Maim, Set, Match

The net across the court had ensnared somebody, who now struggled like a bug on sticky paper.

Digby Guzman froze. The horde had long since departed for greener – aka warmer and fleshier – pastures. He’d hoped that all the zombies had vacated the area. But he’d forgotten that the walking dead weren’t all that bright. It made sense that a few stragglers remained stuck in spots that humans with intact brains would not. He tightened his grip on his tennis racquet, which had a big dent and loose strings dangling like spilt guts.

The zombie hung half-suspended, butt in the air. Its one free leg kicked whilst its hands slapped against the bloodstained clay. The other leg protruded through the former white net, now painted a reddish brown.

Digby’s pulse thudded, low and slow. He’d tangled with a few of these reanimated corpses before but opted to run if he could. Before the end, critics, his parents, coaches, and competitors had mocked his drive. Or lack thereof. He always chose the easy way out, or so they said. But he now put his continued survival down to this flight-not-fight technique. Still, he could put one down if needed – and this one’s lack of mobility would aid him. With his makeshift weapon raised, Digby crept across the court he’d played upon the day before.

The zombie wore expensive tennis gear. It snarled, growled, and struggled like an animal caught by a hunter. At the sound of the approaching footsteps, the thing that had once been a man turned and lunged.

Digby gasped. There was no danger of the creature catching him – it hadn’t managed to free its chained leg. But this person was not a mere spectator. It was his rival, Chandler Bowen, zombified and undignified. The net had caught him, like so many of Digby’s serves. He couldn’t stop himself from speaking. ‘Chandler?’ he asked.

One of his cheeks was gone, revealing rows of teeth and one grey, waggling tongue. Flecks of shredded red flesh dotted his teeth. His eyes were now two cloudy orbs – like tennis balls dipped in white paint. Once the rising star of this club, Chandler Bowen reached for him with desperate hands. He screeched.

Digby grinned. Chandler had been caning him. As with most games Digby played, the outcome had looked bleak. And, as in most games Chandler played, the ending had looked bright. All he’d wanted was to beat Chandler. Was that too much to ask for? Chandler, with his big grin, excellent record, and cheery, ‘Hey, Dig, why don’t you come down to the club and practice with me? It’d surprise you at what a few hours will do!’ Even thinking about his smugness now brought bile to the back of his throat. And now look at him, a rotting corpse with fewer brains than a ball boy. Fate, it seemed, had rewarded Digby. He glanced around.

Except for a few corpses – with removed heads or destroyed brains – they had the place to themselves.

Digby skirted around the trapped zombie, who tried and failed to follow on his hands. He circled to Chandler’s rear, grasped his foot – which still had its shoe attached – and shoved.

The zombie growled and flopped over, now released from his prison of string. The once agile Mr Bowen took a minute to get to his feet, stumbling and swaying. Once upright for the first time in twenty-four hours, he shuffled around to gaze again at his opponent. Long gone was the piercing game face. Instead, a drunken vacancy had taken up home upon his countenance. Chandler raised one arm and loosed a sorrowful groan.

Digby’s racquet was no longer in serviceable condition, and Chandler didn’t even have one. What kind of tennis match would that be? He searched the sidelines for a gear bag and spotted one beneath the toppled umpire’s chair. He dashed for it and discarded his ruined racquet.

Chandler owned the bag, and the racquets inside were his favourite model. Despite the collapsed chair crushing the bag, the racquets escaped unscathed. Three loose balls, which had burst free from the popped can, rolled around inside the bag.

Oh well. It was better than nothing. Digby pulled two racquets free and grabbed a handful of balls. He stuffed two into his pockets, as he’d seen his idols do on TV, and kept one in his hand.

Chandler had stalked him to the edge of the court and reached for him with both hands. Yet, instead of juicy, tender flesh, his claws hooked into the strings of a racquet.

Digby yipped and let go. He scrambled away, waving the other fresh racquet to keep the shambling corpse at bay. ‘Yeah, you take that one, that’s it!’

The zombie held onto the tennis racquet, although he clutched it by the head and the throat instead of the grip. Chandler seemed to be unaware that he was even holding anything.

Breath coming in short, sharp bursts, Digby widened the gap. He backed away from his former rival and retreated to the other side of the net. ‘How about we finish our match, Chandler? If I recall, I was about to win.’

Chandler shuffled around to face him again, rheumy eyes searching for him for a long time. Once that unsettling gaze found him, the zombie resumed his slow stagger, ever onwards.

Digby reached into his pocket and found an old coin. He flicked it, failed to catch it, and chased it as it rolled to a stop and toppled over. ‘Heads! As I called it. All right, I’ll serve first.’

Chandler had no protests.

‘Ready? Here we go!’

His first serve went wild and ricochetted off the wall. It bounced up and away and disappeared into the stands.

Ah, well. Nobody remained to see his poor technique. He still had two left. ‘Okay, okay, service fault. Second service.’

His second serve hit the net. The net shuddered, and the ball rolled off to the sidelines.

Digby swore. He fetched the wayward ball and tossed his to his opponent. ‘Okay. Your serve, Chandler.’

The ball hit the zombie in the chest with a hollow thunk. Chandler wobbled a bit but continued his awkward gait towards the net. He sighed and moaned, his jaw slack, syrupy saliva trickling from his chin. He gave no sign of wounded pride.

Digby sighed. He bounced the third ball on the crimson clay several times before tossing it into the air for the serve. ‘I guess it’s my turn again, then, huh?’

This shot wasn’t on target, but at least it was in. Digby had aimed for the far left corner of the box. Instead, the ball struck Chandler square in the face and knocked him from his feet. Chandler screeched and fell to the court like a bag of racquets.

He laughed at Chandler’s misfortune, but his smile soon faded. He was out of tennis balls. He couldn’t leave it like this, failing to beat Chandler in both life and death. No, Digby had to finish this game. Besides, in his current form, Chandler was no match for Digby. He looked around for the balls but could not find them. The first had disappeared into the stands; the second had rolled into some hidden space. And the third—

Chandler struggled to sit upright, with the third tennis ball lodged in the gaping wound of his face. He issued a wounded, rusty croak.

Digby wrinkled his nose. He ought to leave it, turn around, and get out while he could. His life was more important than some stupid game. But when else would he ever get to beat Chandler Bowen in a match? This moment was his chance to put all his anxieties and worries to rest. He would get to silence the restless voices – mum, dad, coach – in his head. He found himself jogging around the side of the net, hurrying to reach Chandler before he got to his feet again.

The zombie reached for him from the ground, his racquet now lost. The ball stuck in his cheek rolled and sunk further into Chandler’s mouth, muffling his undead groans.

Digby kicked and struck Chandler’s temple, the impact sending vibrations up his leg.

Chandler snapped backwards with a grunt, his head slamming onto the clay. A live human would have suffered a concussion – or at least seen stars. But the zombie wasted no time in trying to get back up.

Christ, even in death, the man’s spirit was indefatigable. Digby pinned his chest to the ground with the racquet and reached for the tennis ball in the zombie’s face.

The dead man’s jaw worked, but – with the ball blocking the teeth from connecting – he could not chomp at the bit.

He had to be quick lest Chandler bite him and transfer the plague into his bloodstream. Sweat dribbling down his forehead, Digby kept the zombie in place and inched towards the ball. With one quick flick, he twitched it up and out of Chandler’s mouth, along with a chunk of flesh and a spray of blood. He grinned. ‘Ha!’

Chandler moved faster than before. His hand whipped out and clamped around Digby’s ankle. The messy, ruined fingernails dug into the skin, threatening to pierce the surface.

Digby squealed and tried to pull away but only succeeded in toppling over.

The zombie pulled hard.

Jesus Christ, he might be slow, but he wasn’t weak. Digby scrambled away on his hands and knees, but Chandler’s grip remained firm around his leg. He fought and kicked, but still, the dead man held on.

As the zombie crawled on top of him and weighed him down, all breath squeezed out of Digby.

His eyes rolled wide and white. He now felt like a trapped animal. And he realised he, too, wore tennis gear, and the precious, vulnerable skin of his legs was open and on display. He thrashed and squealed like a stuck pig. ‘N-NO! L-L-LET ME GO!’

Chandler bit into one of Digby’s tenderest parts.

Digby screeched, his cries echoing around the court and bouncing back to him. The pain was immediate and all-consuming. He scrabbled away, breaking off fingernails in the process.

Chandler, now content with a mouthful of meat, let him go. He munched, happy he was no longer the butt of this joke. He made sloppy gobbling noises as he tore into his well-earned meal.

Digby sobbed. He could feel the poison of the virus already polluting his veins. It wouldn’t be long until he became like Chandler, a shadow of his former self. And, unlike Chandler, Digby’s former self had never been that good. What would one of the other players say if they came along – provided they had a pulse – and beat him like he had Chandler? ‘Eh, he’s not much worse now than when he was alive’?

He clutched his cheek and fled, finally understanding that if you chase a cheap victory, it’ll bite you in the ass.