The only choice they had was to wait.
So, that was what they did.
And as the hours passed, they’d done little else except lie there on the cold floor and bide their time. Hopefully, someone—the cops, the army, someone—would come along at some point and find them and rescue them. All they had to do was be patient. However, if too much time passed, there would be no recourse but for one of them to take the risk and go out into the store in search of rations. It’d be dangerous and, if there were still any of those things still around, that person might not make it back.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Monroe was sure he could talk Claire into it.
And as the hours wore on, Monroe closed his eyes and he began to formulate his side of the argument.
The Mouse Print
The fading light of day came spilling in through the polarized windows of the high-rise office; rays of diffused illumination splashing across the lush carpeting in broad strokes. The slate-colored floor covering was deep, soft and very expensive. The fibers soaked up the light’s warmth like a sponge. The thick ply was not only a comfort to the feet that trod upon it, but it was also an eye-pleasing accent to the room’s deep brown mahogany walls. Near the floor-to-wall panes of glass at the far end sat a large, regal cherrywood desk. Regimented piles of paper were set in very ordered rows near a thin, white computer monitor that jutted up through a hole in the desktop. Behind the desk’s leather upholstered chair was a wall covered with framed 8x10" photos. In each, the same man grinned out excitedly from the frame with one arm around someone. Upon closer inspection, those someones were all political dignitaries, film stars, recording artists and fashion models.
Off to one side, the man who appeared in the photos stood looking out of the window at the teeming city far below. The view fell away sickeningly and it was easy to get the impression that to fall from such a vantage point would mean a very long time might be spent hurtling through the emptiness of space. Looking out, vertigo clawed at perception. All that glass and open air was enough to make a person feel dizzy and off-balance when he entered the room.
It was exactly the response Joseph Weber wanted to inspire in his visitors.
Almost sadly, he turned and ambled over to the bar hidden in the bookcase on the other side of the room. Pulling the cabinet open gently, he snatched up a handful of ice and filled a short glass. Scanning the array of bottles set out before him, he selected his poison and poured three fingers of scotch. The frozen cubes crackled and settled deeper into the squat, pre-chilled tumbler.
With drink now in hand, he returned to his vantage point and sipped the harsh, smoky liquid. The fluid coated his tongue and made his mouth burn in a soothing way. It had been a rough day. This respite was a welcomed diversion from a schedule chock-full of meetings with sponsors, bitch sessions with networks, and the ever-present chore of filling his talent roster. Off in the distance, a lone hawk circled the sky, hunting the concrete and glass landscape for prey.
Weber knew exactly how that sort of thing felt.
He drew another mouthful of liquor and swirled it in his mouth before swallowing. The scotch’s intoxicating effect nibbled at the edges of his consciousness and he felt some of the stress he’d accumulated begin to melt away. He knew he’d have to be careful and not let the alcohol carry him too far. He still had one more meeting to get out of the way before calling it a day and heading upstairs to the penthouse he called home.
As he stared out over the spires of the city, he dimly recalled a quieter and far less prosperous time from what seemed like a lifetime ago. His reflection told of the years that had passed. His face had a few more lines carved into its flesh. His hair had a bit more gray. His eyes looked more worldly… and also more weary.
"So much…" he whispered to himself. "So much has changed."
Back once upon a time, he’d been a poor day laborer—a grunt—working long hours on construction sites hauling heavy loads of wood and concrete for some very shitty pay. He’d been dead last on a fast track to nowhere. At least that was what everyone—his boss, his friends, his white trash family—kept telling him. All he’d had to look forward to was a lifetime of backbreaking work, maybe a loveless marriage or two with some ungrateful kids who would no doubt grow to resent him, and then a good ol’ fashioned chest-crushing heart attack before being dumped into a low cost casket and buried deep in the ground, ultimately to be forgotten. The only thing that would mark his time on earth would be his name and a couple of dates chiseled into a concrete marker somewhere.
Then, that depressing future had all been changed by some multicolored streaks of light tearing across the sky, a sky not unlike the one he now found himself looking out over. With one swipe of Fate’s hand, everything that had been in his cards was shuffled away. The whole game got changed when that first dead body opened its eyes and began its search for breakfast. He’d been one of the smart ones and had managed to suss out the whole walking dead situation pretty early on. He figured being forced to cave in the skull of a foreman as he tried to chew his arm off was a pretty big give-a-way.
Weber was not a man who learned fast… but he did learn well.
So, as quickly as he could, he found himself a safe haven and tried to think things through. By luck or by providence, he met up with a guy named Jimbo who, while not a mental giant, was a physical behemoth. An alliance was quickly formed and a plan was just as quickly hatched. By the time the dead gathered enough of their numbers to be a consideration, he and Jimbo had been ready and waiting.
Looking back, those were some fine days and he and Jimbo had definitely had themselves a time. It had been just the two of them, like a modern day Harold Hills, travelling the countryside, sleeping where they could, and methodically bilking the yokels out of their cash and commodities with a grift that was anything but square.
Livin’ off the fatta’ the lan’.
The way he and Jimbo had it all figured, the dead were dangerous and could be a real handful if you found yourself surrounded by a group of them, but… one on one, they were a manageable threat if you were smart (which Weber was) or built like a Caterpillar track loader (which Jimbo was). Together, they made a formidable pair. As the public’s interest in what they were doing grew, Weber was smart enough to see the potential in their little enterprise and had already figured a clear cut way to make some big cash in it. With a business model based more in professional wrestling than in anything out of Forbes, he was patiently waiting when the television boys came snooping around with their Brooks Brothers suits and fancy watches.
Now, years later, he’d parlayed it all into a bonafide empire.
Yeah… Jimbo was gone (he’d gotten himself bitten by one of those things when he’d one day gotten a little too lazy and lot too complacent) as were the four other Jimbos after him.
But, Weber had prevailed, and in the end wasn’t that the most important thing?
It was the way Weber saw things.
Jimbos came and Jimbos went, but the business…
The business continued.
Forever and ever… Amen.
Weber sipped at his glass and then casually glanced at his Rolex. His Acquisition Team would be here any minute, so he downed the rest of his drink and went and put the glass away. Closing the cabinet, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the small bottle of breath spray he kept there. Two quick spritzes and any trace of the alcohol was gone.
A soft, tinkling chime came from the intercom on the desk and his secretary’s throaty—and downright sexy—voice came pouring out of the small speaker.
"Sir, Monica Johansson, Richard Murphy, and Phil Monroe are here to review the contracts on the new fighter."
Weber walked behind the desk and pressed the small red button on the console.
"Ok, Alicia. Give me a moment and then send them in."
He took his seat and got himself settled. He’d worked very hard with the building’s designer to make it so that the first image people go
t when they walked in the door was one that exuded power and influence. He always judged how successful they’d been by the awed look that bloomed in people’s expressions when they first walked in. It was a testament to their efforts that it happened no matter how many times the guest had been here. Every time he saw that look, it filled him with a sense of pride.
It was, after all, important to enjoy the little things in life.
As he waited, he took a second and went over what he knew about the Jimbo his team was here to discuss. From the video he’d seen, this one was impressive. Although not exceptionally big, he was strong and seemed to be a dyed-in-the-wool natural when it came to doling out The Pain. The three people waiting outside had come from a meeting with him earlier in the day and would have more information on where this Jimbo’s head was.
Not that it much mattered.
The Jimbos all came to The League with stardust in their eyes and dreams of being rich in their hearts. Such simple-mindedness was almost endearing. The truth was, however, that Weber was not about to give any of them a glimpse at the true reality. He was far too smart a man for that. He and his people would promise them that they’d soon have more money than God and see more pussy than a goddamn litter box. It wasn’t his fault these dopes never had the sense to read the fine print of their contracts before signing on. The writing there was small and concealed by legalese, but it was there.
In fact, it was Weber’s favorite part of the whole friggin’ contract.
"In the event of the employee’s death or critical injury, all assets of said employee revert back to Weber Industries and its holdings."
In a nutshell, it meant that when—not if, but when—the Jimbo got himself tagged or injured, all of their assets—the money, property, stocks, hell, even the Jimbo’s body itself—was to be returned to the League to do with as they saw fit. One small sentence hidden away in the mouse print at the bottom of the contract made sure that what had once been The League’s stayed The League’s. It was a flimsy codicil which– if the person was smart enough or if he had a lawyer savvy enough—could be broken, but… Jimbos were known for their brawn. Brains were something they didn’t exactly have in abundance.
Abruptly, a knock sounded on the heavy wooden door at the far end of the room.
With a grin like that of a cat with an unending supply of canaries, Weber looked up to greet his employees.
Living Forever
Learning to Fly
The door to the limousine, which brought Cleese from the hotel to the airport, slowly swung open. With his body still feeling tired, he hauled himself out of the dark, luxurious interior. As his boots hit the sidewalk with a thud, he sighed heavily—feeling the weight of his body more than usual. The air outside the car was hot and humid. The atmosphere felt suffocating and inhospitable. Heat vapor could be seen shimmering off of the pavement a short distance away. He reached back into the limo and hurriedly grabbed his bag so that he could get inside the air-conditioned airport as quickly as possible.
"It’s been a pleasure driving you, Sir," his driver, Charles, said as he held the door open and smiled. The man was older, black, and had salt and pepper hair cut close to his head. Cleese felt glad that he’d been hired to drive him. The guy was sharp and had made an already difficult trip a lot easier. He’d been all too accommodating and, to Cleese’s relief, he didn’t talk much. Charles had managed to get him where he’d wanted to go and to get him fed without too much trouble or conversation. Being efficient and quiet were both pluses in Cleese’s book.
Since his match, he’d lost the ability to move around in public with any sort of anonymity. In the past, he’d always had a way of making people nervous. It was as if the sheep suddenly sensed a wolf somewhere in their midst, but were unable to identify exactly where. It was something intangible, but it was enough to garner him his share of their attention. But this… this was different. His face was recognizable now by everyone from children to their grandmothers to the family dog. Lately, it seemed as if crowds followed him wherever he went, which was fine except that they’d sometimes swarm him in a way that was a little like how the UDs behaved in The Pit. Things could get tight and, even though they meant well, his defenses would go up. The last thing he needed was to react poorly to an overzealous fan. It wouldn’t do for him to deck someone out of instinct and then come to find out all they wanted was for him to sign something.
This driver had seen to it that incidents like that were kept to a minimum.
As he pulled the strap of his Alice bag over his shoulder, Cleese palmed a hundred dollar bill and shook the driver’s hand.
"You sure you don’t want me to see you to the gate, Sir?" Charles asked.
"No, man… I think I’ve got this handled."
"Well, you be careful… both in there," and he nodded his head toward the metal and glass of the airport terminal, "and out there." It was pretty obvious by the way he’d raised his eyebrows that "out there" meant out on the sand of The Pit.
Cleese chuckled and looked Charles in the eye. "Will do, my friend. Will do."
He let go of Charles’ his hand and hitched his bag up over his shoulder. Without any further goodbyes, he headed off toward the terminal door. Already he was catching glimpses out of the corner of his eye of people turning to notice him. It’d all started to follow a familiar pattern. First there was the opening wide of the eyes. Then, there was the dropping of the jaw and the subsequent smile. Finally, the person would turn to whomever they were with and begin whispering excitedly. If he was lucky, it stopped there. If he wasn’t, they’d make the walk over and the autograph and photograph requests soon followed. He tried to be understanding and as cooperative as possible, but even after such a short amount of time it had already gotten tiresome and annoying.
He purposefully strode across the sidewalk and the electric doors slid open invitingly, welcoming him into their air-conditioned embrace. Like being wrapped with a cool, wet towel, the air swirled around him and he felt the perspiration that soaked his skin begin to dry. He felt worlds better already; so much so that the awkward meeting with the Three Stooges was becoming a distant, albeit unpleasant, memory.
Well, almost…
At first, he’d been amused by how easy the negotiations had been. Sure, he popped off a little, but for him, that was a given. His mouth had a way of getting him in Dutch, but this time things were different. This time, he had something they wanted. This time, he’d proven himself. This time, he’d made good on the promise of being the commodity they’d thought he was in the beginning.
Then, a thought started itching at the back of his brain. It was slight in the beginning, but as the hours wore on, he realized that they’d been almost too compliant, hadn’t they? It was almost as if they’d been willing to agree to just about anything he wanted. He probably could have asked for the moon as well as a blowjob from ol’ Monica Johansson herself and they would have gone for it. She probably would’ve even worked his balls without complaint.
The question was, why?
Maybe they believed in him.
Maybe they saw his potential.
And maybe they knew he’d probably not live long enough to collect on any of it.
It was an intriguing thought, but one he decided to put out of his head for now. He made a mental note to spend some time considering everything that had occurred some other time; a time when there were no distractions and he could reflect on things more fully. Right now, all he wanted to do was just get back to the compound and spend a night in a familiar bed.
The airport lobby before him was a wide, open space with a tile floor set in colored squares radiating outward. The ceiling was a cavernous metal framework with banners that welcomed travelers to the airport in several different languages. Hanging like sleeping bats beneath the metal struts, set every fifteen feet or so, were dozens of large televisions. Their placement around the airport was strategic and literally everywhere. High-def images ran the same scenario again and aga
in like plasma-screened déjà vu.
As Cleese walked across the foyer, he glanced up and saw multiple images of One, the little girl from his match, splashed across the screens. In ultra slow motion, the Beretta slid into view like a hungry black mamba and the barrel butted up against her little upturned nose. Her eyes crossed in confusion as they focused on the pistol being shoved in her face. Cleese turned away in shame as an abrupt explosion of dark maroon filled the screen.
It was harder than he thought it would be to see himself shoot a child in the face.
Continuing on his way, he saw the smiling face of a newscaster on the screen out of the corner of his eye. The pretty blonde clapped her hands and laughed in delight. Then, to his disgust, the image cut back to a replay of the bullet slamming its way up the kid’s nostril and the whites of her eyes blossoming a sudden red. He lowered his head and made a note to avoid looking up until he was out of the airport.
An information booth sat in the middle of the room like a squatter in a tenement. Behind its counter, a middle aged woman in Fifties cat-eye glasses sat looking tired; the caterpillar from Wonderland come to life. All she needed was a hookah and a mushroom to sit on.
The lobby wasn’t too crowded this early in the morning, but as the day wore on, it was sure to become a nightmare. Travelers would come and go, the ebb and flow of their passing as sure as the tides. As he moved through the lobby, more heads turned and gawked at him. Word certainly did get around. He considered himself lucky when he saw the ticket counter he needed and found no line there.
A plain-faced Asian girl was working the desk and she looked up as he stepped up to be helped. Small of frame and wide of smile, her hair was pulled back into a tight bun which left her face looking open and inviting. Her blue uniform looked almost military with the exception of the brightly colored scarf that circled her throat like a floral python. Her nametag read, "Akiko Yamashita."
No Flesh Shall Be Spared Page 32
