A Battler story in two parts
In collaboration with Ramón Sierra
A cement park located between two brick apartment buildings had become noticeably clogged with zombies. The Battler steered clear, knowing the dense copse of dead would act as an unliving garburator as soon as they met his flesh. Instead he stood across the street in the dark of a three-story walk-up’s archway, surveying the area ahead for clues – the most obvious of which was the white zeppelin passing over the zombie-filled park as more zombies fell out of it.
The zeppelin was far too high up for the Battler to even consider reaching it with physical strength alone. He was never the greatest jumper. But his family did own several private helicopters, and he did have access to the keys, so he decided to follow the next logical step: for the first time in what felt like ages, the Battler headed to his parents’ house.
His parents’ house was one of the larger mansions in Clot City, with four floors, a balcony to each bedroom and twin pools – one outdoors and one inside. It was also one of the city’s oldest houses, and for the first hundred years of its existence it was gazed upon with open scorn by the poor of the lower depths: not only was the mansion a flagrant display of money, it also blocked out the sun at its prettiest, preventing the natural beauty of a sunset from ever fully revealing itself to Clot’s people.
Eventually the city’s commercial buildings grew, and grew, and grew until the unnatural redwoods scraped the sky, hiding the mansion from all except those who sought it. If those who sought it happened to be burglars, they were killed on sight. This safeguard had the Battler somewhat worried as he scaled the hill to the house – he knew there were always two guards posted at the perimeter, with relief shifts overlapping by fifteen minutes to ensure continuous protection, and that his father owned a sniper rifle which he referred to as his ‘hobby’. The Battler kept an eye peeled for the guards as he lurked towards one of the mansion’s helipads.
He had to admit there was a certain thrill involved in trespassing on his own family’s property: if he asked his parents during the day for a casual spin in one of the helicopters, they would gladly let him, going so far as to offer some wine for the ride; if, on the other hand, he asked his parents in the middle of the night, wearing the blood-and-gut-stained costume of the Battler, and explained that he needed the helicopter to get close enough to a zeppelin piloted by a potential vampire, they would probably take more than just his helicopter privileges away from him. It was a delicate balance.
He ducked behind a bush as a figure marched by, the figure going in and out of the mansion’s exterior safety lights. The Battler recognised this figure as Bob.
Bob flicked his flashlight on and off and on again, swaying the yellow beam side to side in a sighing act of boredom. He then steadied the beam to follow the thin path leading up to one of the helipads. The Battler could make out the faint shine of sky reflecting off the helicopter’s well-polished black body; without taking his masked eyes off it he reached into one of the pouches on his utility belt and retrieved his copy of the mansion’s all-in-one electronic key.
The Battler made a move for the helicopter as soon as Bob passed the other side of the helipad. He knew the other guard would not be far behind and wanted to reach the helicopter before anyone had time to think.
The Battler deactivated the helicopter’s locks, popped inside and started up the engine, the cockpit glowing green with a hundred tiny display screens.
Through the tinted windshield the Battler could make out Bob tripping over himself as he doubled back to the helipad, a walkie-talkie pressed desperately to his lips. A voice awash in white noise exploded out the control panel’s speakers.
‘You’re not authorised to be in there! Come out or we’ll be forced to detonate the cockpit!’
If the Battler had not turned off the override function, Bob’s words would not have been such an empty threat: one of the features his father had personally requested for the helicopters was one which made the cockpits – and anyone who happened to be inside them – entirely disposable. It was a feature borne of paranoia, designed to put his father’s mind at ease when it came to getting the last laugh on hijackers.
As the Battler did not wish to attract a squadron of his father’s men, he decided to be honest with Bob.
‘Bob, it’s me. Don’t tell anyone about this and I’ll make sure you get that paid vacation you’ve been asking for.’
Bob paused for a moment, the walkie-talkie glued to his lips. The other guard met up with him with a drawn rifle.
‘Yes, sir,’ came the static of Bob’s voice. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Bob then lowered his walkie-talkie, turned to the other guard and said something. The other guard lowered his rifle.
The whupping sound of the helicopter’s blades would be enough to wake the entire household, and the Battler knew Bob would end up having to explain to his father that the son was taking the family ’copter out for a joyride.
‘But if there’s any joy in this ride, it’s news to me,’ the Battler muttered to himself.
He would be chewed out tomorrow but would have a far better chance at surviving the remainder of the night. He figured it was a decent enough trade-off.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
The clouds tore before the might of the helicopter’s momentum, the sky rent asunder by the piercing blur of the helicopter’s blades. The Battler could barely make out anything beyond the windshield, relying instead on the control panel’s radars to find his way to the zeppelin.
The zeppelin soon appeared as a large blip. The Battler had found his white whale.
‘Now I have proof you’re not a ghost ship,’ he said to the flashing dot. ‘As far as I know, radar doesn’t believe in the supernatural.’
The clouds parted before him to reveal the tremendous bulk of the zeppelin. The Battler took the helicopter in close.
He knew that, realistically, there was no way he would be able to reach the zeppelin’s cabin from his cockpit. And the helicopter was not equipped with the weapons necessary to take down any part of it. But he did have a certain streak – some called it bravery, others called it suicidal – that led him to wonder what would happen if he took the blades of the helicopter close enough to the balloon to pop it.
So he did.
Zombies flew up past the helicopter’s windshield like rotting flesh raining in reverse. The Battler could not tell whether it was he who was falling or if it was the world around him.
He mashed the button that dropped the cockpit from the helicopter’s belly. As the helicopter spun awkwardly in its freefall, the dented blades slapped the protective outer casing of his escape pod. The Battler felt he now knew what the inside of a dryer felt like.
The crash landing sent the cockpit a metre into a city road. The Battler’s head hit too many things at once, and when everything had settled he discovered that all of his senses had gone fuzzy. Eventually he found the door and re-taught his hand how to open it.
The world had gone dark and he could barely breathe. All he could hear was the sound of his rasping breath and the too-close moans of a hundred zombies. He climbed out of the cockpit and tried to stand but some great force was pressing down on him, something weighty and real. He took a knife from his utility belt and punched his way through the sky.
Air rushed down and slid into his lungs. He looked around him to see that he was standing in a tattered opening, that the cockpit had been covered by an enormous white tarp that was once the zeppelin. Zombies writhed both underneath and atop it.
But now he could no longer hear them moaning. The only sound was an enveloping white noise, the cacophony of every radio in the city tuned to the static between channels. The Battler’s ears pricked painfully and a bead of sweat slid its way down the back of his neck.
‘It was only a matter of time before someone came along to crash the party,’ said a velvet voice behind the Battler, ‘though I have to admit I was not expecting that someone to be a costumed buffoon.’
The Battler swiftly turned, his feet nearly becoming tangled in the tarp around them. What he found standing before him acted as an irritant to his eyes: the figure of a man, tall and dark, blurred enough to be incongruous with its gritty surroundings. When the Battler squinted and focused he could make out long, curly hair, a cape with a tall collar and a masque which constantly shifted in size and shape.
‘Those damn kids were right,’ the Battler stated with gruff surprise. ‘You’re a goddamn vampire.’
Lord Tech smirked, causing a trickle of blood to crawl down the side of his mouth.
‘Ah, so you are familiar with my work,’ he said with mild amusement. ‘No matter. I will eat your flesh faster than you can say “yes, please”.’
Lord Tech then lunged for the Battler while the Battler was in the midst of coming up with a response.
A large green ball tackled Lord Tech from the side, sending him on top of a zombie. The zombie went splat. The ball then blossomed atop Lord Tech, revealing itself to be Jacob, his face an unwavering mask. Seven daggers had been lodged into the vampire’s ribs, spine and kidneys.
The Battler’s eyes went wide.
‘This is where the real fight begins,’ an angelic voice whispered into the Battler’s ear.
The Battler did not have to turn to know the voice belonged to Crystal. He also knew she was completely right.
Lord Tech rose above the pool of his own black blood, a dagger between his ribs snapping as he straightened. This time there was no smirk or smile to be found on his lips, only a frown created by the twin drips of blood on either side of his mouth.
Jacob bounced toward him but Lord Tech swatted him away like some harmless frog.
‘I bet you are wondering if I feel pain,’ Lord Tech said evenly to the Battler. ‘You are wondering if I am no longer at my fullest strength, given the fall and the blades inside me. If I told you yes, you would proceed to give it your all, putting every last drop of power into your hammy fists; on the other hand, if I said no, you would resign yourself to fate, fighting me merely for the show before I rip your legs off and eat them. So I will tell you this: nothing. And with this uncertainty we dance.’
Crystal pressed her mouth to the Battler’s ear, her breath cool and moist on the fabric of his mask.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said. ‘We’re right here with you.’
She then pushed away as Lord Tech drew near, his continual advancement like some nightmare vision of death.
The Battler forced all of his weight into his legs: he would not run while the blonde angel stood sentinel behind him, while the green boy sprawled on the deflated zeppelin was still recovering from the attempt at saving the Battler’s life. The Battler refused to prove himself a coward, if only to give this damaged pair one last gift.
‘Do you have any superpowers, Mr. Costume?’ Lord Tech asked.
‘I have the ability to know when to shut up,’ the Battler said.
He then rammed his fist into Lord Tech’s nose, pushing it deep into his brain. Lord Tech wobbled backwards.
‘I can also do that.’
Lord Tech pinched the bridge of his nose and pulled it back into place.
‘And I can do this,’ Lord Tech said, his voice slightly nasal.
He flew his fingers towards the Battler, who attempted sidestepping but was simply too heavy to get away in time. Lord Tech’s fingers pierced the same spot in the Battler’s shoulder that a zombie had lost a bone in.
‘You’re an annoying, unfunny bastard,’ the Battler grunted.
He clenched his fist but was stopped by a big bang: half of Lord Tech’s head suddenly exploded onto the tarp, bits of pure white bone like stars amongst a pool of black blood. Lord Tech’s masque reformed to hide the absent parts of his skull.
The Battler sent his clenched fist into Lord Tech’s chest, pushing the vampire king out of him. He took a breathless step back and looked to the smell of smoke.
Crystal was holding a large gun with a white matte finish, its mouth blackened with discharge.
‘I think it helps that he must be so very confused right now,’ she said with a confident smile.
‘A kid in a cape, an oversize vigilante and a guardian angel? Yeah, it must be doing the trick,’ the Battler agreed as he clutched his oozing shoulder.
Lord Tech steadied himself and faced the Battler once more. The Battler had a feeling Lord Tech had a quip of his own on the tip of his tongue but was unable to open his mouth to say it.
‘Behind you!’ the Battler shouted, pointing to the sewer-fume air beyond the vampire. He was surprised Lord Tech actually fell for it, turning awkwardly to see naught but dirty emptiness.
The Battler used this chance to fire his fist towards the remaining part of Lord Tech’s head, leaving nothing but the masque. The masque remained attached to Lord Tech’s body by a curly thread.
The masque blinked. Lord Tech’s body slumped forward and landed on the tarp with a thump, revealing a particularly menacing-looking Jacob standing behind it. Jacob had a grin on his face that could have been a crescent moon and held a dagger that reflected the cloudy sky, and the Battler saw that a dozen other daggers had made their way into Lord Tech’s back.
Crystal stepped close to Lord Tech’s body and nudged it with her foot. She looked to the Battler.
‘We’ll take care of things from here,’ she said appreciatively. ‘It’s going to get pretty gruesome. We must thank you for all of your help, though – I’m sure stopping Lord Tech will be beneficial for everyone in the long run. All this vengeance was simply a driving force.’
‘And that force was driven right into his head,’ the Battler said. ‘This is the second time I’ve killed someone with intelligence. Even though he was obviously evil, it’s strange to consider it’s the last anyone will see of him.’
‘We’ll be the ones taking care of him,’ Crystal repeated. ‘You should go home and wash up. There are some things you’ll have to explain to your parents, and then there will still be some zombies left to fight.’
‘Ah, of course you know about my parents,’ the Battler said, lifting his arms resignedly. ‘Of course you do. It wouldn’t be strange enough unless you knew too much about me.’
‘We plan well in advance and work in mysterious ways,’ Crystal said with a warm smile. ‘Now you should get out of here before you see what Jacob does with the body of the man who ate his family.’
The Battler nodded.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Some things are better left unseen. If I leave you now I can romance your violence. And if I stay—’
The sickening sound of flesh and bone being torn by small daggers and smaller hands collapsed his sentence. He turned around to avert his gaze.
‘Goodbye, Battler,’ came the voice of Crystal.
The Battler nodded again and walked along the tarp, punching out a zombie as he left.
The city still reeked of rotting flesh, and the sky remained overcast, but despite it all the Battler felt somewhat happier this night: it was, after all, the first time he knew there were people who were just as crazy as he was.
‘When all of your friends are zombies,’ he said into the night, ‘you learn to take chances with the living. The end.’
