Blood Games by Macaulay C. Hunter Page B

pressed a champagne flute in his hand and gave him an intimate smile. Stunning. Just stunning. If she ever looked at Ink that way, he would melt into a puddle on the floor.
    Then the bigwigs reported to their clubroom, their big, beautiful clubroom where brunch was wa iting, and Ink went to his seat among the commoners. It was eleven o’clock. They stood for the Pledge of Allegiance and sat for a patriotic song by some famous young singer he had never heard of who stumbled over the words and squinted at the teleprompter. Just as she wrapped it up, a protestor dropped over the wall and ran out into the ring. He bared his chest, where ZR was painted for Zombie Rights. Everyone booed, and then laughed as security took him down and dragged him off.
    Every seat was taken around Ink , except for the one that belonged to Nadia. She had gone to change out of her embarrassing Hawaiian outfit and inspect the vendors. The place looked like it had sold out. Two hundred and fifty thousand people burst into applause as the lights were turned on to shine into the ring. The beginning entertainments were nothing important, and only existed to keep the mood light and excited. Horses trotted around the ring, each mounted by a man or woman bearing a giant placard with a picture and name of a competitor. Everyone fell apart at the big names, pumping their fists into the air and shrieking. Maenad! Poseidon! Wrath of Neptune! The last was an adult male placed in the 36-50 age group. The zombie simply refused to bow down to time and accept its limits. He was the fine wine of aging fighters, only growing better and better with the years.
    Vendors climbed up and down the steps with trays of popco rn, hot dogs, and racks of beer, soda, and bottled water. Another one had visors for people who wanted some eye protection from the sun, and the man behind that vendor had little packets of sunscreen. The smell of the hot dogs was so good that Ink almost bought one. Yet the prices were jacked up here twice above what he could get in the stables. He just wanted to buy one like everyone else, eat and yell with bits of bun and catsup escaping from his lips. But his hand never went to his wallet. He had self-control.
    At noon, he left the exuberant crowd to fetch Thor for the adult male melee. The fad of destroying costumes in a melee was fortunately limited to children and elderly, although there had once been a fad among women competitors to do the same. But women were respected as fighters now, real fighters, leaving halftime for real-time. No one would be gussying up their females in princess gowns and cocktail dresses before the adult women’s melee at two. Both male and female fighters had similar garments. All of them wore tan trousers, and the women often had sports bras while the men were bare-chested. Tank tops were also acceptable for both men and women. There were no shoes or socks. If either sex had long hair, it was to be clipped back firmly so chasers didn’t have to run into the ring with tranquilizer guns and nets if the lights didn’t work on someone as a match ended. If a chaser died bringing down your zombie, you paid for it in spades. Even if the clips had been lost due to some other zombie ripping them out. When Ink fought Medusa, he was exceedingly careful with her hair.
    He ferried Thor to the south funnel and left him with a Games stadium organizer. Hades was also there, that big fellow who was going to win easily without Samson. Then Ink got his binoculars and went back to his seat, which took so long that he was just sitting down when the one-minute countdown to the melee began. He felt rather silly in his parrot shirt, but it marked him as a manager trying for the top prize, and that was more important. It was proven to him when a guy in the row behind him clapped his back and said, “So, who is your gent down there?”
    “ Mine is Thor,” Ink said as the crowd bellowed twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven!
    The guy paused,