Lance stood up and continued rubbing his face with his hands.
"Oh, God…" he cried. "You stupid fuckin’ fucks!"
He turned and kicked at the last remaining boards and stepped into the area beyond the shattered door. The place looked like the OK Corral. Bullet holes and splintered wood were everywhere.
Lance knelt down, trying to get beneath the last of the smoke. He coughed and continued to fan his hand back and forth in an effort to try and see more clearly. As the smoke finally dissipated, what he saw behind the obliterated wall was something that would haunt him until the day he died.
Lying on the floor were what was left of the dead man’s family: a woman about the same age as he’d been, a girl who looked to be about seventeen, a boy who was twelve if he was a day, and a smaller kid who couldn’t have been more than eight. The artillery had torn them into bits. Large, gaping wounds still bled and at even the most cursory of glances, it was evident that they were now just as dead as their patriarch.
Despite his best efforts to control his rising nausea, Lance vomited into the hay.
For a long time, no one spoke. Masterson walked away from the group and sat on some bales of hay, looking pale and flustered. He sat there for a long time and looked deep in thought as he regained control and considered all of the possible ramifications of this little fuck-up.
Finally, Masterson spoke up as he stood and began gathering his gear, "This place is clear, Gentlemen. We report it as such."
"Sarge," Lance shouted, "we just murdered these people!"
"Casualties of war, Son," Masterson said and the words sounded as if they tasted bitter in his mouth. "You ladies are to finish reloading. We move on to the next ranch in five."
The men all stood around and looked confused and a bit repulsed. Shooting zombies was one thing. This… This was something else entirely.
"Are we clear on this?" Masterson said and his gaze addressed them all sternly, especially Lance, and never wavered. "Gear up! You heard me, we leave in five."
"You can’t be serious?" Lance said unbelieving.
Masterson turned on him. He took a menacing step forward and none of them—Lance in particular—failed to notice how his hand drifted toward the pistol he kept holstered at his side. His eyes narrowed and his jaw grew noticeably more taut and firm.
"Son, we have a job to do here and we’re going to do it. Nothing is going to bring these people back, you hear me? This was a mistake," he said through clenched teeth. "A mistake that never happened."
Lance started to open his mouth to respond, but he felt A-Rab’s hand on his arm as if to say, "Some fights aren’t worth dying over, kid."
"Now… are we clear, soldier?"
Lance closed his mouth and reluctantly nodded.
"Good. Like I said, Ladies… Pack your shit. We leave in five."
As Masterson walked away, Lance felt a fleeting impulse to shoot the bastard in the back. God knew it would serve him right, but as the men slowly began to follow the Sarge’s orders, he knew that he wouldn’t do it. He knew that he’d do just as he was told and pray this whole thing would be over soon. With enough time and distance, it would all become just a vague memory of something that could only have happened in a dream. The squad would move on and someday The World would get a handle on all of this crazy shit. Life would go back to the way it had been before and all of it—The Dead, the killing, the bodies, and the blood—would fade from their memories.
But Lance knew today would be different, today would be with him forever. Deep down, he knew he’d remember the look in the old man’s eyes and that moment, the one just before the bullets starting flying, would replay in his mind—in his nightmares—again and again, and every time he remembered it, he would get the same sick feeling in the pit of his gut as he had now.
Today though…
Today, the world was falling to shit and for better or for worse he was still alive. If he intended to stay that way, he knew he’d need to keep his mouth shut and just follow the orders that were given. So, with his face set and his eyes looking downward, Lance gathered his gear and tried to prepare himself for whatever might be lying in wait at the next farmhouse up the road.
The Monkey Dance
The light fixtures set in the ceiling of the weight room were turned off in an attempt to keep the room cool against the remaining heat of the day. Just below the lights, blades of circulating fans churned the warm air like dark and malignant butter. The hottest part of the day had almost passed, but in this place the heat never fully went away. It was always oppressively hot, day or night, and any cool breeze, no matter how slight, was appreciated.
The fighters working out were happy for the respite after a long day too full of sun and the bright lights of the Octagon. What each of them wanted now was to have some peace and quiet and to remain uninterrupted while toiling in the relative calm of the gym.
Cleese lay on his back across the bench press and looked up at his spotter. Monk’s face floated there like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. It drifted there and his stern, upside-down expression was almost comical. Cleese closed his eyes and tried to shut out all external stimuli. He ran his fingers through his long sweat-dampened hair and, being too tired and too hot to do much else, sighed. They’d been at this for a good couple of hours now and even though he felt exhilarated by the exercise his muscles burned from tendon to ligament. His flesh was hot to the touch and the flush of exertion burned warm and red across his skin.
They’d had a quick, but strenuous five mile run on the compound’s quarter mile track to warm-up, then the two of them came to the gym to do some weight training and, more importantly, to try and calm their souls. Lately, Cleese felt like his nerves were on the short edge of frayed. Even Monk could tell how close he was to breaking. Damn, anyone with half a brain could see it. Too much had happened far too fast and he hadn’t had the chance to just chill out, sort through his thoughts, and centralize his concentration on something he knew and knew well… his body.
It had been only a short time since he was brought out here to the middle of goddamn nowhere and asked to adapt to a new paradigm and an entirely new routine. He’d been dropped into a maelstrom that was about as foreign to him as a jump shot was to a circus midget. The whole thing was like nothing he could have ever imagined. Sure, he’d seen his share of weird before. Hell, he’d bartered in some pretty bizarre shit once upon a time, but this… this was just out there.
This made weird look like weird was on vacation.
If pressed, Cleese would have probably said that he’d been happy in San Francisco, back when his aggressive ignorance seemed like bliss. He’d had some money, plenty of broads, and access to pretty much everything he could have ever wanted or hoped for. Yes, he’d given up pieces of himself over the years in exchange for those things, but life had been good.
More or less.
However, deep down he knew that it was all just an empty replacement for the one thing he most craved: a place to truly fit in and call his own, without ties or caveats.
But as they say, that was then and this is now…
Now, he found himself sitting square in the eye of a shit tornado and from the look of things life was going to get a hell of a lot worse—or at least a heck of a lot weirder—before it ever got better.
That said… if this routine supplied him with anything, it was a place and a role. He was a fighter. And as a fighter, that meant he was a man who put his mettle to the test day after day in the most inhospitable—and most unimaginable—of places. He did what few others would do—what few others could do.
Or at least that was the plan… just as soon as he finished this training, completed this next set.
Cleese slowly opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling and Monk’s grinning Jack O’Lantern face. Jesus, he was a hideous motherfucker, hovering there and looking like Death and Ugly had a baby and it had been allowed to grow up. He closed his eyes once more and silently prepared hi
mself for the next lift.
Raising his hands, he slid them across the straight bar that sat on two posts welded to the bench on each side of his head. He moved his hands roughly eighteen inches apart, stopping when he felt the knurling carved there under his fingertips. A quick check as to the position of the three forty-five pound metal plates on each side of the bar and he braced his hands against the steel. He took a deep breath, then another, and pushed against the weight. Once clear of the supports, he carefully moved the bar over him and held it there.
The plates rattled softly as he slowly lowered the weight to his chest. He felt the bar bounce gently off of his sternum and held it there. He contracted his pecs, forcing blood deep into the muscle. The flesh grew still warmer and, slowly uncurling like a serpent, pain raised its cobra-like head once more. With a grunt, he pushed at the bar, and the weight rose slowly and steadily to the fully extended position. Cleese methodically repeated the "lower–contract–lift" motion another six times and then, with a deep breath, set the barbell in its rack above him.
Once more, Monk’s face came into focus wearing a grin which cut fiercely across the lower part of his face.
"You’re a goddamn animal," he said, his voice brimming over with delight.
"That’s what your momma said," Cleese puffed as he sat up.
"Like fuck…"
Cleese leaned over and picked up a small towel from the floor. He reached up and wiped at the side of his neck. As he caught his breath, he felt the serpent in his chest recede and the flush subside a bit.
"I gotta tell ya," he said as he slowly caught his breath, "this feels good. I haven’t done this kind of shit in quite a while."
"Well, from what I hear, you weren’t living the healthiest of lifestyles when they did your Retrieval."
"Yeah, well… We can’t all walk the straight and narrow."
"Son, you ain’t seen the straight and narrow since you were a dribble on your daddy’s dick," Monk said as he reached down for an additional thirty-five pound plate. He slid it onto the left side of the bar and then went to do the same on the right.
"Hey, that additional weight isn’t for me, is it?"
"Damn straight, Skippy. I wanna see you either beg for mercy or cry like a four year old school girl. Frankly, either one’ll do."
Cleese laughed and wiped the other side of his neck. When he was done, he dropped the towel to the ground and lay back onto the bench for another set.
Monk slid the last plate on and pushed it against the others.
"You guys going to fuckin’ gossip all day or give the rest of us a chance on that equipment?" a gravelly voice interrupted.
Cleese looked up and saw one of the other fighters standing there in sweat pants and a large red shirt. It was a guy he’d seen around who was known as Michaels. He was a big tub of shit who had somehow gotten it into his pint-sized head that his brawn automatically made him a proficient fighter. Michaels was one of the newer fighters, newer than even Cleese, and he’d already gotten himself a reputation as being an aggro asshole. From all accounts, he’d hit the ground running in that respect. As he stood there glaring at them, his hands were on his hips and his manner was severely impatient.
"Listen, Michaels," Monk said calmly, "there’s another set of benches right there." Monk pointed toward three additional benches on the other side of the room. "Use one of those."
Monk turned his back on him as if dismissing him and walked over to spot Cleese on his next set.
"See, that’s the thing, Old Timer," Michaels said, his voice dripping with caustic sarcasm and just a hint of menace. "I like this bench and I mean to use it."
Cleese slowly sat up and turned so that both of his feet were on the same side of the bench, just in case this fool decided to make good on his threat. He’d seen it happen too many times in the past where someone got rushed and his footing was compromised by stuff on the ground: a barstool, a drunken girlfriend or some other stupid shit. He didn’t know this Michaels guy too well and what little he did know said that he was a prick. Not having his whole story made him decide to err on the side of caution.
"Step off, Cherry," Monk hissed. His voice was low and steady, but it was barbed with an implied warning. "You want none of this, I assure you."
Michaels took a step forward and squared his shoulders.
"Is that so?"
"It is at that," Monk said and looked him dead in the eye.
"Listen, Monk," Michaels growled, "some people here think you’re some hot shit, but all I see is a washed up old man who’s past his prime. Now, take your hippy pal here and get off my fuckin’ bench."
"Not gonna happen," Monk replied, looking back toward the bench. "If you want to press it, we can talk to Masterson."
"Fuck Masterson," Michaels shouted and he took another step foward.
"Careful, now…" Monk replied, sounding casual and almost uninterested. "You know how the League feels about fighting amongst its staff. You wouldn’t want to compromise your sit-chee-ation," he slowly returned his gaze to the big man’s eyes and cocked an eyebrow, "now would ya?"
Michaels paused just for a second as if he was pondering how far he wanted to push it. Interestingly, Monk helped make the decision for him.
"Good thing, too… or I’d be handing you a big piece of your chubby ass right about now."
"Hey, fuck you, you old piece of shit."
Cleese stood up, having decided that he’d heard just about enough. If this little prick wanted his melon thumped, Cleese felt more than happy to oblige him. Besides, he’d dealt with assholes like this in bars for years. They were usually all bark and no bite and all you needed to do was whack them on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper and they quickly learned to behave. Moving rapidly, he took a step between the two men and smiled malevolently at Michaels.
"Hey, KoolAid…"
"You stay out of this," Monk warned. The last thing they needed was for Cleese to do something to get himself booted from the Roster.
Michaels glared at Cleese and leaned in.
"You should listen to your mommy, Frisco. You don’t want me to hurt you, now do ya?"
Cleese smiled and motioned with his finger for Michaels to lean in even closer.
"Two things…"
"Cleese, no," Monk said again.
"First, don’t ever call my home town ‘Frisco.’ We hate that shit."
Michaels’ face broke out in a wry grin and sniffed in lieu of laughing.
"And second… the only thing you ever put a hurt on is a deli plate, you fat fuckin’ pussy."
Michaels reacted as if he’d been slapped. His eyes went wide and his face flushed red. He quickly balled his hands at his sides into fists and slowly raised them.
Cleese smiled and knew he’d hit his desired mark.
"What did you say to me?" the fat man bellowed.
"I said…" Cleese leaned in even further and purposefully stuck his chin out, offering the man a target that was designed to be too good to pass up. "I said… that you, my rotund friend, are a poo…" specks of saliva flew from his lips as he enunciated the "p" and landed on Michaels’ cheek "…say."
He stared deep into Michaels’ eyes and smiled, watching as the man’s blood came to a slow rolling boil. His patience was finally rewarded when he saw Fat Boy’s right shoulder drop.
The punch was a wild haymaker coming from behind Michaels’ back. Cleese had to give it to him, the boy was as stupid as a sack of hammers, but if he was anything, he was committed. With all of this strength directed into his arm and his vision obscured by his rabid anger, Michaels never saw Cleese’s feet shift and his weight transfer to his push-off leg. As the haymaker came around, Michaels’ left hand dropped and his jaw presented itself with everything except a colored bow.
Cleese ignored the offering and was already in motion even as he slapped at the incoming fist with his left hand. Coming around the other man’s reach, he let Michaels’ momentum spin him like a top. With a little hop, Cleese l
et loose a savage oblique kick to the nearest open target—the knee of Michaels’ right leg. Predictably, the big lummox lost his footing as his knee collapsed. With a painful sounding grunt, he dropped down on all fours.
Cleese circled and, as the wounded man raised his head to scream out in pain from the leg strike, quickly boxed both of his ears. Michaels screeched anew and clutched at the sides of his head.
"Cleese," Monk shouted. He reached out and grabbed the bench’s barbell. Once he saw that it was already too late, he leaned over and rested his head in resignation on the cold, metal bar. "God damn it!"
Michaels collapsed forward, clutching at his ears. Now in a full rage, he started to rise to a standing position despite the pain in his leg. When he’d gotten up on one knee, he noticed an empty dumbbell bar which was lying on the ground next to the bench. Boiling over with fury, he grabbed at it. As he rose to his feet, he swung it viciously at Cleese’s head.
Having expected something of this sort, Cleese was ready. He caught his wrist as it came up and deftly wrestled the bar out of his grasp. He quickly twisted the arm and then maneuvered himself down and under the outstretched limb.
Now that all of the joints in Michaels’ arm were twisted in on themselves, he had but two choices—return to the ground or allow his arm to be broken in several places.
As the fat man fell, Cleese silently thanked an old Steven Seagal movie he’d seen years ago for the move.
Monk raised his head and, seeing how things were progressing, grimaced.
Michaels’ body hit the ground with another pig-like grunt and he immediately moved to cradle his wrenched arm. His face twisted up into a painful looking grimace and a small string of drool fell from his lips. As he rolled onto his back, he looked up and was horrified to see Cleese standing over him holding the dumbbell bar like a dagger. He gasped when he saw that Cleese was already in motion and bringing it down in a powerful strike aimed directly at his face. He cried out and raised his hands to protect himself.
No Flesh Shall Be Spared Page 6
