2.
If there was one thing that made the Battler stand out amongst the other vigilantes in the city, it was that he did all of his dirty work with only his gloved fists. The Axing Gentleman and the Shooter, two others who made it their mission to stop the zombies on their own, relied heavily on the weapons of their namesakes. What was interesting was that they were quickly dispatched by the zombies, while the Battler continued on, giving the rotting reanimated the most savage beatdown one might imagine. He not only pounded them until there were fist-sized holes all over their bodies, but he tore them limb from limb as well, sending arms and legs and various other appendages flying into the ectoplasm-soaked alleyways.
Whenever he heard a woman scream he was on the scene in a jiffy, brandishing his fists like unstoppable weapons, and if the zombies could feel fear then they would have been shuffling off at lightning speeds. The Battler felt fear, himself, but he was able to mask it both literally and figuratively, thinking of what braver men had done before him in similar circumstances. There was the Mutant Fish Crisis of 2021, single-handedly put to an end by the ancient shotgun of a deranged 120 year-old man. If such a frail frame could accomplish such a feat, then surely someone as young and muscular as himself was capable of putting an end to the zombie epidemic, the Battler thought.
He always went out at night time to do his battling, which was no mean feat to determine as the city seemed to exist in a perpetual state of night; sometimes he could see stars but mostly there were only airplanes to light up the sky. Under the light of a launching space jet he dipped into the labyrinthine alleys of the city’s core, its downtown sector that could sometimes be as deadly as the zombies themselves. But this was his turf and he had much practice here. He threaded through the wounds between buildings like a nimble needle as he crushed the skull of a zombie here, tore the heart out of a zombie there. They were everywhere, but he was everywhere too.
The Battler went up against zombies of all shapes, sizes and levels of completeness. It was not uncommon for him to find himself pummelling zombie women or small groups of zombie children. The more unexpected encounters were the ones in which he went up against the zombified remains of his fellow vigilantes, such as the previously mentioned Axing Gentleman and Shooter. In their new states they no longer needed weapons. Their inability to feel pain was frightening enough.
One night, a night mostly like any other, the Battler was out in full zombie-battling regalia, complete with dried bloodstains and pus left unwashed from the previous night’s fun. He had just taken down three zombies at once, brothers or bandmates apparently, each wearing a purple zoot suit. Despite all this, however, he was starting to feel thirsty, and saw the need to enter the nearest Very Convenience Variety Mart for a can of Charlie Drink. Charlie Drink was a caffeinated beverage that was more caffeine than it was drink.
He never thought to remove his mask as he entered the store, having grown accustomed to wearing it for such a long stretch of time. Luckily the guy at the cash must have been used to seeing such freakish folk enter the establishment, for he never even batted a mascaraed eyelash in his direction. It was publicly known that the Marts all had an artificially intelligent security system that would lop off a robber’s hands with pink lasers, and other body parts if need be, so perhaps the thought of being robbed never even crossed the minds of the workers.
The Battler glanced at the different products in the aisle as he walked towards his prize. Everything in the store had a slight green tint to it thanks to the dim lighting, deliberately employed to heighten the store’s late night atmosphere rather than to act as any conscious effort towards energy conservation. In fact it somehow required even more use of energy than standard lighting would, which mystified the Battler.
He grabbed an ice-cold can of Charlie Drink from one of the refrigerators in the back, and as he did so there was the sound of an angel getting its wings. He turned around to head back towards the cash, spotting the top of the head of whoever had come in. Apparently he was wearing some newly fashionable hat, for all the Battler could see were patches of grey and random tufts of hair. There was an awful smell. As he walked further down the aisle, the Battler saw that it was not actually a human being who had entered the store: it was in fact the Shooter, in full melting-flesh regalia. It looked pissed.
The Battler stopped walking, cracked open his Charlie Drink and gulped it down through the mask’s slit for his mouth. He wiped away the fizzing remnants that dotted his lips like acidic acne. The Shooter did not seem to notice him yet, instead focusing its attention on the clerk. At this point the Battler had to assume that the clerk was high on something for he appeared to be completely unperturbed by the Shooter’s hissing presence. The Shooter made to lunge for the clerk, hands out, bones poking out of its fingers, but there was a rapid whizzing sound, a flash of pink, and those hands came right off. They plopped onto the counter, ready for purchase.
The Battler let go of his Charlie Drink and it danced on the floor before settling by his feet, spilling its bubbling liquid all around him. His boots made sticking sounds against the floor as he headed towards the counter, where the Shooter was looking stupidly at its bloody stumps. He took the opportunity to send his fist crashing into the side of the Shooter’s head, sending bits of skull and brain against the cigarette packs behind the clerk. The clerk did not move an inch and seemed to be staring into space.
The Shooter reeled its head around to bite at the Battler with its jagged, disgusting teeth, but the Battler was even faster and managed to uppercut the Shooter, forcing its lower jaw up through the upper one. That took away one of the Shooter’s weapons.
‘Why aren’t you moving?’ the Battler growled at the clerk while wrestling with the Shooter.
‘Because I’m paralyzed with fear, dude,’ the clerk said. The clerk then turned to the Battler and Shooter just as the Battler punched a perfectly circular hole through the Shooter’s chest, and there was a loud dropping sound when he fainted.
There was the sound of clattering bones and wet, torn flesh when the Shooter similarly dropped. Breathing heavily, the Battler looked from the fallen clerk to the pile of Shooter to the spilled Charlie Drink, and he knew which one he felt the worst about.
He stretched, his shoulders popping loudly – a sound that made him wince –, and then he left the Mart, knowing someone would come along eventually to clean up the mess. Everyone has their role.
3.
I have a girlfriend who doesn’t even know I’m the Battler. When I told her I could die at any moment she thought I meant I have a serious disease. She also says I’m her favourite writer, but that’s only because she’s biased. I don’t know what to think of my writing, whether it’s the journals I keep or the short stories I publish under a nom de plume. My nom de plume is Indispensable Vestibule. My writing is pure fantasy, the story of a kid who grows up to fight zombies and never gets hurt. If I ever try to turn it into a full novel then I’ll make it a tragedy.
All I really want to do is fight. That’s the one thing I know I’ll always be good at.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4