No Flesh Shall Be Spared Part 12

"We've talked about this before, Jeffrey... These are still G.o.d's children and they deserve some level of our sympathy. The League refuses to acknowledge that. I cannot."

The two of them had indeed had discussions about Handel's theories on The Dead and, every time they did, Adamson found it difficult to believe what he was hearing.

Sympathy?

From all of his time working with The Dead, Adamson had learned one thing-these were dangerous and unpredictable creatures with no sense of humanity left in them, much less a soul. They were, in many respects, like tigers that had developed a taste for man's flesh. They could appear docile, but it was only because they were looking for an opening through which to get their claws into something. Something solid. Something wet. Any semblance of their humanity had been stripped away long ago.

"Do you know the trouble you could get into-the trouble I could get into-if you end up getting yourself injured... or worse? If someone were to find you here they'd think you'd gone nuts."

"I know. I know. But these are-these were-still people, first and foremost. They are not monsters. They are people who have been changed, transformed if you will, but they still deserve to be given absolution by the Lord G.o.d."

"Father... with all due respect... Are you out of your f.u.c.kin' mind? Yeah, ok... They were people... once... but whatever they were, whatever it was that made them them, was burned away a long time ago." Adamson ran his hand over his face in exasperation. "Dammit, how many times must we go over this?"

Handel shook his head in disgust. He simply refused to believe what he was hearing. He'd seen it, seen it with his own eyes. The Dead... they understood, they remembered. Hadn't one of them tried to speak to him just a moment ago? What he'd heard was not some random vocalization. It was the completion of a prayer... which suggested comprehension and context.

"Look, Father..." Adamson continued, "back in the day, I was holed up in a restaurant's store room for a few days. One of these things broke in and stumbled around the kitchen for a few hours. It rattled pots and pans, it broke open the door on one of the walk-in refrigerators, and from the sounds of things, it was making itself quite the little banquet. When I finally got up the nerve to sneak a peek into the room I saw it hacking away at its own hand with a meat cleaver. The f.u.c.kin' thing chopped off one of its fingers and was stuffing it into its own d.a.m.ned mouth."

Handel looked away and stared at the group of UDs through the fence. Their open and empty expressions met his. The one who'd spoken was now stupidly chewing on the metal wire of the fence.

"These are not intelligent beings, Father," Adamson said with as much sympathy as he could muster. "They are mindless killing and eating machines. No offense, but G.o.d turned his back on them a long time ago; back when they all went flat-line."

"No... you are wrong."

"No, Father... I am right. These creatures are without both intellect and soul. They are empty sh.e.l.ls which act like people for only as long as they can get their filthy hands on us. The sole thing keeping them from ripping you apart right now is that they can't figure out how to get through that f.u.c.kin' fence."

Handel silently stared at Adamson for a long time and a range of emotions washed over his face as he did so: sorrow, regret, contempt, fear, condescension... It was obvious to him, as it had been since their first discussions on the topic, that this was not a battle he would ever win. Adamson, much like many others, had made his mind up with regard to The Dead. Nothing could change that. The best Handel could hope for was a stalemate; a philosophical detente.

Handel suddenly smiled and nodded. If he were to be able to continue his work, he'd have to get Adamson's... agreement, if not his blessing. A new tact may be in order.

After all,there was more than one way to skin a cat.

"Look, you're probably right. Perhaps they are unable to understand, perhaps I am truly just wasting my time. But then again it's not like I'm hurting anything, right?"

Adamson regarded the priest with a puzzled expression. It was true no one was being harmed by any of this. If the old man wanted to splash some water on the fence and think he was saving some souls, where was the real harm in that? Besides, a part of Adamson felt as if some small act of benevolence was missing in this place. So much brutality was directed at the UDs on a daily basis, some slight bit of consideration wasn't completely out of the question. After all, wasn't that what laid at the heart of everything he'd been taught and had tried to do during his funeral director days? Provided the old guy didn't get too close to the fence and get himself tagged, there really was no harm done.

"Look," Adamson said and he stepped slightly closer to Handel in an almost conspiratory manner, "I might be willing to turn a blind eye to what you're doing here, but..."

He ran his hand through his stringy hair making it lay flat against his skull with a wet look. There was no workable solution to any of this. He knew The League would be p.i.s.sed if they ever caught wind of any of it. He also knew the depths of Father Handel's convictions. Over their past discussions, he'd become convinced that the priest thought he was doing the right thing; that he was indeed doing G.o.d's work. Even if Adamson forbade him from pulling this s.h.i.t ever again, he knew that it would do no good. Handel would find a way to make it happen one way or another. By hook or by crook, the priest would make his way in or even bribe one of the guards to allow him to do just what he'd been doing all along.

Adamson looked at Father Handel and saw the pa.s.sion burning within the man's eyes. Who was he to stand in the way of that? After all, maybe there was a G.o.d up there somewhere and all of this s.h.i.t was just another stage in His master plan?

Who was to say?

Adamson sighed in resignation. "Look, Father, I've got a shift change to coordinate. I want you to pack your gear up and leave-for now. We'll talk about this some other time, ok? In the meantime, I'll promise I'll check with Corporate and see if I can get you some kind of special exemption. Maybe have you go through the same training our guards receive."

Adamson looked at the priest for a hint of compliance.

The priest smiled and nodded.

It wasn't the resounding concurrence Adamson was looking for, but it would have to do.

And with that, Adamson reluctantly turned and left. Over his shoulder he called back, "I'll be returning in about twenty minutes. I don't want you here when I come back."

"Twenty minutes. Got it."

Handel watched Adamson as he walked away. When he was out of sight he bent to retrieve his Holy Water and poured more of it into the palm of his hand.

After all, it was the only Christian thing to do.

Braggadocio The Octagon looked bleak and decidedly inhospitable as it sat in the darkness at the far end of the nearly empty Training Hall. Residual steam rose in swirling clouds above the fighting s.p.a.ce; smoky tendrils reaching out for purchase in the open beams of the ceiling. Lights blazed from above, hot and suffocating, illuminating every inch of the pit. The shadows had been effectively pushed back and dared not battle the light in this place.

Down in the Pit, Monk stood with his feet planted firmly in the sand. He held two reins out in front of him, caressing them as if he were running his fingers through a lover's hair. Standing roughly six feet behind the harnessed UD, he held the thing on a short, but very effective lead. Headgear was strapped tightly over the thing's head; lengths of leather bound by dull, metal clasps. A short baton of hard rubber acted as a bite block. The setup prevented the diseased mouth of the UD from getting a grip on anything or, G.o.d forbid, actually getting a hold of anyone. It wasn't pretty, but it made handling them more or less safe. Despite all of the preventative measures and specialized equipment, Monk still kept a fully loaded shotgun propped against the wall... just in case.

The dead thing at the end of the reins shuffled and stumbled its way across the sand, intently focusing its gaze on Cleese as he crouched before it. While its gait was off-kilter to begin with, its present lack of coordination was mostly due to Monk pulling on the lengths of leather now and again, dragging it off balance. You know, for safety's sake. The thing reached out its hands pleadingly for Cleese like a child asking for a beloved toy. Its fingers were splayed and pumping. An anxious look of expectancy lit up its slackened features.

And all the while, its jaws were working. Its mouth ground back and forth and drooled, hungering for just a taste of the living meat which danced before it just out of reach.

Even though Monk heard all about how Cleese was some sort of prodigy and had even seen a bit of his talents for himself, he was still mighty impressed. The kid was a little unsure here and there, but all in all he was as close as Monk had seen to a sure-as-s.h.i.t natural. He flowed when he should, stood firm when he needed to and he didn't make too many stupid mistakes. He fought with a Zen-like calm that was not too different from the way some of the Budo Warriors did, only Cleese brought a s.h.i.tload more power and aggression to the party. There was none of that "bend like a reed in the wind" s.h.i.t in him.

Nope. None at all.

The way Cleese worked was nothing short of inspired. Whenever he went to the inside, the UD would reach out to strike and as if by magic Cleese would no longer be there. It was as if he'd vanished into thin air only to reappear on the thing's flank-on its weak side. It was then, when he was safely in the dead thing's blind spot, that he'd strike with a devastating impact.

Monk couldn't imagine what this kid was going to be like once he got used to being around these things and they put him into Live Combat. He mentally noted a need to talk with Adamson about increasing the number of UDs they kept in The Pen. This kid was going to send a lot of them out of here in pieces.

Despite his natural ac.u.men, mental acuity and physical superiority, he was still holding back. It was like he was there in body, but his spirit was off lurking in some darkened nether region of his brain. Monk almost got the impression that Cleese didn't want to hurt the d.a.m.n things. Silently, he wondered if maybe he ought to give Cleese a bottle of hootch just to help him recapture a bit of the mindset that brought him here.

Monk smiled almost imperceptibly as he watched Cleese wrestle with what was left of his conscience. At first he was all gung-ho. Then you could see the seed of his scruples sprout. After that, his consternation was evident from his furrowed brow and lack of commitment. After a bit, Monk decided it was time to cut the c.r.a.p.

"Listen you stupid s.h.i.t," Monk shouted as he jerked the UD back around. "You really need to hit 'em harder. It's what they're f.u.c.kin' here for. They're G.o.dd.a.m.n training aids."

Monk wrenched the leads violently and threw the UD so far off its balance that it pitched over sideways. Blood dribbled out of its mouth and landed on the sand dyeing it a deep maroon.

"What the f.u.c.k are you holding back for? For f.u.c.k's sake... It's not like they're gonna get p.i.s.sed atcha. I mean... G.o.dd.a.m.nit ! They're not even human any longer. They gave up being that a long time ago."

Cleese looked at him and frowned. He took a long look at the dead woman in the harness staggering to her feet. Her face was an angry, hungry grimace; her body a horribly ruined sh.e.l.l. Still though... she'd been somebody's wife once... or somebody's mother or....

Slowly, he dropped his hands to his sides.

"Man, that's just despicable. She was a person once... What about her? Huh? What about her family? Do they even know what's happened to her?"

Monk let the reins slip through his fingers a little and the short fat woman in the soiled housecoat who looked like she might have been somebody's grandmother jumped Cleese. The two of them fell to the ground in a ma.s.s of flailing arms and kicking legs. Her hands clawed and scratched their way across his chest. Her jaws opened and snapped shut as they descended with a remarkable quickness toward his throat.

Abruptly, Monk yanked her back, sending her sprawling onto the sand.

Cleese looked up from flat on his back.

"Motherf.u.c.ker..." Cleese gasped.

"Never forget why you're here, Captain f.u.c.kin' Sensitive."

Cleese quickly ran his hands over his torso, obsessively looking for any lacerations.

"These things will eat your f.u.c.king liver just as soon as look at you," Monk shouted, "and don't you ever f.u.c.king forget that!"

Monk yanked the woman roughly to her feet by tugging on a strap at the back of the bridle. He quickly released her and, planting his boot in the small of her back, kicked her toward the center of the pit.

"And you know what? f.u.c.k their families!" he shouted. "They've all been well compensated. You don't need to worry about none of that. All you need to remember is the s.h.i.t I tol' you: 'grab-kill-and move on.' You got me?"

Cleese looked at him angrily.

"Huh?!?" Monk repeated. "Do you f.u.c.kin' remember having that G.o.dd.a.m.n conversation? Look, you do what I taught you, you dumb sonofab.i.t.c.h. Do it or I let Granny Clampett here eat your d.i.c.k on a toasted Hoagie bun. Are we f.u.c.kin' clear, Cherry?"

Cleese unhappily nodded his understanding.

"Now," Monk said, pulling the woman back to her feet by her reins and wheeling her around, "pretty please... will you f.u.c.kin' punch this c.u.n.t?"

Cleese scrambled back to his feet and strode toward his target, his hands coming up into an open-handed, ready position. The closer he got, the more determined he looked. With his brow set and his mouth firm, he lowered his chin toward his sternum and came on like a freight train.

Briefly, even Monk was taken aback by the look on his face. For a second he almost felt sorry for the dead thing at the end of the lead. She was standing at Ground Zero and her jacked-up brain didn't even know it-but she was sure as h.e.l.l about to find out.

The woman reached out for Cleese the instant she saw him; moaning coa.r.s.ely and salivating over her bite block. Monk gave her a little more of the lead and she staggered hungrily toward Cleese. As she closed in, another rope of blood and drool dribbled past the bite block and hit her chest. Now within just a few feet, the woman raised her arms and reached out hungrily.

Cleese responded in an exquisite fashion. He ducked under the grab, bobbing briskly, and then hook-punched her-hard-in the chest. Muhammad Ali himself would have been proud. With the force of the punch, the woman's ribs caved in with a sickening crunch. A splinter of bone carved its way loose and proceeded to tear through one of the lobes of her lungs. Any further attempt she made at vocalizing suddenly sounded raw and painful.

As her body bent from the blow, Cleese delivered a fast Muay Thai knee strike to the right side of her jaw setting it to hang loosely from her skull. Unceremoniously, he threw the thick musculature of his back into a savage palmstrike directed at the back of her head. Monk tried to pull her out of the way, but Cleese's blow came too d.a.m.n fast. Her skull made a hollow "clu-chunk" sound; like an over-ripe melon being dropped. Her occipital bone fractured and shards of skull tore through the spoiled grey matter beyond. Her face abruptly went slack as if the very life had been kicked out of her, and it had. She took two drunken steps forward and fell face first into the sand where she didn't move again.

"Ooooo-k, s.h.i.t..." Monk said, dropping the reins to the ground in disgust. "That was pretty G.o.dd.a.m.n effective, but still utterly useless for our purposes here today. You're going to need to learn some control, my friend. You need to learn to dole that s.h.i.t out like it was medicine. Now, we'll have to go harness us up another one."

"Not today you won't..."

A voice from the pit's entrance punctuated the sweltering air.

"It's 1900, Monk, and my time in the pit."

Lenik walked out onto the sand with Cartwright trailing behind him like a scolded puppy. Cartwright carefully shut the hatch behind them and dutifully followed after his partner. The fighter came toward them, walking as if he owned the place. With his chest pushed out and his shoulders squared back, he looked like he thought he was really something special.

Monk, Cleese, and every other fighter-with perhaps the exception of Cloverfield, Shenkel, Gonzales and Llewellyn-knew better.

They'd already talked about how doomed Lenik and Cartwright's relationship was. Cartwright was an experienced fighter, but Lenik had the stronger personality and the bigger mouth and when an inexperienced student usurped a competent teacher it always ended in disaster-for them both.

"You ladies'll have to go play elsewhere. It's time for you to let a real man work." Lenik said, nudging his mentor. As he walked past Cleese, Lenik looked at the dead woman in the sand and hissed, "Real nice..." as he rolled his eyes.

"No problem. We were just leaving," Monk replied casually. "Say, be a sport and clean this s.h.i.t up, will ya?" He waved his hand over the dead woman. "I mean, it is your time in the pit after all."

"Hey f.u.c.k you, Monk!" Lenik whined. "I ain't cleaning this!"

"Heya, Cartwright," nodded Monk as he pa.s.sed the older man.

Grabbing up his shotgun, Monk walked out without looking back.

Cartwright stared back at Monk and said nothing. His face was set, but his eyes told a different story. For a brief moment he almost seemed embarra.s.sed by Lenik's behavior. Slowly, he walked over and pulled the dead UD by her headgear toward the side of the pit.

Cleese smiled broadly at the two men and followed Monk out of the pit and up to where the older man was stowing his shotgun in a rack just outside the door. Beyond that, the cool calm of the grandstands waited like an oasis in the desert.

"That sonofab.i.t.c.h," Monk hissed as the two of them sat cooling down in the stands.

Cleese leaned back, resting his upper body's weight on his elbows. He was busy trying to get his heart rate and body temperature back to normal after his exertion in the pit, but Monk... Monk seemed intent on raising his high enough to give himself a stroke. If Cleese had learned anything since meeting the old man, it was that he was p.r.o.ne to explosions of anger. After he calmed down he'd forget all about whatever it was that he felt slighted him-whether real or imagined. Then it would be business as usual and he'd return to his normal cantankerous self.

"I oughtta go pop that young punk right in the f.u.c.kin' mouth," the old man grumbled.

"Easy there, Trigger."

"You know I'm going to hear all about that s.h.i.t from the suits upstairs..." he jerked his head back toward the pit. "But..." and he chuckled guiltily, "I couldn't resist."

"Would 'sorry' help?" asked Cleese, feigning embarra.s.sment.

"I mean, look at him," Monk said, ignoring the interruption. He pointed back toward the lights of The Octagon with a stubby finger. "What a f.u.c.kin' a.s.shole!"

Lenik was standing down on the sand in the middle of some defensive drills. Easy s.h.i.t mostly, just getting in close and batting advances away with his protected forearms. Cleese had learned that kind of c.r.a.p a long time ago, back when he was a kid and had to fight off the older kids for what little lunch money he'd been able to sc.r.a.pe together. As he watched the fighter before him, he took a minute and evaluated his potential.

Now that he had an opportunity to see him in action, Lenik was-in Cleese's considered opinion-more of that cannon fodder he'd noticed when he first arrived. The man talked some s.h.i.t, but when it was all said and done he had a nasty habit of leaving his right side exposed time and again. He was ripe for an attack from his blind periphery or even from behind. He was over-confident and stupid and he would no doubt be carried out of here on a litter.

By now Monk managed to calm himself down and took an interest in what it was that Cleese was looking at in the pit.

Cleese saw him out of the corner of his eye and nudged him.

"Toes up..." Cleese said, nodding toward the pit.

Monk nodded in return.

"Ain't that s.h.i.t the truth?"

"Hey, Cleese...!" came a sudden and unexpected shout from under the lights.

"What do you want, Lenik?" returned Monk.

"Let me show ya a thing or two... Something that old man of yours would never demonstrate in a million years!"

Out of curiosity, Cleese sat up and focused his attention down onto the pit's floor.

Lenik sauntered over to the UD (a male about forty-five in a soiled b.u.t.ton-down business shirt and tie) and, in one a fluid motion, tore off the headgear and tossed it aside. Mr. Shirt-and-Tie stood dumbfounded for a second, rolling his head about in drunken circles. Lenik backed away from the man and drew the machete he wore strapped to his thigh.

Cartwright moved across the pit, shaking his head at his partner's actions, to retrieve the harness. It was pretty clear that Lenik did this kind of s...o...b..ating all the time.

"Stooopid s.h.i.t..." Monk groaned as he rose to his feet.