No Flesh Shall Be Spared Part 39

"We'll weather this, Masterson. We'll live... and we'll thrive. And soon enough, we'll find that rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d and get my money back."

"Yes, Sir."

"Besides... I have a few new ideas I'm working on that'll make this s.h.i.t look like a Three Card Monte game. Some new s.h.i.t, Son! A few new games to play..."

"Yes, Sir."

"Speaking of..."

"Sir?"

"I want you to hit the nearest airport... what is that," the sound of papers rustling could be heard over the speaker, "Chicago Rockford International?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Ok, we'll set up travel. Just get there as quick as you can."

"My car, Sir..."

"We'll send someone for it... or f.u.c.k it! We'll buy you another one. I just need you on a plane to Tampa ASAP. The choppers are all committed to something else."

"May I ask, Sir..."

Weber sounded as if he'd already moved on to the next item on his "To Do List."

"There's a new fighter I want you to retrieve. Ball of f.u.c.king fury, from what I hear. Then again, I also hear he's as smart as a f.u.c.kin' stump, so... he's perfect!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Ok... we're done. Call me when you have this guy. Geddit?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Got it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good!" and the phone went silent in his hand.

Masterson shut the phone off and slid it back into his pocket.

d.a.m.n... here we go again.

He turned back toward the Lexus and ran his hand over its painted surface. Once again, the vehicle brought up memories he'd have rather left alone. And even though Mr. Weber didn't seem overly concerned, Masterson knew he'd not feel totally relaxed until he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Cleese had been contained.

He just hated loose ends like that.

A cold chill abruptly slithered down his spine and gooseflesh migrated across his forearms. Despite himself, he took one more cautious glance around, first to the left and then to the right. All the while, his eyes kept scanning the area just in case. It would be just his luck that Cleese wasn't gone for good and had instead decided that some Amateur Hour a.s.sa.s.sin-esque shenanigans were in order. He slowly scanned the grounds and surrounding foliage of the cemetery, its headstones jutting up from the ground like severed thumbs.

It seemed all clear. But in the end, who could tell?

Masterson laughed under his breath.

Motherf.u.c.ker.

It suddenly dawned on him just how vulnerable he was standing out here, not to mention in his everyday life. He knew how easily any person-s.h.i.t, even a President or his brother-could be gotten to. Cleese had proven that once already.

Having watched Cleese in the pit for some time now, he had a pretty good idea of what was in the man's repertoire; bold and unexpected surprises notwithstanding. As he thought about it, he was pretty certain that, if Cleese really wanted him dead, he would die regardless of any precautions he might take. Masterson had seen that fact clearly in the other man's eyes that day when he tossed Monroe into the pit. Cleese was like a shark in that respect. Once he'd locked in on his target, nothing and no one could get in the way of his objective. It was the very reason that he'd been chosen for the League to begin with: the ability to kill, without remorse and without hesitation, and to not stop until the target was terminated.

So, what the f.u.c.k? Why worry, right?

Right?

Masterson reached down and dug his keys out of his pocket.

He silently wondered whether or not he'd see it coming when the time came.

Monroe hadn't.

As he slid his key into the car door's handle, he tried to imagine how it would go down.

A rigged door lock?

He cautiously turned the key in the lock.

Trigger switch on a door hinge?

With a pull, he opened the car door.

Pressure trigger-switch that would go off when weight was applied to the seat?

He slid into the car's seat and put both hands on the wheel.

Poisoned food?

He glanced over at a crumpled fast-food bag containing a half-eaten burger and a rapidly chilling order of fries sitting on the floorboard.

A cut brake line?

He pushed once, then twice, on the brake pedal.

A bomb wired to the starter?

He slid his key into the car's ignition.

So many ways to die.

Masterson hesitated a moment and looked around. Still all clear. Not a soul to be seen. The place was silent except for the far off singing of birds and the gentle swishing of the trees in the breeze. He was alone in this City of The Dead. He smiled slightly as he felt icy fingers of dread run up and down the back of his neck, dancing there like cold regret.

He shivered, despite himself, and abruptly chuckled under his breath.

He looked back in the direction of Monroe's grave and slowly turned the key.

Far off across the cemetery's fields, under an old bent walnut tree, a silhouette sat as if meditating atop a black Suzuki GSX1300R motorcycle. The man and his machine were hidden from view within the shadows and the both of them watched the man in the tailored suit as he talked on his cell phone before climbing hesitantly into his automobile.

The figure in the shadows absentmindedly scratched at the curve of his jaw line and then leaned upright. With a flick of a switch, the bike's ignition caught and the engine roared to life. The rider zipped up his jacket and pulled a small, silver MP3 player from his pocket. He slid the headphone buds into his ears and pulled a full face helmet over his head. Looking down, he scrolled through the tracks on the player until he saw what he was looking for; a little something for the road. He hit "Play" and tucked the small square of metal back into his pocket.

In the small earpieces, a dulcimer played soft and rhythmically within the confines of his head. A woman's plaintive voice cried out and a synthesizer wailed mournfully. Electronic drums thrummed a low rhythm which seemed to perfectly match the vibration of The Busa beneath him.

I walk with phantoms and leaves are burning at my feet.

I walk with phantoms.

Sometimes they rage Sometimes they fade.

Some must watch while some are Singing the hum of the walking dead.

The man smiled and pulled on a pair of leather riding gloves. He took a quick glance down and patted the sword which was secured to the side of the motorcycle within easy reach. Always now within easy reach. He looked back and watched Masterson's car begin to roll forward, slowly heading for the stone arch of the cemetery's gates.

I walk with phantoms and leaves are ice at my feet.

I walk with phantoms.

Here is the truth: Seven wonders and the will to live.

Singing the hum of the walking dead.

Thinking of every word that you said.

Singing as garden walls ripple with the blur of bees, Sweetly singing as sunlight streams through the aching trees, Voices trampling the exhausted wilderness, Singing the hum of the walking dead.

A small, satisfied grin danced across his lips.

Burning like the gaze upon a faithless friend Burning down the lonely trees always in the end Voices trampling the exhausted wilderness, Dragging the heels of the walking dead.

Dragging out every word that you said.

Reaching out, he pulled in the clutch and kicked the bike into gear. With a twist of his wrist, the motor growled and the bike shook rea.s.suringly beneath him. The guitar in his ear cried another plaintive note and the voice continued to whisper its intoxicating tale of sorrow and, for a second, things seemed like they might be ok- the sense of loss he felt might someday subside.

Singing the hum of the walking dead.

Thinking of every word that you said.

He settled a little deeper into the seat and an exhilarating sense of expectation rose up from the depths of his soul. Slowly, he let the clutch out and felt the motorcycle's back tire bite into the dirt. And as dark clouds reached down from the heavens to embrace him, the figure rode off into the distance.

Epilogue.

"Well, Johnny, that about wraps up another exciting WGF Fight Night. Next week, we have even more excitement for you all including a No Weapons Match and an always exciting Team Match."

"That's right, Bob. We'll also have a profile on newcomer Alfredo Villanueva, the Spaniard who's scheduled for his very first match that night. Yes, my friends, it's another Cherry match and we'll have it all-right here-on Fight Night."

"So, I'm Bob Wester..."

"I'm Johnny Davis and for Al Sanchez down on the floor and for everybody here at Weber Industries and the World Gladiatorial Federation, we'll see you next time-at The Fights!"

Thank You.

First and foremost, I wish to thank my beautiful wife, Catia, for her constant support and love above and beyond the call of reason, for putting up with me, my weird hours, my weirder questions, and for enduring the constant stream of horror and kung fu movies. You've been my partner, my lover, my confidant and my friend. Thanks for believing in me and for never giving up! As Shakespeare once wrote, 'Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt that I love.'

I also want to thank my kids, Jhustin and Connor, for putting up with me and my moods (both good and bad), for listening when I was prattling on about everything from the code of the samurai to the subtleties of blood splatter and for at least looking like you were paying attention, for acting as stand-ins for all of the fight sequences, and for allowing yourselves to be used as a captive audience. You two make me very proud and I love you more than you will ever know.

Furthermore, I want to thank my mother, Ruth, for raisin' me up right despite considerable odds and for being, above all else, my friend; Annie and Chuck, for being indulgent and understanding and for giving me the two gifts that have truly taken my breath away. Without you guys, this book would have never been completed-literally; Joseph Weber for sound legal advice and for being wise beyond his years. 'Nicolo would be proud of you, my man, but then again, so would the Marquis'; Kyle Cornelius for keeping me grounded; Robert Blue Yount for teaching me that it was possible to aspire to greatness even while 'st.i.tching up a post'; Brian Ellison, Kelly Kuehl, and Johnny Keith for being there even when I wasn't; Charlene, Kaiya, and Julian for bringing joy... and Popeye's; Charles Murray for all those nights 'outside' and for making me laugh time and time again; Tony Cress for sitting up with me night after night, indulging this fable, and making sense; Susan Prunty for taking the time to pick things apart and for being kind enough to not spare my feelings; Rob Weber, Monica Enderle Pierce, Christopher Burch, Stephen Santogrossi and Zarina Hawkins for the critical eye and the insight; William Faith and Monica Richards for the kind permission for Cleese's music and for being my friends; Aaron Acevedo for the artwork and for being so accommodating; Scott Pierce and Richard Valentine for taking me seriously; Jessica Von for the photos and the tacos; and to Paul Wein for one day saying, "You really oughtta write this s.h.i.t down."

And much love to the others who, in one way or another, have allowed me to share their Path with them: Tony Timpone, Michael Gingold, and Chris Alexander at Fangoria & Steve "Uncle Creepy" Barton, KW Low, and Jon Condit at Dread Central for giving me a chance and for continuing to believe in me; Clive Barker, Craig Spector, and Terry Castle for the quotes and for being so kind, Brian Hodge and Travis Milloy for once saying, "That's a nice little story you have there" and for setting the bar so high; Philip Nutman for the taking the time to look things over; Neil Gaiman, Joe R. Lansdale, Chuck Palahniuk, Eiji Yoshikawa, Robert E. Howard, Hunter S. Thompson, Philip K. d.i.c.k, Stewart O'Nan, and Stephen King for sharing and inspiring; Val Lewton, Jacques Tourneur, George Romero, Jorge Grau, Lucio Fulci, Tom Savini, Greg Nicotero, and Zack Snyder for doing it so well, Goblin & l.u.s.tmord for providing the music, John Scoleri for sound advice; Sean Smithson for being rad and for the insight; Jon Edwards for literally being the first person to buy this book; all of the coffee shops this was written and edited in for not kicking me out, and to Howard Stern, Joe Rogan & Redban, Bill Burr, Doug Benson, Kevin Smith, Scott Mosier and Ralph Garman for providing the laughs through the workouts.

I also wish to thank Lee Jun Fan for providing such an amazing example and for the philosophy.

The humblest of praise goes out to Crom.

And to anyone who ever picked up a copy of Carpe Noctem: I made a vow to one day make it all up to you. Please accept this book as a token of my most sincere thanks and apologies.

And finally, to Randy Brown, Sydney McFarlan, and Alex Aguilar....

"I lift my gla.s.s to honor you, my dear departed friends."