far?”
“Have to shout over you.”
Mick put his hands up and wiggled his fingers. “Ooooh. Oh no.”
Jack grinned. “You about done? We got another fight coming up.”
“Yeah, well, at least I said something.”
Jack grabbed his Controller.
Mick did the same. “All right, who’s up next?” He flipped through the screens. “You got to be kidding me.” This was a new one for him. He hated having to consider new fighters. Especially this one. Zombies were unpredictable despite what popular media had taught leading up to the Zombie War. Even Shamblers weren’t as dumb as most people made them out to be. They weren’t geniuses, but their instincts were sharp, so sharp you’d almost think it was some kind of intellect. As for the Sprinters—their smarts were different. Still instinct, but driven by rage and an obsessive need to exercise that rage. It had to be expressed. Sometimes, even after a kill, even after tearing up a body, it’d sit or scramble amongst the leftovers, slapping them, ripping the pieces even smaller, biting the blood-soaked ground, as if trying to kill the person all over again.
This next battle was a tough one. It didn’t matter though. He was still in the hole deep and he was about halfway through the evening. It was time to pick up a big shovel and dig himself out of the pit. It was either that or he’d soon find himself in yet another hole, that one six-feet deep.
If there was something left of him to bury, that was.
Mick took another second to think about it then placed his bet. A big one. The biggest one so far. If he won, he’d be well on his way to celebrating. If he lost . . . suicide was a serious option.
He put the Controller in the pouch in front of him then sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach.
The old man beside him still gazed forward.
Jack coughed.
The lights went out.
18
Robot vs Zombies
Bet: $450,000
Owing: $1,019,000
I nitiating scan.
Activating infrared sensors.
Scan complete.
Body heat: Negative.
Object: Humanoid.
Cross-referencing files.
Reading: Dead life form.
External sound: monotonous tone.
Metal on concrete.
Activate combat program.
Engage.
The R-1 stood there, seven feet tall, the combined weight of its parts tipping the scales at over four hundred pounds. It raised its mechanical arm, only now noticing its bright silver metallic body was covered with the flesh of freshly-dead corpses and then sprayed with blood for good measure.
Its objective: annihilate the dead.
Fresh from the factory, this was the R-1’s first fight.
The robot raised its right leg and stomped down a large, heavy metal foot toward its prey. Then the other.
Advance.
Each footfall thumped against the concrete. At first it appeared the zombie in front of it—a deceased headbanger in a torn black Metallica T-shirt—didn’t know what to make of the machine, its sunken dead eyes inside deep purple sockets conveying a sense of puzzlement.
The robot advanced again, and suddenly the zombie became alive with hunger, opening its jaw impossibly large as if it had been broken just prior to its death and rebirth.
Quickly, the zombie plodded forward on unsteady legs and lashed out its arms, grabbing hold of the robot by its motor-powered wrists. Immediately, its yellow teeth mashed down on the metal. Crunch. When the dead man removed its mouth, teeth like popcorn kernels spilled out the corners of its mouth.
The robot pulled its arm away with a quick servo-jerk then brought in its opposite arm and clamped its lobster claw-like left hand around the zombie’s neck.
Bzzt.
The claw snapped closed, cutting the dead man’s head from its body.
The moment the zombie’s head thunked against the floor, boos and hisses filled its audio receptors.
The cacophony of a displeased crowd remained on the air for precisely 38.3 seconds before an echoey voice spoke over the intercom system.
“ Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Zombie Fight Night.
“Have to shout over you.”
Mick put his hands up and wiggled his fingers. “Ooooh. Oh no.”
Jack grinned. “You about done? We got another fight coming up.”
“Yeah, well, at least I said something.”
Jack grabbed his Controller.
Mick did the same. “All right, who’s up next?” He flipped through the screens. “You got to be kidding me.” This was a new one for him. He hated having to consider new fighters. Especially this one. Zombies were unpredictable despite what popular media had taught leading up to the Zombie War. Even Shamblers weren’t as dumb as most people made them out to be. They weren’t geniuses, but their instincts were sharp, so sharp you’d almost think it was some kind of intellect. As for the Sprinters—their smarts were different. Still instinct, but driven by rage and an obsessive need to exercise that rage. It had to be expressed. Sometimes, even after a kill, even after tearing up a body, it’d sit or scramble amongst the leftovers, slapping them, ripping the pieces even smaller, biting the blood-soaked ground, as if trying to kill the person all over again.
This next battle was a tough one. It didn’t matter though. He was still in the hole deep and he was about halfway through the evening. It was time to pick up a big shovel and dig himself out of the pit. It was either that or he’d soon find himself in yet another hole, that one six-feet deep.
If there was something left of him to bury, that was.
Mick took another second to think about it then placed his bet. A big one. The biggest one so far. If he won, he’d be well on his way to celebrating. If he lost . . . suicide was a serious option.
He put the Controller in the pouch in front of him then sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach.
The old man beside him still gazed forward.
Jack coughed.
The lights went out.
18
Robot vs Zombies
Bet: $450,000
Owing: $1,019,000
I nitiating scan.
Activating infrared sensors.
Scan complete.
Body heat: Negative.
Object: Humanoid.
Cross-referencing files.
Reading: Dead life form.
External sound: monotonous tone.
Metal on concrete.
Activate combat program.
Engage.
The R-1 stood there, seven feet tall, the combined weight of its parts tipping the scales at over four hundred pounds. It raised its mechanical arm, only now noticing its bright silver metallic body was covered with the flesh of freshly-dead corpses and then sprayed with blood for good measure.
Its objective: annihilate the dead.
Fresh from the factory, this was the R-1’s first fight.
The robot raised its right leg and stomped down a large, heavy metal foot toward its prey. Then the other.
Advance.
Each footfall thumped against the concrete. At first it appeared the zombie in front of it—a deceased headbanger in a torn black Metallica T-shirt—didn’t know what to make of the machine, its sunken dead eyes inside deep purple sockets conveying a sense of puzzlement.
The robot advanced again, and suddenly the zombie became alive with hunger, opening its jaw impossibly large as if it had been broken just prior to its death and rebirth.
Quickly, the zombie plodded forward on unsteady legs and lashed out its arms, grabbing hold of the robot by its motor-powered wrists. Immediately, its yellow teeth mashed down on the metal. Crunch. When the dead man removed its mouth, teeth like popcorn kernels spilled out the corners of its mouth.
The robot pulled its arm away with a quick servo-jerk then brought in its opposite arm and clamped its lobster claw-like left hand around the zombie’s neck.
Bzzt.
The claw snapped closed, cutting the dead man’s head from its body.
The moment the zombie’s head thunked against the floor, boos and hisses filled its audio receptors.
The cacophony of a displeased crowd remained on the air for precisely 38.3 seconds before an echoey voice spoke over the intercom system.
“ Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Zombie Fight Night.
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