No Flesh Shall Be Spared

by Carnell, Thom

  As the two of them continued to fight and thrash about, their legs slammed into a low-lying display and they fell into a heap to the ground. Bartlett pushed the kid away and Cleese saw two bullet hits on the brow of the helmet. Amazingly, the insulated brain bucket had held firm and deflected both shots.

  Cleese had to smile as he imagined the look of surprise on Bartlett’s face after shooting the kid dead center in the forehead and him not going down. Man, he must have shit his pants. The funny part was that the very thing that had protected the kid from the rifle rounds was also what was keeping him from being able to take a bite out of Bartlett. The full face helmet not only covered his skull, it also covered his jaws and kept him from being able to sink his teeth into anything. The thing possessed—quite literally—all of the bark of the undead, but none of the bite.

  By now, the rest of the men had arrived and could see what was happening. Behind him, Cleese heard Pugnowski raise his rifle and click off his safety. Cleese reached out and put a gentle hand on the barrel of his gun. He shook his head, silently reminding him that it was too dangerous to just start firing blindly. Bartlett was in no real danger and it would be too easy to hit him in the ensuing hailstorm of bullets. Not to mention that the noise would bring every zombie within a thousand yards running.

  With Bartlett screaming and thrashing about like a stuck pig, Cleese stepped up behind the two fighting figures and brusquely grabbed the kid by the collar of his leather jacket. Putting his legs into the lift, he yanked the kid up and off Bartlett and casually tossed him aside. The kid hit the ground on his back and immediately scrambled back to his feet. Once mobile, he quickly moved back in the direction of the downed man. Cleese stepped into its path and slammed the butt of the SIG into his helmet’s windscreen. The force of the blow spider-webbed the visor and knocked the kid back. Cleese spun at the waist and kicked him in the sternum with a reverse round house. Stale air came rushing out of his chest in a muffled "whoof!" Dazed and hurting, the kid crumpled to the ground.

  Suddenly, a shot rang out and blood erupted from one of the kid’s knees. Meat and bone splashed across the linoleum. The kid gave a piercing cry of pain, its voice sounding hollow from within the tightness of the helmet. Then, another bullet slammed into the other knee. Cleese turned to see Bartlett holding his still smoking rifle.

  "Christ, Bartlett," Cleese said exasperated. "You sure as shit are making enough fuckin’ noise. If you’re gonna kill it, kill it, but don’t fuck around torturing the damned thing."

  "Shut up, Cleese!" Bartlett shouted and fired two more rounds into the dead thing’s chest. Blood blossomed like red flowers on the shiny surface of the kid’s leather.

  "Oh, come on… I know it surprised you, but look at it. It can’t bite you. Just fucking put it down, Man."

  "Shut. Up!" Bartlett repeated and angrily turned, pointing his rifle at Cleese.

  Cleese glowered and his demeanor immediately turned serious; deadly serious.

  "Bartlett…" his voice slid from his mouth like venom. "Get. That. Fucking gun. Out of my face!"

  Bartlett took a step forward and kept the rifle pointed at Cleese.

  "Or what, Tough Guy?"

  Instantly, Cleese slapped the barrel up toward the ceiling and spun at the waist. He quickly grabbed the rifle and, with a quick tug, yanked the gun away. Behind them, the kid could be heard trying to get to his feet, but his wounded legs wouldn’t support him. Without a second thought, Cleese flipped the gun around in his hands and slid the barrel of the rifle up under the kid’s helmet just at the jaw line. An explosion of blood, brain, and bone erupted against the fractured surface of the kid’s visor.

  "You’re making too much fuckin’ noise, man," Cleese said, "and I won’t have you endangering us all just because you want to get your rocks off torturing this thing." He pulled the clip out of the rifle and ejected the chambered round. The discarded brass tinkled brightly as it hit the ground. Cleese raised the rifle so that it could be seen. "And you’ll get this back at the end of the semester, young man!"

  Bartlett shot an angry look at his back as Cleese walked back down the aisle and toward the front of the store.

  "Fuck you!" Barlett barked.

  "Oh and point another gun at me, Fuckstick, and I’ll drop you like the sack of shit that you are," Cleese called back over his shoulder.

  "Don’t threaten me, Cleese!" Bartlett shouted after him.

  "I don’t threaten, motherfucker," Cleese’s voice came slithering out of the darkness, "I offer up prophecy."

  ~ * ~

  The ride back to the compound was a quiet one. Cleese decided to sit in the back of the truck with Del Castillo, Harrison and Hines. They’d rearranged boxes and made little cubbyholes to sit in between the stacked fruits of their labor. Cleese noticed that there was a distinct separation between theirs and his.

  Whatever…

  It wasn’t like he was ever looking to make friends.

  As the truck rumbled along, he could hear Bartlett and Pugnowski as they talked in the cab. He caught muted mumbling that, from their tone, had all the earmarks of bitching and posturing. Cleese had heard it time and time again, usually from some propped-up tough guy who’d just had his social standing diminished by someone tougher and smarter.

  Cleese leaned back and got as comfortable as he could given the constant rocking of the truck as it rumbled down the road and back up into the mountains. He grabbed a package of toilet paper and set it under the back of his head as a pillow. He knew he’d not heard the last of Bartlett and his empty-headed cronies, but it wasn’t like he was worried. If there was ever going to be a serious altercation between them, it would have happened at the drug store when they were all alone and everyone was well armed. Instead, Cleese had walked away without so much as a tussle.

  It told him everything he needed to know.

  Spines of water.

  As he settled in deeper and tried to get comfortable, he took a glance over at the three men riding with him. As he met their gaze directly, they looked away or into their laps.

  Cleese smiled to himself, closed his eyes, and promptly took a nap.

  ~ * ~

  Back at the compound, Cleese turned in the SIG, but asked if he could hold onto the nine mil. Having a pistol in this day and age just seemed like a pretty good idea to him.

  Luckily, Wolf agreed with him.

  He felt almost like himself after his nap in the truck and as the sun slowly set he decided he’d go and dig up some chow. The smell of food being prepared caught his attention the second they’d made it back to camp. He figured now that he’d done a little something to earn a place here, he’d reap himself some of the benefits in the shape of a full stomach.

  As he made his way through the encampment and toward the roach coaches, he saw that a line had formed and it suddenly occurred to him how many people had come under Wolf’s protective banner. Dozens of men, women, children, the handicapped and the elderly stood waiting patiently for their food. Even though they’d all faced a pile of shit, they were an orderly bunch; surprising since it’d been only a short time since what many had come to refer to as The Fall. A few of them still had that "What the fuck?" expression on their faces, but they all looked like refugees from some foreign conflict. What made it worse was that they were Americans who’d suffered while on American soil. Theirs had been a life of entitlement and plenty. None had experienced any calamity of note before, especially not "up close and personal" like this.

  Never mind coming to grips with the whole "dead guy getting back to his feet and trying to eat you" thing. That shit was too fucked up to get a handle on for even the hardest of them. Shit, if the military lost their motherfuckin’ minds over it, what chance did John Q. Public have? Some things were better left alone. Others were best left not even being considered.

  Abruptly, a disturbance became apparent toward the front of the line. Cleese leaned out and saw the pony-tailed girl, Jenny, waving her arms and gesturing wildly. She repea
tedly pointed her finger at someone as if in accusation and then another more heated exchange took place. Whoever she was talking to, it was pretty obvious that she was pretty pissed at them.

  Then suddenly, the object of her ire stepped out of line and made himself known.

  Bartlett.

  Man, that guy just has no skill at making friends.

  The crowd around them was starting to become visibly agitated, due primarily to the fact that whatever was going on was keeping them from getting their dinners.

  "What’s that all about?" Cleese asked the small dark-haired women standing in front of him. She held a fidgety two year old boy tucked under her arm and her face was covered with a thin layer of dirt.

  "Someone’s jumping the line," she said, brushing a lock of hair from her boy’s tired eyes. "It happens… especially when the Scavenger Squads come back with supplies. Some of them feel like, since they took all the risks, they deserve first dibs."

  "Some of them, eh?" Cleese quietly excused himself from line.

  With an amiable gait, he slowly made his way up alongside the queue. As he got closer, he was able to make out bits and pieces of the conversation.

  "Look, we earned a place at the head of this line, Jenny," Bartlett said in his most cocky manner. "I didn’t see any of these people out there with us… when we were risking our lives!"

  "Don’t make me have to go get Wolf, Fred. You know what he’d say about this kind of bullying."

  By now, Cleese was close enough that he could be seen by Jenny. She nodded slightly, but didn’t acknowledge him. She had bigger problems.

  Bartlett stood with his back toward the line so he therefore had no idea Cleese was coming up behind him.

  "Go get him! I don’t care!"

  "These people are just as tired and hungry as you or any of your men. The line moves quickly. You know that. Just show a little patience."

  "Honey, we risk our asses to get this shit while the rest of you sit up here and do nothing."

  "When exactly did you risk jack shit, Freddie?" Cleese interrupted as he stepped up behind Bartlett. "Before or after Motorcycle Boy got the drop on you? The only thing I seem to remember is when you were rolling around on the ground with him, screaming like a bitch."

  A wave of snickers rippled through the crowd.

  Bartlett markedly jumped at the sound of Cleese’s voice and quickly turned around. His expression spoke volumes as to how unwelcome Cleese’s involvement was in all of this. A pain in his ass since he first walked into camp, Cleese somehow managed to yet again show up and make him look like a fool. Bartlett looked back and forth between the diminutive girl who had stood up to him and the newcomer who’d managed more than once in less than twenty-four hours to make him look stupid and ineffectual.

  Visibly angry, he mumbled a quick "fuck you both" and strode off sullenly toward the tents and campers which surrounded the Mess area. His boneheaded coterie was quick to follow close behind him.

  Jenny sighed and stepped closer to Cleese.

  "Thanks for that," she said diplomatically and then shrugged in resignation. "Fred’s a decent enough guy… I mean… He means well, but…"

  "Sister, Fred’s an asshole and could use a good paradigm shift, but… No problem," Cleese responded and turned to go back to his place at the end of the line. "Rest assured though… he’s not going to let this go."

  Jenny stared at Cleese as he stepped away, her eyes sparkling brightly in the diminishing light.

  "He’s someone who’s fueled by his ego. And that ego now has a pretty big dent in it thanks to you and me. If I’m any judge, he’ll be looking for an opportunity to regain some of his sense of self."

  "Are you saying that he’s dangerous?"

  Cleese looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Hell, who knows? In the last few weeks, I’ve seen things that I thought were incontrovertible suddenly get turned upside down and become something out of a nightmare.

  Knowing all too well what he was talking about, Jenny grinned and looked down toward the ground. She reflexively slid her hands into her pockets.

  "All I’m saying is…" he said walking away, "that you should be careful."

  Jenny nodded more to herself than anything and watched Cleese’s broad back diminish in size as he walked away in the fading light.

  ~ * ~

  The midnight moon shone down over the silent compound, bathing everything in a cool and subdued light. Lanterns were lit inside many of the tents and RVs where the camp’s citizenry lay settled in for the night. The lamps gently pushed back a little of the darkness and made the meager domiciles almost feel like home.

  Almost.

  High up in the trees, the overnight sniper watch shift settled into their spots with their thermoses of hot coffee, a sandwich or two, and high powered scopes equipped with night vision. Their prying eyes continually roamed the surrounding countryside, vigilant for any out of the ordinary movement or disturbance. So far, the night had been a quiet one.

  Thankfully.

  Cleese left the armory tent, having bid Wolf a good night after a few too many shots of whiskey and a few too many rounds of chess. The whiskey had come first and, once a mutual interest had been discovered, the chess soon after. You could say a lot of things about Wolf, but he wasn’t dumb. His playing had been some of the best Cleese had ever seen. Not that he was any kind of master chess player, but Cleese had learned a thing or two about the game from some of the faculty of the rec center he’d frequented as a kid back when his mom was busy working. While he wasn’t going to give Kasparov a run for his money anytime soon, he was no slouch when it came to the game of kings. Wolf was a solid player and, to Cleese, that spoke volumes as to the kind of man he was.

  Winding his way through the assorted tents and recreation vehicles, Cleese felt the cold night air against his skin and was grateful for it. The crisp, biting chill in the wind meant that the seasons were changing, and despite all that had happened over the last few weeks, Life went inexorably on no matter what the machinations of Man were.

  As someone far better than he once said, "And so it goes…"

  It was still a little too early for him to try to get to sleep, so he decided to take a stroll through the campground and get a sense of the place after the majority of people had hit the hay. It was a habit he’d picked up early in his life: roaming through the house in the early morning hours, making sure everyone was safe and snug. Sleep had always been a ghost he chased but only caught for small bits of time. Wherever he ended up living, he could oftentimes be found walking the halls in the dead of night, watching over the house and making sure the doors were locked, the windows were secure, and everyone was covered and warm beneath their blankets. In many ways, the feel of a place late at night gave him a better sense of itself than it ever could when there were people around to confuse the issue. When it was quiet the house would speak to him, telling him its secrets.

  As he walked, a voice from his past came echoing from the recesses of his intellect. "The night hath been to me a more familiar face, than that of man; and in her starry shade, of dim and solitary loveliness, I learned the language of another world." It was a piece of a Lord Byron poem, one of his mother’s favorites, that had stuck with him over the years. His brain couldn’t recall what he’d had for lunch the day before, but the important things—the things that nurtured his soul—he always seemed to remember.

  Earlier, he’d met a few of the men who kept the line outside the compound safe as they collected their weapons and ordnance. He felt a lot more secure having done so. They were, to a man, capable and well-equipped. After meeting them, he’d been satisfied that they could put down anything that might encroach on the camp from outside. Anyone with a keen eye could see that they had a bold combination of vigilance and duty in their eyes. It seemed like an almost sacred obligation that they’d undertaken, each being well aware of the fact that the safety of them all depended on their attentiveness. Every so often throughout the long cold nigh
t a muffled rifle shot would be heard when one of the snipers caught sight of something making its way through the surrounding forest and toward camp. After a while, people didn’t even notice it. The random pop and crack sounds soon became part of the soundtrack of the camp.

  If more than a few were heard, however, the group would take it as a signal that something was up and they’d all grab their firearms and go to Full Alert. The residents had their own posts specified where they were to report should something untoward occur. It had, from the beginning, been of one Wolf’s highest priorities that everyone in the camp remained well trained and ready.

  It was another one of the things that made him a good leader.

  The thing that gnawed at the back of Cleese’s mind now though was the multitude of unsavory things that might potentially take place inside the compound. People were people, after all, and people… sucked.

  And it was that thought that brought up the mental image of Bartlett. Cleese couldn’t shake the bad feeling he had regarding him. The guy had been an asshole when they’d first met, and after the incident at the drug store and the face-off with Jenny in the mess line, he was someone who Cleese knew he’d need to keep a watchful eye on. His years of dealing with the drunken public had given him a sixth sense when it came to such things. Both Jenny and he had made that fat fuck lose face in front of the local populace and that was a recipe for trouble. Bartlett was someone who harbored a deep-seated hunger for power and now he’d gotten a taste of it. He wasn’t going to give up even a small amount of it without a fight. For anyone to take the spoon that fed that desire away from his ravenous mouth was to deny him his drug of choice.

  And to deny any junkie his dope was always a dangerous proposition.

  By now, he’d found himself near the roach coaches and saw that the metal doors covering the serving windows were pulled down and closed up tight. The smell of cooked meat lingered over the area like an aromatic pall as did the rich odor coming from the large canisters of brewing coffee which seemed to be constantly percolating. Alongside them on a small table plastic containers sat with pre-made sandwiches inside. The cooks made sure to always have some sort of food available during the night. It was important to keep the watch shifts caffeinated and fed.