No Flesh Shall Be Spared

by Carnell, Thom

  The League fed their fighters well and even though the food was dispensed in a cafeteria-like fashion, its quality was of the highest caliber. The men who toiled here needed sustenance and their requirements were very specific. Nutritionists had designed each menu to give maximum caloric benefit with a minimum amount of fat. Lean buffalo steaks could be both seen and smelled as they sizzled behind the women while large, sumptuous filets of salmon were grilled off to the side. Brown rice and mashed sweet potatoes sat in large pots near a carving station of the leanest prime rib. Bins of romaine lettuce and a literal garden of vegetables completed the mouthwatering tableau.

  The doors leading into the building had only just been unlocked, but already there was a line of hungry people waiting to get in. The stomachs of the compound’s population were more reliable than any Swiss timepiece and their grumbling would let them know when it was time to eat before any clock. When you pushed your body as hard as the fighters here did, food was second only to air in its necessity. The majority of the residents had by now lined up and was slowly working their way through. The others would surely be coming before long.

  Monk and Cleese walked into the room and each grabbed a tray and a fistful of metal utensils which were made available in large plastic bins just inside the door. Taking their time, they quietly circled the room and stepped up to the back of the line. Monk motioned with his head for Cleese to look around. Since Cleese was still getting to know the lay of the land here at the compound, Monk said it was a perfect opportunity for him to size up the competition.

  "Pay attention," Monk all but whispered as he leaned in close. "Knowing who’s who—who you can trust and who’s a complete asshole—could one day save your ass."

  In loose cliques, several social groups had already coalesced at sporadic intervals around the tables. On the far right, near the window, the man known as Robinson sat hacking away at a Fred Flintstone-sized steak. Next to him sat his pal, Murray, who was busy talking and shoveling food into his mouth without even looking to see what it was. The two black men were as big as they came; each with shaved heads and tiny pencil-thin moustaches. They looked like brothers from different mothers. For the most part, these two kept to themselves and had come from a background of mostly streetfighting. Their technique, from what Cleese could see, was raw but effective.

  "Look, it was just a dumb fuckin’ move is all I’m sayin’," Cleese overheard Robinson comment. "That dead bitch made more noise than your momma gettin’ gorilla fucked and you didn’t hear her comin’. If I hadn’t’ve yanked her goddamn lead back, she’d have fucked your ass up for shore."

  "Shit, man," Murray sighed. "I had ’er in my sights. There was no need you worryin’. I was gettin’ to ’er."

  "You were getting’ to jack shit. What the fuck you doing, pacing yourself? She was on your ass, Bro. Weren’t no gettin’ ta nuttin’."

  Cleese smiled at the exchange. Monk had already chastised him for doing some of the same shit. It made him glad to hear he wasn’t the only one making mistakes out there on the sand.

  Across the room were Rustici, Andrews, and St. George: big Eastern Europeans who had fists like bricks and heads twice as hard. Rustici and Andrews had been following St. George around like they were puppies because of his supposed history as a champion Savate fighter back in the day. Whatever St. George had, it had helped keep him alive for the time being and that was good enough for Rustici and Andrews.

  Toward the center of the room was a guy called Lenik who sat with his trainer, Cartwright. Cartwright was about Monk’s age and reminded Cleese of that farmer guy on Captain Kangaroo. He had a look of someone who’d seen a fair amount of shit in his time. He also looked perpetually tired. It was an affect that a lot of the older fighters had.

  Not Monk, though. He was different in that respect. Although he had some grey in his hair, there was still a young man who stared out at you through his eyes.

  Monk said he’d known Cartwright awhile and him being here… Well, it had begun to wear on him. He went on to explain that when a mentor showed that kind of wear, it was never a good thing and was usually a forerunner to the guy making a big fuckin’ mistake. And, as had been made clear time and time again, mistakes meant your ass.

  Lenik was in his late twenties with a splash of blonde hair and a complexion like that of a Sydney Pollack painting. He was in the middle of some diatribe, waving a fork around like a conductor’s baton. Four of the younger fighters—Cloverfield, Shenkel, Gonzales and Llewellyn—were sitting near him and lapping up what he said as if they were his fucking apostles. They all had that "destined to die" glow about them and it just seemed sad. The majority of the other men in the room kept their distance from that clusterfuck.

  Lenik was either too driven by his own ego or too stupid to notice.

  Or maybe… C: All of the above."

  "The thing to remember, Boys," Lenik’s voice rang out above the din, "is to always keep your eyes open. You can bet the rent on one thing and it’s that these sonofabitches are totally brain-dead. They live to eat and they’ll take any opportunity to do so." As he concluded the thought, he stuffed a forkful of food into his yapping mouth.

  Except for taking notes, the younger men were doing everything they could to commit these pearls of rather obvious wisdom to memory. The group of them nodded like those dogs you sometimes see in the back windows of cars.

  Cleese looked at Monk and cocked an eyebrow.

  Monk said nothing. He merely pointed with his index finger to one of his eyes and then pointed back to the crowd as if to say, "pay attention."

  "Jesus, that guy’s a fuckin’ weeping sore," said the square-jawed man in line in front of them. Cleese had seen him around and knew his name to be Hanson. The guy was in The League for some time and his gravelly voice sounded weary and had a hard, bitter edge to it. According to the grapevine, he’d been brought here from what used to be a Muay Thai camp in Thailand. The dude seemed to take great pride in being referred to as "Farang Ba" which, according to Monk, meant "crazy white foreigner." Word was he’d leveled more than his share of zombies back when the shit got shook.

  "The man’s a fuckin’ menace," Hanson growled.

  Cleese nodded to him and looked back over the crowd.

  In front of Hanson, stood Jenkins, Parrish and Borden who, as one, nodded in Lenik’s general direction and made "jack off" motions with their fists. The three men laughed and clapped one another on the back. This exchange, it would seem, was the height of hilarity for them. To be fair, they were fighters Cleese said he needed to keep an eye on. They all trained in the Greek art of Pankration and their training was second only to The Budo Warriors in severity.

  Well, not counting Monk’s, that is.

  Cleese noticed that none of the Budo Warriors was here and thought that odd. He’d heard Chikara kept them on a cruelly sparse diet and they’d been allowed to schedule a different time to eat. Rumor was that the diet she’d concocted for them was mostly brown rice, lightly cooked fish, and green tea. He’d heard one of the Warriors say that it kept them focused. Cleese mused that eating like that would only keep him pissed the fuck off. Focus could never be found at the end of a fork… or the lack thereof.

  The line for food moved incrementally forward, and as Cleese moved with it, he glanced over his shoulder toward the door. It was then that he noticed the imposing figure of Masterson looming like a gargoyle in the corner. As usual, he was dressed in another one of those suits, his arms crossed behind his back in a loose "parade rest" stance. The position seemed to strain the seams of his nicely tailored jacket and make the lapels slightly pucker. His eyes drifted over the crowd appraisingly until they finally connected with Cleese’s and he nodded slightly. His expression never changed, his head just dipped and returned to its former position.

  Soon enough, they’d made their way to the start of the metal counters of the kitchen and Cleese made a note of what Monk piled onto his tray. Every day it was exactly the same. A huge salad
with a large ladle-full of Italian dressing, a large side plate of steamed vegetables, a couple of hot rolls, and an immense cut of salmon were unceremoniously stacked on plates. Then, a chicken breast or two to fill in any gaps. Protein and fiber seemed to be the general theme of the meal. Three twenty-ounce bottles of water were tucked into Monk’s pockets and he was done.

  Damn, Cleese thought, this old fucker could eat.

  Cleese did his best to keep up, but he knew he’d never be able to eat all that, so he adjusted the portions to fit what he knew his stomach’s capacity to be. As the two of them stepped out of line, Monk motioned for them to take the extra trip and find a place far away from the cliques of people.

  "You want none of this bullshit, Son," he said. "Most of these motherfuckers are nothing more than statistics. Half of them will be in a box before the close of the end of the month’s business day."

  Cleese nodded and followed Monk to a more or less deserted part of the Mess Hall. They made their way through the tables and chairs until Monk felt that they were far enough removed from the madding crowd.

  "These assholes will talk your ear off about how you should fight your match," Monk continued saying as they walked, "and if you want to listen to them, fine. I’ll go do a fuckin’ crossword puzzle. But, if you want to stay alive out there on the sand for longer than five fuckin’ minutes, you’ll sit here with me. The only thing those idiots can do is cloud your thinking, and, as we’ve already covered, clouded thinking will lead to you having a very fucked up day."

  Cleese smiled and continued to follow Monk.

  "Lay on, Macduff," Cleese said with a bow.

  Once they’d gotten themselves seated, they ate in relative silence. Periodically, Monk would comment on one thing or another, but it was almost as if he felt that the silence itself was an important aspect of his brand of training. The old man once commented that what was not said between trainer and trainee was almost as, if not more important than what was said.

  "In the silence," he had said, "is where each of you can learn the other’s rhythms."

  And so, they ate without saying much of anything.

  Soon, Monk leaned back in his chair and belched loudly, signaling that he was done.

  "So," he said raising and lowering his eyebrows as he picked at his teeth with the edge of his fingernail, "you want to go look at more training tapes, my young prodigy?"

  "Sure," Cleese said and stuffed the last bit of a roll into his mouth. "As you know, I live for that shit."

  They got to their feet and quickly bussed their trays. The conversation in the room had more or less died down to a dull roar now that almost everyone had eaten. There were still bursts of laughter as well as some hooting and hollering going on, but for the most part things became a lot more quiet. For the majority of the fighters, this meal signaled the end of another tough day of training. The only thing left to do was unwind, soothe tired muscles and try to get some sleep in order to be rested enough to do it all again tomorrow. These were the fighters who took things seriously enough to adhere to a regimen and because of that, they stood a better chance of surviving.

  The rest of them would drink, shoot pool in the Administration Building and try not to go stir crazy. These men were the ones who’d come here carrying a lot of personal baggage. They were the ones who’d been recruited from biker and street gangs and raising hell would always be their primary vocation. Cleese understood the mindset all too well. He often wondered which group he would have fallen into had it not been for Monk, who believed in a happy medium between the two.

  Monk and Cleese dumped what little remained of their meals into one of the big rubber trashcans near a back door and left their trays in a bin nearby. They walked the periphery of the room and, as they approached the exit, Cleese saw Masterson moving like a shark toward them.

  "Ah, shit," Monk said turning his face away so Masterson couldn’t see it. "Keep walking."

  "Monk," Masterson said as he intercepted them at the door. "Cleese."

  "Masterson," Monk said and smiled a mirthless smile.

  Cleese just nodded.

  "How are things going with our new man here?"

  "They’re ok. I still think he’s too old and he doesn’t listen too well, but… Give me enough time with him and he shouldn’t get himself killed too quickly."

  "Hey, man…" Cleese said feigning insult, "that shit hurts my feelings. You wound me, Monk. You really do."

  "Yeah, well… if you’re looking for sympathy, it’s in the dictionary between ‘shit’ and ‘syphilis.’"

  Masterson smirked and nodded.

  "I see things are indeed going well. Well, welcome again, Cleese. We’re happy to have you here with us."

  Cleese raised his eyebrows in surprise. Masterson didn’t seem the type to give out compliments or warm greetings. This was not the same guy who’d kicked him out of bed not so long ago. For the life of him, Cleese wasn’t sure whether it was a sign that things really were going well or that Masterson was merely blowing smoke up his ass.

  He hoped it was the former because he hated the latter.

  "You aren’t going to get all mushy on me are you, Masterson?" Cleese said. "You know how I hate it when you get emotional."

  "I think it’s a safe bet to say, ‘No.’" Masterson said, coming as close as Cleese had ever seen him to genuinely smiling.

  "Well, we’d love to stand around talking all night," Monk said, "but we were just on our way to the Tape Library to review some of the last Live Event matches."

  Monk moved toward the exit.

  "Come along, young squire."

  "Yep," he said, and took a step away, inwardly glad to be away from the conversation since Masterson—from the day they first met—made him feel skittish. Every fiber of Cleese’s body told him not to trust the guy. Maybe it was the memory of their first contact when Masterson demanded he get onto that Blackhawk. Maybe it was the way he never felt he knew what was going on behind that dark suit and those even darker eyes. Maybe it was just simply that viper-like smile. Cleese didn’t know and, quite frankly, he didn’t want to know. He knew that he couldn’t be trusted and that he wanted to always keep a little distance between Masterson and himself.

  "Hold on one second, Cleese," Masterson said. "Monk, Cleese will catch up with you in a moment."

  Monk shot a glance back and locked eyes with Cleese as if to say, "Watch yourself."

  Masterson pulled Cleese over to the side of the door.

  "Son," Masterson said in a tone that was almost conspiratorial, "I was asked by Corporate to let you know that some very important people have been watching the training tapes of your sparring with Monk and we’re all very impressed. We see big things in your future if you continue to do as well as you have been."

  Cleese looked at him for a moment and wondered, what would make someone who couldn’t have cared less if he’d lived or died a few short weeks ago suddenly start sucking his dick like this? It just didn’t make a whole lotta sense. While he considered it, he decided to dole out a little more rope to see if Masterson would hang himself with it.

  "Well, thanks. I’m actually enjoying this more than I thought I would."

  "That’s good to hear, Cleese," Masterson said with that snakey smile again and all the while staring at him. After pausing for effect, he continued talking, "You don’t know how close you came to being booted outta here after that piece of business with Michaels in the weight room." He paused as if to make his point and then, "We want to see you do well here. If there’s anything you ever need, you let us know, ok?"

  Little alarms starting going off in Cleese’s head. The feeling was like termites eating their way into the back of his skull. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something suddenly felt more than a little bit hinkey to him. A voice in the back of his head urged him to move along; to get as far away from this slimy fuck as possible. It was a voice that Cleese was used to listening to and he couldn’t comply fast enough to suit him.
/>
  "Well, golly…" Cleese said, his voice spiced with just a hint of sarcasm. Despite the creepy feeling he got from Masterson, there was still a part of him that took a bit of pleasure from fucking with him. "I really appreciate you saying that, Buddy, but I really should go and catch up with Monk."

  Masterson’s shoulders almost imperceptibly bunched up, but he quickly regained control of himself and smiled that unnerving smile again.

  "We’ll talk again, Cleese. We’re looking forward to seeing what you can bring to The League."

  Cleese nodded and stepped away from the conversation. He smiled slightly and slowly walked toward the door.

  Almost dismissively, Masterson returned his gaze to the crowd in order to continue his observation of the fighters still left in the room. After a moment, he turned to eye Cleese suspiciously as he disappeared through the doors.

  Communion of The Dead

  Before…

  But now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first fruits of them that slept.

  For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead.

  For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.

  - I Corinthians 15:20-22

  The first rays of the sun broke through a dense cloud bank and fell upon the city as the bells of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church rang out into the crystalline morning. The once bustling metropolis around the little church lay, as it had for weeks now, not merely sleeping, but quite literally dead to the world. Newspapers with headlines which proclaimed "The Dead Walk," "National Guard Overwhelmed," and "President Declares State of Emergency," blew about the deserted streets like origami tumbleweeds; detritus from a world gone terminal. Packs of what were once domesticated dogs roamed the desolate streets and avenues and searched for whatever food might have been left behind. Their masters, who were now far beyond caring about much of anything except the unrelenting hunger burning in their gullets, searched alongside them although their goal was for a far more elusive prey. The skyscrapers and office buildings of this slain city towered above the tiny, masonry church and cast its painted edifice in a continual shadow. The heavy, wooden doors of the parish stood propped open in welcome and, one by one, the reanimated dead were slowly finding their way inside.