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change its plates, drive it around in California and who would ever know?
    It was actually a kindness to take them. Families were so heartbroken at how they only had the shell of the loved one left, a loved one who would kill them if the lights weren’t bright enough. The victim of the virus would have to be supported physically and financially for the rest of his or her natural life. Some families accepted the hopelessness of the situation and relinquished them to the state or sold them for work or fighting. Some put them down. Others kept them and struggled on indefinitely, draining their bank accounts and losing their homes, now and then losing their lives to dear Aunt Liz or young Todd if the light bulb burned out.
    And being used for construction! Other managers had seen it for themselves and told Ink all about it over the years, zombies lugging heavy weights in slow motion to commands from their drivers, building up apartment buildings or casinos under blinding lights. Zombie chain gangs were popular because they didn’t have human rights. They couldn’t sue for mistreatment or even talk to complain about it. They could work without whining for a fifteen-minute break every four hours. If one died, there was no fear of repercussion for shoddy work conditions. God! You could beat one to death if you felt like it, and only be convicted of a misdemeanor if the family still had custody and sued. It wasn’t a crime to beat up a wall, and a zombie wasn’t much more than that.
    Ink hadn’t pressed about the specifics of Samson’s background. It wasn’t his business if the guy had been pinched out of a psych ward or a back bedroom. His business was only if Samson could fight. Besides, a quick death or glorious life in a fighting ring was so much better than being locked up for decades in a room, or working construction for little to no pay. Samson couldn’t enjoy the accolades that his wins were racking up, but Ink did. It was no different than an equestrian glowing over the blue ribbon clipped to the horse’s bridle. The horse didn’t care. The horse was just happy to get out of confinement for a spell, to stretch its legs and see something new.
    When Ink woke up the morning after Samson’s murder, it was to the ringing of his cell phone. He blinked at it blearily. Thirty-four missed calls had come in while his phone was on sleep mode, and this new one was from an unknown number. He took the phone with him into the toilet and listened to the dozen messages as he sat upon it. Half were from the same two reporters wanting to know if it was true. Another was from the devastated vet, and the rest had come from incredulous managers. None of them were bigwigs. And why would they be? They had no reason to call Ink. He had been on the brink of becoming someone, but he wasn’t there yet.
    Almost. Always almost .
    Even as he sat there on the can, another call came in. It was the knacker. Ink let it go to message and then played it. The knacker just wanted him to know the bill for Samson’s body was in the mail. Thanks, asshole.
    Days . Only days from the Games, days from his photo op, days from that oversized check made out in his name . . . what was he supposed to do now? Just show up there with Scrapper and trot him around the ring in his Prince Charming costume? That would be even more shaming than that long-ago day with Gore Fest. Chaos wasn’t fully healed from the show at Filo, and his best fighting was the equivalent of Samson’s worst. People cheered for Medusa, they went nuts for Samson, straight women and gay men sighed at Apollo and everyone giggled at Priapus and Scrapper, but Chaos?
    Crickets. Whether he won or lost, Chaos was boring . He was just another face on the circuit, well known but not exciting. He’d done unusually well for himself at Filo, triumphing in the melee and his next two matches, downed in the brawl in fifth place, and had just gotten polite applause from the audience all along. No one