No Flesh Shall Be Spared Part 33

"Hey, hold on a second there, John..."

"I see it too, Bob. I count the leftover UD, the... one, two, three, four new UDs, but... there are three additional..."

"John, I've just heard from our handlers who, as many of our fans know, are the people whose job it is to load the combatants into the spindles for every round. They tell me that there seems to have been an equipment malfunction that's released a few extra UDs onto the sand."

"Well, someone's job is going to be on the line, eh Bob?"

"I'm not sure about that, John. When you're dealing with things as dangerous as the Undead, sometimes mistakes happen. Now, normally, something like this would mean The League putting a stop to the match, but with Chikara out there on the sand, a few extra opponents should only mean a few more kills."

Chikara heard the UDs before she saw them only because the commotion they made coming out of the spindles was louder than she'd expected. She drew her katana and quickly removed the Asian kid's head just below the jaw line. She turned and crouched in order to get a better idea of where everybody was, drawing her blade before her. Once she got a look, she felt her heart sink.

There were too many of them!

Far too many...

"Fu-" she whispered softly under her breath.

"-uck!' Cleese shouted as he turned and looked toward one of the cameramen. "Get her the f.u.c.k out of there!"

The man poked his head out from behind the camera meekly and stared. He nervously looked from right to left as if confused and then went back to looking through his viewfinder. It was pretty obvious he wasn't going to be any help. Cleese maneuvered around the guy and the camera and took off toward the Pit at a dead sprint.

Chikara brought her sword in front of her, using its sharp edge as a s.h.i.+eld. The first of the dead (a middle-aged nun wearing a blood-spattered habit that was torn, half-exposing one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s) had reached her, its fingers lightly pulling at the tip of the blade. With two clean strikes, the nun's arms fell to the sand, lopped off at the elbows. Another lateral slash and, from either the fighter's momentum or her upper body strength or both, the dead thing before her was cut cleanly in half.

Stepping back, she took stock on the rest of her opposition. It was bad, but not that bad. She'd trained for worse. Bolstering her confidence, she dug her feet into the sand and waded into the fray.

Cleese could barely see Chikara's body through the press of UDs gathered around her as he ran toward the Pit's hatch. He was able to just make out the silvery flashes of her sword through the gla.s.s, but the bulk of her body remained obscured from view. Abruptly, she broke free and stumbled into view.

He skidded to a stop and pressed against the transparent wall. Through the gla.s.s, he could tell something had gone wrong; very, very wrong. Cleese could see numerous scratches across her midriff, her hair was mussed and she'd taken some blows to the shoulders that were already starting to bruise. It also appeared as if she was favoring her left arm. With the way she was protecting the limb, she may have sustained either a pulled bicep or, worst case scenario, a sprained or fractured forearm. From the looks of things, the UDs had pawed her up pretty good, but she still seemed capable of defending herself.

One of the things (a girl in her late teens, wearing a dirty prom dress with what looked like a knife wound in the middle of her chest) came up on her nine. As she turned to address her, Cleese could see that she had a wild-eyed look on her face and the scabbard of her sword had been ripped from her back. All things considered, she looked pretty beat up, but thankfully, she didn't seem to have been bitten.

Then, just for a second, she looked up. Her eyes bore straight through the gla.s.s and into Cleese's. For the first time since he'd met her, she looked scared; really scared. Gone was the brave fighter who'd led more than her share of men into battle and kept them alive, sometimes despite themselves. Gone was the confident woman who alternately could be tough as nails and then soft and pliable as velvet. Gone was the brave soul who he'd just held in his arms and sent down the gangway. For that second, their eyes met and she made a silent plea for his help.

Her mouth moved slightly as she silently whispered his name.

Cleese had an unnerving sense of deja vu.

Then, a shadow moved behind her and the world seem to fracture and slow down.

An unseen UD (a rapper-looking black guy in his mid-twenties with multiple gunshot wounds to his chest and upper abdomen), who'd been quietly hanging back and observing things while the others attacked, stepped up silently behind her. Despite its brain being addled and driven by a single-minded purpose, it had learned a thing or two from its time being used as a training aid. It knew that although the fighters were fast and strong, they could also be over confident. And it was that arrogance that often led to them leaving their backs exposed.

This one had proven herself no different.

Cleese saw the thing's shadow fall across Chikara's shoulder as it came up behind her. With alarming speed, it quickly wrapped its arms around her, effectively trapping both of her hands at her side. Through the gla.s.s, he heard her cry out in pain as her injured arm was pressed tightly against her chest. Her blood-covered katana fell useless to the sand at her feet. The thing bent its face into the nape of her neck and slid its wet mouth to the right.

As Cleese tore himself away from where he stood and raced toward the gangway which led out onto the sand, out of the corner of his eye he saw the thing's mouth slowly open. Its teeth were yellow and rotten within its twisted maw. Its black tongue was raked across its dry, cracked lips. And the last image he saw through the gla.s.s before racing out into the Pit was a flash of the thing's teeth sinking into the meat of her neck.

Cleese came through the Pit's hatch moving as fast as his legs could carry him. By his last estimation, there were four or five UDs still left roaming the sand. He quickly scanned the area and found all of them on their knees and huddled in a small group. Two more lay in pieces on the sand, their necks broken, but their heads were still technically connected.

Cleese was moving at a full run now and, as he got closer to the huddled group of UDs, he s.n.a.t.c.hed up Chikara's abandoned sword. Once he'd gotten to within a few yards of them, he saw one (a middle-aged Filipino woman in a nurse's outfit with the left side of her body badly mangled) pull a chunk of something wet and quivering away from the crowd. As Cleese lifted the katana to strike, the thing brought the ma.s.s of meat up to its mouth.

Cleese stumbled to a stop, the sword raised over his head like an executioner's axe. The nurse looked up at him with an almost sated look in her eyes. Below those empty pools, on the meat it was gnawing, he saw the familiar face of a dragon. A small silver ring glistened in its jaws.

Cleese bowed his back and struck, crying out in pain and frustration, with all of the strength he possessed. The blade hit the nurse with such force that he barely felt it cut through the b.i.t.c.h's neck. Her head fell like an oversized melon to the ground. The satisfied look on her face dissipated like vapor.

By now, he was in a position where he could see more clearly what had happened to Chikara. After having put up what could have only been a valiant fight, the things had, quite literally, torn her to shreds. One of her arms-her right from the look of it-was being fought over by two of them. The two others were busy ripping into her chest as if today was Christmas and she a present to be fought over.

In a flash, he noticed the spot just below her rib cage where he'd once discovered she was the most ticklish. His heart twisted savagely in his chest as he recalled having kissed that spot time and time again. The sensation of it, the warmth, the softness, brushed over his lips like a ghost's touch. Now, the spot-her spot-was a torn and blood-covered mess.

Tearing his eyes away, the image before him being too much to bear, Cleese raised his gaze. He caught a quick glance of Chikara's face as they tugged and tore at her. Her body rocked back and forth from the force of their efforts. One eye was closed. The other was wide opened; her eyelid having been torn cruelly from her face. Cleese saw a small drop of clear moisture pool and then slide away from the corner of her closed eye.

After that, things sort of blurred for Cleese. He dimly remembered wading into the center of the UDs without a care for his own safety. He chopped and slashed with the katana until the muscles in his back screamed in protest. Like a whirling dervish of death, he tore at them. Hunks of meat flew from their bodies and tumbled across the sand. Like a Pollack painting, blood splashed across the gla.s.s, creating an impressionist's vision of h.e.l.l itself.

When the last one of The Dead had fallen, Cleese turned in the light and saw a cadre of the Budo Warriors now coming through the doorway. They rushed toward him, but quickly slowed when they saw that all of the UDs had been dispatched. Cleese glanced back and took another look at Chikara's ravaged face. He felt his throat tighten painfully.

Even in death, she was still one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

He tore his gaze away and, as he looked up, saw the horrified faces of the camera crews staring at him through the gla.s.s. The broadcast must have cut to commercial because the cameras were all pointed away. Now that there was not a need to doc.u.ment what was happening, they were able to react honestly to the horrible tableau before them. Their expressions and demeanor were ones of heartache and alarm. Most of them had known Chikara and, like many, thought her invincible. To see her die like this, rocked them to their core.

For his part, Cleese couldn't stand to look at them; their anguish was a debilitating reflection of his own. He turned away and desperately sought something-anything-on which to focus in order to help hold back the wave of grief and nausea he felt building like a tsunami within him.

Just then, something moved behind one of the cameras across from him and caught his eye. Something-no, someone-pulled from the shadows and stepped into the light being cast inside the Pit. Cleese was able to make out the shape of a thin man, in a business suit, talking to one of the cameramen. Cleese saw the man lift his head and laugh at something said. That was when whoever it was turned his head and Cleese saw that the guy wore his hair long... and pulled back into a tight ponytail.

Just then, Cleese saw the smarmy f.u.c.k notice him staring. Through the gla.s.s, Monroe never acknowledged him, but instead just stared as if the entire situation was a G.o.dd.a.m.n science experiment. The self-satisfied expression Monroe wore spoke volumes. It was all Cleese needed to see in order to know that he was involved.

Somehow... in some way... that motherf.u.c.ker had had a hand in this.

With great difficulty, Cleese tore himself away from Monroe's gaze. He knew that if he looked too deeply and thought about it for too long, he'd kill that son of a b.i.t.c.h right here and now; in front of G.o.d and twenty million witnesses.

No. This was something he'd force himself to wait on. He'd collect Chikara's body and see to her burial. Then, when the time was right, he'd slaughter that prissy f.u.c.k with his bare f.u.c.kin' hands.

Slowly, he turned and walked back across the Pit toward the door. His foot kicked against something and he looked down. There, half buried in the sand, was the scabbard to the sword that he still held half forgotten in his hand. He dropped to one knee and picked up Chikara's saya, dusting it off. Carefully, he slid the blade into the slot in the wood. The metal made a hissing sound as it disappeared into the sheath. With a click, the sword slid into place.

The sound made his heart twist unbearably within his chest.

As deep and painful emotions swirled within him, he fought back the rising tide of his anguish. A knot the size of a man's fist flexed in his stomach and, for a moment, a wave of tears splashed against the inside of his eyelids.

Silently, he cursed himself.

G.o.ddammit, he should have seen this coming!!

He should have... He should have known.

All of the signs were there... but he'd gotten too complacent, too full of his own bulls.h.i.+t.

Jesus... the hubris! The f.u.c.king ego!!

Things had been going too well for him, for them. After all this time, all of the pain and loss they'd both endured, they'd both managed to find someone that could be let inside. Someone who could be trusted. Someone to care about.

If it wasn't exactly Love, he felt it was pretty d.a.m.n close to it.

So very f.u.c.king close!!

And now, thanks to this place and these people... she was gone.

It... was gone.

Moving slowly, he got back to his feet and stiffly continued toward the door. As he moved forward, he was left little choice but to walk past the group of Warriors still congregated on the sand. Most of them stood with their heads down, their world now shattered by the death of their leader. Chikara was someone they'd all thought was as close to invincible as humanly possible. Each of them bore their thoughts-like the Kabuki makeup they wore-on their faces and those thoughts could be traced in the wake of their tears. If Death could come calling for the best of them, what did the future hold for the least of them?

Cleese walked on and the men parted without a word to let him through. He moved past, but never looked one of them in the eye. That would have been too much to bear. They'd all lost someone dear to them today, and that loss was going to take a long time to heal. Cleese strode past them silently with his eyes cast downward and continued on up and out of the Pit.

They'd have to take care of themselves now, he thought. Chikara was gone and Cleese had no intentions of taking on her students in her memory. He had more than his share of memories of her to contend with all on his own. These men may have known her longer, but she and Cleese had shared an intimacy they would never understand. It had been a connection much deeper than simple s.e.x. This was like a twin finding their counterpart and then having them ripped away. He knew getting over this was going to take time, time and some solitary reflection. He decided he would mourn Chikara in his own time, in a proper place.

First, he had to think some s.h.i.+t through.

First, he had to get those ducks of his in a row and line up that exit strategy.

However, before any of that could happen, he had a little something he needed to take care of.

Extreme Prejudice The Training Hall echoed with an ominous sense of finality as its heavy doors slammed shut behind Cleese. The sound echoed through the place like the news of a loved one's sudden suicide-quick, abrupt and undeniably pitiless. Inside the expanse of the large auditorium, the air was so hot that it suppressed the urge to breathe in those gathered there. The heat sweltered and twisted in the air like the body of a man long dead. Even though the Hall was proving itself to be a h.e.l.lish sauna, a few fighters still stood idly around. They gathered near the free weight area, but their work-outs were halfhearted, at best. A couple of men lazily practiced grabbing and throwing combinations on the large mat but their movements looked as if it was a great discomfort to move about in the heat. For the most part, those who were in the great hall today just hung out and offered up silent prayers for a cooling breeze.

In such heat, it was difficult to do much else.

Cleese ignored all of it-the heat, the humidity, and the men-as he entered the Hall proper and walked briskly across the mats and on toward The Octagon. As he moved through the open area of the building, his eyes roamed the corners as if he were looking for something specific. His stride was direct and his gait was purposeful. A few of the fighters milling about the mats offered up whispers to one another. A few even crossed themselves as he pa.s.sed, but none were confused as to the cause of this ill temper. The news of Chikara's death had affected each of them, but they all knew by now of the special connection between Cleese and Chikara and they paid its due respect.

As he made his way across the floor, they made sure to give him a wide and silent berth. It was as if, on some subconscious level, they could sense that whatever his purpose was for being here today, the aftermath of this foul mood would surely put a stain on the walls.

Odds were that it would do the same to a few pairs of underwear.

Down deep inside the pit, a newly recruited fighter and his trainer could be heard as they went through a set of basic drills. This early in the game, the reasoning was to get the new fighter used to being around The Dead without feeling the need to p.i.s.s himself. Exposure bred familiarity and familiarity bred composure. At least that was how it was in theory. Some fighters never got used to it and they'd all paid the price. The UD they had on the lead was moving about and attacking the Cherry with a murderous intent. The thing's face was a contorted mess and its hands were a blur as they clawed at him. The fighter batted the advances away with a cautious and unsure hand.

Cleese, for a second, had another one of those uncomfortable flashes of deja vu.

By now, he'd gotten closer to the pit and had moved up toward the bleachers. In the distance, he was able to make out the suited form of Masterson standing at the foot of the stairs over by the far end of the stands. The big man was gesturing and talking to someone seated in front of him. From this angle, Cleese couldn't really see who it was. He could tell from Masterson's body language that whatever they were talking about wasn't going well. Masterson's demeanor and the forceful way he waved his arms and pointed emphatically betrayed the topic of discussion as being both important and personal. One thing for sure, he wasn't happy.

As Cleese got closer, he heard Masterson's voice hiss a name: "Monroe."

Sometimes... sometimes... life could just be too sweet.

Midsentence, Masterson caught sight of Cleese coming up the stairs and waved a dismissive hand to silence the discussion. As Cleese got closer, he could see from his posture and his expression that he was pretty tense. In fact, the word infuriated might have been a better term.

And rightly so...

The League had thrown out some wild pitches as of late. Chikara's death was a serious and unsuspected blow to Cleese and The Warriors.

h.e.l.l, the whole d.a.m.n League was reeling from the shock of her loss.

But if one took some time and thought about it, a fighter's death-even a popular one-wasn't that big of a surprise given how dangerous this game was. Sometimes they forgot the truth of what it was they were doing out there on the sand. The Dead had-once not so long ago-nearly eradicated the whole of Humanity. The fact that Mankind had been able to pull itself back from the brink was a minor miracle in and of itself. Time had a way of blunting the memory of how serious it had all been... and still had the potential to be. These were high stakes they dealt with on a daily basis. Death was always just a dumb mistake away, and what happened to the best of them could easily happen to the least of them.

The important thing was that, according to all reports, things seemed to be going well for The League... and what was good for The League was good for the fighters.

Masterson had seen tapes of Cleese's matches, and even he, a non-fan, had been impressed. Revenues were up. Internet buzz was like nothing anyone had ever seen. Corporate was as happy as newlyweds, already gearing up a line of merchandise with Cleese's face on it: s.h.i.+rts, hats, h.e.l.l, even foam spikes-for the kids. Recent tragedies aside, business was good.

As he watched Cleese continue to approach, Masterson silently considered how G.o.d gave every man in this life one gift: some could sing, some could erect buildings, some could paint portraits, but every man had one thing that he was able to do better than anyone else. Masterson felt his gift was his ability to lead and to make the hard decisions that often meant whether men lived or died. For Cleese, his one gift was his ability to put the hurt on other living things. It was this gift that made him a perfect match for the world Weber had made for them. The man was born and bred to be in this sport, and it was that very reason which was, undoubtedly, why his life back in the real world had amounted to such a steaming s.h.i.+t pile.

On more than one occasion, Masterson had tried to imagine the kind of sewer that could have bred a man like Cleese. Poverty, abuse, neglect... they were all just ingredients in a lethal recipe. Spices in a naturally toxic stew.

But then again, Masterson really didn't really give that much of a f.u.c.k about the b.a.s.t.a.r.d or his childhood, if he were to be completely honest. No one was more aware than he of the fact that Cleese was simply this week's feted warrior. He was f.u.c.kin' Pokemon and not a d.a.m.n thing more. His time would come and go with a minimum of fanfare. Masterson knew from his tenure with The League that the UDs-given enough time and opportunity-claimed every fighter. No one was exempt. Not even the pretty ladies. Fighter's faces came and fighter's faces went-sometimes literally. Cleese had been a doomed man since he first stepped off of the Black Hawk.

He just didn't know it yet.

"Cleese!" Masterson called and waved. He smiled that oily smile of his and extended his hand toward the approaching fighter.

"Masterson," said Cleese in a monotone and nodded in lieu of shaking hands. His pace, however, never slowed.

"You remember Philip Monroe, don't you, Clee...?"

"Of course, he does," interrupted Monroe as he got to his feet and brushed at the seam of his pants. Casually, he stepped forward. "I got a message you wanted to talk to me, Buddy?"

Cleese had gotten close to the two men and, as he stepped to within arm's reach of them, he brushed past Masterson with the same ease that he'd exhibited time after time in the pit. As he did so, he took an additional step forward, raising his right hand up toward his chest as if scratching an itch; a cla.s.sic misdirection. Without warning, he suddenly snapped his hand out in an open-handed back slap, its speed more like that of a viper than any human appendage. The hall reverberated with a sharp, clapping sound as he cracked Monroe soundly across the jaw.

Far off across the Training Hall, the other fighters all stopped what they were doing and turned and stared.

Monroe stumbled backward, almost skidding like a cartoon character on the back of his heels. His knees went soft and he fell, flat back onto the bleacher's seat. A dark red imprint resembling the back of Cleese's hand burned hotly across his cheek.

At first, Cleese was kind of amazed. The blow was meant only to get the f.u.c.k's attention. He hadn't even hit him that hard, but Monroe went down with surprising ease.

Whatta b.i.t.c.h!

Monroe scrambled across the bench, trying his d.a.m.nedest to get himself as far away from Cleese as possible.

"How dare you!" he shouted through rapidly puffing lips. An incoherent stream of threats of suspensions and legal action followed as he nursed his rapidly swelling face. His ponytail had come undone, leaving oiled hair hanging loosely across his eyes.

Cleese wasn't sure, but it looked as if he was crying just a little.

Cleese crossed the distance between them with frightening speed. He deftly reached out, grabbed up a handful of Monroe's tie and s.h.i.+rt collar and dragged him toward the side of the pit. It was a move he'd performed a thousand times as a bouncer in bars. It surprised the drunk by throwing his balance off and it hinted at the raw power that was at his a.s.saulter's disposal. It also got him up on his feet, out of the bar and into an alley where the real punishment could take place. It was-as they say-a "win-win."

Monroe began, this time as expected, to scream and screech like a little girl.

"You f.u.c.king c.u.n.t!" Cleese spit out, his voice dripping with hatred. "Did you really think I wouldn't figure out your f.u.c.kin' hare-brained s.h.i.+t, huh?!?" Cleese shook Monroe like a rag doll and pulled his face within inches of his own. "Who do you think you f.u.c.kin' are with this Blofeld bulls.h.i.+t?"