"Michael Swanwick - The Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

"Weighing two-five-oh, in black trunks with a red stripe," the ref was bawling, "the gang-bang gangsta,
the bare-knuckle brawla, the man with tha—"

Courtney and I went up a scummy set of back stairs. Bodyguard-us-bodyguard, as if we were a combat
patrol out of some twentieth-century jungle war. A scrawny, potbellied old geezer with a damp cigar in
his mouth unlocked the door to our box. Sticky floor, bad seats, a good view down on the ring. Gray
plastic matting, billowing smoke.

Koestler was there, in a shiny new hologram shell. It reminded me of those plaster Madonnas in painted
bathtubs that Catholics set out in their yards. "Your permanent box?" I asked.

"All of this is for your sake, Donald—you and a few others. We're pitting our product one-on-one
against some of the local talent. By arrangement with the management. What you're going to see will
settle your doubts once and for all."
"You'll like this," Courtney said. "I've been here five nights straight. Counting tonight." The bell rang,
starting the fight. She leaned forward avidly, hooking her elbows on the railing.

The zombie was gray-skinned and modestly muscled, for a fighter. But it held up its hands alertly, was
light on its feet, and had strangely calm and knowing eyes.

Its opponent was a real bruiser, a big black guy with classic African features twisted slightly out of true,
so that his mouth curled up in a kind of sneer on one side. He had gang scars on his chest and even uglier
marks on his back that didn't look deliberate but like something he'd earned on the streets. His eyes
burned with an intensity just this side of madness.

He came forward cautiously but not fearfully, and made a couple of quick jabs to get the measure of his
opponent. They were blocked and countered.

They circled each other, looking for an opening.

For a minute or so, nothing much happened. Then the gangster feinted at the zombie's head, drawing up
its guard. He drove through that opening with a slam to the zombie's nuts that made me wince.

No reaction.

The dead fighter responded with a flurry of punches, and got in a glancing blow to its opponent's cheek.
They separated, engaged, circled around.

Then the big guy exploded in a combination of killer blows, connecting so solidly it seemed they would
splinter every rib in the dead fighter's body. It brought the crowd to their feet, roaring their approval.

The zombie didn't even stagger.

A strange look came into the gangster's eyes, then, as the zombie counterattacked, driving him back into
the ropes. I could only imagine what it must be like for a man who had always lived by his strength and
his ability to absorb punishment to realize that he was facing an opponent to whom pain meant nothing.
Fights were lost and won by flinches and hesitations. You won by keeping your head. You lost by getting
rattled.

Despite his best blows, the zombie stayed methodical, serene, calm, relentless. That was its nature.