Without giving it too much thought, he decided to wander in that general direction if only to satisfy his own inquisitiveness. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had anything else to do much less anywhere to go. After a few more minutes of walking in that direction, he was finally able to make out that the pile of rocks he’d seen was in reality a slight figure sitting under one of the Wisteria trees planted at the crest of the hill. His interest now fully engaged, he thought he’d forego the visit to the range and just see who felt he needed that kind of privacy.
He made his way toward the rise at the base of the hill and did his best to keep out of sight. He figured he’d get a look-see at whoever it was up here and, if it proved to be someone of no interest to him, make his way back down and then head back to the Firing Range. As he climbed, his hamstrings again cried out in pain and resisted the call to strenuous exercise. After everything they’d already been through during the day’s training, the last thing his muscles seemed to want was a round of hill-climbing. Setting his resolve, he pushed past the discomfort and his muscles soon relaxed, making the climb easier.
About midway up the hill, his calf got tight and gave the first indications of cramping up. Pausing to flex it out, he turned and looked back toward the compound. He knew that the place was big, but now it was obvious that it was a lot bigger than he’d initially surmised. He’d known that there were wide fields separating the large, squat buildings, but now he could see the extent of the Compound’s acreage. Cleese could see what looked like miles of cyclone fence running around the vast complex. He squinted and was able to make out a thin line of electrical wire threaded through the diamond-shaped spaces of the chainlink. Above the fencing, razor wire twinkled in the diminishing sunlight. Beyond the formidable fencing, there was nothing but mile after mile of empty countryside.
He turned and looked back up to the top of the hill. He still had a ways to go, so he lowered his head and returned his attention to the laborious climb to the top of the hill. His efforts soon brought him to the crest and put him just to the right of where the mysterious figure sat like a Buddhist monk: legs crossed, hands lying loosely in his lap.
He continued on, moving quietly.
By now he’d gotten to within a dozen or so yards away and was able to ascertain that the figure in the shadows of the Wisteria was that of a woman. He could see that her build was smaller than that of a man and her posture was nearly perfect; back straight, head held high yet relaxed. Most of the men here moved like apes, but she had an air about her that was almost angelic. She seemed to take up a hundred percent of the space she occupied. Her body exuded diametrically opposed energies: totally peaceful harmony and complete deadly menace. Even though she was relaxed and off-guard, her body gave the impression that with the proper motivation all that could change… and that change would be very dangerous indeed.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out this woman’s identity: Chikara.
Surreptitiously, he’d learned as much as he could about Chikara as soon as it was possible. After hearing the stories, he’d sneaked off whenever he could and viewed her tapes. The more he saw, the more he was interested in her, her Warriors, and her unique fighting style. He’d never met a woman who could hold her own in a full-on fight, but this one… This one was different. Much like Monk, she’d taken what Life had given her and turned it into something undeniable. This was a woman who did what few others could.
She kicked ass and took names.
And when the asses got kicked and the names had been taken the end result usually meant a lot of bodies hitting the floor.
Cleese remembered one specific tape he’d seen. It was late in her match and she was obviously tired. Covered in blood and bits of meat, she’d stood quietly and allowed herself to be surrounded by a group of UDs. She’d batted their advances aside when necessary, but for the most part she simply let them get inside her strike zone. After giving the television audience their fair share of anticipation and dread, it became clear by the change in her expression that she’d had enough. Then in a blur of punches, kicks and whirling swordplay, she’d dispatched them all in seconds. One moment she was surrounded and things were looking grim, the next it appeared as if someone had turned on a blood sprinkler. She literally became a whirling dervish of death. When things finally settled down, there she was, panting from the exertion, standing over a pile of bodies and grinning like a demon from Hell.
It was, to say the least, impressive.
It was also, at least in Cleese’s opinion, sexy as hell.
From afar he took a moment to look at her, quietly cataloging her appearance. She was pretty beneath all of that bluster and violent retribution. She wore her hair short and kind of spiky which was something that a lot of fighters did. The UDs could sometimes entangle their clawing hands in a combatant’s hair and that could create some major problems. It was just easier to keep a short haircut. Even Cleese, who wore his hair long, kept it tied back tight to his head in a ponytail.
From this distance, he noted how well-defined and leanly muscled her upper body was: firm musculature having been augmented by exceedingly low body fat. In the dying light, Cleese saw the thick cabling of her vascularity as it accented each individual muscle group. There was no denying that this was a beautiful and powerful woman. Silently, he wondered how she’d do in a sparring match both in the Pit and in bed. He made a mental note to try to find out should either opportunity ever present itself.
"Do you often sneak up on people and stare at them, Cleese?" Chikara asked abruptly, eyes still closed. Her voice almost tinkled on the blossoming night’s crisp air.
"No. I…uh…" he stammered and then chuckled. "I apologize. I was just out walking…"
She slowly opened her eyes and languidly turned her face to meet his.
Cleese hesitantly walked the rest of the way over to where she was sitting.
"I hope I’m not interrupting," he said. As he got closer, he noticed that this woman was a lot prettier than he’d initially thought. Her bone structure was sharp and her mouth wide. Her lips were full and generous. He looked down and met her gaze. He was brought up short when his gaze finally came to a rest on her eyes. They say that the eyes are the window to a person’s soul. These were dark piercing orbs that sent a cold chill down your spine. They were eyes that had seen a great deal of loss and endured unfathomable amounts of suffering.
Cleese felt that adversity tempered the spirit. Nietzsche said, "That which does not kill you, makes you stronger." If that were true, then this woman was carbon steel.
"Well," she responded, "I was in the middle of my meditation. However, I have been meaning to talk to you."
"Oh?" he asked and he cocked an eyebrow. He’d been trying to keep a discreet eye on Chikara and her Budo Warriors since he’d first arrived. He had no idea that the fascination had been mutual.
"I have. Here…" and she patted the grass next to her, "sit with me."
Cleese made his way over and sat down heavily. Despite his best efforts to the contrary he groaned as his quadriceps screamed out in their distress. After a bit of painful adjustment he settled in and made himself comfortable. All the while, he never noticed the smirk that slid across Chikara’s lips.
"Sore?" she asked, looking away to hide her still grinning face.
"Ha-ha…" he said wincing. "I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus. Twice."
Smiling fully, her eyes returned to the tableau before her.
Cleese took a moment to drink in the view from this vantage point and was amazed. It was stunning the way the final orange and purple rays of the sun slashed across the sky and threw long, skeletal shadows upon the fields of manicured green. He was surprised it had taken him this long to find the place.
"Wow," Cleese said with a sigh as he got himself comfortable, "this is a nice little spot you have here."
"It is preferable to the last place I used which was next to the Holding Pen," Chikara said, her voice ringing out sweetly in the air.
>
Cleese looked at her and realized that this was the first time he’d caught her smiling.
"I’ll bet," he said. Then after a moment, "So… What did you want to talk to me about?"
Chikara drew her index finer around her right ear where two piercings twinkled in the light, and pulled the short bristly hairs back behind her ear. The movement made Cleese’s pants feel funny; funny in a way that they’d not felt in a very long time.
"We have been watching you, Cleese," Chikara began.
Cleese involuntarily raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"So far, we like what we see," she said finishing he thought.
"We?"
"Yes, we…"
"I’m flattered."
"You should not be," she said with a slight sniff. "We—and by ‘we’ I mean the Budo Warriors—have been watching you since you first arrived. In fact, it was one of my Warriors who first brought you to Masterson’s attention."
"Hmmm… so, I have you to thank for this little adventure."
"In a way, I guess… Yes. We heard about you and thought you would do well here. Now that we have seen the genuine article, it is evident that we were correct in that assumption.
"Hmm… well, thank you," he responded. "I’m guessing there’s more…"
Chikara smiled again and turned to look him in the eye.
"We were hoping you would join us."
"Join you? Join the Budo Warriors?"
Chikara nodded and looked off serenely into the distance as if, her request now made, she’d returned to a peaceful place in her mind while she awaited her answer.
Cleese stared at her for a long time as he pondered the real meaning of what had been said. He was honored. Hell, who wouldn’t be? Still… Cleese had never exactly been a "team player" and the idea of joining the ranks of any organization—no matter how loosely compiled or prestigious—sat like a turd at the back of his throat.
"Well…" he said, "while I am honored at the invitation, I’m not so sure that would be a good idea. I’m not exactly someone who is able to tow a line, you know? And in case you haven’t noticed, you tow a pretty stern line."
Chikara grinned and nodded. Cleese found that, despite himself, he respected this woman. She’d no doubt suffered a lot in order to bring her to where she was today, fought her way through competition and adversaries alike and had come out on top. In many ways she was a lot like the other fighters that were here, but in other ways—more important to Cleese’s way of thinking—she was quite different. She gave off an air of great strength and yet there was a deep compassion and sensitivity evident in her.
"Somehow," she said finally, "I knew you would say just that."
Cleese smiled and leaned back against the tree.
"Well, I aim to please."
The two of them sat quietly as the sun slid below the horizon. Cleese periodically looked over at Chikara and was amazed that she’d returned to her meditation, effectively shutting him out. He took the time to look her over once more. Sitting this close he noticed some small ragged scars across her upper arms and neck. He leaned in just a bit closer and saw that they were several matching sets of four scratches; one scratch for each of what must have been a UD’s jagged fingernails.
He figured that the scratches were a result of the way Chikara got in so close during her matches. A fighter couldn’t let that sort of shit happen as much as she did and walk away unmarked. Luckily, no one had ever become infected as a result of a scratch or two.
No, for that, it took a bite.
"You are staring…" Chikara said with a slight smile, eyes still closed.
Cleese was yanked out of his reverie and realized that he had been staring—pie-eyed and open-mouthed—just a couple of feet away from this woman. He felt his cheeks grow suddenly hot and flushed.
"Oh… uh… sorry," he apologized.
Chikara smiled and seemed to rise like a marionette; her strings lifting her effortlessly to her feet.
"Come. We should get back." Then, "I would like it if we were able to talk more sometime later."
Cleese smiled and nodded.
"I’d like that as well," he replied and, with another groan, he got stiffly back to his feet.
"Well, good," and she graced him with another one of those smiles.
"Jesus…" he said with a wince once he’d gotten fully to his feet. He bent his back and it made another painful cracking sound. "I feel like shit."
"Lactic acid has built up in your muscles as a result of all of this exercise. It is just making them stiff. An interesting side note for you… lactic acid is very similar in chemical composition to something found in the UD’s metabolism—something called Sarcolactic Acid. In The Dead, Sarcolactic Acid or Paralactic Acid is the chemical that causes Rigor Mortis. So, in essence, what you are feeling right now is nothing more than ante-mortem rigor. Stop by my crib later and I can give you an herbal tea that will ease some of the pain a bit."
"Man, lookit you…"
Chikara laughed aloud, her laughter sounding light and almost care-free on the evening air. She looked up at him and, after a moment, looked away. In the diminishing light of the day, the blush that flushed her cheeks went unnoticed.
"Well," she said, "I, too, aim to please."
As they made their way down the hill and across the grass, Cleese stared at her for a long time. Again, something primal stirred deep within his belly. It’d been a long time since a woman made him feel the way Chikara did; too long. As he smiled to himself, he decided that he liked this feeling and wanted to explore it further.
They walked together in silence until they’d reached the outskirts of the compound’s buildings. Abruptly, she stopped and reached out to lightly tug at the bottom hem of his shirt. Almost as suddenly as she’d done it, she pulled her hand away. A wave of embarrassment washed over her face as if her body had betrayed her and done something she’d not meant it to. Her gesture was something from another time and another place. It was like a distant echo from when she’d been another person. It reminded her of how long she’d kept that person locked away from the world. For some time now, she’d not allowed herself to feel like a woman. Doing so had proven itself to be far too dangerous here. Cleese, though, was able to let her be who she was and not make her feel like that was to her detriment.
She silently feared the repercussions should she let the Woman influence the Warrior.
"I have enjoyed finally meeting you, Cleese."
Cleese smiled broadly and ran his hand through his hair. The motion was something he’d tried to control for a long time. It was his "tell." And what it told was that he was interested or embarrassed. For some reason, none of that mattered to him now.
"Believe me… the pleasure was all mine."
The two of them stood looking at each other, each silently not wanting or knowing how to disengage.
"Come by before you turn in for the night," she said, breaking the awkward silence. "I will give you that tea."
"Yeah, thanks," he said and his hand once again ran through his hair. "I’d appreciate that."
And without another word, the two fighters walked off toward the center of the compound; each of them lost in the whirlwind of their own thoughts.
Last Rites
As the moon slowly rose to its apex over the relative quiet of the compound, the temperature within the Holding Pen had begun to slack off and the heat of the day finally started to dissipate. Shadows, a constant commodity in this forsaken place, covered the ground as heavy and thick as spilled oil. The incessant gloom arrested the sparse illumination and gave the space a muted tone, making it seem even more menacing that it already was. The darkness was just something you got used to if you spent enough time tucked away here. It was something that usually happened shortly after you got used to the never-ending moaning of the dead.
Getting used to the smell…
Well, that took a whole lot longer.
Adamson no longer noticed any of it. He’d been l
ooking after and caring for the dead for so long that the gloom and the smell had become integrated into the fabric of who he was. As for the sound, where others heard the horrifying cacophony of death and fear, he heard a mournful aria of loss. To his ears, the dead were not calling out in warning, but rather they cried out to the dark for some kind of understanding, a desperate plea for compassion made to a god who no longer listened, much less cared.
He’d cared about them before their resurrection and he continued to care now.
It was who he was.
Watching over The Dead was a business and it was one that Adamson knew well. The containment and control of the reanimated dead was something he understood down deep in his bones. His ability to feel compassion for them—even when no one else here did—was what made him so good. In more ways than one, he felt as if he knew the dead (and liked them) a hell of a lot better than he did the living.
Adamson walked around the large pen where the hundreds of UDs were stored. The sound of their movement was a constant thing, a steady and unvarying tone which was heard as the dead milled about in their never-ending search for food.
While the building was large, most of its floor space was taken up by the cattle pen-like enclosure. The air was kept cool by large refrigeration units housed on the roof of the building. Their use was nothing more than a token gesture to try and slow the inherent decomposition of the dead, but it did little good. Time would have its way and there was little anyone could do to slow it. Like fragile flowers, the dead too would wilt and fall into corruption and decay. It was another one of those immutable laws of nature; an edict that offered neither appeal nor demurral.
Seven foot high walls made of chain link and corrugated metal formed the large rectangle of the Pen, the enclosure which housed the League’s most important—and dangerous—resource. At each corner stood a guard tower, giving the place a concentration camp-like appearance. Sitting high in the towers overlooking the meandering dead, guards manned large caliber United States Air Force issue GAU-2/A miniguns. An electrically powered Gatling gun capable of delivering over three thousand 7.62mm rounds per minute, it could reduce a crowd of UDs (or people for that matter) to mashed potatoes in seconds. Adamson considered the guns his fail safe. If his herd were to ever break out of their enclosure, the mounted artillery (as well as a few more portable XM214 Microguns) would stop that shit before it ever got too out of hand.
No Flesh Shall Be Spared Page 15
