No Flesh Shall Be Spared Part 8

One night, he'd been out drinking-alone as usual-when the television above the bar abruptly clicked over to the Emergency Broadcast Network. After an hour or so of white noise, a guy in a rumpled sweat-stained s.h.i.+rt and skewed tie came on talking crazy.

"It has been established that persons who have recently died have been returning to life and committing acts of murder.

"A widespread investigation of funeral homes, morgues, and hospitals has concluded that the unburied dead are coming back to life and seeking human victims.

"Medical examinations of some of the victims bore out the fact that they had been partially devoured."

And then, finally, "The wave of murder which is sweeping the Eastern third of the nation is being committed by creatures who feast upon the flesh of their victims."

At that point, the steadily increasing tension in the bar broke like Waterford crystal and the bar's denizens went completely ape-s.h.i.+t. The last of the hardcore drunks left the bar, stumbling off in search of family or to collect whatever it was that they held dear and try to get the h.e.l.l out of town. Cleese, having no family and only a pile of useless c.r.a.p back at his by-the-week hotel room, instead went behind the bar in search of another drink... and then another... and then another.

By the time The Dead broke through the door, Cleese had managed to get himself pretty G.o.dd.a.m.n drunk, thank you very much. When he saw the first of Them stumble inside, he'd already picked up the baseball bat he'd found lying behind the counter, tucked a bottle of scotch under one arm, and commenced swinging. He'd been Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, and Stan Musial all rolled up into one swinging ball of drunken fury.

An uncountable number of them had come through the door and met their maker in the form of a Louisville Slugger. Cleese dimly recalled the hollow cracking sound of the hardened wood as it ricocheted off of first one skull then another, then another and another.

Forever and ever, Amen.

When he was through, dozens of Them lay around the bar, their bodies heaped on the floor like piles of diseased laundry. Cleese stumbled for the door once he realized that whatever these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were they were no longer coming inside the bar to get pummeled. The things may have been dead, but that didn't mean that they were necessarily stupid. Even their addled brains were able to reason that the only thing waiting behind the bar's doors was certain ruin.

This would have all been well and good except for one small wrinkle: Cleese was now three sheets to the wind and still wanted to fight some more.

And if They didn't want to come to him, he'd just have to go outside to Them.

Mountain... Muhammad... and all that s.h.i.+t.

He'd stormed out of the bar and stumbled to a halt on the sidewalk. It took a full minute for him to gather his wits amidst the swirling chaos. The first thing to hit his senses was the smell. The air had the odor of something between a fish market and an abattoir. Breathing in, his gorge rose and he had to choke it back or puke.

Once his stomach settled down, he raised his eyes and looked around. In all directions, the city streets were deserted like something out of one of those end-of-the-world disaster movies like The Stand or The Day After. Along the road, cars sat idling-doors thrown open. It was as if the drivers had either been yanked from their seats and dragged off or they'd just decided to get out and walk away. Innumerable radios spewed a swirling, cacophonous din as different styles of music and excited talk all clashed like drunken birds in the air.

The store fronts along the street were smashed; shattered nuggets of gla.s.s lay like glittering gemstones across the greasy sidewalk. Periodically, a person's foot or a gnarled outstretched hand protruded from under a pushed-over counter or toppled display. Beneath the sound of the city slowly dying, a low baritone moaning could be heard. It started as what seemed to be a single voice, but as more and more joined the chorus of The Dead, the sound grew louder and stronger.

Cleese stood for a long time, cradling his bat and silently cataloging all of the commotion going on around him, trying to make some sense of it all. It looked like it had a few hours ago when he went into the bar. Only now, it was as if some psychotic set designer from the movies had come in and arranged a scene to look like something out of Armageddon. As he gazed around and his eyes slowly became accustomed to the lighting, it was then that he saw the bodies. There were dozens of them. Some lay between cars, as if the person were trying to stuff himself into the smallest possible crevice in order to avoid the probing hands and snapping jaws of their attackers. Others... lay open and exposed like Death had come upon them unsuspectingly. All of it was enough to make a grown man weep.

Then from behind him a small, soft shuffling sound came to his ears.

He turned to see a young girl about thirteen, her face a tattered and twisted mess, come lurching toward him with arms outstretched and mouth drooling. Her s.h.i.+rt had been torn open at the neck and a b.l.o.o.d.y wound splashed its way across her throat and upper chest. As she approached, she opened her mouth and let out a soft, almost plaintive moan.

Cleese smiled a wicked little smile and then choked up on the bat.

After that, things got a little hazy. The next thing Cleese remembered, it was morning and he was walking out of the City and across The Bridge, still holding the remainder of the now-splintered, blood-and-brain-covered bat over his shoulder. His arms felt like rubber and his legs burned from the exertion of fighting his way clear of those things. But as painful as his body might have felt, it was nothing compared to the f.u.c.k-all hangover that raged like a wildfire in his head. He figured he must have abandoned the scotch bottle somewhere in the night, undoubtedly right after it had given up the last of its pungent goodness.

As drunk as he was, there must have been ample opportunity for things to go very wrong, really fast. It was a testament to either his natural fighting ability or blind luck that he hadn't been bitten... or worse.

As he looked back now on the way the whole thing went down, it seemed as if it happened a lifetime ago.

Time flies...

The two men got to within a hundred yards of the Pen when a stomach-turning odor slapped them both in the face. Cleese's attention was roughly ushered back to the present.

"Ugh..." Cleese choked, "what is that?"

"Charnel Number Five," replied Monk with a wry grin.

The odor was sickly sweet and nauseating. It smelled a lot like the training hall, only far more condensed. The stench bore a greasy aspect which threatened to invite Cleese's lunch up for a second tasting. The entire area around the Holding Pen reeked like a ma.s.s grave; a dumping ground awash in excrement, spoiled meat, and rampant disease. Even if he hadn't had a clue as to where they were going, one whiff would have been all he would have needed to figure it out.

"Here," Monk said as he handed over a small round tin of ointment which he pulled from one of his pockets. "Vicks VapoRub. Wipe a bit of it on your upper lip, under your nose. It'll cut the smell some."

Cleese took the tin and dutifully applied the greasy mentholated gel. Monk was right: it did make it a bit better, but the air out here still smelled like five miles of unwiped a.s.s. Only now it was menthol-scented unwiped a.s.s.

They soon arrived at a large steel door set in the side of a building that looked like the others only much, much bigger. Monk immediately banged against the metal with the flat of his fist. A hollow booming sound echoed within.

"Open up! Open up! Let me in..." he shouted, all the while grinning like the Big Bad Wolf.

He paused, took back the tin of ointment and applied it hastily. He then struck the door again with the side of his fist.

"Adamson! Answer your f.u.c.king..."

Abruptly, the door ground open on squealing hinges, as if the metal was heavy and very, very tired. Its cries were an indication of how few visitors were accepted here, nor were they ever really wanted. Out of the Cimmerian shadows drifted a man's face, long and lean, with cheekbones on which you could probably cut yourself.

"Monk...," the man sighed, exasperated. His emaciated face floated in the oily darkness. Its features were hidden by strands of greasy hair hanging before his face like oily drapes set in a ramshackle window.

Monk smiled broadly at the man, but Cleese noticed he didn't offer to shake his hand.

"I want to show my new man here around your little playpen."

Adamson looked at Cleese with that now familiar air of appraisal.

"You bring him in here and he's your problem. I take no responsibility."

"Yeah...yeah... I know. Fine. Just let us in, ok?"

Adamson pulled open the door a few more inches and then disappeared back into the gloom without a word, much less a backward glance. Monk stepped inside and led Cleese through the entryway. Once they were past the threshold, he secured the door behind them with an echoing sound.

It took a minute for Cleese's eyes to adjust to the spa.r.s.e light, but once they had what he saw laid out before him was mind blowing. He could see, even in the limited illumination, that the building was nothing more than four walls and a ceiling, like an airplane hangar only a little bit smaller. Walkways extended along the perimeter and in the center was a huge square cattle pen about seven feet high and at least the size of a football field. Off to the right was a convoluted series of chutes and gangways which were all governed by hydraulic gates. These could be raised and lowered as needed in order to move the UDs toward either the training pit or to the transport trucks. Beyond that was a long pa.s.sageway which slanted abruptly into the ground. Set at specific intervals, guard towers overlooked the pen. Inside each tower the shadowy forms of men could be seen manning large belt-fed guns.

Cleese recalled visiting the Chicago Stockyards with his father back before the old man left him and his mom to attend Casino school in Florida or some such nonsense. They'd never seen him again. These pens-with their slatted fencing and mazes of corridors-reminded him of that slaughterhouse. The putrid stench reminded him of his dad.

"These..." Monk interrupted, moving his arm as if he were on a game show presenting some fabulous prize, "are your opponents. The tunnel over there leads underground and to another holding pen located under The Octagon."

Cleese stepped forward and looked between the corrugated slats making up the pen's walls. Inside, in the dim light, he saw hundreds of ghostly figures milling about without purpose or reason. They shuffled and careened, oftentimes running into one another, as if their feet were held down by weights. Their heads drooped from the stalk of their necks like sacks of fetid meat as their eyes searched the shadows for something-anything-to eat. The air hung above the pen, undisturbed by any breeze or draft. It was as if even the atmosphere of this place wished to remain dark, dead and poisonous.

He leaned in closer to the fence in order to get a better look. Despite his revulsion, there was something inherently sad about the place. Each of The Dead had once been a person. They'd had family, harbored hopes and dreams, and just wanted to live. Instead, for whatever reason, they'd gotten themselves infected and all of it came cras.h.i.+ng down around them. As Cleese looked the pen over, there was a part of him that felt a twinge of sadness for that loss.

Abruptly, something slammed itself against the s.p.a.ce between the slats of the pen directly in front of him. Cleese jumped back, shouting out, his fist suddenly drawn back instinctively. Pressed against the railings, its features pinched into a rictus snarl, was what had once been a human face. Yellow-green teeth gnashed ineffectually against the metal and saliva dribbled down its chin, coating the fence and giving the metal a sheen that glimmered in the half-light. The thing's right eye socket was nothing more than a cavernous hole that had been punched into its skull. The other eye's pupil was clouded over, its tear duct wept a sticky, whitish fluid.

As Cleese stood there gaping at it, the thing became more and more excited as it pushed its snarling face against the fencing. Soon, its manner became down-right frantic and its furor began to affect the other UDs held in the pen. As Cleese stepped away, he caught a quick glimpse of the blood-spattered clerical collar which surrounded the thing's ravaged throat.

"Monk! Are you f.u.c.kin' nuts?"

The shout came from out of the darkness, from one of the guard towers across the Pen.

Adamson.

"Get that f.u.c.kin' idiot away from there. He's agitating my herd!"

Cleese shot Monk a quick glance and took another two steps back. The look on his face was comical: eyes wide like china plates, mouth slung open as if waiting to catch flies. He stood there grinning and offering up a silent apology.

"This's what you'll be fightin', Son," Monk said. "Never forget how that one snuck up on ya. This ain't San Francisco, Sparky, where you'll see 'em all comin'. Here, they'll bag ya and tag ya when you least expect it."

He dropped his arm back across Cleese's shoulder and led him back through the darkness and toward the exit.

"Always remember..." Monk said quietly in Cleese's ear, "it's not the one you hear that'll get you. It's the one that you don't."

Cleese nodded and tried to swallow his heart which had leapt up into his throat and thumped there like a trapped rabbit's. Together, they walked back they way they'd come and then out of the door of the Pen.

Soon, they were heading back across the field toward the Training Hall. As they walked, Monk remained silent, leaving Cleese to his thoughts and to again question what the f.u.c.k he was doing here.

The Lay of the Land Fluorescent fixtures shone down brightly over row after row of cafeteria tables. Their flat laminated surfaces reflected the light back onto the ceiling as small irregular squares of illumination. The bulbs that were set into the a.s.sembly gave off a low, buzzing sound like angry houseflies caught in a Mason jar. Each fixture hung from two conduits set in the acoustic tiles. Each tile was peppered with tiny holes.

The room was painted a soft, off-white. Its flooring was scarred industrial linoleum. Along one wall, floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the large expanse of gra.s.s which surrounded the building and framed the rest of the compound. Far off, the Holding Pen stood brooding; a constant reminder of the true nature of this place. Even with the open view, the room had a bland and inst.i.tutional appearance, as if it were constructed solely to be used for feeding the hungry and then quickly abandoned. Because of the acoustics, any sound echoed hollowly making the room seem far emptier than it was. As most dining rooms were warm inviting places, this was quite the opposite.

At the far end of the hall was a kitchen from which emanated savory smells. Just stepping into the s.p.a.ce and taking a whiff was enough to make your mouth water. Several Asian and Hispanic women, hair tied back and encased in spidery nets, could be seen through a small pa.s.s-through as they moved about, working diligently behind the gleaming metallic counters. Large bins overflowing with food were set in the slots of the steam table. Ethereal vapors swirled over the food and coated every morsel with a glistening patina. The sheer bounty of it all was awe-inspiring.

The League fed their fighters well and even though the food was dispensed in a cafeteria-like fas.h.i.+on, its quality was of the highest caliber. The men who toiled here needed sustenance and their requirements were very specific. Nutritionists had designed each menu to give maximum caloric benefit with a minimum amount of fat. Lean buffalo steaks could be both seen and smelled as they sizzled behind the women while large, sumptuous filets of salmon were grilled off to the side. Brown rice and mashed sweet potatoes sat in large pots near a carving station of the leanest prime rib. Bins of romaine lettuce and a literal garden of vegetables completed the mouthwatering tableau.

The doors leading into the building had only just been unlocked, but already there was a line of hungry people waiting to get in. The stomachs of the compound's population were more reliable than any Swiss timepiece and their grumbling would let them know when it was time to eat before any clock. When you pushed your body as hard as the fighters here did, food was second only to air in its necessity. The majority of the residents had by now lined up and was slowly working their way through. The others would surely be coming before long.

Monk and Cleese walked into the room and each grabbed a tray and a fistful of metal utensils which were made available in large plastic bins just inside the door. Taking their time, they quietly circled the room and stepped up to the back of the line. Monk motioned with his head for Cleese to look around. Since Cleese was still getting to know the lay of the land here at the compound, Monk said it was a perfect opportunity for him to size up the compet.i.tion.

"Pay attention," Monk all but whispered as he leaned in close. "Knowing who's who-who you can trust and who's a complete a.s.shole-could one day save your a.s.s."

In loose cliques, several social groups had already coalesced at sporadic intervals around the tables. On the far right, near the window, the man known as Robinson sat hacking away at a Fred Flintstone-sized steak. Next to him sat his pal, Murray, who was busy talking and shoveling food into his mouth without even looking to see what it was. The two black men were as big as they came; each with shaved heads and tiny pencil-thin moustaches. They looked like brothers from different mothers. For the most part, these two kept to themselves and had come from a background of mostly streetfighting. Their technique, from what Cleese could see, was raw but effective.

"Look, it was just a dumb f.u.c.kin' move is all I'm sayin'," Cleese overheard Robinson comment. "That dead b.i.t.c.h made more noise than your momma gettin' gorilla f.u.c.ked and you didn't hear her comin'. If I hadn't've yanked her G.o.dd.a.m.n lead back, she'd have f.u.c.ked your a.s.s up for sh.o.r.e."

"s.h.i.+t, man," Murray sighed. "I had 'er in my sights. There was no need you worryin'. I was gettin' to 'er."

"You were getting' to jack s.h.i.+t. What the f.u.c.k you doing, pacing yourself? She was on your a.s.s, Bro. Weren't no gettin' ta nuttin'."

Cleese smiled at the exchange. Monk had already chastised him for doing some of the same s.h.i.+t. It made him glad to hear he wasn't the only one making mistakes out there on the sand.

Across the room were Rustici, Andrews, and St. George: big Eastern Europeans who had fists like bricks and heads twice as hard. Rustici and Andrews had been following St. George around like they were puppies because of his supposed history as a champion Savate fighter back in the day. Whatever St. George had, it had helped keep him alive for the time being and that was good enough for Rustici and Andrews.

Toward the center of the room was a guy called Lenik who sat with his trainer, Cartwright. Cartwright was about Monk's age and reminded Cleese of that farmer guy on Captain Kangaroo. He had a look of someone who'd seen a fair amount of s.h.i.+t in his time. He also looked perpetually tired. It was an affect that a lot of the older fighters had.

Not Monk, though. He was different in that respect. Although he had some grey in his hair, there was still a young man who stared out at you through his eyes.

Monk said he'd known Cartwright awhile and him being here... Well, it had begun to wear on him. He went on to explain that when a mentor showed that kind of wear, it was never a good thing and was usually a forerunner to the guy making a big f.u.c.kin' mistake. And, as had been made clear time and time again, mistakes meant your a.s.s.

Lenik was in his late twenties with a splash of blonde hair and a complexion like that of a Sydney Pollack painting. He was in the middle of some diatribe, waving a fork around like a conductor's baton. Four of the younger fighters-Cloverfield, Shenkel, Gonzales and Llewellyn-were sitting near him and lapping up what he said as if they were his f.u.c.king apostles. They all had that "destined to die" glow about them and it just seemed sad. The majority of the other men in the room kept their distance from that cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k.

Lenik was either too driven by his own ego or too stupid to notice.

Or maybe... C: All of the above."

"The thing to remember, Boys," Lenik's voice rang out above the din, "is to always keep your eyes open. You can bet the rent on one thing and it's that these sonofab.i.t.c.hes are totally brain-dead. They live to eat and they'll take any opportunity to do so." As he concluded the thought, he stuffed a forkful of food into his yapping mouth.

Except for taking notes, the younger men were doing everything they could to commit these pearls of rather obvious wisdom to memory. The group of them nodded like those dogs you sometimes see in the back windows of cars.

Cleese looked at Monk and c.o.c.ked an eyebrow.

Monk said nothing. He merely pointed with his index finger to one of his eyes and then pointed back to the crowd as if to say, "pay attention."

"Jesus, that guy's a f.u.c.kin' weeping sore," said the square-jawed man in line in front of them. Cleese had seen him around and knew his name to be Hanson. The guy was in The League for some time and his gravelly voice sounded weary and had a hard, bitter edge to it. According to the grapevine, he'd been brought here from what used to be a Muay Thai camp in Thailand. The dude seemed to take great pride in being referred to as "Farang Ba" which, according to Monk, meant "crazy white foreigner." Word was he'd leveled more than his share of zombies back when the s.h.i.+t got shook.

"The man's a f.u.c.kin' menace," Hanson growled.

Cleese nodded to him and looked back over the crowd.

In front of Hanson, stood Jenkins, Parrish and Borden who, as one, nodded in Lenik's general direction and made "jack off" motions with their fists. The three men laughed and clapped one another on the back. This exchange, it would seem, was the height of hilarity for them. To be fair, they were fighters Cleese said he needed to keep an eye on. They all trained in the Greek art of Pankration and their training was second only to The Budo Warriors in severity.

Well, not counting Monk's, that is.

Cleese noticed that none of the Budo Warriors was here and thought that odd. He'd heard Chikara kept them on a cruelly spa.r.s.e diet and they'd been allowed to schedule a different time to eat. Rumor was that the diet she'd concocted for them was mostly brown rice, lightly cooked fish, and green tea. He'd heard one of the Warriors say that it kept them focused. Cleese mused that eating like that would only keep him p.i.s.sed the f.u.c.k off. Focus could never be found at the end of a fork... or the lack thereof.

The line for food moved incrementally forward, and as Cleese moved with it, he glanced over his shoulder toward the door. It was then that he noticed the imposing figure of Masterson looming like a gargoyle in the corner. As usual, he was dressed in another one of those suits, his arms crossed behind his back in a loose "parade rest" stance. The position seemed to strain the seams of his nicely tailored jacket and make the lapels slightly pucker. His eyes drifted over the crowd appraisingly until they finally connected with Cleese's and he nodded slightly. His expression never changed, his head just dipped and returned to its former position.

Soon enough, they'd made their way to the start of the metal counters of the kitchen and Cleese made a note of what Monk piled onto his tray. Every day it was exactly the same. A huge salad with a large ladle-full of Italian dressing, a large side plate of steamed vegetables, a couple of hot rolls, and an immense cut of salmon were unceremoniously stacked on plates. Then, a chicken breast or two to fill in any gaps. Protein and fiber seemed to be the general theme of the meal. Three twenty-ounce bottles of water were tucked into Monk's pockets and he was done.

d.a.m.n, Cleese thought, this old f.u.c.ker could eat.

Cleese did his best to keep up, but he knew he'd never be able to eat all that, so he adjusted the portions to fit what he knew his stomach's capacity to be. As the two of them stepped out of line, Monk motioned for them to take the extra trip and find a place far away from the cliques of people.

"You want none of this bulls.h.i.+t, Son," he said. "Most of these motherf.u.c.kers are nothing more than statistics. Half of them will be in a box before the close of the end of the month's business day."

Cleese nodded and followed Monk to a more or less deserted part of the Mess Hall. They made their way through the tables and chairs until Monk felt that they were far enough removed from the madding crowd.

"These a.s.sholes will talk your ear off about how you should fight your match," Monk continued saying as they walked, "and if you want to listen to them, fine. I'll go do a f.u.c.kin' crossword puzzle. But, if you want to stay alive out there on the sand for longer than five f.u.c.kin' minutes, you'll sit here with me. The only thing those idiots can do is cloud your thinking, and, as we've already covered, clouded thinking will lead to you having a very f.u.c.ked up day."

Cleese smiled and continued to follow Monk.

"Lay on, Macduff," Cleese said with a bow.

Once they'd gotten themselves seated, they ate in relative silence. Periodically, Monk would comment on one thing or another, but it was almost as if he felt that the silence itself was an important aspect of his brand of training. The old man once commented that what was not said between trainer and trainee was almost as, if not more important than what was said.

"In the silence," he had said, "is where each of you can learn the other's rhythms."

And so, they ate without saying much of anything.