CHAPTER 9: THE IBERIAN ARENA
Iberia. Somewhere near Astorm…
Cold water crashed over my face.
My eyes had barely opened when a hand seized my hair and yanked my head back.
“Not bad,” a voice muttered near my ear. “The crowd will enjoy watching the zombies chase a pretty one like you.”
A dull ringing pulsed inside my skull. My vision blurred. The world tilted—and went black again.
I don’t know how long I was unconscious. When I woke up, they were gone.
I pushed myself up on trembling arms, my body weak with hunger. It felt as though I hadn’t eaten in days. My stomach twisted painfully. The room was damp, airless, and stale. Stone walls sweated. There was only one door, and even the small ventilation slit barely allowed a glimpse of the equally dark corridor outside.
I slid down against the wall and pressed my palm to my forehead. Questions swarmed me—clawing at what little remained of my memory.
Where am I? Why am I here? Who brought me here? And… who am I?
I had forgotten myself.
Everything.
The past was nothing but a dense black void. Every attempt to force it open sent a spike of pain through my skull.
Click. The lock turned.
“Get ready. It’s your turn tonight.” A large man stepped inside.
“My turn… for what?” I asked.
He smirked. The punch came without warning. For the second time in a single day, I blacked out.
When I surfaced again, someone was lightly slapping my cheek. A dim yellow bulb swung from the mold-stained ceiling, spilling weak light into the cell.
“It’s almost time,” the man beside me said. “You should eat something before we go out.”
My head throbbed. Still, I took the piece of flatbread he offered and devoured it greedily before speaking through a full mouth.
“Go where? I don’t understand any of this.”
“To the arena.”
He looked around thirty-five. Broad-shouldered, powerfully built. But what struck me most was his face—unexpectedly gentle. The kind of face that made you trust him without knowing why.
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“You can call me Richard. Richard Menson.” He gave a short laugh. “Though after tonight, that name might not matter.”
“Why?”
“You really don’t know?” I shook my head. He stared at me for a long moment. “Oh God. He’s kidnapping again.”
“The man who brought me here?” I asked slowly.
“Yes. Vanstine. Bastard owns the arena. He buys and steals people to feed the twisted appetite of South Iberia’s elite—watching the dead hunt the living.”
“The dead?” I frowned. Something about the word scraped painfully against something buried deep inside me. “You mean… a nickname for something?”
Richard blinked at me. “Where have you been?”
“I lost my memory,” I said quietly. “Everything. I don’t even know my own name.”
He studied me, uncertain. “You’re not joking?”
“I wish I were.”
“That’s cruel. Maybe the last night of your life—and you don’t even remember who you are.”
“I don’t,” I admitted. “So what are they?”
“They were human. Once.” Richard’s voice shifted. “Then a pandemic hit. Some kind of virus. It feeds on the living, forces dying cells to regenerate. And then… ninety percent of the world became walking corpses. They hunt what they used to be.”
The air felt thinner.
“Only those immune to the airborne and waterborne strains survived. But no one survives a bite. One bite, and you turn. They’re worse at night. Faster. More aggressive. In daylight they wander like blind cattle. Up north, I’ve heard they barely function in the sun at all.” A humorless smile tugged at his mouth. “And that’s what gives men like Vanstine the idea to turn survival into entertainment.”
I shook my head slowly. It sounded impossible. Absurd. Like a nightmare I hadn’t woken from.
Until the man who had knocked me out earlier returned and informed us that Richard, myself, and several others were to be brought to the arena. Hope—whatever fragile scrap of it I had—died there.
Four armed guards herded us down a narrow corridor, single file. At the end, light blazed. Beyond it, cheers and jeers rolled like thunder.
“Our best chance,” Richard said quietly, “is to split into four pairs. They’re not smart enough to focus. If they release two or three, we scatter them. One pair draws attention. The others take one down.”
“Take them down?” I repeated.
“Or they take us.”
The iron gate ahead began to rise. Even Richard—our unspoken leader—couldn’t fully hide the tension in his face.
My heart pounded. The noise outside struck like a blow—insults, laughter, the sick delight of a crowd hungry for blood. Something flickered inside my mind. Images. Blurred. Vanishing before I could grasp them.
“You alright?” Richard gripped my shoulder.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re with me. Stay close.”
I forced a smile. “Glad to have the chance… to die beside you.”
The smile died quickly. Something slammed violently against another gate across the arena. Metal rattled. A guttural snarl echoed through the structure. Under the harsh chandeliers, I couldn’t see its face clearly. But the gray, rotting arm thrust between the bars—fingers clawing—was enough.
The crowd fell suddenly silent. A man in a gaudy green robe stepped onto a raised platform suspended above the arena floor.
“That’s Vanstine Husman,” Richard whispered.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Vanstine’s voice boomed. “Tonight, we present another thrilling contest between HUMANITY—” he pointed at us “—and the DEAD!”
I swallowed. “Do they all have red eyes?” I asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“Then why,” I said slowly, pointing toward the other corridor, “did I just see blue ones?”
Richard stiffened. Not just him. Everyone inside the cage froze.
“Wh—”
He didn’t finish. Because Vanstine did.
“And now—our special guest of the evening! The Zombie… MONSTER!”
The crowd exploded in delirium. Bottles pounded together. Voices roared for blood. I didn’t need further explanation. The dead were terrifying. But whatever they were about to unleash was worse.
Another iron net descended, reinforcing the cage around us. Then the gate opposite began to rise. Claws scraped against concrete. Low growls vibrated through the air.
And the dead poured out.
