No Flesh Shall Be Spared

by Carnell, Thom

  "Hey, no problem," he said as he continued moving toward her, "I was just admiring your skills."

  "Well, thank you," she bowed slightly at the waist as she spoke. "Coming from a man of your reputation, I appreciate the accolades."

  "I was only wondering though," he said having now come within normal speaking distance, "if it would work on someone a bit bigger than your man on his back over there."

  "Like you, for example?" she said with a wry smile.

  The Warriors all smiled and stepped back. They’d been around Chikara long enough to know an accepted challenge when they heard one. They also knew when an ass kicking was about to be doled out. Each of them had been easily beaten by her in one previous training session or another. They were all glad that today’s punching dummy was to be Cleese and not one of them. What the outcome would be if these two ever were to brawl had grown to be a hot topic of discussion with many of the men in the compound.

  In fact, there was even a clandestine pool being pulled together.

  "Well, yeah…" Cleese answered, scratching himself behind the ear. "Simple physics contradicts the theory behind your technique."

  "Well, come then," she answered and extended her right arm as if to say, Right this way.

  Cleese strolled across the mat and stepped into the widening circle around Chikara. Once he got to within an arm’s reach of her, he was once again stunned by her sense of power and the way she seemed to occupy one hundred per cent of her body space. With her Warriors gathered around her, she seemed a lot more dangerous than she had previously.

  "Ok, Tough Guy, go ahead." She spread her arms out as if she was going to hug him, but her eyes said the polar opposite. "Hit me."

  Cleese smiled, shook his head in amusement and then stepped forward. Chikara remained motionless, merely waiting for what she knew was inevitable. Cleese stared deeply into her eyes and saw her eyebrows lower in concentration. Despite all of the bravura, he could tell even she wasn’t completely convinced of the outcome of this. Once he caught her attention, he winked at her quickly and then bobbed to the left, caught himself, and then weaved to the right. As his body moved past Chikara, he flicked out a powerless right jab. He didn’t want to really hit her, merely to touch her so that she’d know he could have.

  Chikara caught the force of the blow with her left hand and, just like before, spun into it. She whirled in a tight circle, and moved along the line of the punch, pushing her back up against Cleese’s chest. In an eye blink, her left elbow came back like a jackhammer digging itself into his solar plexus. Cleese felt the air in his lungs rush out of him and then, suddenly, his sense of gravity abandoned him. Remotely, he felt her hip dig into his groin and he pretty much knew what was coming next—she’d draw him into that circle of hers, distract him with a nut shot and then try to hip-toss him.

  The Warriors had already begun to relax when they saw Cleese’s feet leave the mat. They’d all sparred with Chikara before and they knew that these matches always ended up with her opponent flat on his back, flat on the ground.

  It was as immutable as a Law of Nature.

  Cleese rolled with the judo throw and then, halfway through, he twisted at the waist. As he came up and over her back, his mind quickly rifled through his options. He needed one that wouldn’t get him hurt or injure Chikara. As his mind raced for a solution, he had to admit it, he got lucky. His fingers caught hold of the waist of her pants and, as he continued to fall toward the floor, he dragged her with him. They both hit the mats and he clung tightly to her body, continuing with the roll until he ended up on top of her.

  The furious look on Chikara’s face was priceless as she lay beneath him. Her eyes blazed with anger and her lips were drawn tight with frustration. It was obvious that ending up this way was not what she’d planned. In fact, it was the furthest thing from it.

  Far off, he heard the Warriors collectively gasp. No one in their memory had ever bested Chikara in a sparring match. Not even the most elite of them.

  "Hmmm," he said with a smirk to hide even his surprise, "impressive."

  Chikara wriggled under him and tried to shake him off.

  "Get! Off! Of! Me!"

  "No," he said with a mischievous grin.

  "With one word, Cleese, I could have these men tear you apart."

  "How? With more of your chop-socky stuff?" Cleese laughed and leaned in toward her. "Somehow… I don’t think so."

  He bent down further until his face came to within a few inches of Chikara’s. Her eyes still burned, but in this position there wasn’t a lot she could do about it. Her hands lay trapped at her sides, pinned under Cleese’s muscular legs.

  "Has anyone ever told you," he whispered so only she could hear, "that you’re quite pretty?"

  Beneath him, her wriggling got more furious.

  "No? Not lately?" He winked at her. "Well, you are."

  Abruptly, and so none of the other fighters might see, he placed a kiss on the tip of her nose and quickly jumped off. The instant that he moved, Chikara fired off a knee-strike directed squarely at his nuts. Only his quick reflexes saved Big Jim and the Twins.

  "Hey," he said with a chuckle and wagged a finger at her. "No fair aiming for The Boys."

  By now, she’d gotten back to her feet and was coming on fast. Her jaw was set firmly and her hands were balled up tightly into fists. Cleese had seen the look before. It meant someone was mad.

  Once she’d gotten to within arm’s reach, she threw three quick punches at him. The left jab whistled past the side of his face. The right hook struck him just under his ear. The spinning, open-handed back fist slapped him across the face. His cheek pinked up immediately.

  "How dare you!" she shouted through gritted teeth,

  "Wait! Wait!" he said still laughing and rubbing the side of his face. He ran away from her and pulled two of her younger fighter’s in front of him.

  Chikara stopped her advance and shot a quick glance toward one of her men. As one, the group moved toward him. Cleese had fought groups of men before, but they were usually drunk and sloppy. These guys were well trained and, he knew, each one of them would die for their leader. All she had to do was ask and, he suspected, she just had.

  "Matte! Matte! Matte!" Cleese shouted. The group hesitated just slightly, but in that second Cleese started rattling off his explanations.

  "Ok… I admit it. I cheated," he said and then turned grinning toward Chikara. "I apologize. I’ve been…uh… reviewing your fight tapes from St. Louis and saw you did that same thing in your fourth round. I figured what you were doing halfway through it and countered."

  The Warriors had come almost to within arm’s reach of him and a few circled to his left and right flank. Cleese kept them in his peripheral vision, but his main focus was on Chikara. He knew she could end this before it started with but a word.

  Chikara stared at him open-mouthed and eyes wide. Then suddenly, she burst out laughing. The Warriors were confused by this evidently because their forward progress ceased. Cleese watched as they looked at one another and tried to figure it out. When he looked back, Chikara had dropped to a sitting position and tears from laughing had begun to stream down her face.

  For a second there was an uncomfortable pause, but little by little the tension eased.

  "Let this be a lesson to you, my Warriors," Chikara said, raising her voice. "A little research can go a long way." She rose to her feet in that same weird way that she had when he’d last seen her and moved toward him. "A little subtlety can work miracles as well."

  Cleese felt her come up behind him and touch him on the tricep. Gently, she led him away. For a brief moment, he focused on the feeling of her touch. He wanted, for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of, to remember what it felt like. With a small chill that ran up his neck, he realized that it had been a long time since a woman—any woman—had touched him in any way other than wanting to see him dead.

  He’d forgotten how pleasant that sort of thing could be.

  "
Continue with your drills, Gentlemen," she said. "I want to have a talk with Mr. Research here."

  The group of fighters hesitantly broke off into groups of two and began practicing the throw Chikara had demonstrated. The bravest of them even tried their hands at the counter Cleese managed to pull off.

  As he watched them spar, Cleese felt another slight tug at his elbow, then it released. The two of them moved off, away from the mats.

  "You really think you are something…" Chikara said.

  "Me? No," he said. "I just try to keep myself amused.

  "I see…"

  "By the way, I meant that ‘pretty’ remark."

  Chikara smiled again and her cheeks reddened. Then, a shadow passed over her face and she got a far-off look in her eye. It was pretty obvious past memories had reared their heads in her mind. It was also clear that not all of them were pleasant.

  "Please don’t," she whispered and her eyes seemed to glisten with wetness in the light. "I… I can no longer allow myself those kinds of feelings."

  "Why?"

  "Look, I like you… Please do not think otherwise, but…" for the first time he could remember, she was at a loss for words. As she stumbled for what to say and how to say it, she looked like a little girl trying to talk her way out of trouble. "I have lost too much, Cleese, far too much," she said and looked toward the floor. "I cannot allow myself… I will not allow myself the luxury of starting over."

  "Hey, join the club, Sweetheart."

  Her look of surprise at his answer was almost comical.

  "In case you’ve been too wrapped up in your own personal tragedy, a lot of people lost every goddamn thing they had when this shit all went down. Don’t think that you’ve got some kind of monopoly on pain and suffering. Sooner or later you have to let go of it. Sooner or later you have to let the pain die, too, because if you don’t, it’ll eat you up from the inside."

  Once again, Cleese saw Chikara’s eyes glimmer in the half-light and he reached out and gently touched her forearm. Her arms were a contradiction, cords of hard muscle beneath smooth soft skin.

  "Look… I’m not asking you for anything that you aren’t prepared to give. I just thought we could talk once in a while; be friends."

  She looked up at him and a smile slowly unfurled across her lips. She ran her finger unhurriedly around her ear again, brushing back the errant wisps of her hair like she had the last time they’d talked. That movement had driven Cleese crazy the last time he’d seen her do it.

  This time kept the tradition.

  "I… I’d like that," she whispered. Almost imperceptibly, she reached out her hand and tugged at the bottom of his shirt, just at the hem.

  Now it was Cleese’s turn for a broad smile to break out across his lips.

  "I’d like that indeed," she said leaning in and grinning mischievously. "Oh, and for the record, pull a trick like that again in front of my men and I won’t pull my punches." And then Chikara turned and silently walked back to rejoin her Warriors.

  The Corral

  Before…

  An immense flock of birds circled high in the air over the rag-tag compound set up in an open field on the outskirts of town. The spiraling cloud was made up of aggressive crows and seagulls mostly, but smaller robins and sparrows flew alongside the larger birds like Pilot Fish. They shadowed their larger brethren and eagerly picked up any bits of meat left discarded. Having been reduced by their hunger and fear to a ravenous scavenging horde, the avian multitude wheeled about in the early morning’s sky like a pulsating Rorschach inkblot. Their mass cavorted in the air like kites set lose from their tethers, whirling reminders of an innocence now lost.

  The green pastures spread out below were once fertile farm land, but now the fields lay forsaken and well on their way to seed. The hills rolled like emerald waves; terra firma breakers created by the undulating spasms of the Earth. Abandoned farms punctuated the silent and foreboding landscape like forgotten play sets, their crops left to rot now that no one was there to tend the fields. Half-starved farm animals milled about the hills and glens aimlessly; lost livestock dutifully sought the care of farmers, most of who were either dead or still in hiding. Cows and sheep grazed on low-lying grasses. Milking cows lowed with discomfort as their udders swelled to almost bursting. Columns of acrid smoke billowed dark and pungent from smoldering fires on the ground, their onyx plumes obscuring any view. Deep within the flames, corpses lay smoldering.

  The flock lazily spun above the mass of activity which ebbed and flowed within the roadside encampment. The birds’ small, obsidian eyes locked in on the commotion as they continually scanned the landscape for any remnants of food left behind by Men—either living or dead. In truth, they weren’t in any position to be picky. Food was food and when the world went as crazy as it had, both man and beast were grateful for whatever provisions they could find.

  Groups of heavily armed men and women roaming the countryside had become a common sight in the past few weeks; masses of humanity whose sense of dread could only be calmed by the possession of their weapons and by the safety of their vast numbers. In reality, it was their fear that brought them together and—like glue—kept them that way. An uneasy alliance had been forged more out of necessity than any real desire or sense of camaraderie, for when The Dead crawled from their moldy graves, men became afraid and their fear hung in the air like the black smoke from their fires. Every species responded to this fear in its own way: birds took flight and searched from overhead for food, stray livestock searched in vain for their owners, and Man had come together into a tribe and did what it had always done best—fight.

  The militia was more than a hundred people strong and they wandered the camp in fits of nervous energy. More and more though, it was becoming obvious that the fear they’d felt in the beginning was being replaced by something resembling an unbridled bloodlust. In the last few weeks, these men and women had begun to work more as a fluid army rather than as a frightened mob. They had set about forging themselves, despite their panic and the obvious sense of danger, into a small but entirely self-sufficient military.

  Every man, woman and child gathered here had endured the initial terror and confusion and was now bound and determined to be a survivor of this dark page in human history. Some had been lucky and got picked up by the group early in the conflict. Others were not so fortunate and were left to fight The Dead alone for days. Of those assembled, there were few who could not tell, if asked, horrible stories of loved ones and their "Changing."

  The compound was not really anything more than a dozen or so Winnebagos pulled off-road and parked in a haphazard circle. Here and there, tents had been thrown up hastily, if for nothing else than to keep the cloud of flies from the group’s hastily scavenged food and to offer a safe place to catch an hour or two of much needed shut-eye. It was a slapdash set-up, but it was proving to be an effective one.

  Off to one side, near the back, a corral for the captured Dead had been erected using split rails and whatever nails could be found lying around the nearby farmhouses. The fencing wasn’t particularly strong, but then again, it didn’t need to be. The Dead were fairly weak when alone, banded together it wasn’t their strength that was proving dangerous, but rather their numbers. Across the entrance to the pen, someone had spray painted a board to read "Purgatory" and hung it with some old baling wire.

  A gathered crowd was a constant around the railings. The Living all stood there, smoking and drinking and gawking at the restless Dead. All of them were sure to keep a safe distance from the railing and out of reach of anything inside, each having seen the cost of getting too close. But gather they did for they all felt a deep compulsion to try and understand—or rather to confront and come to terms with—the very beasts which had thrown their lives into such chaos.

  "These dead-assed sumbitches… They ain’t shit!" one good ol’ boy was saying over the dusty top of his Meisterbrau can. He looked around at his red-eyed audience and gauged their compliance. He the
n cursed under his breath and wiped his hand absentmindedly at a dollop of bird shit that had splattered down one sleeve of his faded green Army jacket.

  "The fuck they ain’t, Bubba. I’ll tell ya… I saw a group of ’em tear that ol’ boy Richard Johnson limb from fuckin’ limb over at McGurgie’s Feed Store," another man was saying. "You remember Dick Johnson, doncha? He was that big ol’ boy what worked over at the aluminum chair factory over in Harbison County. He married that ugly, thick-ankled gal from Eatherton with them big hooters. I tell ya, those dead bastards went after him like he was the main course at a got-dam Chinese boo-fay!"

  Bubba shot a look of annoyance and absentmindedly crossed himself. "Don’t speak ill of the dead, Cecil."

  "Shit… why the hell not? It’s not like they’s gonna hear us!"

  The crowd laughed at Cecil’s wit which was usually about as sharp as a bowling pin.

  "Anyway," Bubba continued, "seeing ’em thisa way… Hell. I don’t think much of ’em, ya know? Buncha slack-jawed, drooling motherfucks is what they is."

  Cecil sensed more comic gold here and offered, "Well hell, Bubba… If they ain’t nothing and you’re so goddamn brave, why don’t you just jump inside that pen and give ’em a few licks?"

  The crowd nodded its approval and punctuated the air with guffaws, half-formed opinions and snorts of hillbilly derision. As one, they all looked questioningly at Bubba, waiting for either an answer or for him to wisely back down.

  "Sheee-it, Ceese, I may have fallen offa the goddamn stupid truck, but it wasn’t fuckin’ today," Bubba said wiping at the accumulating dust in his eyes.

  The crowd collectively nodded their approval at Bubba’s newfound wisdom. Most had come to know the man as just a "cunt’s hair above a retard," but sometimes, even a retard could have what the alkies called "moments of clarity." The group fell silent and considered the depths of what many called "country wisdom."