THIAGO DESANT

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The God of the Dead

by Thiago Desant

The morning sun oozed through the trees, the houses, the streets. Like the napalm that once rained from the sky onto cities, onto shoppers, onto influencers livestreaming their own deaths, onto pets in their custom outfits, onto the homeless, onto the shopping carts filled with garbage, and the Ferraris. Napalm that melted everything it touched. Like the riots, the panic, the last gasps of an apocalypse that came, but never finished.
A world that should’ve ended, but didn’t. Just shifted. Just kept going. Like a chewed-up sandwich, spat out, swallowed again.
Can mankind adapt to anything?

Even after five years, the wind still smelled like rot. The hunters and their horses smelled worse.
They moved slowly through the valley, rifles low, fingers twitching. A good hunt meant fresh meat for the fighting pits. A bad hunt meant running. Nobody liked running.
This was how it usually went. Ride out. Find the wild ones—the ones who turned before they had chips—and make them useful. A clean headshot didn’t kill. It installed a chip, turned them remote-control.

Of course, there was always the “kill option.” The incinerator round.
Since the parasite wrapped itself around every inch of the brain, a regular bullet didn’t cut it. A kill-shot had to cook the infection from the inside. One hit, and the thing’s skull bubbled like boiling tar. Sometimes you’d even see the smoke, curling out of the hole in its head.
The others, the already chipped, were never a problem. They’d turned same as everybody else, but they came pre-tamed. Plug and play. Workforce ready. No screaming, no struggling, just dead flesh on autopilot.

Some worked. Some fought. Some just stood around, dressed nice, looking expensive.

Zombies made to entertain.

Some didn’t moan—they hummed the Super Mario theme, notes breaking apart in wet, rattling groans. Their jaws barely moving, lips cracked, but the melody played on. Some had LED halos over their eyes, rings of pulsing rainbow light that flickered in sync with every twitch, every shudder of their rotting frames. Some were sprayed down in layers of synthetic skin, stretched too tight, too smooth, plastic flesh covering what festered beneath. A fresh coat to mask the stink, to keep them presentable.

Some wore tailored suits, silk dresses, old-school gangster fedoras, their owners dressing them like icons from a world that didn’t exist anymore. Some wore cat ears, maid outfits, thigh-high stockings.
Some didn’t do much of anything. Until the right command. Then they danced. Twitched and jerked in perfect rhythm, rotting feet shuffling through pre-programmed steps.

All of them, highly customized, a joke to the people who owned them.

The ones still loose? Free stock. Unclaimed. Rich people paid good money for them. More bodies for the circuit. More workers for the factories. More pets for the sadistic bastards who kept them on leashes for fun.
Again, ride out, find the wild ones, turn them remote-control. That’s how it always went. That’s how it should go today. Up ahead, Santa Monica State Beach.
The best hunting grounds were always where people still had hope when the world ended.
They’d be there. The ones who turned mid-jog. Mid-stretch. Mid-set. Beach bodies standing around, slack-jawed, sun-bleached, still wearing their running shorts, their swimsuits, their volleyball uniforms. Some probably still holding frisbees. Just standing there. Waiting to be claimed.

Trent and his crew—five in total—rode until they reached Ocean Avenue. From there, they had a clear view of the Pacific Coast Highway.

They dismounted. Set up their rifles. Scopes pointed down at the stretch of road and beach below. Dead things shuffled across the sand, wandered aimlessly over the pavement. Stragglers. Leftovers.
Trent glanced right. Zack. Barely twenty, thin mustache, hands shaking. Scared.
Trent squinted at him. "How old are you, kid?"
"Nineteen." Voice barely above a whisper.
"You got family?"
Zack hesitated. Then shook his head.
Trent chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Ever kill anything before?"
Zack took too long to answer.
"Figures," Trent muttered.

The kid had no business being out here. Another dumb recruit thrown into the meat grinder because someone told him it wouldn’t be so bad. Shoot the undead, not people. Make some money. Hell, it’s practically a desk job, right?
Except for the horses. And the rotting stench. And the fact that if something went wrong, your last five seconds on Earth would be nothing but screams and teeth and blood.
Trent clapped him on the shoulder. "You’ll be fine. We’ll take care of you."
The others laughed.
Trent raised his rifle, found a muscular zombie stumbling through the sand. Tight shorts, ripped body, the kind of guy who probably had a six-figure supplement sponsorship before the world went to hell.
Funny how the parasite keeps them almost exactly the way they were when they turned.
They still rot, sure. Skin cracks, eyes sink, muscle fibers break down. But not at the rate they should. Not the full, collapsing-into-bone kind of rot.
And the strength? That’s the real mystery.
It’s not just preserved—it’s amplified. A fresh zombie could throw a grown man across a room. Hold its breath forever. Sprint like an Olympic athlete on adrenaline. How does a walking corpse get stronger?
Nobody had an answer.
Some said the parasite acted like a stimulant, hijacking adrenal glands and cranking them into overdrive. Others swore it produced a synthetic protein, something that reinforced muscle fibers and slowed tissue degradation. Theories, all of them. No lab had cracked it.
"First, you take the shot."
Suppressor hissed.
The bullet hit, and the zombie’s skull rocked back, like it had just taken a hard slap from God. But it didn’t fall. Didn’t die. Just froze.

"Then, you take control."
Trent pulled out his tablet. A few quick taps.
The zombie stopped moving completely.
One more tap—"RETRIEVE."
Down on the beach, the thing’s head twitched. Then it turned and started walking toward the stairs.
"And you wait for them to come to you. Simple."
Zack swallowed hard. His hands still shook.
The others started firing. One by one, the dead stopped wandering. Heads snapped toward the new masters. Some had been pacing the highway, dragging feet across faded asphalt. Some had been sun-bleached on the sand for years, hair fried, skin cracking.
Didn’t matter. Now they had orders.
One by one, the drones came marching up the stairs.

Zack kept his rifle tight against his chest, breathing too fast, eyes darting between the hunters and the slow-moving dead. He had that look—the kind that came right before someone either pissed themselves or ran.
Trent sighed, shook his head. "Alright, kid. Time to earn your keep."
Zack blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Pick one."
The others smirked, already entertained.
Zack swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he’d just choked on something. He turned toward the beach, scanning the drifting bodies like a kid staring at a test he hadn’t studied for.
Trent took a deep breath. "Alright, let me help. See that one?" He pointed down to the sand, where a woman in a tattered lifeguard swimsuit wandered near a collapsed volleyball net. Her skin had gone pale and papery, sun damage peeling it back in places, exposing dry, blue muscle. Bare feet dragged through the sand, toenails long, thick like yellowed glass.
Zack hesitated. "She—she’s slow."
"They’re all slow, dumbass. That’s the point." Trent nudged him. "Come on, aim."
Zack lifted his rifle, elbows locked, but the barrel trembled.
Trent stepped behind him. "First rule of the hunt, Zack: if you shake like that, you’ll miss, and then we all have to clean up your mess."
"I—I'm not shaking."
Trent leaned in close. "You are."
The others laughed again.
Zack exhaled hard, gripping the rifle tighter. His finger hovered over the trigger.
"Shoot, kid. First the shot, then the chip."
Zack bit his lip, eyes flicking between the zombie’s empty gaze and the sand shifting under its dragging feet. The distance wasn’t far. Maybe thirty meters. A guaranteed hit.
And yet he stood there, frozen, like pulling the trigger meant something more than just taking a step forward.
Trent watched the sweat bead along his temple. Saw his knuckles go white against the grip.
"You waiting for permission?"
Zack licked his lips. "I just—"
"It’s already dead, kid. You’re not killing anything. You’re just taking control."
Zack’s breath hitched. The lifeguard’s jaw slackened, a line of something dark and gelatinous sliding from the corner of her mouth, caught in the weak morning breeze.
Trent clapped him on the back. "Pull the trigger, Zack."
Zack squeezed.
The suppressor barely coughed, but the impact cracked through the valley. The bullet connected—right in the forehead. The woman’s head snapped back, body swaying like a drunk trying to catch their balance.
But she didn’t fall.
Didn’t even react.
Just stood there, swaying.
Zack’s breath hitched. "Oh, shit."
Trent smirked. "See? She barely felt it."
The hole in her forehead oozed something thick and black, like oil. It ran down over her left eye, but she didn’t lift a hand to wipe it away. Didn’t even seem to notice.
Zack took a half-step back. "Why—why didn’t she go down?"
Trent laughed. "Because you didn’t kill her, dumbass. You chipped her." He flicked open his tablet, nodding at the screen. "Alright, now finish it. Press the button."
Zack hesitated.
Trent rolled his eyes. "Jesus. It’s just a button." He held up the tablet, the interface flashing with a red command: RETRIEVE. "Do it."
Zack fumbled with the device, fingers slick with sweat. He tapped the screen.
The zombie froze. Her arms hung loose at her sides. The blank expression somehow emptier.
Then, her head tilted toward him.
Her feet shifted.
Slow, steady, she started walking up the stairs.
Straight to him.
Zack swallowed hard, stepping back on instinct.
Trent smirked. "There you go, kid. That’s yours now."
The others laughed.
Zack watched her move, that slow, obedient shuffle.

Trent leaned in, lowering his voice. "See? Easy. Not even a real person anymore."
Zack didn’t answer.
Trent sighed. "You get used to it."
He turned away, already scanning the beach for the next target. "Alright, let’s round up a few more. We got buyers waiting."
Zack kept staring at the woman, at the way her body obeyed without thinking, without choice.
Trent had said "not a real person."
But something about it didn’t feel that simple.

Trent watched Zack staring at the lifeguard as she shuffled toward him, slow, mechanical, arms swaying slightly with each step.
He knew that look. The mistake every rookie makes.
"Don’t let that fool you, kid," Trent said, wiping sweat from his brow. "They only move like that when they’re idle. When they don’t see prey."
Zack turned to him. "What do you mean?"
Trent smirked. "I mean, when these things lock onto something alive, when they know there's meat in front of them, they don’t just move. They run. Fast."
Zack glanced back at the lifeguard, her pace slow, steady, lifeless. "She doesn’t look fast."
Trent exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.
"Yeah. That’s what everybody says. Right up until one of ‘em is tearing their throat out." He tapped the side of Zack’s rifle. "That neuro-chip you just installed? That’s the only thing keeping her like this. She’s tamed now."
Zack looked back at her, at the way her body moved in lazy, automated steps.
"Without that chip, she'd be sprinting."
Zack stiffened.
Trent tilted his head. "You ever seen a dog lock onto a rabbit? The way its whole body commits, the way it stops being an animal and just becomes an instinct?"
Zack nodded, slowly.
"That’s what they do. The second they recognize prey, they are not slow. They are not tired. They are not stopping."
Zack swallowed. His hands clenched on the rifle.
Trent rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck.
"Let me tell you about my daughter."
The other hunters kept working, but the energy shifted. The ones close enough to hear stopped grinning.
Zack glanced at them, then back at Trent. "Your daughter?"
Trent nodded, still staring at the beach like he was seeing something else. Something five years gone.
"She was a sprinter. Trained since she was a kid. Olympic-level speed. Always had this perfect form, like her body just knew how to run. Had scouts watching her. Nike deals waiting. Everything."
He let out a slow breath.
"Didn’t mean shit."
Zack swallowed. "She got caught?"
Trent turned, staring Zack dead in the eye. "She almost did. And that’s the part you need to hear."
Zack shifted uncomfortably, but Trent kept going.
"She was at the track when the city fell apart. At first, she didn’t know what was happening—just saw people screaming, running. Then she saw what they were running from."
A pause. A long one.

"She took off. Hit her fastest time in her life that day. Didn’t stop, didn’t look back. And you know what? They kept up."
Zack stiffened.
"No one talks about that part." Trent’s jaw tightened. "People think of zombies as slow, dumb, easy targets. But that’s when they don’t care. When they’re not locked in. When they don’t have something in front of them, bleeding, sweating, moving. You think they’re slow?"
Trent leaned in. "Try running. See what happens."
Zack didn’t say anything.
"My daughter?" Trent continued, voice lower now. "She was running full speed, and they were gaining. She could hear them behind her. Not just their feet. Their breathing. Their fucking nails scraping the pavement."
Zack’s hands clenched.
"She saw an open sewer drain just ahead. One of those big-ass city ones, wide enough for her to squeeze through. She knew she wouldn’t make it another thirty feet. So she dove."
Zack frowned. "A sewer?"
Trent nodded. "One of those big-ass runoff drains. The kind you barely notice when you’re walking by. That day, it saved her life."
He ran a hand over his mouth.
"Water was black. Thick. Grease, shit, dead rats, all of it. She slammed into it full force, barely fit through the opening. Lost a shoe. Lost her bag. Nearly lost her arm, too—felt their fingers scraping against her ankle as she went under."
Zack took a slow breath.
"She held it together. Held her breath in that filth, in that cold, until she couldn’t hear them anymore. Until the world got quiet again."
Trent rubbed his thumb against the butt of his rifle. "And when she crawled out the other side, everything was burning."
Zack didn’t move.
The sound of waves, of shifting sand, of metal on metal echoed beneath them.
Trent exhaled. "You think they’re slow, kid? You think you can outrun ‘em? My daughter was built to run. She trained for years. Had every genetic advantage."
He looked Zack in the eye.
"She barely made it."
Zack felt sweat dripping down his back.
Trent turned back toward the highway.
"Don’t ever let your guard down. Ever."
Zack swallowed, staring at the lifeguard zombie still walking toward him. It was slow now. But only because they made it that way.

The hunt was smooth. Too smooth. One by one, the zombies marched up the stairs, chipped, controlled, mindless. The hunters barely spoke anymore—just aimed, fired, tapped a button, collected the stock.
Zack was still shaken, but he was following orders. Watching the lifeguard shuffle toward him, her bare feet dragging over the pavement. He didn’t like how obedient she looked.
Trent, though? He was comfortable now. Too comfortable.
He rolled his shoulders, adjusting his grip on his rifle. Scanned the beach for something better. Bigger. Then he saw it.
Near the lifeguard towers, standing alone, was a massive zombie. Tall. Thick with muscle. Shirtless, dark skin pulled tight over what looked like years of training. A fighter before death. Still a fighter after, but what stood out wasn’t the size, it was the helmet.
A golden gladiator-style skullplate, custom-made, scratched and dented but still gleaming under the morning sun.
One of the rich bastards had lost a fighter. A high-tier one. This wasn’t a wild one—this was a pit champion that had gone rogue.
"Holy shit, would you look at that?" Trent lowered his rifle, grinning.
Zack followed his gaze. "What is that thing?"
Trent cracked his neck. "That’s a goddamn paycheck."
Zack squinted. "But… how do you lose a zombie? That happens?"
Trent smirked. "You think rich assholes care? They can afford new ones."
Zack still looked confused. "But, like, it just wandered off?"
Trent exhaled. "Could be a few things. Maybe the neuro-chip got damaged in a fight. Happens sometimes—not often, but if they take enough of a beating, the chip can glitch out, stop working right."
Zack stared down at the thing standing in the sun, motionless. "Or?"
Trent’s smirk widened. "Or someone stole it."
Zack’s eyebrows pulled together. "People steal zombies?"
Trent chuckled. "Hell yeah. Happens all the time. After the fights, when the handlers are transporting them, gangs hit the convoys, steal as many as they can. Sell ‘em off to underground fight rings all over the world."
Zack shook his head. "Why not just get fresh ones?"
Trent tapped the side of his head. "Because these ones remember."
Zack blinked. "Wait. What?"
Trent gestured toward the golden-masked zombie. "The chip makes ‘em obedient, but whatever the parasite does to the brain… it keeps what they learn. The longer a zombie fights, the better it gets."

Zack’s stomach turned.
Trent grinned. "You don’t want some fresh wild one getting chipped and sent into a ring all dumb and stiff. You want one like this. One that’s been in the pits. One that already knows how to dodge, how to counter, how to rip something apart."
Zack looked down at the thing again. It hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even twitched.
Trent rolled his shoulders. "Either it took enough damage in the ring that its chip stopped working right… or some dumbass stole it, tried to reprogram it, messed up, and got himself and his crew eaten."
Zack licked his lips. "So it’s… wild now?"
Trent raised his rifle. "Not for long."
He fired. The bullet hit dead center. The golden skull snapped back. A dull clang rang out. The thing staggered, almost fell. Then it stopped. Stood still.
Zack held his breath. The moment stretched too long.
Trent flicked open his tablet. "Alright, let’s bring him in—"
The zombie snapped its head forward. No hesitation. No twitching.
And then it ran. Not toward the sand. Toward the stairs.
Zack’s stomach dropped. "Holy shit—"
The thing was already halfway across the beach, legs pumping, arms swinging, covering ground like a goddamn track star.
"Come on, guys, hit it! Help me out here!" Trent barked, raising his rifle.
Shots rang out. Neuro-chip rounds fired in quick succession. Each one landed. Each one did nothing. The golden-masked fighter didn’t slow. It tore through the sand, feet barely sinking, kicking up sprays of dust as it came straight for them.
"I’m using an incinerator," Mike growled, already switching ammo.
Mike was second-in-command, unofficially. The guy you listened to when Trent wasn’t around. Bigger than Trent, meaner than Trent, but without Trent’s patience. Mike was the kind of guy you’d expect to survive the apocalypse—big, broad-shouldered, built like a guy who used to work security at a strip club. A shaved head, deep-set eyes, and a scar running along his jawline that made it look like he was always grinding his teeth.
He had that ex-military, ex-cop, ex-something kind of presence. The kind of guy who used to be in charge of people. Used to giving orders. Didn’t like being told what to do.
His arms were covered in tattoos, but they weren’t the kind that meant anything—just blacked-out patches where old ink had been erased, gang signs or past affiliations scrubbed over. The kind of guy who had been part of something, but not anymore.
His voice was gravelly, like someone who smoked too much or just never slept. His trigger finger was always too eager. His instinct wasn’t to assess—it was to shoot, then shoot again, then figure out if it was the right call later.
Trent didn’t lower his rifle. "Wait—"
"Fuck you," Mike snapped. "I’m not waiting for that thing to get here. We have to kill it."
Before Trent could argue, Mike loaded an incinerator round and fired. The bullet hit center mass, burrowing deep. For a split second, nothing happened.
Then smoke curled from the wound. The zombie staggered, as if confused. Then it screamed.
A high-pitched, metallic wail like steel being shredded in an industrial press. Black fluid boiled from the hole in its chest, hissing as it hit the pavement. Then it kept running.
"What the fuck?!" Mike fired again.
Another shot. Another hit. More smoke. More boiling rot. And still, it kept coming.
The others raised their rifles. More incinerators fired.
The golden-masked zombie made it to the base of the stairs—then stopped.
Not because of the damage. Because something was behind it.
Zack saw them first. Shapes moving in the sun. Big shapes. More of them. More fighters.
One by one, they emerged from behind the lifeguard towers, from between the abandoned vendor stalls. Six, maybe seven. Maybe more.

A hulking brute covered in cracked purple and green metallic armor, like some kind of medieval knight redesigned by a psychopath.
A lanky one with metal rods drilled through its arms and shoulders, standing too straight, too stiff, like it was waiting for a command.
A thin, twitching one, skin stapled over what looked like cybernetics, its jaw split open—until it unhinged like a snake’s and belched fire.
"The fuck is this?" One of the hunters took a half-step back.
Another zombie stepped forward. This one wore chains. Thick steel links wrapped around its arms and torso, like restraints that had been broken. Its hands were missing. In their place were curved, rusted blades fused to bone.
Mike’s voice broke. "Where the hell did they all come from?!"
Trent’s lips pressed into a tight line. His fingers twitched over his rifle grip.
"Some billionaire got robbed," he muttered.
Mike turned, eyes wide. "Wait. You mean—"
"Yeah."
Mike’s breath hitched. "The owner of NeuroTech?"
Trent exhaled through his nose. "One of them."
Zack stared at the monsters lining up along the sand, at the custom-made abominations worth more than entire city blocks.
"Billionaires lose zombies?" His voice felt stupid coming out of his mouth, but he needed to ask.
Trent snorted. "Billionaires lose everything. You think this guy’s the only one in the world? They steal from each other all the time. But this… this was big. A whole shipment went missing a few months back. A dozen, maybe more."
Zack swallowed. "Shouldn’t he have security?"

Trent didn’t take his eyes off the horde. "Sure. But security ain’t foolproof. If a guy like him is stealing from others, others are stealing from him."
Zack felt a chill go down his spine. "So… what happened to the thieves?"
Trent’s face darkened. "Looks like something went wrong."
The golden-masked zombie twitched. Then, in perfect synchronization, the others did too. All at once, they turned toward the stairs.
"Oh, fuck this," Mike whispered.
Another hunter shifted. "What do we do?"
Trent’s grip on his rifle tightened. His throat bobbed.
"We’re fucked," he said flatly.

The golden-masked zombie moved first. Mike lifted his rifle, squeezed the trigger. The incinerator round hit square in the shoulder—too low, too off-center, too desperate. Didn’t matter. The thing didn’t even flinch. It was already leaping. Mike had time for one last breath before the weight slammed into him, knocking him flat. A hand—no, a claw—wrapped around his throat. Lifted. Mike choked out something—maybe a curse, maybe a plea. Then the fingers tightened. The pop of his windpipe sounded like a champagne cork.
The thing held him there for a moment, dangling, body jerking, fingers still convulsing around his useless rifle. Then, like it was bored, it slammed him into the pavement.
Mike’s skull didn’t just crack—it exploded. Blood. Brain. Bone.
Then the thing turned toward the others.
Trent didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate. His gun was already up, his finger pulling the trigger—
Click. His heart stopped. He checked the mag. Empty.

"FUCK!"
He spun, reaching for his backup pistol, but the fire-breather was already moving, stepping forward, chest heaving.

A second of silence. Then—a guttural roar.
Its jaw split open, smoke curling from between its broken teeth, nostrils flaring as heat radiated from deep inside its chest.
Trent turned to run. Didn’t make it three steps. The fire hit him square in the back.
It didn’t just burn—it consumed. Trent screamed. He fell to his knees, slapping at himself, at the flames, at his own melting flesh. His hands hit the pavement, skin fusing to the hot concrete.

The fire-breather stepped forward. It didn’t even wait for him to die before swinging one heavy, armored fist down. Trent’s body stopped moving, but his head didn’t. It rolled three feet, hit the ground with a dull thump. Stopped.
The rest of the hunters had already started running, but it didn’t matter. The other monsters were already on them.
The purple-and-green armored brute moved like a tank, crushing one under its bulk, cracking ribs, ripping a man in half like a rotisserie chicken. The one with the rusted blade hands hacked through two more, metal claws punching through kevlar, through ribs, through lungs.
One of the hunters—a woman Zack hadn’t even learned the name of yet—got her pistol up just in time for the chain-covered zombie to wrap a steel link around her throat. One pull and her neck snapped like a twig.
Zack tried to move, but his body wouldn’t. The golden-masked zombie turned to him now.
The others followed. Zack’s breath caught in his throat. They weren’t just moving. They were coordinating. A full formation. Like soldiers.
He took a half-step back. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. This was it.
The blade-handed undead took another step forward, raising its arms. Zack shut his eyes.
And then—

A shrieking hiss. A wet crack. A body hitting the ground. Zack’s eyes snapped open.
One of the zombies—the one in armor—had something sticking out of its skull. A spear. The metal tip glowed orange, so hot it looked like it had just been pulled from a forge. Steam hissed from the wound. The stench of burning flesh and molten metal filled the air. The zombie twitched. Stumbled. Collapsed.
Zack’s breath caught. A shadow moved. Not a zombie. Something else. Someone. A tall figure, dark silhouette against the smoke. No words. No warning. Just pure, brutal precision.
Another step forward. A flick of the wrist. The spear ripped free from the fallen zombie’s skull, leaving a smoking crater where its brain had been. The fire-breather turned toward the newcomer. Opened its mouth. Smoke curled from its throat, heat building—
The spear moved again, straight into the mouth. The fire-breather’s jaw snapped shut around the metal tip.

A beat.
Then its head detonated.
The spear came free again, slick with charred gore. Another step. Another kill.
Zack couldn’t breathe. The blade-handed zombie rushed forward, swinging its rusted weapons in a vicious arc. The spear caught its wrist mid-swing.
A brutal twist—
SNAP.
The entire arm tore free from the socket. The thing staggered. The spear spun, arced downward, and buried itself straight through the skull. The rusted blade-hands twitched once. Then nothing. Zack couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could only watch as the last zombie—the golden-masked one—made its final charge.
The spear whistled through the air. One stroke straight through the eye socket.
The body dropped. Silence. Smoke curled from the wounds. Blood pooled in the cracks of the pavement. The scent of burnt meat and death clung to the air.
Zack barely noticed when his knees gave out. He hit the ground, hands trembling, staring up at the figure standing among the corpses.

The man stood still for a moment, then turned toward him. A voice, low and steady:

"You hurt?"

Zack swallowed hard, shook his head. "No. No, I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I’m okay."

The man nodded, stepping closer. The spear in his hand still dripped.

"What were you doing out here?"

Zack exhaled, running a shaky hand through his hair. His fingers came back sticky with sweat and blood. "We were hunting. For zombies."

The man tilted his head slightly. "Why?"

Zack licked his lips. "To sell them. Rich people buy them for the NZFL."

A pause. The spear rested on the man's shoulder.

"NZFL?"

Zack forced himself to breathe slower, his pulse still hammering in his ears. "National Zombie Fighting League." He swallowed again. "They capture the strongest ones. Modify them. Use them for bloodsport. It’s huge. Billion-dollar industry."
The man watched him. Expression unreadable.
"How much do they pay you?"
Zack hesitated. "Not much. A few thousand per head, depending on quality."
The man was quiet for a moment. Then, his voice came slow, deliberate. "How much does the winner get?"
Zack’s throat felt dry. He wiped at his face again. "Forty million. That’s the grand prize."
Another pause. The wind shifted, carrying the stench of burnt flesh and blood.
Zack hesitated, then swallowed hard. "Who—who are you?"
The man turned slightly.
"Rask."
The name landed heavy. Simple. Final.
Rask watched him for a moment longer. "Do you know the way back?"
Zack blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."
Rask nodded once. "Then go."
And with that, he turned, stepping over the bodies, into the fog.
Zack sat there, breath unsteady, staring after him.

***

The city bled neon.
Slick lights smeared across rain-soaked streets, the colors bending and twisting over potholes, over shattered glass, over the bodies huddled beneath broken awnings. The storm hit in thick, black sheets, a constant downpour against steel and concrete.
From the twelfth-floor balcony, it was just an endless sprawl of crimson brake lights, flickering billboards, high-rise slums stacked so close together they looked like tumors growing on top of each other.
The smell of burnt plastic and oil. The distant hum of sirens. The wet clatter of rain against rusted metal.
William leaned against the railing, staring out at it all. Arms crossed, shoulders tense. His fingers tapped absently against his sleeve, the old cybernetic in his left wrist clicking faintly—cheap black-market parts, barely functional.
Rask stood next to him, leaning against the balcony’s support beam. He had one boot propped up against the wall, arms relaxed, watching the world rot below them.
The conversation had already started.
"You’d pose as a zombie?" William’s voice was low, steady.
Rask exhaled. "My blood would probably confirm it."
William turned his head slightly, studying his father. His jaw tightened. "Just because you were bitten doesn’t mean you’re fully infected."
Rask said nothing. Just held out his hand. Turned his palm over. Let the light catch against the skin.
It was worse under the glow. The flesh was paler in patches. Not gray, not black, but not right either. Veins looked too dark, too sluggish. The knuckles were stiff, but the fingers—too fast. Too precise. Too strong.
William exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. Since the attack, I noticed. Maybe you’ve got some kind of immunity."
Rask flexed his fingers once, testing the joints. His voice was flat. "Why do you think I’m this strong?"
William frowned. "Because you were—" he stopped. Exhaled. "Because you were fucking Tier-One Spec Ops, Dad. One of the best. I don’t know, maybe your body just—"
Rask cut him off. "William." His voice was calm, but heavy. "You know my strength and speed have gone beyond what's possible."
A pause. Rain ticked against the rusted railing. William looked away, down at the streets below. A drone buzzed past, red scanning lights flickering over a corpse slumped in an alley. It didn’t stop. Nobody stopped for the dead anymore.
William exhaled. "And you want to fight in this tournament? Pretend to be one of them? To help me?" His voice was quieter now.
Rask nodded once. "Better to die being useful than to turn in slow motion."
William’s throat bobbed. His cybernetic hand clenched.
"Forty million dollars," Rask continued. "Enough for you to take care of your family."
The words settled between them, heavy, final. William dragged a hand through his damp hair, fingers raking against his scalp. The distant glow of a malfunctioning holographic billboard flickered in and out, painting his face in broken reds and blues. He laughed, but it wasn’t real. Just a short breath.
"Jesus Christ, Dad."
Rask said nothing. The rain kept falling.

The wind howled through the gaps in the walls. The apartment wasn’t much. Cramped. Cracked concrete. A single flickering light in the kitchen. The window by the bed had been sealed with a plastic tarp, the real glass stolen months ago and never replaced.
Most of the furniture was salvaged junk. A couch missing one leg, propped up on an old toolbox. A table covered in cheap takeout containers and empty stim packets. The floor—cold metal, exposed wiring, damp in spots from a leak no one would fix.
A low, broken holo-screen buzzed in the corner, muted ads glitching in and out. Women selling cybernetic augmentations. Children with chrome spines playing in artificial playgrounds. A news ticker looping the same warnings about biohazard zones and drone-enforced curfews.
On the balcony, the rain came down in sheets, turning the city into a haze of neon smears and wet concrete.
Rask watched his son carefully.
"You'll be able to save her." His voice was even. Steady. "You won’t have to worry about anything for the rest of your lives."
William exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. His cybernetic fingers clicked against his cheek.
"Yeah," he muttered. "But you’re gonna die."
Rask snapped. "You’d rather have a father who’s dead-alive?"
William hesitated. Then—a smirk.
"I don’t know. Could I use you to win more championships?"
Rask grunted. "Don’t be greedy."
A moment of silence.
Then—both of them laughed.
The kind of laugh that felt out of place in a city like this. Like it wasn’t supposed to happen here. Like it was borrowed from somewhere better.
William shook his head, sighing. His breath fogged in the cold air. "Alright. We need a plan. I’ll start looking into the process. We’ll need to figure out how to get you in, what paperwork they’ll want. I think I know someone who can make you look kinda legit." He frowned, glancing at Rask’s face. "We’ll need to customize you. At least your face. Can’t have people noticing you’re not fully turned yet."
Rask rolled his shoulders. "I can fight without a face."

"Yeah, but they might not let you enter without the right… look. People pay for the show."
Rask just nodded.
William stretched, flexing his fingers, thinking. "I’ll also get a home test kit. Just to be sure."
Rask tilted his head slightly. "You don’t think my blood will register?"
William shrugged. "Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t. But I’d rather we find out here than at registration."
The storm rolled on, rain tapping against the rusted railing. Down below, a corpse lay half-hidden under a collapsed neon sign, its glow still flickering against wet pavement. A drone hovered past. Ignored it.
Yup, nobody stopped for the dead anymore.

The door creaked. A small voice. Soft. Thin. Barely heard above the rain.
"Grandpa?"
William and Rask both turned. She stood in the doorway to the balcony—small hands gripping the frame, the glow of the city throwing long shadows across her frail figure. The cold wind tugged at the loose sleeves of her too-big shirt. Her bare feet pressed against the metal floor, toes curled slightly, like she was always bracing against a chill.
Her head was smooth. No hair. No fuzz. Just pale, almost translucent skin stretched over a delicate skull. Too delicate. She wasn’t shivering, but she should’ve been. Her breathing was slow, too controlled for a child her age. She stood a little too still. Moved a little too carefully.
But she smiled. Not wide, not bright, but real. And in her hand, she clutched a toy. A plastic figure, stiff-jointed, its head molded from stark white material—like bleached bone, or something trying to look like it. The long beard and hair were sculpted from the same hard plastic, frozen in place, rigid. A red cross sat in the center of the face. No eyes. No mouth. Just the symbol. The body was covered in gold. Not real gold—cheap plastic, factory-painted metallic. The kind that chipped at the edges after a few months, revealing the dull gray underneath. The arms were stretched out in a T-pose, palms open. It was a zombie. One of the most famous to ever fight in the NZFL.
William exhaled through his nose. Then smirked.
"Hey, you brought J Killer C with you."
The girl nodded. "J Killer C."
She held the figure against her chest, hugging it absently, fingers too thin around its stiff plastic frame. Rask watched her. His face didn’t change, but his shoulders shifted slightly, like something tightened in his back.
William cleared his throat. "Hey, sweetheart. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?"
She blinked up at him. Then at Rask.
"Are you gonna be the champion?"
The rain ticked against the railing.
Rask said nothing.
William sighed. "Who let you stay up this late, huh?"
The girl ignored him, stepping closer, holding up the toy.
"J Killer C never lost," she said matter-of-factly. "He was the best."
William forced a chuckle. "That’s what they say."
She looked at Rask, waiting. The kind of patient, expectant silence only kids can pull off. Rask didn’t look away.
Finally, he said, "J Killer C was never alive to begin with."
The girl tilted her head, like she was thinking it over. Then frowned. "That doesn’t matter."
William sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Sweetheart—"
She turned back to Rask. "If you win, will they make a toy of you too?"
Rask blinked.

William coughed. "Alright, come on. Back to bed."
She didn’t move. Just hugged the J Killer C toy closer.
William hesitated, then crouched to her level, dropping his voice. "Hey. If Grandpa fights, he needs to rest too. That means you gotta rest, okay?"
She pouted. Then yawned, like her body had been waiting for permission.
William smiled. "I’ll tuck you in."
She looked at Rask one more time. Then nodded. William scooped her up easily, carrying her inside. The J Killer C figure dangled from her fingers, arms still open, still waiting.
Rask stayed on the balcony. He could still hear the city breathing. Somewhere, deep in the sprawl, someone was still betting on the dead.
The rain kept falling.
The city breathed below him. A lung full of rust and exhaust, exhaling smoke through neon-streaked streets, through alleyways lined with sleeping bodies. A million lives stacked on top of each other, none of them ever looking down.
Rask sat on the edge of the balcony, elbows on his knees, hands loose between them. Rain slid down his arms, his knuckles, his fingers. He flexed them, slow. Made a fist. Released. Again. The strength was still there. More than ever. His eyes drifted to the railing. Steel, old and corroded at the bolts. A thing meant to keep people from falling. Rask set his grip around one of the bars. Squeezed. The metal groaned. He pressed harder, slow, steady, feeling the give, the slight resistance before—

A snap. The steel crushed in his palm like cheap plastic. Warped and twisted, veins of rain cutting over its bent frame. Rask watched it for a moment. Then let the mangled piece drop.
It clattered onto the balcony floor, bouncing once before rolling to a stop against the wall. He rolled his shoulders. Stretched his neck until he felt the pop. Stood.
The rain blurred the city into colors and shadows, light bleeding into the gutters, sirens humming somewhere distant. What was he now?
His nervous system still felt like his own. But his body? He exhaled, testing the air. No hunger, no sickness. Just something else. Something waiting. Maybe William was right. Maybe it was immunity. Maybe it was something worse. Either way, it wouldn’t matter soon.
He turned back toward the apartment. Time to move forward.

The rain kept falling. Rask turned, stepping inside, leaving the city behind him. Water dripped from his sleeves, from the edges of his fingers, hitting the floor in soft, uneven taps.
The apartment was dim, lit only by the blue static hum of the holo-screen in the corner. The flickering light made the walls look more cracked than they were, made the shadows stretch longer than they should.
William reappeared from the hallway, running a hand through his damp hair. He moved slower now, the tension drained out of his shoulders, his steps lighter.
"She’s asleep," he muttered.
Rask said nothing. Just nodded.
William sighed, rolling out his wrist, cybernetics clicking faintly. "She didn’t wanna let go of that damn toy. Had a death grip on it. You’d think she was holding onto gold."
Rask dried his hands against his pants. "Might as well be."
William snorted. "Yeah, well. They sell those things like crazy. Full lines outside the toy shops every time a new champ gets a model." He shook his head, staring at the flickering screen in the corner. "Kids growing up with zombies as action figures. Never thought I’d see that shit."
Rask moved toward the kitchen, grabbing an old rag from the counter. Dried it over his face, then tossed it aside. "A corpse makes for an easy role model. Never complains. Never talks back."
William huffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, let’s hope she doesn’t start asking for zombie-themed birthday parties next year." He exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. His fingers lingered against his temple, pressing lightly. The cybernetics in his wrist clicked softly. "She really thinks you’re gonna be the next J Killer C, you know?"
Rask didn’t respond. Just ran a hand over the stubble along his jaw.
William crossed his arms, leaning back against the table. His gaze flicked toward the crushed balcony railing, lingering for a beat before he looked back at Rask.
"You okay?"
Rask just stared at him. "You ever ask me that before?"
William smirked. "Nope."
"Then don’t start now."
A beat. Then William shook his head, laughing under his breath. "Jesus. You never change." He tapped the edge of the table. "Alright, then. Let’s move forward."
Rask glanced at the screen. "What’s that?"
William leaned forward, tapping the cracked holo-screen to bring it back to life. A news ticker ran along the bottom, flashing one of the top headlines:
"Next of Kin Deceased Transfer – New Regulation Changes for Zombie Fighters"
William raised an eyebrow. "Looks like the government's doing their usual shit. Got more rules to pass if we’re gonna get you officially ‘dead.’"
Rask tilted his head, watching the flashing text. "How do we make it official?"
"Simple," William replied, his voice quiet. "I’ve gotta make sure they see you as completely gone, so they’ll transfer ownership. Right now, you’re still alive on paper." He flicked his wrist, pulling up another feed. A list of forms popped up on the screen. "This one’s the kicker. It's called a Deceased Relative Ownership Transfer Form."
Rask crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the screen. "What’s the catch?"
William scrolled through the digital document. "No catch. But it's tricky. I’ll have to submit it with a fake cause of death—something that doesn’t raise any flags. You know, like, ‘caught in an accident’ or ‘missing in action.’ The usual government bullshit."
Rask’s eyes narrowed. "And what happens if they investigate?"
"They won't. Not unless something’s off," William replied. "They just want a corpse. They don’t care how we get it. They’re not gonna ask questions unless we slip up."
The air seemed to thicken between them, a quiet tension settling. Rask ran a hand through his hair, still processing. He’d always known what he was getting into. But now, hearing it all laid out like this—he felt the weight of it.
A man. A father. A corpse.
He stood there for a moment, trying to absorb it, before shifting his gaze back to William. "And once I’m ‘dead’ in their eyes?"
William turned back to the holo-screen, his fingers tapping over the interface. "Then you’re officially a fighter. A piece of property. Legally, nothing more than a dead man walking." He sighed. "But in that world? That’s your ticket to the money."
Rask’s jaw clenched, his thoughts swirling.
William looked at him, studying his face for any sign of doubt. "This is what we’re doing, Dad. If we’re gonna play the game, we do it right. That money? Forty million." He shrugged. "It’s a chance to fix everything. A one-time shot."
Rask shook his head slowly, a humorless smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah. Fix everything. In a world that’s already rotting."
William exhaled, glancing out the window toward the sprawling city. The flickering lights from the distant high-rises felt distant, almost like another world.
"We all got our parts to play," William said, voice low. "You’re the one who decided to get into this."
Rask didn’t answer. He stepped back from the screen, eyes scanning the dark apartment. The rain outside had softened, but it still felt like everything around him was drowned.
"I’ll handle the paperwork," William continued, standing up. "Get it done tomorrow. Once we submit it, everything falls into place."
He paused, a serious look crossing his face. "But just know, once we start, there’s no turning back."
Rask nodded once, silent. His hand instinctively reached out to the edge of the table, steadying himself. Everything felt like it was slipping further into chaos, yet still, he moved forward. What else was there to do?
"Let’s make it count," Rask muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Then William sighed, tilting his head toward Rask. "You ever think about how fucked up this is?"
Rask didn’t answer.
William let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "I mean—what kind of world even lets this be a thing? Signing your own dad over as a goddamn corpse just so he can get punched to death for a prize pool?"
Rask exhaled through his nose. Scoffed. "The law says I gotta be dead before I’m allowed to get my ass beat for sport. Makes sense."
William gave a humorless smirk. "Yeah, well. People tried entering themselves voluntarily at first. Broke assholes willing to officially die just to get a shot at the money. Government shut that shit down fast. Can’t have living people signing up to be property."
Rask huffed, running a hand down his face. He flexed his fingers again, feeling the faint tension in the joints, the lingering, unnatural strength beneath the surface. He stared at his palm, the skin paling in patches, veins still sluggish.
Already dead on paper. Maybe already dead in truth.

William tapped the corner of the holo-screen, the cracks running jagged across the display like spiderwebs. The flickering blue hum wavered for a second before stabilizing, and then the feed refreshed. The NZFL logo glitched across the screen—bold, blood-red letters against a dark backdrop. The broadcast kicked in mid-segment.
"—AND DOWN HE GOES! That’s another knockout, folks! The crowd is losing their minds!"
The footage cut to a wide shot of the stadium—a colossal, neon-lit coliseum packed with thousands of screaming fans. Spotlights raked across the pit floor, illuminating the carnage.
A fighter-zombie lay sprawled on the ground, its cybernetic limbs twitching, fluids leaking from a massive crater where its face used to be. Across from it, the victor—a monstrous, custom-made behemoth—lifted both arms in triumph. It was a grotesque masterpiece of wealth and cruelty: a towering, bio-enhanced corpse reinforced with thick exoskeletal plating, metal spikes jutting from its shoulders like a living war machine. Its skull had been modified into a gleaming chrome death mask, expression frozen in an eternal, twisted grin.
The commentators’ voices overlapped, electric with excitement.
"This is why he’s the reigning champ, ladies and gentlemen! Give it up for KRAKEN!"
The camera zoomed in on Kraken, its cybernetic mouth opening to let out a deep, synthesized roar. It was barely human anymore—just a vessel for violence, a trophy of the absurd sport that kept the world entertained.
William exhaled, shaking his head.
Rask watched over his shoulder, arms crossed. "People actually pay to watch this shit?"
William scoffed. "They don’t just pay. They worship it."
The screen cut to a row of VIP seats, high above the pit. A group of executives in sleek suits clinked glasses, toasting to the carnage below. Their smiles were too white, too perfect. The rich ones. The owners. The ones who never got their hands dirty.
The segment continued, showing slow-motion replays of Kraken’s latest kill. The defeated zombie had been a former champion—now just another highlight in an endless reel of destruction. The final blow played in excruciating detail: Kraken lunging forward, its clawed hand punching straight through its opponent’s reinforced chest plate, gripping the spinal column, then yanking. The crowd roared as the corpse collapsed in pieces.
A neon overlay splashed across the screen.
"KRAKEN REMAINS UNDEFEATED. CURRENT ODDS FOR CHALLENGERS: 120 TO 1."
William let out a dry laugh. "Yeah, no shit."
Rask said nothing. Just kept watching as the next segment rolled in—a behind-the-scenes feature. A glimpse into the NZFL’s creation process.
The footage cut to a high-tech lab, glossy white floors reflecting the overhead surgical lights. Technicians in sterile suits adjusted dials, tapped at holo-screens, fine-tuned the implants being fused into dead flesh. Rows of motionless fighters stood upright in containment pods, blank eyes staring, muscles twitching under artificial stimulation.
A voiceover played.
"At NeuroTech, we push the limits of what’s possible. Every year, our fighters grow stronger, faster—ensuring the most exhilarating matches for our loyal fans. Through cutting-edge bio-cybernetic enhancements and the latest in neuromuscular stimulation, we create warriors capable of surviving even the most brutal encounters. Because at NZFL…"
The screen glitched, cutting to a close-up of one of the zombies in mid-surgery. Its eyes were open. It was awake.
The voiceover continued.
"—we don’t just build fighters. We build legends."
Rask exhaled sharply. "That’s a hell of a sales pitch."
William clenched his jaw. "Yeah. And you’re about to step into that meat grinder."

The news feed faded back to the studio—two well-dressed hosts sitting in a sleek, high-tech newsroom. One of them leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
"And speaking of new legends—up next, we break down the Top Five Challengers lined up for next season. Could we finally see someone take down Kraken? Stay tuned."
The feed glitched, then cut to commercial.
William ran a hand down his face, sighing. "Well. No pressure, huh?"
Rask just stared at the screen, expression unreadable. The glow of the holo-cast reflected in his eyes—just more ghosts in a city already filled with them.

The holo-screen flickered again, the next segment loading. The smooth, artificial voice of a news anchor filled the apartment, cutting through the low hum of the rain.
"While the NZFL remains the premier destination for sanctioned undead combat, authorities continue to crack down on the growing black market of illegal fight rings. Despite increased security measures and stricter licensing requirements, the underground industry remains alive and well—both here and abroad."
The screen shifted to a shaky drone feed—grainy night-vision footage of a warehouse, its interior barely visible through the thick plumes of smoke rising from what had once been a fighting pit. Bodies littered the ground. Some whole. Some torn apart. The feed zoomed in on a motionless zombie, its torso cracked open, ribs peeled back like a broken cage. Its head twitched, mouth opening and closing in small, mindless gasps. It wasn’t fully dead yet.
"Officials believe this particular ring was responsible for smuggling and modifying dozens of stolen combat units, many of which were never recovered. Their exact origins remain unknown, though authorities suspect international trafficking may be at play."
William exhaled through his nose. "You see this shit?"
Rask said nothing, watching as the footage switched to a different angle—crowds of people scattering in the dark, neon masks and cheap cybernetics catching the glow of police drones sweeping overhead. A voice in the background yelled something indistinct before the feed cut out.
"Despite growing concern, the public demand for these unsanctioned fights continues to rise. Officials warn that without proper oversight, the risks of underground matches far outweigh their entertainment value."
Rask smirked. "Sounds like bad press for the competition."
William scoffed. "Yeah, no shit." He rubbed a hand down his face, then turned to Rask. "What, you thinking of joining one of these fucking things?"
Rask shrugged. "Try an underground fight first. Get a feel for it."
William exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. "But you’ve fought them before. Hell, you’ve been out there killing these things for years. What’s different now?"
Rask tilted his head slightly. "I’ve been fighting to survive. That’s not the same as fighting to put on a show."
William narrowed his eyes. "You think they care about ‘showmanship’ in a meat locker full of gamblers?"
Rask shrugged. "Doesn’t matter if they care or not. What matters is reading the crowd. NZFL isn’t just about killing—it's about making them want to watch. The more they want to watch, the more bets roll in. The more bets roll in, the more valuable you are. That’s what keeps you alive."
William scoffed. "So you’re not testing if you can fight. You’re testing if you can sell it."
Rask nodded. "Exactly."
William let out a breath, rubbing his temples. "And you think the government really gives a shit about this? You’ve seen NZFL matches. They’re just as bad."
"Not the same," Rask said, shaking his head. "NZFL is controlled. Branded. The owners profit off every body that drops in that ring. Illegal fights cut into that. No house take, no sponsorships, no corporate oversight—just raw betting money moving where they can’t skim off the top."
William clenched his jaw. "So all this ‘moral outrage’ about underground fights?"
"Just them protecting their investment," Rask muttered. "They don’t give a damn about safety. They give a damn about losing control."
William let out a dry laugh. "Goddamn racket."
Rask leaned against the table, stretching his hands. The strength was still there, sitting under his skin like a coiled wire. "Yeah. And I’m about to buy in."

***

The rain had stopped by the time they reached the shop.
It wasn’t much to look at. One of those half-legal, half-condemned spots wedged between two neon-lit liquor depots, its front shutter covered in old graffiti tags and half-ripped posters for fights that had already come and gone. The kind of place that didn’t exist on a map but had a line out the door when the right people needed something done. The sign overhead blinked weakly, a dead pixel cutting through the middle of the name.
MENDES MODS.
William glanced at Rask. “You sure about this?”
Rask exhaled. “Stop asking me. I’m doing this for you. For my granddaughter. Especially for my granddaughter.”
William raised an eyebrow. “Dad, you never learned when to shut up, did you? ‘For you and my granddaughter’ almost got to me—”
Rask cut him off. “I’m hyperhonest.”
William smirked. “Yeah, I know.”

Inside, the air was heavy with sweat and solder fumes. The whole place reeked of burnt plastic and hot metal, the way all good underground mod shops did. The walls were covered in old bio-augment schematics, printed blueprints curling at the edges from years of neglect. A single ceiling fan rattled overhead, barely pushing the heat around.
Mendes sat behind the counter, arms crossed, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His left eye had been swapped for a bulky, outdated optic implant—probably military surplus from a war nobody talked about anymore. The cybernetic was too big for his face, protruding slightly from the socket, wires snaking down into his cheekbone. He looked like he’d been built in pieces, and not by choice.
When he saw William, his lip curled. “The fuck do you want?”
William grinned. “Good to see you too, buddy.”
Mendes took a slow drag, exhaling through his nose. “I don’t do charity work.”
William gestured to Rask. “Yeah, yeah. That’s why we brought cash.”
Mendes finally gave Rask a once-over. Squinted. Tilted his head.
“You looking for augments?”
“No.”
Mendes narrowed his good eye. “Then what?”
William tapped the counter. “I need you to make him look like a dead fighter. Cover his face, full modifications. Everything.”
Mendes’ expression darkened slightly. “Underground fights?”
Rask’s voice was flat. “Something like that.”
Mendes leaned back, cracking his neck. “Yeah, sure. You want ‘em to think he’s been dead for years, or you want the premium ‘fresh kill’ look?”
William crossed his arms. “He needs to... pass for NZFL.”
Mendes snorted. “Yeah, no shit. You think I’m stupid?” He flicked his cigarette into a nearby tray. “A guy like him walks in asking for full corpse mods, and you expect me to believe it’s just for some back-alley blood pit? Get the fuck outta here.”
William shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Mendes smirked. “Only if you want it done right.”
He looked at Rask again, his head tilting slightly, taking in the unnatural paleness, the stiff edges of his movements. “Skin tone’s already off. You got some kind of blood condition?”
“Something like that.”
Mendes exhaled. “Lucky you. Less work for me.” He tapped his temple. “We’ll have to do a layer peel. Get you looking a little more sunken, more post-mortem. No deep augments, but I can hit you with subdermal pigmentation, drop your temperature a few degrees. I can dull your pupils, tweak your muscle rigidity—make it look like rigor mortis is still wearing off.”
William nodded. “But we need full face coverage. Can’t have people noticing he’s still got too much expression.”
Mendes snorted. “So, classic full-mask? You want old-school gladiator or something more cyber?”
“Something that makes people think twice before stepping in the ring with him.”
Mendes grinned. “Yeah, I got just the thing.”
He cracked his knuckles, then frowned. “Disguising the blood is the real problem. NZFL does blood tests. What I got? It’s gotta be continuously resubstituted.”
William exhaled. “That’s a bitch.”
Rask just nodded, playing along, but knowing full well he wouldn’t need it.
Mendes stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders. “Alright. I can do it. Might take a few hours. You got somewhere to be?”
William smirked. “Not unless you’re planning on killing us.”
Mendes grinned, flashing silver teeth. “Not today.” He gestured toward the back room.

“Come on, big guy. Let’s get you looking like a corpse.”
Rask followed, stepping through the door, into the dark.

The back room was a mess.
Cables ran across the floor like veins, spilling out from old machinery held together with electrical tape and sheer willpower. The air was thick with the smell of hot metal, disinfectant, and something more chemical—burnt synthetic flesh, maybe. The walls were covered in makeshift shelves stacked with bio-mod parts: old cybernetic arms, replacement lenses, dermal plating panels that still had dried blood on them from whoever had them last.
Mendes gestured toward a rusted, leather-padded chair in the center of the room. It looked like a cross between a dentist's chair and an execution seat. Straps dangled loosely from the armrests.
“Sit.”
Rask didn’t hesitate. He lowered himself into the chair, the padding groaning under his weight. Mendes adjusted a few settings on the control panel next to him, the ancient interface flickering with green text.
“You’re in luck,” Mendes muttered. “Most of this work is skin-deep. No limb replacements, no neural augmentation. That means less downtime. But it’s still gonna hurt like hell.”
Rask exhaled through his nose. “Just get it done.”
Mendes grinned. “Yeah, you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t scream, aren’t you? Let’s test that theory.”
He snapped on a pair of heavy rubber gloves and grabbed a syringe the size of a small knife. The liquid inside was black—not quite oil, not quite ink. It shimmered slightly under the fluorescent light.
“This,” Mendes explained, holding it up, “is gonna make you look nice and rotten. We’re killing your circulation—temporarily. It’s a synthetic blood thinner that sinks into the tissue, makes you look like you’ve been dead for a couple of days. Your veins are gonna turn black, your skin’s gonna go pale, and best of all—” he tapped the side of the syringe, watching the liquid slosh—“it’s gonna burn.”
Rask didn’t flinch. Mendes grinned and jammed the needle straight into his neck.
The burn started immediately, spreading out like liquid fire under his skin. It moved fast—crawling through his veins, twisting through his arms, his chest, his legs. The pain was sharp at first, then deep, an aching rot that settled in his muscles like they were turning into dried-out husks. His fingers twitched involuntarily.
William watched from the corner, arms crossed.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
Rask exhaled, slow. “That all you got?”
Mendes chuckled. “Cocky bastard.”
He grabbed a scalpel.
“Next up—layer peel.”
Mendes adjusted the chair, tilting Rask back. He worked fast, slicing the surface of the skin across Rask’s forehead, his cheekbones, the sides of his neck. The blade barely broke the surface, but when Mendes peeled, the skin lifted in delicate sheets. Not deep enough to scar, just enough to roughen, to give it that uneven, half-decayed texture. The synthetic blood treatment helped—already, the peeled areas were turning sickly pale, patches of deep black veins showing through.
Mendes clicked his tongue. “Looking deader by the second.”
The real pain started when he pulled out the cauterizer. It looked like a welding tool—small, handheld, glowing at the tip. He pressed it to the edges of the peeled skin, sealing it with a thin layer of synthetic reinforcement. Every touch sent a white-hot shock of agony racing through Rask’s skull. The smell of burning flesh filled the room. Still, he didn’t move.
Mendes whistled. “Man, you’re a tough bastard.”
William shook his head. “You have no idea.”
Mendes grabbed a set of metal clamps, twisting them between his fingers. “Alright. Time to mess with your eyes.”
He pried Rask’s eyelids open and inserted two thin, cold strips of film directly onto his sclera. They dissolved instantly, seeping into the whites of his eyes.
“You’re gonna love this part,” Mendes muttered. “This stuff fogs out your pupils—makes ‘em look half-clouded, like a real corpse. But, bonus feature—it enhances low-light vision. You’ll see better in the dark.”
Rask blinked as the effect kicked in. His vision shifted, sharpening at the edges. The light in the room dimmed slightly, but he could still make out every detail.
“Better?” Mendes asked.
Rask nodded once.
Mendes cracked his knuckles. “Alright, now for the real fun—let’s get your body moving like a corpse.”
He pulled out a set of metallic implants the size of quarters. “Subdermal actuators,” he explained. “We install these along key muscle groups, and they add just the right amount of stiffness to your movement. Not enough to slow you down, but enough to make it look like rigor mortis is still wearing off. You’ll have to adjust your gait, though—stiff at first, loose when you’re fighting. Otherwise, you’ll look too alive.”
He pressed the first implant into the side of Rask’s shoulder. The metal clamps dug in, locking beneath the muscle.
The pain was electric—sharp, immediate. Mendes wasn’t using anesthetic. He moved down Rask’s arms, embedding the actuators in key joints—elbows, wrists, the base of the spine. Each one sent another bolt of agony through his system, but Rask remained still.
Mendes stepped back. “Alright, big guy. Move your arm.”

Rask lifted his arm. The stiffness was there—a subtle delay, a slight resistance, like his body was moving just a fraction of a second too late.
Mendes watched, nodding in approval. "Good. That lag’s just enough for the entry test," he explained, rolling his shoulders. "NZFL makes all new fighters go through motion scans when they first sign up. They wanna see if the body's fresh—how stiff, how decayed. This little trick makes you look like you just turned. Once you’re in, you can move however the hell you want."
William exhaled. "So, first fight, we keep it stiff. Then we loosen up."
"Exactly," Mendes said, cracking his knuckles. "You fight too smooth at sign-up, they’ll start asking questions. But if you fight too stiff in the ring, you’re dead. Find the balance."
He stepped back and grabbed the final piece—the mask.
It was metallic, a deep, burned red, its surface smooth but sculpted with sharp, exaggerated ridges, almost organic in the way it curved around the face. The brow jutted forward slightly, shadowing the already hollowed-out eye slits. The mouthpiece was expressionless, its edges contoured like something meant to intimidate, something meant to resemble a face that wasn’t human, but wasn’t fully a beast either. The design wasn’t just armor—it was a statement.
Mendes held it up. "I don’t do subtle."
He fit it onto Rask’s face, locking it into place with a sharp metallic click. The red gleamed under the overhead lights, the polished sheen of the mask contrasting against the rough, corpse-like texture Mendes had worked into his skin.
William’s expression tightened. "Jesus."
Mendes let out a breath, wiping his hands on a rag. "Well. Hope you don’t get torn apart in your first fight." He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You’re not the first guy to try and fake it. Some idiot’s always trying to slip past as a fresh turn, hoping to make it big." His eyes darkened slightly. "They always die first round."
William tensed. "Always?"
Mendes exhaled through his nose. "Let’s just say… sometimes I think the NZFL lets ‘em pass on purpose. Just for the entertainment value. Just to watch them get slaughtered."
The words lingered in the air.
Rask adjusted his grip, flexing his fingers, testing the implants again. The pain was still there, burning under his skin, but it was distant now. Fading.

He turned to William.
"Let’s sign me up."

Mendes rolled his shoulders, lighting another cigarette. "Alright, listen up. Signing him up is the easy part. Making him look like a proper zombie fighter under your control? That’s where things get tricky."
William frowned. "I figured once he’s in, it wouldn’t matter."
Mendes shook his head. "Nope. You’re his ‘master’ now, which means the NZFL expects him to act like the rest of them—mindless unless they’re in the pit. You ever seen a zombie outside the ring? They don’t just wander around. They follow their handlers like trained dogs. They don’t attack unless commanded. That’s what the neuro-chip does. No independent thought, no instincts beyond fight mode. Just meat waiting for orders."
William glanced at Rask. "So what do I do?"
Mendes took a drag, then gestured toward Rask. "You’re gonna need to make it look like you’re in control, even without a chip. The easiest way? Short, firm commands. No conversation, no hesitation. You tell him to walk, he walks. Stop, he stops. You don’t act like his son—you act like his owner."
William swallowed hard. "And how does he know what to do?"
Mendes smirked. "Because you’re gonna teach him." He turned to Rask. "Time to practice being obedient, big guy."
Rask rolled his shoulders, saying nothing.
Mendes gestured to the other side of the room. "Alright, ‘master,’ tell your fighter to go stand by that wall."
William sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, stiffly: "Move."
Rask took a slow step forward. He moved a little too naturally at first—his usual controlled, deliberate movements—but then he caught himself, adjusting his gait into something more mechanical. Less human.
Mendes clicked his tongue. "Too smooth. You’re still moving like a man. Give it that slight hesitation. Like your body is only reacting, not deciding."
Rask tried again. This time, he inserted a small, unnatural delay after the command. Just a half-second pause before his body obeyed, just enough to mimic the faint resistance of a brain overridden by programming.
Mendes nodded. "Better. Now stop."
William cleared his throat. "Stop."
Rask halted mid-step. Too clean. Too controlled.
Mendes shook his head. "No, no. Don’t stop like a person. Stagger a little. Like your body just got its wires cut off."
Rask adjusted, adding a small hitch to his step before stopping completely. Mendes grinned. "That’s it. That’s how they move when they’re not fighting. Looks right."
William exhaled. "Jesus. This is insane."
Mendes shrugged. "You think that’s bad? Wait ‘til you have to walk him through the NZFL entrance like this. Everyone’s watching. If you slip up, if he moves too human—game over. They’ll scan his blood, find out he’s still got brain function, and you’ll both be kicked out, maybe in a body bag."
William clenched his jaw. "Why not just control him with a tablet? Press some buttons like the actual handlers do?"
Mendes exhaled a thin stream of smoke, shaking his head. "You do that when he’s in the arena and you need him to come to you. But when he’s walking right next to you? Way more practical to use voice commands. Less obvious. Less delay. The big guys running this shit don’t want handlers fumbling with a screen when they’re just moving their fighters from one place to another. They expect you to keep him in line with your voice, like the others do."
William ran a hand through his hair. "So I just keep it simple. Short words. No full sentences. No hesitations."
Mendes nodded. "Exactly. And remember—when he moves, it should always look like he has to. Not like he wants to."
Rask stayed silent, his expression unreadable.
Mendes smirked. "Alright, let’s keep going. We’re not done training your pet yet."

Mendes tapped the edge of the table, thinking. “Alright. The blood test’s one thing. But the real problem? The NZFL doesn’t just check for the parasite. Like I said, they scan for brain function. That’s how they catch fakes.”
William stiffened. “Shit.”
Mendes nodded. “Yeah. Your dad’s got a pulse, and worse—he’s still thinking. That’s a red flag. Even if his blood slides through, if their neural scan picks up activity, it’s over.”
Rask exhaled slowly. “So how do we fool them?”
Mendes leaned back, flicking ash onto the floor. “Most of the zombies in the NZFL? They’ve got their frontal lobes burned out. Not completely gone—just reduced. Enough to erase free will, but keep them functional. Fight-ready.”
William grimaced. “We’re not frying his brain.”
Mendes chuckled. “No shit. But we can mimic the effect.”
He turned toward Rask. “You ever heard of ‘cognitive dampening?’”
Rask’s brow furrowed. “Explain.”
Mendes tapped his temple. “Low-level electroshock. Short pulses. Just enough to slow your brainwaves. Not enough to knock you out, not enough to turn you into a drooling idiot—just enough to make the scanners think you’re halfway gone.”
William frowned. “That exists?”
“Hell yeah. Illegal as fuck, but so’s everything else we’re doing. The black-market body mod scene’s full of it. Some people get it installed voluntarily—high-end gamblers, corporate stooges who need to stay ‘calm under pressure.’ Keeps emotions from spiking. Slows reaction times. On a scanner? Looks just like a recently turned zombie.”
William exhaled. “And you have one of these?”
Mendes grinned. “Probably.”
Rask rolled his shoulders. “How painful?”
Mendes shrugged. “That depends. If we calibrate it right, it’ll just feel like being a little drunk. Slow. Hazy. But if we overdo it? Head full of static, motor functions delayed, nausea. You’ll be functional, but fighting’s gonna feel like moving through mud.”
Rask considered this. “Would I be able to control it?”
Mendes nodded. “Yeah. It’d be linked to a small trigger in your glove or your belt. Flick it on for inspections, flick it off when you need to fight.”
William crossed his arms. “And if the NZFL decides to test him in the middle of a match?”
Mendes smirked. “Then you make sure the fight’s over before they get the chance.”
Rask exhaled, rubbing his fingers together. “Do it.”

Mendes pushed off the table. “Alright. I’ll get the dampener. You focus on getting used to moving like a dead man.” He turned to William. “And you? Start practicing your role. If you don’t sell this, none of it matters.”
William gritted his teeth. “I got it.”
Mendes smirked. “Good. Then let’s make your old man a corpse worth betting on. But we have to talk about my payment...”

Mendes leaned back against the workbench, arms crossed, watching William as if deciding how much of a mistake this was. Smoke curled from the cigarette in his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light.
"I’m not an idiot. Your old man’s already kitted out, which means the work’s done. And if the work’s done, that tells me one thing—you sure as hell didn’t pay for it, right?" Mendes finally said.
William’s jaw tightened. "Because you know I’ll get it."
Mendes scoffed, shaking his head. "Bullshit. You don’t have shit. Even if you scrape together every favor, every stolen credit, you wouldn’t cover half of what this costs. Custom work like this? It’s not just slapping metal on meat. You want him to pass inspection? To walk into NZFL registration and have them believe it?" Mendes jabbed a finger toward Rask. "That takes real fucking work. He’s got a shot because of me, and you kept your mouth shut while I made it happen."
William swallowed. "So what do you want?"
Mendes exhaled smoke, eyeing him. "I don’t do charity, kid. But I do bet."
Silence stretched between them. Rask stayed still. Watching. Waiting.
William clenched his fists. "You want a cut of the prize money."
Mendes smirked. "Damn right I do. Forty million? If your old man’s crazy enough to do this, I want my share."

William exhaled through his nose. "How much?"
Mendes tapped the ash from his cigarette, considering. "Ten percent."
William stared. "Four million?!"
Mendes grinned. "Man, you’re greedy, aren’t you? Thirty-six isn’t enough? I think it’s a fair amount."
William’s fingers twitched at his sides. His gut told him to argue. His brain told him to shut the fuck up. Mendes held all the leverage. Without him, Rask wouldn’t even make it past the front door of the NZFL.
Rask broke the silence. "So you think I can win."
Mendes raised an eyebrow. "I think most guys who try this get their heads torn off before the first round’s even done." He leaned forward. "You know how many fighters try to fake being undead? NZFL lets ‘em slip through all the time. Just to watch them die." His grin widened. "I think that’s funny."
William’s stomach clenched. "So why bet on us?"
Mendes tilted his head. "Because he’s different. The way he handles pain. I think there’s something going on you two aren’t telling me about." He flicked his cigarette toward Rask. "And I wanna see how far he goes."
William looked at Rask. His father said nothing, face unreadable. His body, already altered, already somewhere between man and machine, sat still as a corpse.
William exhaled. "Fine."
Mendes smirked, holding out his hand. "Then we got a deal."
William hesitated. This was it. If Rask lost, if he died in the ring, Mendes wouldn’t just laugh it off—he’d still come collecting. And when men like Mendes came collecting, they didn’t take excuses.

He shook Mendes’ hand.

"You heard him," William muttered to Rask. "If you lose, it’s not just your life on the line."
Rask didn’t turn.
William exhaled sharply. "If this guy doesn’t get his money, I’m the one who pays. And you know how that goes. It won’t just be me. It’ll be my daughter, too."
Rask’s shoulders tensed.
William ran a hand down his face. "You have to win."
Now Rask turned. His face was calm, unreadable—but something heavy sat behind his eyes.
"I know," he said.
William’s throat felt dry. "Do you?"
Rask stepped closer, his voice lower, but steady. "I do."
The room was silent except for the hum of the city outside. Rain against metal.
William swallowed. "Thank you, Dad."

Back in William’s apartment, the air hung heavy with the aftermath of what they’d just done. The holo-screen flickered in the corner, static humming between advertisements for cybernetic enhancements and news reports about the latest NZFL match. Outside, the rain had softened to a slow drizzle, neon reflections bleeding across the cracked pavement below.
William dropped onto the couch, running a hand down his face. “Alright. NZFL registration’s next. That’s the big one. No second chances if we screw it up.”
Rask stood near the window, stretching his shoulders, rolling his neck. He could still feel the stiffness Mendes had worked into him—just enough to make it look real, just enough to sell the illusion.
“I need to fight first,” he said.
William frowned. “You mean the underground rings?”

Rask nodded.
William exhaled sharply. “Jesus, Dad. You just got through one hell of a procedure, and you already want to jump into a pit?”
Rask turned to face him. “The NZFL isn’t the only risk. If I can’t sell this in a smaller fight, how the hell am I supposed to pull it off in front of an entire arena?”
William leaned back against the couch, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I get it. But what if it’s a waste? What if you take a hit that costs you your shot at the real money? Mendes already said the NZFL lets some fakes slip through just to see them get ripped apart. You don’t need to go risking yourself for scraps.”
Rask smirked, just slightly. “No. We need practice.” He tilted his head, his tone almost amused as he looked at William. “Master… and his well-trained dog.”
William scoffed. “Right. You’re loving this.”
Rask shrugged. “Not exactly, but I gotta find amusement somewhere.”
William drummed his fingers against the armrest. “Alright. Let’s say we do this. You get through a few rounds, test how well you pass as one of them. Then what?”
Rask’s smirk faded. “Then I start paying Mendes.”
William sat up straighter, frowning. “That I start paying Mendes.”
Rask shook his head. “I suggested this whole thing. If someone owes him, it’s me.”
William clenched his jaw, staring at his father. “Yeah? And if you get torn apart in the ring, who the hell do you think he’s coming after?”
Rask didn’t answer right away. His expression was unreadable beneath the metallic sheen of his mask. But when he finally spoke, his voice was steady. “Then I better not lose.”
William let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Jesus, you make everything sound so damn simple.”
Rask shrugged. “Simple doesn’t mean easy.”

William pushed himself to his feet. “Fine. Let’s find you a fight.”
Rask nodded once, turning back to the window. The city sprawled before him—ugly, glowing, alive. Somewhere in that mess, there was a pit waiting.
And he intended to walk in like he belonged.

The underground venue stank of sweat, stale beer, and something metallic—blood, oil, maybe both. The air carried a damp weight, a mixture of body heat and the lingering scent of fights that had ended but never really left. Flickering neon signs barely lit the cracked concrete walls, their glow warping in puddles left from a leak no one had ever bothered to fix. The place had no windows. It wasn’t built to let anything out. It was built to contain violence. To let it fester.
William shoved the heavy metal door open, stepping inside with steady confidence. Rask followed, his gait precise, controlled—but not too controlled. His mask caught the neon light, a deep, burnished red with sharp ridges sculpted into its surface. The way the dim glow played off the metal gave it an unsettling depth—his hollowed-out eye slits swallowed the light, the mouthpiece stiff, expressionless. It was more than a disguise. It was a warning. A presence. Something made to be looked at and feared.
William kept his voice low as they moved through the crowd. “Found this place through a guy who owes me. Took a few calls, but I got you a fight.”
Rask, ever the roleplayer, didn’t react.
William smirked. “Your opponent? Big bastard. Fat, fights without a shirt, covered in open wounds. Thinks looking like a rotten slab of meat gives him an edge. His owner’s some Russian strip club owner—imports dancers, runs a few places on the east side. Mean son of a bitch.”
They passed a group of handlers leaning against the bar, laughing about something crude. Nearby, one of the pit workers was using a rusted hook to drag out the remains of the last fight’s loser—a headless zombie, still twitching. The thing’s severed head had landed a few feet away, its jaw snapping mindlessly at the air, still trying to bite something that wasn’t there. One of the workers booted it toward the side hatch like a soccer ball. The metal door slammed shut behind it, and the crowd let out a cheer.
William glanced back at Rask. “This is where I’d normally say ‘keep your head straight,’ but you’re supposed to be a mindless corpse, so I guess that works in our favor.”
Rask tilted his head, the motion slow, unnatural—exactly right.
William chuckled. “Yeah. Just don’t make me look bad.”
They reached the edge of the pit. The night was just getting started.
[to be continued...]