Uh-oh, it looks like your Internet Explorer is out of date.
For a better shopping experience, please upgrade now.
See details
Overview
The only way to win...is to live
One year after the Emergency, the island of Manhattan has become a prison. The survivors of the Colony have carved out a living a few stories above the sea of millions of shambling corpses. With no escape and no hope for the future, the teenagers entertain themselves by participating in brutal gladiatorial games, betting the only thing they have left—their lives.
Jeremy Walters is among the best of the best, but his adrenalin-addicted recklessness has done more than earn him the nickname Deathwish; it’s gotten him noticed. Now the race is on to recruit Deathwish as opposing forces maneuver to take advantage of his zombie-killing gifts. If he somehow manages to navigate the maze of bribery, threats, extortion, and intimidation, and not get himself killed, he’ll still have to face every teenager’s greatest fear: an angry mother.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781947727045 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | BHC Press |
| Publication date: | 11/06/2017 |
| Pages: | 408 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.51(w) x 8.50(h) x 1.06(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
I SAT ACROSS from my mother at breakfast and tried to act normal. It wasn't working.
She eyeballed me and frowned, but kept her mouth shut. I could fool almost everyone, but she knew when I was nervous. She claimed I did this thing with my mouth, but to this day, I deny it.
"What are you nervous about?"
Think of an excuse, I thought. Tell her anything, just get her out of the apartment.
"I'm thinking about asking Trina out," I lied.
My mother's scowl softened and she turned to wash the remains of her meager bowl of oats down the drain. "She's not right for you."
"Why's that?" Besides the fact that Trina Sorenson was a whore, that is. I knew she wasn't right for me, but my mother would never admit to me she knew a girl my age — fifteen — was selling her body to put food on the table.
That's what we did these days. We lied to each other.
We're not unique in that sense. Hell, everybody lies to everybody else around here. It's the only way we keep the heavy veil of denial securely fastened around our heads. One look into the streets of Lower Manhattan threatened to blow it away and force terrible truths into our daily thoughts.
"Trina has ... problems. You should get to know Monique better. I know her parents, they're a nice family," she said.
"Everyone has problems, Mom. I'll think about it," I said. "Monique seems nice."
She wasn't. Monique was a violent, crazy-ass bitch, but she hid it well. All the teenagers did.
"I've got to go work on the south side today. I don't want you going to the Exchange today." Mom looked at me intently for a reaction.
"I've got batteries to trade. How am I supposed to get more food?" I pushed away my bowl of oats to make the point. Three scoops of cut oats with some lukewarm water and a sprinkle of powdered milk. It wasn't appealing, or even that nutritious, but it's what we had until drop day.
"I know what goes on down there on Fridays, and you're not to be a part of it. I don't want you anywhere near there." Her tone betrayed a deep anger she tried to stifle in her facial expression. "You can go tomorrow."
Mom knew about the Game — most everyone who was still sane did — but she only knew half the story. She thought I bet on the games like the other teenagers. Wagering bits of reclaimed treasure, food, or booze on the outcome of the Game was the only real gambling left.
"I know to stay away from those guys."
She frowned, but I knew she couldn't spend any more time sheltering me today. She was going to be late for work if she stayed to interrogate her only surviving child.
"Fine. But I'm going to have Mrs. Jager come by later and check on you."
Fuck!
"That crazy old bitch hates me. You know that," I protested.
"Watch your language." Her heart wasn't in it to chastise me properly about something we all did. "And please be careful today."
She grabbed her backpack, stuffed the 9mm in her holster and was out the door, gone for the next twelve hours.
Mrs. Jager wouldn't be a problem for a couple of hours yet. She slept late, and she really was crazy. If she remembered to check on me at all, it would be a miracle. I knew it was Mom's way of trying to keep me under watch. She meant well.
For all we'd been through, she still loved me and tried to show it. Mom was a hopeless romantic. She thought things would get better. I knew they wouldn't.
The Game started at 12:00. On the dot, no excuses, no late entries, no bullshit.
That gave me just under two hours to get ready and get to the Exchange. I grabbed my backpack, with my ante of fresh packs of batteries, and headed out. While Mom took the door, I left by the fire escape.
A BRIGHT SUMMER sun shone down on my tanned skin, and I took a deep breath of New York City air. The stench of the Sea wasn't so bad that day. I vaulted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, letting my body stretch out and warm up.
The Dead Sea below me moved in ripples and waves of unpredictable motion. It covered the entire street on this side of the building, the low tireless moan rising up and echoing off the brick buildings. I stopped at the top of the fire escape and emptied my sinuses, spitting a giant wad of hatred into the Sea below.
"Does that help?" Mr. Renner asked.
"No," I said. "But maybe someday it will."
Mr. Renner tended the rooftop garden for our cell. He wore ratty old overalls and a big, floppy straw hat that made him look like an old farmer woman.
"Where're you off to?" It was a pointed question. My mother had obviously talked to him.
"Going to Master Chueng's." I ran for the side of the building. "Sorry, can't talk. I'm late already."
I jumped the last planter in the row, much to Mr. Renner's chagrin, and took the bridge between buildings to cell four at a dead run. Every child in the Colony was told over and over again never to run on the bridges. The slats were too far apart to be safe. If one broke, you slipped, or you twisted your ankle and fell — you'd fall into the Sea. And that would be the end of you.
Knowing the danger only made me want to run faster. My body knew the spacing of the slats on every bridge from here to cell sixteen by heart. The rooftops and bridges became a blur as I let my body loose, scattering gravel, and ignoring the scowls of adults hard at work making life bearable in the Colony.
I showed up at Master Chueng's third-floor industrial flat ten minutes late.
"Ni shì yigè yòu lan yòu ch?n de nán hái," the old man screamed at me in Chinese as soon as I walked in the door. Roughly translated: "You're a worthless piece of shit." I threw my backpack in the corner and grabbed some tape from the bench, trying to ignore him.
"He says, you're a terrible boy. Very bad. Lazy and stupid." Shorty lectured me from a dilapidated La-Z-Boy in the corner of the gym. He was Master Chueng's lazy, fat, and sleazy, forty-year-old son.
"I know, Shorty." It took a minute to tape up my hands for practice. The entire time, Master Chueng, whose real name was Carlos, yelled at me in a mishmash of Filipino street slang and Mandarin. "You speak English, Master Chueng. Stop yelling at me in gibberish," I said.
"Not gibberish! You bad boy. Twice around to warm up and one more for punish." Master Chueng whacked his instructor's baton across my back, sending a sharp sting down my spine into my legs. I was tempted to try to disarm him, but that never ended well for me. Even at the age of seventy-five, Master Chueng was a technically perfect fighter in Eskrima and Kali styles, which is probably why he survived — and definitely why his lazy-ass son survived.
Two other teens were already halfway through their circuits on the makeshift obstacle course spread around the edges of the empty warehouse. The very first day I met him I questioned what free-running — parkour if you're fancy — had to do with martial arts and gotten a baton to the backside for my skepticism.
Master Chueng simply said, "I teach survival, not martial art. You want be Bruce Lee, go somewhere else." So we learned how to breach common obstacles and move in urban environments in a way that no zombie could ever hope to match.
"You go to game?" Master Chueng was upside down in my vision as I did inverted sit-ups curled over a steam pipe on obstacle four.
"Maybe," I huffed.
Master Chueng whacked his baton across my abs. "You stupid boy. I train you all this time and you go get killed."
"I'm training so I don't get killed."
"I bet on you," Master Chueng said. "You win for me."
"Yes, sir." He wasn't asking or being encouraging. It was our arrangement for payment. I could pay him with other loot, but this was the way he preferred it. And despite his screaming, I think he actually liked me ... in some warped way.
Three times around the obstacle course and forty-five minutes of yantok forms later, my body felt fluid, fast, and indestructible. I was ready to play.
"See you tomorrow." I folded my palms together and bowed to Master Chueng. I grabbed my pack and waited for the hanger-on to catch up with me. Shorty was coming to bet on me. Out of respect to Master Chueng, I waited patiently for his fat-ass son.
"What are you betting today?" Shorty tried his best to sound nonchalant about my upcoming battle.
"Batteries." I tried to ignore him as we crossed the rooftops and bounced across the bridges to cell twelve. He bantered on, unhindered by my silence and grunts of response. He didn't give a shit what I said. He just wanted to see it happen and collect his winnings.
By the time we got to the rooftop of cell twelve the Exchange was in full swing. This is where all the deals went down. Trading, haggling, screaming, threatening — all the glamorous elements of capitalism boiled down to their fundamentals. The adults manned their respective booths: hawking food, liquor, ammo, clothes, electronics — you name it. They scrutinized and agonized every single trade like it was the difference between life and death, each convinced the others' merchandise was garbage. Small children hid under makeshift awnings, keeping out of the sun and away from the brutal language and wild gesticulations of the adults.
Only the teenagers weaved in and around the booths, seen but ignored. Adolescents were the true underclass in this new society. We didn't count for shit. We ate up too many resources to be worth the effort we gave back. The constant lip and bad attitudes we almost universally sported only cemented the 'responsible' adults' opinions of us.
I ignored the whispers and finger pointing of the other teens. They'd get their fill in a little while. We milled about for a few minutes then Shorty bought us two bowls of noodles and some tea to boost my strength and quell his rumbling stomach.
We sat on the side of the building watching the chaos of the Exchange, while I ate my noodles in silence. A small boy of about eight walked over from the middle of the bustle and stood a few feet away, watching me eat. The dark circles under his eyes, his shabby clothes, and his rail-thin frame made him look like something from a Dickens novel. His appearance was enough to make a bleeding-heart cry, especially if you knew him from before the Emergency, like I did.
"Lucas, right?" I dropped the chopsticks in the bowl, annoyed. "Isn't your mom around here somewhere?" Lucas looked absently over at one of the far stands where a curvy blonde was getting hysterical with a man selling trussed pigeons.
"She's trying to get work. Are you going to fight today?" Shorty perked up and smiled. "Go tell your mom Miss Kitty is looking for girls to ..."
"Hey, man." I elbowed Shorty in the ribs. "Not cool. He's just a kid."
The indecent comment didn't faze Lucas at all. He continued to stare at me like I was a gorilla in the zoo. I tried to ignore the eyeballing, but it got to me.
"Take it," I said. "Less for me to puke up later, anyway." I held out what was left of the bowl, and Lucas snatched it and started slurping down the noodles. It didn't stop him from staring any less. I glared at him, made a shooing motion, and he wandered back to his mother.
"It's time, dude." Shorty tipped back the last of his tea and patted me on the back.
We made our way to the edge of the Exchange and descended three flights of stairs to an open floor that used to house office cubicles, where the Game waited.
The crowd of teenagers already waited in place around the spray-painted circle of red on the floor. They talked animatedly about today's pot. Inside the red circle were three freshly skinned cat carcasses — fresh meat. Nearly a week's worth between my mother and me.
"I want in!" I wasted no time in announcing my intention.
"Back for more? You're a cocky one." The Gamemaster smiled wickedly. "What's your ante?"
I threw six packs of batteries from my backpack into the ring. "Unopened double As."
"I'll take that." A skinny Asian teen with a slicked-up black and green mohawk dropped a cardboard box into the ring — Scott Kim in a previous life, to us he was just Fauxhawk. One of the many orphans in the new world. "100 rounds, 9mm."
I didn't give a shit about ammo; I just wanted to play. No, scratch that. I needed to play.
The Gamemaster shouted, "Anyone else? Last call."
The crowd quieted down to whispers as I faced-off across the circle from Fauxhawk.
"No?" The Gamemaster scanned the crowd for takers. Satisfied it was just the two of us, he got down to business. "Start the bidding."
"Two minutes," Fauxhawk said.
"Five minutes." I could see Fauxhawk visibly wince at the number.
Etiquette on bidding was vague at best, but bidders weren't supposed to up the ante so fast. I wasn't going to let this chance to play get away. There wouldn't be another game this week, and this would be my only chance for release.
"Damn, why you gotta be like that?" Fauxhawk stepped toward me until he was toe-to-toe. "Six minutes."
"Ten."
Fauxhawk backed away from the circle with his hands up in surrender. "You're crazy, motherfucker. I'm going to enjoy watching you die."
"Set ten minutes on the clock!" The Gamemaster announced. "You're it, kid."
I walked down five flights of stairs with the crowd at my back cheering and chanting "Deathwish!" Shorty had his greasy fingers on my shoulders, rubbing me like a prizefighter.
We reached the balcony on the second floor and the unruly mob pushed their way out onto the terrace. The crowd parted before me as I walked to the makeshift crane that would lower me to the street. I grabbed hold of the rope and swung up and over the deserted lane. They dropped me the last five feet and I watched as the rope swung up toward the balcony.
My lifeline was gone.
I pulled the two gore-stained lead pipes from my pack and waited for my first victim to appear.
"Begin," the Gamemaster shouted.
I took a deep breath and let the anger build in me. It was always there, just below the surface; anger so deep and pervasive that it threatened everything in my life. The older I got, the harder it was to control, the final gift from my dead father.
It didn't take long before I spotted the first zombie coming to investigate all the noise from the balcony.
"Game on," I whispered.
The first instinct for anyone who saw a walking corpse, agent of infectious death, was to run. Anyone who said otherwise was a lying sack of shit.
Within a few seconds that instinct turned violent and the desire to kill the abomination grew with each breath. Deep inside I knew that the gaping wounds, black maw, and stilted gait were things that belonged to something with no soul, no humanity, no worth. I hadn't met a zombie I didn't want to smash into a pulpy mass of black goo.
This one was no different.
I took my time, spinning the lead pipes back and forth across my hands while the zombie lumbered toward me. The crowd had a better vantage point of both sides of the street, and Shorty — among others — called out advice on where I should go. But really, after a few minutes, the deadheads would be coming from everywhere. It wouldn't matter where I stood.
The first zombie lost part of his Wall Street business suit somewhere along the way. Its four-thousand dollar suit was missing a sleeve ... and the arm that once filled it. I let it get close. It was good to remind myself what was out there lurking in the streets, never resting, always searching for the hot blood-filled flesh of the living.
Its once-blue eyes probably charmed the debutantes and bar sluts down on 5th avenue, but now the milky-white covering of cataracts and scratches made his world a blurry mess. His nose and cheeks were sunken in death, hollowed out by the wasting of time. He had no circulatory system to replenish the healthy pink flesh that he would now seek eternally. The mouth was the worst: rotting teeth in a sea of black pus, thick putrescent fluid that was once the blood of a victim, but now swam with billions of zombie-creating bacteria.
One drop of that ichor against an open wound, even the tiniest scratch, and I was a goner.
Unfortunately for Mr. Wall-Street, I didn't have any open wounds, and he was in big, big trouble. I stepped inside his grasping hand and kicked his knee out, causing him to spin and drop to the pavement. This simple trick exposed one of the zombie's three weak spots.
I swung and smashed through the soft spot on the base of his skull with the lead pipe. I felt the bone crunch and the soft resistance of the rotting brain beneath. Somewhere between the scrambling of brain and crushing of spine, the zombie lost its connection to the universe and fell over in the street, unmoving ... dead — again.
"Nine minutes!" The Gamemaster announced. It was his unofficial duty to count down the minutes until I'd be allowed back to the safety of the balcony. One minute down.
The first two were always the easiest. Even a six-year-old could survive out here for the first two minutes. We've all learned how to anticipate their movements and trip them up. We knew the evasion tactics for the single or duo of occasional wandering deadheads by heart.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Dead Sea Games"
by .
Copyright © 2017 J. Whitworth Hazzard.
Excerpted by permission of BHC Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
BOOK ONE ADRIFT,
BOOK TWO EXILED,
BOOK THREE KIDNAPPED,
BOOK FOUR SCORCHED,
Customer Reviews
