No Flesh Shall Be Spared Part 21

Cleese did as he was told and the spike slid back into the sheath that was hidden in the gauntlet. The withdraw of the spike was more noticeable than the draw, but given the complexity of the mechanism, no complaints were forthcoming.

"Niiiiice..." Cleese said quietly.

"You like?"

"I do indeed, Pal. I owe you a couple bottles of Scotch for this one."

"You got that right. I've already cleared this little slice of Heaven with the Rules Committee so all's kosher."

"Cool. Thanks!"

"By the way, they thought the same thing I did."

"What was that?"

"That you needed some professional f.u.c.kin' help."

"I'll make a note of it and schedule an appointment... if I live through this, that is."

The two men laughed and Weaver clapped Cleese on the back.

"You'll do fine..."

"Thanks, man. I appreciate all of your hard work," Cleese said.

"No problem, Kid," Weaver said. He took the canvas bag back, tucked it under his arm, and turned to leave. "I'll see you after all of this is over with. We'll go get a drink and celebrate."

Cleese nodded and watched as the big man walked away from him.

"Listen... don't get stupid out there," Weaver called back over his shoulder as he left. "I ran into Monk on the way here and he's right, you know. This sport's never seen anything like you or that greeting card you got strapped to your arm. That crowd out there is going to love you... Just keep your head and don't pop off. You'll be fine."

The old man's voice echoed hollowly as he got further away.

"You'll do us proud, Son!"

Cleese turned and looked down the long, dark hallway which stretched out before him like a tomb. Fleetingly, he wondered if he was really ready for this. After a second of consideration, he realized that he probably wasn't, but it was too late to turn back now.

"f.u.c.k it," he said-neither for the first nor the last time.

Waiting in the Wings "Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen and welcome back... to WGF Fight Night! Tonight... here at the renowned Microsoft Sports Center, we've a.s.sembled another night of combat featuring fighters so talented that you will be glad you stayed up for all of this one. I'm Bob Wester..."

"And I'm John Davis and so far tonight, we've had five fully unharnessed fights and things are looking stellar for our next match. By far, one of the more interesting bouts we have seen scheduled is our next one-a fan favorite-our Cherry Match. The untested fighter is a new-comer hailing from the city of Old San Francisco. He's a big one all right and someone who, if you will recall, first made a name for himself by being one of the few who were able to fight their way out of the city by the bay. Word is that he did it with nothing more than a baseball bat!"

"Yeah, John, The League has put a lot into him, so he's sure to be something else. I've seen some of his training tapes and I can a.s.sure you that we are in for a real treat with this one. And then, following that match-up, we'll be bringing you our Main Event, but more on that later..."

"Yes, indeed. Another roster of first cla.s.s altercations all brought to you by the good folks at Weber Industries. Ok, Bob... I'm being signaled now that it looks as if we're ready to begin our next bout. So, put down the popcorn, Ladies and Gentlemen... and get out the plastic sheets, this one could get wet."

"Why don't we get things rolling and go down to pit-side and Al Sanchez..."

Cleese stood within the confines of the cramped hallway which ran under the stands and led to the underbelly of The Octagon. The place smelled like a bus station and looked a whole lot worse. Encased in cement, it was really nothing more than a long pa.s.sage which tunneled under the stands above and on into the side of The Pit. From where Cleese was, it was like standing at the throat to h.e.l.l.

I feel like I want to puke.

He was a far sight beyond nervous now and he felt adrenaline scream through his bloodstream like a freight train fueled by a bellyful of crystal meth. He paced back and forth, constantly adjusting and readjusting his hardware. He patted the pistol tucked securely under his arm. He pulled on the straps. Absentmindedly, he ran his hands over his exposed stomach and felt the clammy skin under his fingertips. He reached down further and cupped his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, silently hoping they'd still be there when this s.h.i.t was over and done with.

He flexed his right hand, hit the release, and the spike Weaver made for him sprang out and locked into place. Cleese pushed against a lever on the back of the mechanism and the spike of metal slid back into place with a barely audible "sh-tik." He looked at it and repeatedly flicked it open and then closed. Open. Closed. Open. Closed.

Weaver's a G.o.dd.a.m.n genius with the way he built this thing.

The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had taken Cleese's idea and run like h.e.l.l with it. The gauntlet was (as he'd expected) a formidable piece of hardware which danced merrily along the edge of what The Rules would allow. Given its potential for drawing blood and the cool way it looked, Cleese was sure it would make him very popular with the blood-thirsty crowd. It would also no doubt turn him into a bankable commodity within The League.

He thought of Monk then and felt instantly disheartened. Cleese was going to miss his partner. He'd been a good friend to Cleese at a time when he most needed one. Monk could have easily declined the opportunity to train him, but he hadn't and that counted for something.

At least it did where Cleese was concerned.

As he checked his equipment one more time, he wondered whether Monk would really be happy spending the rest of his days kickin' it at his daughter's ranch. Would he really be able to come to terms with Life now that Death had left its unmistakable mark all over him? Cleese wished that they could have talked a little bit longer, but in the end he knew it was better this way. Short and sweet.

Somehow, it all fit Monk's way.

Cleese's stomach twisted in his gut, greasy bubbles percolating through his colon. He touched the exposed skin of his stomach, just below his tunic one more time and waited for the doors to the Pit to open.

Gawd, I want to puke...

"Thank you, guys. What we have on tap for you tonight is sure to be an amazing fight. A Cherry bout with the combatant having been rushed into service after an unfortunate training accident resulting in the deaths of two fighters: Victor Lenik and Franklin Cartwright, both of who will be sorely missed. The tale of the tape on this new man is pretty impressive. He stands at a whopping six foot two inches and weighs in at a hardened two hundred and fifteen pounds. He's a street fighter... with a record of 0 wins-0 losses. So, this oughtta be good. Ok, the pit door is just now opening and we can see him stepping out onto the sand. Yeah, holy mackerel... he's a big boy, ain't he?"

"Al, sorry to interrupt, but this is Bob back in the studio."

"Yeah, Bob?"

"Al, I don't see a blade on this fighter."

"You're right about that, Bob. There isn't one in the conventional sense, but take a look at the end of his arm. Cleese has reportedly brought along with him a weapon of his own design. I've not been able to get a look at it, but I'm sure it has something to do with that metallic sleeve he's wearing over his arm. Rest a.s.sured though, folks, that the WGF Rules Committee has looked the weapon over and given it their official approval."

"Ok... Good enough. Well, I can hear the start of our new fighter's music, so let's go back down onto the sand for his entrance and the beginning of this match."

I'm having a weak moment A moment that may not end Lonely in my own... skin ~ * ~.

The thing Cleese noticed instantly as he stepped out onto the sand was the heat; the heat and the light. Both were a lot more intense than they'd been in the Training Hall. They were absolutely overwhelming. Jeez, it felt like he'd stepped into a sauna standing out here beneath the bright lights; all that heat and air that felt so heavy as to be barely breathable.

Everything is changing Everything seems changed As if quietly replaced by something soulless The music he'd given the sound guy was pulsing through the sound system. Its deep, synthesized beat throbbed seductively throughout the stadium, rattling those in attendance right down to their molars. Its effect was something he'd pondered long and hard over. The pounding rhythm was at once infectious and menacing.

He walked out onto the sand in quick, bold strides, timing his movements so that they would be more or less in synch with the beats of music. He figured the crowd would like it and he wasn't wrong. When he got to the center of the ring, he extended his arms (as Monk had suggested during the last of their training sessions) in a Christ-like pose and held it. Then, slowly, he turned in a tight circle so that the crowd could all get a good look at him.

Burn it down The crowd out in the darkness erupted with a thundering applause which growled up from the floor and soared over all of their heads like a flock of angry vultures. It was a roar that, momentarily, made his guts pound and his head swirl.

What happened to the spirit with all its endless strength?

Did they swallow him up and put me in his place?

Did I grow within my shadow or simply melt around myself?

The human put back on... the... shelf Yeah, Baby...

Looking up at the throng overhead and the television cameras pointing at him, Cleese wondered if this was what rock stars felt like as they stepped onstage. It was like a drug and he instantly understood why people worked so hard to be here in the spotlight. It was instantly addicting. Enjoying himself, he decided to play it up a bit to see how far this crowd would follow him. He wanted to see how much adoration they could rain down upon one man.

Burn it down!

Cleese looked the fighting s.p.a.ce over as he continued slowly turning and saw that this Pit was very different from the one he was used to. The sides of this arena were not scarred metal but a clear, bullet-proof plastic; like hockey gla.s.s only thicker. Manning their cameras like gun turrets, the crew could be seen through the stuff even though the panes of acrylic were tinted slightly to cut the glare. It was a perfect six camera shoot of what could only be described as televised mayhem.

I have seen through the eyes of the opposition The one who defines my failure At touching that place in the heart Where emotions bow their heads in wonder You have encountered me Familiar with my immediacy In a wisp of melody A neglected phrase unexpectedly heartfelt In this world I may tap you on the shoulder Cleese spun lazily to a stop and stood quietly, head hanging down, as if in prayer. His posture was, as previously planned, like that of a Corpus Christi. h.e.l.l, if these people were going to treat him like Jesus, he might as well look like him. With a grand solemnity, he raised his arms over his chest, crossing one over the other at the wrist. He was careful to make sure that his right hand-the one with the gauntlet-was on top.

Ignite Burning down your Effigies Ignite Burning down your Seems of Change He stood still a moment longer and waited. The music seemed to hesitate: its beat stalling in the air overhead like an airplane just before it crashed. The crowd hung there right along with it, antic.i.p.ating his next move. He could almost feel them above him, leaning forward in their seats anxiously awaiting whatever he next had in store for them. With an almost silent snort of contempt, he let them hang there, twisting in the wind. Abruptly, he flexed his right wrist and the spike slid out with a vicious metal on metal sound and locked into place.

Ignite!

As soon as the spike appeared, the crowd went crazy. The weapon materialized on the back of his hand as if by magic. The fact that it did so in perfect time with the ending of the song was icing on the cake. The throng's feet aggressively kicked at the backs of the chairs in front of them and stomped against the concrete floor. Their hands came together in a deafening din of approbation. Their voices made great whooping sounds which pulsed and contorted in the air.

They were, for that one, single moment, a mob united in their furor.

"Whoa-ho, Bob. I didn't see that comin'. The crowd here is on their feet and they already love this guy. Let's see if he can live up to the promise of that entrance once the first buzzer sounds."

Prima Nocte The buzzer went off a lot sooner than Cleese expected. His nerves jumped from a stoic calm to full blown panic and back again in less than a heartbeat. His muscles went suddenly slack and he began, as an old friend of his used to say, "shaking like a dog s.h.i.tting pizza." Then, just as quickly as it had started, the feeling was gone and a sense of absolute tranquility returned to him. The entire episode took only a second and then it was over.

The crowd overhead in the darkness whooped, the lights flashed in his eyes, spindles suddenly turned, and it was Showtime! He had planned and planned for this moment and now that it was here, he felt as calm and focused as a diamond cutter.

Cleese lowered himself into an open-legged stance and quickly surveyed the pit from a crouch; immediately a.s.sessing his situation.

Out of the eight spindles that made up the Pit, five had something inside them. At stations One, Four and Seven swayed disoriented UDs. At Eight and Three, there were magazines of bullets, each one of them sitting like twins of salvation.

Thankfully, the other three spindles appeared empty.

The crowd up in the stands hunkered down into their seats as all eyes were directed in antic.i.p.ation toward the center of the pit. Wives gripped their husband's arms just a bit tighter. Fathers hoisted their sons up onto their shoulders so that the youngsters could see what was about to occur. The children's faces reflected their parents' unashamed blood l.u.s.t.

The three UDs stumbled out of their spindles and wandered around the sand looking pie-eyed toward the bright lights overhead. They seemed utterly mesmerized by it. Like moths before a flame, they floated drunkenly toward the illumination and reached out their hands plaintively. Their dead mouths clambered and slopped drool as they tried to respond to whatever it was that the light whispered to them.

The Dead had seen a bright light like this once before-in the time of their resurrection, back when they'd first posed their question-why? Each one of them dimly remembered the Light and what it once murmured to them, what it had once promised. They'd denied its allure before and there had been, quite literally, h.e.l.l to pay. Now, as these dead folks stumbled across the sand and reached up for the Light, they once again asked of it their question: Why? Why have we been denied our eternal rest?

And, this time... The Light answered them.

Cleese fell out of the overhead glare and landed on the sand between the UDs at positions Seven and Four. He pivoted and moved fast toward Seven who was the largest and most fearsome of the trio. He figured that once he had his hands on him, he could use the thing's stumbling body as a shield to protect himself from the others.

Cleese reached out and slapped the dead man (late thirties, bigger than the others, squinty-as if he'd lost his gla.s.ses and couldn't see, a savage gash had been torn across his lower belly) across his blood-stained mouth with his gloved hand. It was a risky move, but Cleese felt confident that the Kevlar glove would protect him from the thing's biting force should it come to that. The hide made a seal of the glove and turned the man's infectious mouth into a more or less moot point. In a move he'd liberated from aikido, Cleese twisted the dead man's head around on its axis, directing him toward Four (teenage male, stoner build, chest showing signs of a shotgun blast). The controlled man careened and stumbled, but basically went where he was pointed.

By this time, Four had caught a whiff of Cleese on the breeze and was coming on pretty fast. His eyes bugged out from the depths of their sunken sockets and their violent intent was pretty obvious. As the kid came at him, Cleese pushed Seven in his direction. The stoner swung his arms in a windmill fashion, nails scratching at Seven's face and torso. The boy flailed his arms blindly, gradually becoming more and more agitated as his a.s.sault yielded no worthwhile results.

Seven, for his part, had yet to realize where he was, let alone what was going on. His eyes rolled around and were just visible over Cleese's hand. Beneath his glove, Cleese could feel the thing's mouth moving.

Suddenly, Cleese pulled Seven closer and cruelly manipulated his head. A couple of crunching sounds later and the dead man's body twirled to the ground; its neck having been cranked to an impossible angle. With its spinal cord irreparably damaged, the thing's skull sat oddly askew atop the pole of its neck. The UD's body collapsed to the ground and lay motionless, its limbs spread out like a broken star. Only its eyes moved within their sockets as it lay in the soft sand.

The crowd voiced its approval at the spilling of First Blood with another thunderous ovation. Their roar was deafening and the sound had begun to get more than a little bit distracting. Funny how things change.

Four, who continued to reach out across an obstacle that was no longer there, stumbled forward in two great, sloppy steps. Cleese ducked inside, spun under its grasp and hit him twice with powerful rights to the chest. He followed up by coming across with a quick yet powerful left cross.

Four's head snapped around like a sprinkler.

Cleese continued doling out the punishment with an underhand blow directed at just below the kid's sternum. He spun away from the collapsing corpse and stood back to a.s.sess his handiwork.

Four wheezed once, twice, and then collapsed to its knees. It tried to draw a coa.r.s.e, stuttering breath into its lungs, more out of a dimly remembered habit than from any biological need, but that seemed to be something it just couldn't manage. As its milky eyes roamed the ceiling, it blew a crimson bubble out of its left nostril.

Cleese quickly knelt down behind Four, his chest to the UD's back. He hooked his chain-mailed right arm under the wounded thing's armpit, and secured a hand hold on the back of the kid's neck. He tugged the zombie's head downward until its chin rested firmly against its chest. Putting his full weight behind it, Cleese flopped forward onto the sand.

Four's neck snapped like a branch.

Cleese rolled forward and then up and onto his feet. He stood under the light for a second and he tried to catch his breath.

This isn't so bad...

He walked over to the immobilized Seven. The man lay there, p.r.o.ne in the sand, eyes darting about like marbles set loose in his skull. A frustrated expression danced across its features as it tried to move its incapacitated body, but the connection had been severed by the sharp edges of its fragmented vertebrae. Despite the thing's body's damaged condition, the UDs' jaws continued moving wetly, chewing at the sand beneath it as if it were flesh.

Cleese gazed up to where he imagined the heart of the crowd lay and smiled. He raised his right arm slowly and-with a flick of his wrist-the spike flashed into the light. He moved to where the UD lay and impaled the corpse's brain with a single downward stroke. He drove the polished steel into the flesh at the back of its skull where the spine met up with the Occipital Bone. The spike's insertion made a wet, crunching sound. Once the head's eyes went blank and vacant, he slowly pulled the blade back out again. Blood ran in dark rivulets down the chrome spike as it was withdrawn into the gauntlet.

The crowd predictably roared its hearty approval.

Man, I got this s.h.i.t knocked.

Cleese regained his footing and once again stood fully erect. Menacingly, he scanned the pit. Behind the thick gla.s.s walls, he caught sight of the television cameras and smiled for The World. He could just make out the guys who were running the cameras and could tell that they were going crazy: all shouting, waving their arms. Pointing.

Cleese momentarily wondered what all the fuss was about.

His left arm unexpectedly rang out in a painful pinch. He quickly looked down and saw One (a little girl-maybe eight or nine, her hair mussed, eyes wild, a ragged, open wound that ran across her chest, over her shoulder and down her back) had her teeth clamped firmly around the meat of his forearm. Drool ran thick and syrupy down to his wrist as her jaws worked against the chain-mail-covered flesh. She looked up at him with a mixture of hatred and hunger in her little eyes.

s.h.i.t, this was only a kid. Younger than even the stoner had been and he'd been f.u.c.king young. h.e.l.l, she was nine, if she was a day. Dressed in a torn and soiled pinafore, her head moved back and forth from side to side as she gnawed greedily on his arm. Her cold hands gripped him at the wrist and the elbow and, for a moment, she looked as if she was working on her first Thanksgiving turkey leg.

Cleese's stomach made an oily, gurgling sound.

The crowd sat silently, expectantly, for this was an important moment in all Cherry Matches: the moment when every first-time fighter made his decision to kill. It was a choice made not out of necessity, not out of self preservation, but out of pure, raw vengeance. It was largely held that even if a new fighter did make the kill, he could be so demoralized that he made mistakes later in the match and mistakes always proved fatal.

Killing a child-zombie or not-was where a lot of fighters drew their moral line.

Cleese looked down at the kid as she hungrily gnawed on his protected arm. He tried to imagine what she'd been like back when she'd been alive: her first birthday, her first steps, her first bicycle. She'd been called "daddy's girl" by someone, no doubt. It was all too easy to imagine her mother saying that she had the eyes of an angel.

Now, those eyes were cloudy and refused to stay still in their sockets.

The girl's mouth worked against the metal of the chain-mail, grinding and biting, while her eyes danced to their own silent tune. Finally, her attention managed to focus on something cold and oily-smelling that had been pressed into her limited field of vision. It was hard and pointed and pushed forebodingly against her turned-up nose. She tried to make her eyes see the thing, but it was difficult and her vision just wouldn't stay still. Her corrupted brain knew that it was something she'd seen before, but she just couldn't recall when or where or even what the invading thing was.