Once again, he almost didn’t hear the buzzer go off; he’d grown so distracted by the chorus of complaints emanating from his weary body. He felt tired and drained mentally. His arms and torso were coated with a thin, slimy veneer of brains, sweat and blood. His skin felt completely drenched in the stuff. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like.
Raising his head, he saw his image on the television monitors mounted on the Pit’s high walls. What stared down on him looked more like a hellish demon—all red and black with a maniacal, blood-thirsty gleam in his eyes—than a man. He smiled for the cameras, hoping it might soften the image.
It didn’t.
God… I’m ready to for this shit to be over—like now.
As he stumbled to the center of the ring, the echo of the buzzer vibrated through the stadium’s metallic skeleton. He didn’t so much hear it this time as he felt it reverberate down deep to his core. The vibration rattled him down to the soles of his feet. Wearily, he crouched into his loose fighting stance and took a quick look around. The Pit stretched out before him, blanketed in a cold, unforgiving stillness.
Remarkably, the spindles remained still.
A ripple of expectation shimmered through the crowd and, just for a moment, every person in the stadium held their breaths as one. The feeling of anticipation was palpable: heavy and electric.
Cleese walked inquisitively to the center of the ring and looked up toward the control booth. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the strong, overhead lights, but saw nothing.
The quiet within the stadium soon became a deafening weight that pushed down on the interior of the giant space, pressing each member of the audience into their seats. It was a silence made all the more oppressive by the vastness of the structure in which it was contained.
A heartbeat passed.
Then, another.
Then, with an abrupt teeth-rattling boom, the spindles spun and locked themselves into place. The ear-splitting, metallic sound cleaved the air like a blade. It was a noise that lacerated molecules and carved a savage gash into the meat of the still atmosphere.
Cleese relaxed his muscles and fell back into a half-crouch instinctively. He swept his eyes around the diameter of the pit; scanning the immediate area, looking for any threat. His gaze flickered from one spindle to the other, his brain locked and loaded to catalog any impending threat or hazard.
They’re empty!
All of the spindles spread out before him were empty.
No weapons, no UDs, no… nothing.
What the fuck?
Cleese rose up onto the balls of his feet and gingerly walked toward the nearest position to him: Position Five. Quickly and carefully, he checked the interior of the spindle for some hidden menace, but there was nothing.
He did the same with Position Four and got a similar result.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a hint of motion—from Three—and he whirled to face it. Across the sand, he could just make out a dark silhouette as it rippled deep within the blackness of the turnstile. The form stood back in the shadows, clutching at the back wall of the spindle. Its figure was squat, but thicker than most—at least its shadow was. Its manner was pure fear and volatile confusion.
"Uuuuuuuuuuh…???" the thing moaned; sounding confused and almost scared. The voice sounded muffled inside the enclosed space of the spindle.
The crowd erupted in applause the instant they saw that there was a UD in play. When they saw the first hint of movement, their ovation rained down over Cleese in a thunderous waterfall that was overwhelming and suffocating. Collectively, they understood that if there was to be only one UD released, it must be a formidable opponent; perhaps one of the survivors from a previous match. Whatever it was, it meant that the match was on once again and the wave of their blood lust had yet to crest.
Cleese strode across the sand, his gait fatigued, but intent and still very, very lethal. He hadn’t been sure exactly what was going on before, but now… Now, there was a target in his sights and that meant there was something toward which he could direct his fury. As he approached the spindle, he slapped the spike back out and into place and aimed the point towards center mass, directly at the thing’s unbeating heart.
"What say we get this shit over with, huh…?" Cleese said aloud.
He stepped into the shadows of the spindle, firmly grabbed something inside with his left hand, and then threw a solid blow into the blackness with his right. His fist struck the thing within squarely in the back. The spike slid smoothly between its ribs like a baker’s knife into icing. In a live man, the spike would have pierced his heart and death would have been instantaneous. For an undead one, spearing it was merely an efficient way of getting the damned thing’s attention.
The dead man in the turnstile arched back with a deep, wet, coughing sound. Blood and phlegm splattered against the walls of the turnstile in thick, coagulated globs. Cleese felt the UD pull backward a little bit against the spike, but it was difficult for it to gain any leverage. There simply wasn’t enough room in the tight confines of the spindle to move. It was a lot like wrestling in a phone booth in there. Still, he felt the tug of the thing pull on his arm and strain his shoulder.
"Ok, Bub," Cleese said as he firmly set his feet in the sand. "Time to dance."
Cleese forcibly dragged the figure out and into the light with a vicious tug. The crowd caught sight of the impaled zombie and erupted into more mindless cheers and applause. Cleese got cocky and let the thing go with his one free hand while keeping the other, the one with the spike, firmly lodged in place. Hell, why not? If they were going to give him only one UD this round, he’d make the most of it.
The crowd responded predictably—with more rhubarb.
He stood before both the cameras and the crowd with his arms outstretched. He raised his face, his expression one of raw power, toward the ceiling. An errant cool breeze blew across his cheek and, thankful for the respite, he breathed in deeply and then sighed. Cleese returned his grip to the back of the thing’s neck and jerked him fully into the glare of the lights, exposing its face for all to see.
The UD was an older man who stood about five foot eight or so, middle aged, and black hair with liberal dashes of grey in it. His body was a solid frame…
…like… a boxer.
Suddenly, the truth hit Cleese in the chest like a two-by-four.
Oooooh, shit…
Monk stood dumbly in a blinding light and reached back with both hands for the spike which punctured his rib cage. His face had become a bloodless fish of a face as a result of his dying and rebirth. His mouth drooped to one side and his hair lay wetly across his skull. The smell coming off of him was like rancid milk. Deep, savage bites were torn from the meat of his neck from behind. The familiar yellow and red of infection ran hot and fierce around the bite marks.
Cleese felt his heart twist painfully in his chest as he stared at the wounds and thought of how they were in just about the same place as Chikara’s first bites had been. Monk had undoubtedly gone down just as she had. A UD must have come up on his blindside, been just out of his line of sight. In his mind’s eye, he could see it all happening all too easily. After all, he’d already seen it in real time once before. This end result was different though.
They’d left Monk in one piece.
Cleese pulled away, withdrawing the spike from Monk’s back and stumbling backward. As his mind reeled, he absentmindedly slapped the release and the blade slid back into its sheath.
Monk stood motionless, staring blankly into the air. His numb mind wasn’t sure why the pain in his back had stopped, but he was glad for it. It was enough that there was an almost constant whirlwind cycloning in his head, more physical pain only made it harder for him to focus. Above him, impossibly bright lights blinded his vision and there was a roaring sound pounding in his ears. His feeble intellect reasoned that by standing without movement, he might be able to gather what was left of his wits and get a handle on what was happening around him
.
It was all just so confusing. The motions, the sounds, the pain…
And the now constant twisting of hunger in his belly.
Cleese stood equally still, desperately trying to put all of the pieces before him together for himself. He stared at his friend, allowing his eyes to carefully catalog the extent of what had happened to him. It broke his heart to see Monk like this.
None of it… None of it made sense.
How in the hell? Monk was supposed to be out of here. He was supposed to be on a farm someplace, living the good life, tending goats and watching his grandkids grow up.
Cleese looked over toward the cameras and knew that his horrified expression was being seen across a few billion television screens, but he just couldn’t help it. Seeing Monk coming out of one of the turnstiles was literally the last thing he thought possible. Then again, with what had happened to Chikara… He figured he wasn’t scoring too high on the whole "estimating probability" thing.
He narrowed his eyes and tried to focus beyond the glare that spread like mercury across the glass. What he saw was mostly shapes and shadows moving like ethereal ghosts, but after slightly moving his head from side to side, he was better able to make out more distinct shapes. He could see the cameramen hard at work, busily recording the event. They operated their cameras like pros and dutifully racked focus on his personal nightmare.
Then, off to the side of one of the cameras, his eye registered another bit of slight movement. He took another step to the side and focused his full attention on it, being careful to keep a watchful eye on Monk. He gazed deep into the blackness beyond the glass and made out two figures standing in the shadows. He raised his hand and shielded his eyes from the ever present glare. Squinting further, he was just able to get a better look. As his eyes strained to their limits, he saw Masterson standing with the same look of evaluation that he’d had when he first busted into Cleese’s apartment back so long ago. And there, standing just behind him and grinning like a retard was Monroe.
Moooother… fuck. Tweedle Fuckin’ Dumb and Tweedle Fuckin’ Dumber…
A small voice deep in his head told Cleese that getting mad now was not any kind of answer. There was plenty of time for that…. later. Now, there were too many people, too many witnesses, and besides, he wouldn’t be able to get to them anyway. The glass and the metal of The Pit saw to that.
No… There was time enough for what he had in mind in the future.
Now… He would wait… and he would plan… and the people responsible for this would come to know the full measure of his wrath. Necessity now dictated that he return his focus to the still-dangerous thing which stood in front of him.
He turned and redirected his attention back toward Monk.
He turned… and looked at his friend.
Monk stood on his feet a dozen or so feet away, rocking from side to side. He was still reaching toward the wound in his back confusedly as if he couldn’t quite figure out what had happened. There had been great pain moments ago, and now, there was none. His face contorted as he tried to think it all through. And his jaw… His jaw chewed continually in that way The Dead all had, as if he were literally chewing over the problem that had been set before him. Despite all of his best efforts, his mind just couldn’t make the necessary connections.
He looked drunk, swaying on his feet, his head lolling back and forth like a pendulum. It was almost as bad as it had been that night on the roof of Weaver’s place except that his clothes were disheveled now. His face and hands were smeared with dirt and caked with dried blood. He’d undoubtedly fought hard when he first awoke from the sleep of death. Cleese could tell his friend had pitched quite a bitch from the deep abrasions on his wrists and throat. It was clear that the collars and restraints the handlers had used on him had not been kind.
Monk stared straight ahead blankly. His gaze remained unfocused and imbecilic. Then, he raised his head and sniffed at the air. Once he caught a whiff of Cleese’s scent on the stagnant air, instinct abruptly took over and focused his thinking. The realization that food lay somewhere nearby struck his diminished intellect like an arrow hitting its target. He turned and it was almost as if Monk was seeing him for the first time; like he had no recollection of their painful reunion just moments before. He lunged forward, coming on fast, his hands a clawing dervish aimed at Cleese’s exposed throat.
Cleese took a couple of shuffling steps backward in order to give himself some room and to buy himself a little more time. Monk, however, was undeterred and continued coming on at break-neck speed. Cleese slapped Monk’s hands aside and grabbed at the front of Monk’s bloody shirt, quickly twisting at the waist. His old friend went sailing over his hip and on toward the sandy ground. Monk struck the sand flat on his back, dead air knocked from his now-still lungs with an audible woof.
The crowd overhead reacted with an exultant cheer.
Cleese stumbled away in the hope that some more space might also spur a bit of insight. He knew he needed to figure this shit out and he needed to do so pretty damn quick.
As he circled Monk from a safer distance, he quickly ran through the things he knew for sure. This was no chance meeting—not with Masterson grinning like a gargoyle from behind the safety of the glass. Not with the way that cocksucker Monroe looked with that smug expression and self-satisfied grin on his prissy face. No, this was something that was all going according to their fucked up little plan.
Maybe it was payback for that stunt he’d pulled back at the Training Hall. Maybe this was their way of making things more exciting for the home audience. Maybe… it was just a display of power, of what they could do if they wanted to. It was hard to say… One thing was for certain, whatever had happened to Monk, it hadn’t been accidental. Sure, he could’ve gotten tagged while burning up his time in the UFL. His attention could have strayed, been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Shit, it had happened to Cartwright easily enough.
On the other hand, it was totally within Masterson’s and Monroe’s playbook to have arranged for Monk to be in that wrong place at that wrong time for no other reason than to pull off this little set-up here. There’d been far too many things like this happening of late to still be throwing the word "accident" around. Not when these little fuckups were happening to specific people in specific situations. It all seemed a little too perfect, a little too pat.
Who the fuck knows…
The important thing was… Monk didn’t just wander in off the street. This had most definitely been arranged and someone—or maybe a pair of someones—needed to sack up and swallow a heapin’ helpin’ of responsibility. Even if that taking of responsibility meant being killed where they stood by Cleese’s bare fucking hands.
Cleese stood fully upright and drew in a deep cleansing breath to focus his thinking. He needed some emotional distance away from all of this. He needed some time to sort it all out. He needed to be able to mourn his friend, to come to terms with his dying first. He could come to terms with his rebirth after that.
But… since all of that was evidently impossible, he’d just have to deal with it and sort out his grief and sense of vengeance later.
He watched Monk slowly, awkwardly, climb back to his feet. He stared sadly as his friend teetered and regained his balance like a toddler. What had once been fluid motion was now replaced by spasmodic convulsions masquerading as motor skills. He felt a deep sense of melancholy wash over him. No one should have to end up this way, especially not Monk. No one should ever be denied their eternal rest. Cleese suddenly felt like an asshole for his part in all of this: the matches, the money, the notoriety, The League.
He closed his eyes and sighed forlornly.
"It’s time… Time for us to go home, Pal."
As he opened his eyes, he saw that Monk had gotten back to his feet and was staring at him. Now that he’d decided his course of action and that both Masterson and Monroe were pieces of business that he would deal with later—especially Monroe—h
is mind was clear to deal with what now stood before him.
Right now, he had bigger problems.
Right now… he had Monk.
His friend had risen to his full stature and begun to lope across the pit toward Cleese. Unlike other UDs who came on like pissed-off drunks, Monk crouched down low, in that all-too familiar boxer’s stance. It was clumsy and old school, but it had obviously been hard-wired into the machine.
Cleese had seen that stance before—long ago—in Training.
So, they do remember parts of their lives after all.
If Cleese remembered his friend’s modus operandi correctly, Monk would go for his legs first in a bastardized Greco-Roman wrestling move. He would more than likely swoop in and try to pick him up and off his feet and then attempt to slam him onto his back. It was something that was designed to kick the air clean out of your opponent and—if it was successful—make any further breathing painful and laborious. It’d always been one of Monk’s go-to opening moves.
As if on cue, Monk ducked in low and made a lunging grab for Cleese’s thighs.
Having already expected the gambit, Cleese leapt back and, as Monk came in, he threw a downward slicing haymaker. The blow shattered Monk’s jaw and made his open-mouthed gape even more pronounced. Monk’s body corkscrewed from the strength of the impact and he spun to the ground.
The crowd erupted into furious applause. While they may not have fully realized the importance of what was happening down on the sand, the bastards could sense that the fight was back on.
Cleese danced backward in a move he’d copped from Muhammad Ali. As he backpedaled, he looked at Monk’s face and was shocked at how much different it was. Sure, it was basically the same face he’d come to know and love, but… it was also noticeably altered. Its fundamental structure hadn’t changed, but now every piece of musculature just kind of sagged. It was almost as if someone had pulled downward at Monk’s chin and the rest of his face had fallen in line and stuck there.
Cleese’s gaze fell, at last, on Monk’s eyes and his resolve shifted just a little, just enough. Despite it all—the blood, the death, the danger—staring out at him from behind those clouded eyes was his friend.
No Flesh Shall Be Spared Page 44
