movement was getting desperate. So like a snake charmer, one member got a bit—no I mean a bite—too close. The quadriplegic zombie tore half of the guy’s ear off with his withered yellow teeth before the PETZ member knew what had hit him. At that point, the rest of the group saw the stupidity behind their protesting. In their defense, I do give them credit for taking precautionary measures just in case their “publicity stunt” happened to go wrong. To accomplish just that, they just simply kept their whereabouts a secret. Because of this ingenious idea—and, from my perspective it certainly was genius—the only way they could escape was if their hired hand let them out.  Of course, I wouldn’t be saying any of this if the hired hand had let them out. Weeks later a team of ZPs located and eradicated the twelve zombies, which included the wheelchair bound quadriplegic. Videos of their enclosed outbreak can still be seen on Z-Tube.

My first job as Zeputy ZP was the night watch. I was responsible for checking the perimeter all along the downtown area. Zergeant McDaniel firmly believed that if there were any leaks into the city, it was coming from that general area. Although probably not the safest of areas to get your feet wet with death, I couldn’t have been happier. Work, I thought to myself. I was still in disbelief.

If asked a decade ago where I thought I’d be right now, I probably would have responded, six feet under or feeding off of my fellow man. You see, ten years ago is when the whole planet went to chaos. The world’s problems drastically changed from an international economic crisis to a global zombie catastrophe. How the outbreak started is still unclear. What is known is how devastating the zombie plague was: entire countries’ populaces were wiped out. America was one of the lucky few to have over twenty-five percent of its population survive. Out of desperation, massive walls were constructed around what became known as safe-cities. Once the cities were secure from the external threat of continued zombie raids, what was left of our government and law enforcement agencies formed the ZP, whose mission it was to eliminate any potential internal dangers, which mostly consisted of containing small outbreaks within the cities’ walls and to handle breaches in security.

From what Zergeant McDaniel told me, they had apprehended and exterminated at least a half-a-dozen zombies in the past six months. In an attempt to avoid widespread panic, I was instructed to keep that information highly classified. As it stood, the only way our community could survive was for everybody to do their share of work. If everyone refused to leave their homes, crops would die, livestock would perish, and we’d be without food. If it ever got to that, I wouldn’t know which would be the worse fate: starving inside fortified city walls or leaving the city and making a run for it to try to make it to a neighboring city, the closest of which was several hundred miles away. Either way I would be screwed. Inside I’d die a slow painful death and outside I would have to fight off countless millions of zombies hungry for a tasty human snack.

When I pulled up to the wall, I knew what I had to do. With the darkness of night to cloak my identity, I began to painstakingly examine the great wall that served as our new beginning. The weight of my responsibility hit me like a freight train blowing past its last stop. It was my duty as a zeputy to make sure that these towering slabs of cement withheld the flesh-addicted hoards from making contact. For at least the night, I was all that stood between Stone Wall, WV and a bloodbath.

Several hours later, it had become obvious why I was assigned the task. It was plain and simple, really. I was a zookie and, while the work was easy and boring, no one else wanted to be there if things suddenly went horribly wrong. Most of my trigger-happy peers preferred to arrive on the scene after the fact with guns drawn ready for a showdown. Regardless, I made the best of it. I checked the thick, solid cement wall that was as high as a three story building for any damages, but, with the exception of some minor chipping and cracks, there were none. As dumb as it sounds, I even checked the ground for tunnels—highly unlikely considering zombies don’t seem to be able to problem solve—but I did it nevertheless.

It was three-thirty in the morning, and I was nearing the end of my first shift when I noticed suspicious activity a block from where I was patrolling. Floating in and out of the shadows, a group of four or five men dragged another guy off into an alley. Although not the central function of my job as a zeputy, it fell on me to enforce the community’s laws. If that meant apprehending a group of men up to no good, so be it. So, gun drawn, I took off.

I hadn’t felt an adrenaline rush like that since my days of running away from flesh-crazed zombies. It was exhilarating if I may say so. In fact, I was so ecstatic, I swear I had a huge smirk on my face as I sprinted toward that dark alley. My footsteps must have cued the group that someone was quickly approaching because, by the time I entered the alley, no one was there except for the apparent victim.

The man was lying on his side, groaning in pain. I moved toward him cautiously and identified myself.  “I’m Zeputy Ian Slater of the ZP. Are you all right?”

The man failed to respond so I said, “I need to know that you’re okay. If you can talk, now’s the time. If not, get creative. I have my gun pointed at your head so no sudden movements.”

Once again the man said and did nothing to indicate that he understood. The thought of Zenal code-236 crossed my mind: if you come across a person deemed unresponsive, shoot to kill, plain and simple. Even though I knew all of my zenal codes backwards and forwards, I didn’t want to kill someone on my first day, especially considering the ZIA, or Zombie Internal Affairs, was just recently formed to make sure all of our kills were justified. I’m guessing that too many zeputies were coming back to the station with corpses free of the highly contagious zombie contaminant.

I gave it one last shot. I yelled, “If you don’t respond in some type of fashion, I have no choice but to terminate you. As instructed, I will conduct my countdown and, when I get to one, time’s up.”

I paused for a second to give him more time but mostly because I was avoiding having to go through with Zenal code-236. Plus in my mind, a countdown allows a person the time to rationally think about their future. Used commonly on kids, I figured it couldn’t hurt to try it on an idiot who had an aversion to responding to my demands.

Loudly, I began, “10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2.” I paused, then added, “Two and three fourths, two and …Screw this, I’m just going to shoot you on principle.”

Maybe it was the annoyance in my voice or the sound of the safety clicking off, but the man screamed, “Don’t shoot! I’ll talk! I’ll talk!”

“Fine, then talk.” I hollered.

After struggling to get to a seated position, I caught my first glimpse of the man.  He appeared to be in his early to mid forties, had a salt and pepper scruff covering his face and neck, and his pale white skin appeared as if it hadn’t seen the light of day in ages. Although dressed neatly, his clothes were faded and on the verge of withering away to nothing. If I were a gambling man—which I’m not considering it’s illegal in Stone Wall—I’d bet he had been out of work for quite some time.

When our eyes finally met, the man asked in a soft, gentle voice, “Can we please go somewhere else to talk? I don’t feel safe here.”

“You do realize I have to cuff you. It’s standard ZP protocol,” I said while gesturing for him to stand.

The man nodded, indicating that he understood so I cuffed him and led him back to my undercover black patrol car. After helping him into the backseat, I jumped into the vehicle and took off.

While en route to the station, the man was completely silent. His inability to flood my ears with the truth, lies, or even a simple explanation, infuriated me. On impulse, I swerved the car to the shoulder of the road and slammed on the breaks. With his hands cuffed tightly behind him and his momentum propelling him forward, his face collided with the fiberglass divider that separated the back of the car from the front.

I immediately regretted my actions, but did not for the reasons one would expect. Although uncharacteristic for me, I’m not ashamed to say that I wanted him to suffer a little bit. Call it childish, or what not, but it really irked me that I nearly shot the guy for his inability to communicate, and then, after giving him precisely what he asked for, he still remained mute.

With adrenaline and rage still pumping through my veins, I spun my head around and was about to give the guy a tongue lashing when I noticed he appeared dazed and had a stream of blood pouring out of his nose. I watched as he gently closed his eyes, slowly eased his head back, and then abruptly jerked it forward sneezing out a volatile concoction of blood and saliva all over the fiberglass divider.

Then as he continued spraying that same cocktail of blood and saliva particles all over the back of my car, I finally saw the error in my ways. I had let my emotions get the best of me, a characteristic flaw that should have showed up on one of the many required ZP psychological tests. The fact that it did not, mattered little at that precise moment. What did matter was how I was going to talk my way out of it.

I decided to tell a little white lie. “Are you okay back there? Sorry about that, a squirrel or something darted into the road and I didn’t want to hit it.”

The man, whose sneezing was finally subsiding, nodded his head while wiping his bloodied nose on his shoulder. With tears welled up in his eyes, he smiled as he commented, “Did you ever see that picture of the squirrel with his nut-sack ever so prominently displayed? I always get a kick out of that one.”

The man then relaxed back into his seat and went back to his usual quiet self.

Aggravated that he was stalling yet again, I demanded, “Look, you need to start talking and now! We’re in my car now so there’s no way anyone can hear us. What happened tonight? And I want the truth, no BS.”

The man drew a deep breath and quietly responded, “I’ll tell you everything, I will. But can we please go somewhere remote first, those men who attacked me could be watching?”

I didn’t bother to respond. I simply took off and drove for several minutes before finding a secluded area to talk. While parked in the back lot of the last remaining Catholic Church in Stone Wall, I calmly said, “It’s time. As you can see there’s no one in sight. First and foremost, what’s your name and why did I find you at the mercy of those men in the alley?”

He leaned forward and began, “The name’s Bill Shankovich, but that’s irrelevant. You see, Zeputy Slater, there are things going down that’d blow your mind. Those men back there were probably going to beat me to death had you not intervened when you did. They work for Mr. Treadwell—”

I cut him off, “Wait a minute, Mr. Treadwell as in Matthew Treadwell, superstar athlete who played for the Yankees?”

“Yes, but he goes by Mr. Treadwell now, and don’t believe for a second that his charitable image is who he really is. That man is a psycho and a murderer. He runs an underground gambling ring and I—”

“Come on, man.” I interrupted in disbelief. “Matthew Treadwell was just awarded a key to the city for all of his generous donations. It wouldn’t make sense for him to be involved in illegal activities such as that. I mean he’s probably already the richest man in the city.  Why risk that to make peanuts off of the poor? It just doesn’t seem logical.”

After wiping some more blood off on his other shoulder he replied, “Zeputy Slater, it’s all a cover. He does all of that crap to keep the police and ZP off of his ass. The more donations and charity work he does, the less the authorities are prone to look into his extracurricular activities. And let me tell you, there are countless things he’s involved in. He’s probably single-handedly the most dangerous person in Stone Wall.”

Although I wasn’t completely buying his story, I cut the ignition and turned around to face Bill as he talked.

“Mr. Treadwell runs a highly secretive and illegal gambling ring. He doesn’t do it for the money. He just does it because it’s who he is. Always the fiercest of competitors, he strives for the thrill and excitement that his underground empire has awarded him. Like I said before, he’s out of his F-ing mind.

“I’m not sure how I even got involved, but here I am. I’m guessing having virtually no money or losing my job at the factory may have had something to do with it. Regardless, after my first few nights of winning big, I was hooked. It didn’t take long for me to lose everything and I mean everything. My wife left me and I rarely see my daughter anymore. Tonight was my last chance to square off my dept and attempt to move on with my life. I wanted nothing more than to once again be a part of my daughter’s life.”

Bill paused.

“Go on.” I said.

A tear trickled down his cheek. “I knew the stakes going in. If I won, my debt would have been erased, but if I lost there’d be grave consequences. When one of my gambling buddies went missing a few weeks back, I knew it was do or die.  Obviously, I lost and, when you have no possible way to repay Mr. Treadwell, well, you find yourself categorized in his loss prevention file. He cuts his losses and opts to have that person taken out. That’s how he rolls. He doesn’t waste any time breaking legs or arms, which can end up biting him in the ass if someone went to the police. No, he puts an end to your existence. Pretty cut and dry.”

The man then went silent.

Maybe there was a reason for his silence, but being entirely engrossed in his story by this point, I prodded him, “What kind of gambling are we talking about? I mean, besides maybe poker or casino games, sports are obsolete.”

“Mr. Treadwell has several basement casinos, but that’s not where the real money is. At first, it was unsanctioned boxing and mixed martial arts matches, but that wasn’t enough for him. Like I said, the guy is a maniac. Having been a huge fan of dog fights growing up, he had his own vision of the types of fights he’d like to see. Thus, zombie fights were born. It’s—”

“What?” I screamed. “That’s not even possible. Zombies don’t attack each other. That’s a scientific fact. Even flesh deprived and desperate, they leave each other alone. If you’re making this all up to mess with me, just stop. As of right now, you’ve admitted to illegal gambling, which is a misdemeanor, but, if you keep it up, I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice. The penalty for that is far harsher. Do you understand?”

He nodded but the expression on his face didn’t change one bit. He was either an exceptionally good liar or he really was telling the truth. The only thing left to do was continue questioning him to search for any holes in his story.

Bill drew a deep breath before replying, “I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. Mr. Treadwell figured out a way to get zombies to fight each other. It was actually an ingenious idea. He used human pheromones. How Mr. Treadwell figured that out, I have no idea. I guess when there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“Pheromones! Can you elaborate on that?” I asked.

“Yes.” Bill responded. “You see, zombies don’t hunt by sight or sound as most scientists believe. They do so through pheromones, an instinctive scent. It’s crazy if you ask me, but it works and actually makes sense if you really think about it. I mean, let’s be real, have you ever seen a sweaty zombie, cause I know I haven’t. Plus, how else could you explain zombies amazing ability to hunt in complete darkness.

Bill paused long enough for his words to sink in before continuing, “So before each fight, he douses the zombies with human pheromones to trick them into attacking each other. Then, after all of the bets have been placed, the zombies are released inside the confines of a thick ten by ten bulletproof-glass enclosure, he calls his Death Ring. I’m guessing you can probably figure out what happens from that point on: the fight doesn’t stop until one or both of the zombies stop moving. It sounds ruthless and cold, but, to be honest, it’s actually quite entertaining. Those lifeless bastards move like fighters all jacked up on a cocktail of steroids and speed. There’s almost no stall in the action. They bite and tear the hell out of each other.”

Bill paused, then hesitantly added, “That’s not even the worst of it.”

“You’re telling me it gets worse!”

Nodding, Bill added, “Yes! In a ploy to make the fights more exciting, Mr. Treadwell has a set of razor-sharp steel dentures drilled into each zombie’s mouth. Those teeth are so damn sharp, they tear through flesh and bone with ease.”

After hearing that last part, I waved my hands in the air and declared, “Okay, you can stop right there. You had me going up to that point. Knowing how ferocious and bite-happy zombies are, I can’t see how that would be possible. I mean with the risk of infection alone, I find it hard to believe that Mr. Treadwell would go to such extremes measures just to make his fights more enjoyable.”

A look of shame swept over Bill.

“I can see you’re hiding something. Out with it!” I demanded.

Bill reluctantly continued, “I was hoping to leave this part out, especially considering I already informed you that I had found the fights enjoyable. But everything you said is absolutely right. As crazy as Mr. Treadwell is, I don’t think he’d ever try that little gimmick on full-blown zombies, if you know what I mean.”

“Are you saying, what I think you’re saying?”

Bill’s eyes locked onto mine. “Yes, Mr. Treadwell has the teeth put into live humans before they complete the transformation.”

“But how? And who?” I murmured. “There hasn’t been a missing person report for quite some time.”

“You know how Mr. Treadwell owns his own helicopter, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, Zeputy Slater, Mr. Treadwell takes full advantage of that luxury. As you are probably aware of, he uses his chopper to go out several times per week in search of survivors. But what you didn’t know, and what only a small fraction of Mr. Treadwell’s associate’s know, is that he goes out hunting for prize fighters. Sure from time to time, he actually does save a few, mostly women and children, but like his other charitable acts, that’s all an image thing. Heck, if there was a market for women and children, I wouldn’t put it past him to—”

“That’s enough. You don’t need to go there. I get it.” I shouted.

My voice then turned serious. “So, let me get this straight. You knew all of this and you still associated with those people and bet on those poor innocent souls that were tortured and turned into…”

“I know, Zeputy Slater!” Bill cried. “What I did was deplorable, but going in, I had no idea. I thought Mr. Treadwell was actually doing humanity a favor by ridding the world of a few zombies here and there. I didn’t find out the truth until it was too late. By then, I had no choice but to continue. Without a way of paying Mr. Treadwell back, my only option was to bet on credit and hope for a miracle.”

“You do realize, you had other options. I mean, you could have come to us and allowed the ZP to put a stop to the entire operation. I’m certain the department would have made it a priority to ensure you and your family’s safety.”

Bill let out a sigh. “What’s done is done. I can’t change the past now. All I can do is change the future. I’ll take you to where the fights are being held, but you have to promise me that no one will ever find out how you discovered his underground gambling ring.” He paused for a second and leaned forward. Then, with a deathly serious expression on his face, he added, “If it gets back to Mr. Treadwell that I cued you in, he won’t hesitate to kill my little girl. Please, you have to promise me.”

Seeing the intensity in his eyes, I felt that he was telling the truth so naturally my zeputy instincts kicked in. “Okay, I believe that you are being honest with me, but some things just don’t add up. For starters, how is he turning those people into zombies in the first place? I mean, unless he has a zombie in captivity, how else could he be changing people into zombies? And secondly, how is it that you know so much about his operation?” I asked suspiciously.

While shaking his head, Bill answered, “I have no idea how he does it for sure. But one theory a buddy told me about sounds pretty solid. He said that Mr. Treadwell has a supply of contaminated zombie blood that he took off of a dead zombie. From what I hear, he takes the contaminated blood and injects it directly into his prized fighters and waits for them to turn. Once turned, the zombies are ready for the ring. Plus, with the bodies piling up, replenishing his, quote un quote, “fight elixir” is nearly effortless.

“As for how I know all this, I just picked things up from time to time. At first, I presumed most of what I was hearing was nothing more than rumors. But after being in the game for so long, I’m one hundred percent positive everything I have told you is true.”

His story was almost too unbelievable to be true yet I needed to find out for myself. I instructed him to show me where the illegal fights were taking place. As we approached the old brick building, which was located a good ten miles from where I originally found the man, I began to notice that something was wrong with my witness. His pale white skin was beginning to look even paler, if that was possible.  He was also sweating profusely and was beginning to tremble.

“Are you all right back there? You don’t look well,” I commented.

Bill nodded his head, but I got the sense that he was hiding something from me. What’s he hiding, I thought to myself. Since he hadn’t already told me, I knew that he had no plans of letting me in on his little secret.

I parked in the rear of the nearly full parking lot, then turned around and calmly stated, “I know you’re keeping something from me. You’re going to tell me right now or I’m going to waltz down to the cellar of that building and let Mr. Treadwell know how I found out about this place. Then you’ll have to deal with knowing you could have prevented your daughter’s untimely death. So talk or I’ll—”

“Okay, I’ll tell you,” Bill shouted excitedly. “Before being thrown into the back of a van, Mr. Treadwell forced me to put my arm inside a waist-high black box. He called it his Problem Solver. It terrified me, but I couldn’t do anything about it. Against my will, his hired goons forced my arm inside that box. Within seconds, I felt something bite into my left forearm. As I screamed in agony, Mr. Treadwell just laughed, asking me if I liked his new pet. I’m guessing you probably know what type of pet a person like that would keep, right?”

I nodded uncomfortably as a thought crossed my mind. It all fits. If what Bill is telling me is true, it could account for the origins of the six zombies that had been terminated in the downtown area. It makes perfect sense. After deciding to cut his losses, Mr. Treadwell must have infected them with the virus, then had them beat to near death to minimize the danger a zombie could pose to the general public. And he does all of this to keep the ZP’s focus on the downtown area…

“Zeputy Slater!” Bill raised his voice.

Lost in my thoughts, I shook my head and refocused on Bill.

Bill added, “That’s why, when you called out to me, I didn’t respond. With my daughter’s well-being serving as my primary concern, I thought that if you shot me dead, she would be safer. I just kept thinking about how quickly outbreaks can spread and how scared it would make my little girl. Then right as you were about to pull the trigger, it dawned on me that my daughter will never be safe within the walls of Stone Wall with someone like Mr. Treadwell wreaking havoc inside.”

His eyes said it all. He was not only telling the truth, but he was terrified of the threat Mr. Treadwell posed to his daughter’s safety. I knew what I had to do with Bill, but, before I did it, I had to check out the basement of the building. The plain white sign with faded blue lettering over the building’s front entrance read Boy’s and Girl’s Youth Center—the alleged site of horrific zombie brawls.

I couldn’t go anywhere near the building in my ZP uniform, though, so I popped the trunk and retrieved my street clothes. Yes, as sad as it sounds, I was using the trunk of my car as my locker—the one and only reason being I was a zookie. And when you’re a zook, all bets are off. Not wanting to find myself the center of someone’s childish practical joke, I took precautionary measures.

After changing into jeans and a black sweatshirt, I took off, leaving my gun and badge behind in case of a pat-down. I didn’t like the idea of leaving Bill in the backseat of my car, especially in his condition, but I wasn’t finished with him. I went around to the rear of the building where I noticed two large steel doors void of any doorknobs. With no possibility of prying the steel doors open, I jogged back around to the front of the building.

If the rear of the building looked hopeless, the front was worse. There wasn’t a person in sight and, after pulling at the thick fiberglass doors, it was clear that there was no way to get inside. I thought of banging on the doors, but I needed to be careful. Although a fifty-fifty shot considering there were only two entrances, I knew I had to knock on the right door. That was obvious because if I was meant to be there, I’d know which door to use. Then it hit me: no gangster in his right mind would use the front door for anything so, without wasting any more valuable time, I ran back to the rear of the building and began violently pounding my fist against the thick metal door.

A minute later, a mammoth-sized person opened the door and asked, “What do you want?”

I looked up at the enormous man and said, “Just let me in; you know why I’m here. Do I have to spell it out?” I replied with the calmness of someone who had bet on countless zombie fights.

The huge muscle-bound doorman wasn’t the brightest of fellows. As if I asked him a complicated algebra question, he responded, “Huh!”

I let out a loud sigh. “I’m here for the fights. Mr. Treadwell personally told me to swing by sometime to check them out for myself. Can you please let me in ‘cause I have a wad of dough burning a hole in my pocket if you catch my drift?”

To my amazement, the doorman swung the door open and announced, “All right, but you better hurry up. I think there are only a couple of fights left.”

I outsmarted an imbecile; my training had done me well, I thought to myself as I walked down the hall toward the stairwell. It wasn’t hard to figure out where everyone was.  All I had to do was follow all of the howling screams coming from downstairs.

I made it to the cellar where I was confronted by two thick steel doors just like those outside except they were painted crimson red. A bit nervous, I took several deep breaths before I swung the doors open in a fashion that conveyed I belonged there. At first, I couldn’t see anything because the room was so congested with people rooting and chanting. Although unable to see the action, I smelled death in the air. As disturbing as it sounds, it reminded me of home.

Mr. Treadwell’s underground empire was incredible. There were cocktail waitresses in tiny black skirts walking around with drinks and there was a luxurious upper level that could only be described as box seats. I supposed Mr. Treadwell’s high rollers occupied those seats. Not wanting to stick out like a sore thumb, I darted into the rambunctious crowd and headed straight for the Death Ring. When I managed to get within twenty feet of the ring, I caught my first glimpse of a zombie fight.

It was hard to take in, but I needed to maintain my composure. I watched and began cheering as if I found the two poor zombies thrashing and biting each other enjoyable. Thick dark coagulated blood and bite marks covered their naked bodies. Eventually one of the zombies tore into the other zombie’s skull and chomped deep into the brain with its razor sharp teeth. The defeated zombie was motionless within seconds.

I had seen enough but I had no choice but to stay. I got a beer and after a short intermission, I watched in horror as the last two zombies faced off with each other. It being the last fight of the night meant it was the main event. And Mr. Treadwell did not disappoint. The two muscle-bound zombies were by far the largest zombies I had ever seen. I couldn’t believe what my eyes were seeing. It was as if they had been pumped up with steroids or something, and to be honest I wouldn’t have been surprised to have learned that they had been.

As I watched the action, I finally got a sense of what people found so entertaining about the fights. Just as Bill had said, the so to speak, “undead athletes” fought at such an unimaginable pace and with such ferocity, it was total non-stop action. It almost seemed as if the massive brain-dead creatures were moving in fast-forward.

I found my eyes fixated on the two zombies fighting for their meaningless existence. It saddened me to think whether they won or lost, they were still dead and that the person they once had been was gone forever. Not surprisingly, it stirred up memories of my family. On the verge of shedding tears, I drove my emotions away and refocused on my mission. My mind fixated itself on the fight, watching as one of the zombies got itself into a dominant mounted position.

Then, in a flash, the fight was over. The zombie that got the others back, delivered an incapacitating bite to the neck. The damn thing chomped so powerfully at the back of the defeated zombie’s neck that it bit straight through the spinal cord. Mr. Treadwell’s goons then stepped in and, using several snare poles, pulled away and caged up the victor of the match, leaving the loser biting the air like a piranha out of water, with the rest of its paralyzed body motionless. Then with one powerful swing, one of the goons smashed the defeated zombie’s skull in with a sledgehammer, sending chunks of flesh, bone, and brain matter hurling through the air in all different directions. I watched in horror as blood and pieces of what used to be the zombie’s head slowly trickled down the bulletproof glass.

At the conclusion of the fight, the crowd slowly began to disperse, so I took the liberty of following a large group of men heading towards the exit. Unlike the group I was following—composed of mellow and quiet men—the people who headed towards the opposite side of the room were boisterous and in good spirits. I figured that they were the despicable winners of the main event and were probably off to collect their winnings.

I made it outside of the building without arousing any suspicion. On my way back to my patrol car, I knew what had to be done. I would have to report what I had personally witnessed to Zeargent McDaniels and then initiate Zenal code-687: if you apprehend a person believed to be contaminated through a bite or through an exchange of bodily fluids, proceed with the blood test. If the results are positive, take the detainee to a remote location and commence its termination via three bullets to the back of its head.

When I arrived back at the car, I quickly glanced in the back seat to see if Bill had undergone the change. I was relieved to see that no such transformations had occurred. With time of the essence, I quickly unlocked the door and was about to jump inside when I felt a sharp pain in the back of my neck. It had almost felt as if I had been stung by a bee or something, but I sincerely doubted that was the case. I reached back and felt that there was a small object lodged in my skin. I immediately pulled it out and saw that it was a tranquilizer dart. Realizing every second counted at that point, I sprang into action. My mission was simple, make it in, lock the doors, and call for help.

After jumping into my car and pulling the door closed, I began to feel the effects of the strong sedative. Things seemed to slow down and everything seemed distant, especially the frantic cries that were coming from the rear of the vehicle. Falling in and out of consciousness, I reached for the ZP radio, and began drifting…

###

I couldn’t tell you how long had passed , except that when I finally came through, my head was pounding, my jaw was on fire, and I was confused as to where I was or what had previously transpired. Although disorientated, there were two things I was certain of: one I was lying naked in complete darkness and two I felt as if I had just woken up from a drunken stupor. Feeling the cold pavement against my bare skin, I hoped that the latter was the case. But as hard as I tried to convince myself that it was all a bad alcohol induced nightmare, I knew that wasn’t the case. I may have had some type of drug or something coursing through my veins, but I knew there was no feasible way that I was drunk. I put my hands up to where the pain was radiation from, and in a flash, I remembered everything.

I recalled Bill’s shocking story, the zombie fights that I had been privy to witness, and the stinging sensation that I felt in my neck before everything went black. Gingerly touching my jaw, I didn’t want to believe it was true, but there was no denying that Mr. Treadwell had done something unimaginable to me while I was asleep. After gently touching the tip of a sharp metallic object, I instantly knew that while I was under, Mr. Treadwell had me undergo some pre-fight dental work.

In pain, I jumped up and groaned, “HELLLLLPPPPPP!”

Suddenly, without warning, a light turned on successfully blinding me in my current light deprived state. I fought through the burning sensation, forcing my eyes to adjust as quickly as possible. When they finally did come into focus, I wished they hadn’t.

To my horror and dismay, I noticed that not only was I trapped inside the confines of Mr. Treadwell’s Death Ring, but that I was not alone.  Lying off in the corner, still unconscious with his razor-sharp metal teeth glistening in the bright light, I saw that Bill was in the same predicament as me. The only real difference being, in his current state, I didn’t foresee him waking up as himself…

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Author Bio: T.S. Charles is currently working as an Associate Editor for Dark Moon Digest – The Horror Fiction Quarterly. T.S. Charles currently resides in West Virginia with his wife and two children. For more information on T.S. Charles and a list of his publications please visit his website at: www.sites.google.com/site/authortscharles.