No Flesh Shall Be Spared (13 page)

Outside the office door, loud thumping sounds were suddenly heard. Peeking back the way he’d come, he peered back into the dim loading area. A muffled, baritone moaning was added to the din coming from the washing machines to his left and the radio behind him. He looked around the loading area and saw nothing. Suddenly, he realized where the sound was coming from—the shipping container. The corpse inside was no doubt banging its fists futilely against the inside of its sealed casket, trying to let itself out. Its moans were born from a combination of rampant hunger and abject frustration.

"OK… that’s it! I am done. Time to find my fucking keys and get the hell out of Dodge!"

Jeffrey surveyed the office and finally saw his keys sitting on the desk. Forsaking his suit coat on the hook on the wall, he snatched them up and headed for the door. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted. The door came open and he stopped abruptly.

What if there are more of them out here?

Cautiously, he poked his head out of the doorway and took stock of the parking lot. The area seemed empty except for his car which sat in its usual parking space at the far end under the tree. He carefully took a step out and continued to scan the lot. For a moment, his mind made every shape and shadow come alive with menace, but soon, he saw that everything lay quiet.

Thank God for small favors, eh?

He turned and quietly pulled the door shut behind him. The last thing he heard from the office as the door clock clicked shut was a voice pouring coldly from the clock radio’s small speaker. Everything he heard only served to confirm his worst fears.

…every dead body that is not exterminated will rise, Ladies and Gentlemen. It will get up and, as remarkable as it sounds, it will attack. Any person that is killed or injured will do the same. Any and all dead or bitten persons must be exterminated by destroying the brain or severing the head from the person’s neck. Fire works as well. Whatever is happening must be controlled before it’s too late! They’re simply multiplying too quickly!!

 "Yeah," he said as he headed off into the night, "no shit."

The Chest

The Chest was a flat, nondescript concrete building set away from things near the back of the compound and its Firing Range. The structure lacked any adornment or sense of style. It was a cement cheese box that looked a whole hell of a lot like an exhumed bomb shelter. Its roof was flat and level with a low retaining wall which ran around the building’s perimeter. Inside its thick, unadorned walls ran row after row of wooden, floor-to-ceiling storage racks. In each frame were carefully delineated spaces, each marked with a designated number that referred to a very specific piece of equipment.

It was an Obsessive-Compulsive’s wet dream.

As they walked inside and out of the day’s heat, the look of the place and its musty odor immediately reminded Cleese of an old warehouse job he’d had when he was a much younger man. It was just another shitty job in a long succession of shitty jobs, however, he’d quit it in a particularly spectacular fashion. One slow summer’s night he nearly drowned his prick of a boss in a toilet bowl after an intellectual debate over who was the better Stooge—Curly or Shemp—had gone undecided.

And to think… some said he had anger issues.

A long countertop extended from the wall and across the front of the space, blocking off the door from the long rows of racks. A pad of paper, a pen, and a bell sat in the middle of its flat surface. The rest of the counter was empty, clean and decidedly orderly.

"Weaver!" Monk called into the dark stacks as he repeatedly hammered on the bell. "You here?"

Cleese looked at Monk and the two of them shrugged. Nothing and no one could be seen in the darkness. Monk banged on the bell some more… just to make sure.

"Weaver! Wake the fuck up back there!"

From the rear of the room, its sound dampened by the racks, came a man’s deep, but jovial voice.

"You need to get the hell offa that bell or else the next time someone wants to ring it they’ll have to put their hand up your ass to do it."

Monk smiled again and hit the bell three more times.

"Get your sorry ass out here, Old Man!" Monk shouted into the darkness.

"Saaaay, did somebody just shit in my Supply?" said the deep voice buoyed by just a hint of laughter. "Gawd, I seen dead ’uns that smelt better."

Out of the shadows at the back of the room emerged a big bear of a man—six four if he was an inch—with a furry, salt and pepper beard and large, round glasses. He looked a lot like Santa Claus… if Saint Nick had spent a lifetime on anabolic steroids.

"Oh, it’s only you, Monk. I thought somebody’d taken a dump on my nice, clean floor." Weaver kicked at the small mounds of sawdust which made up the flooring.

Monk laughed out loud and nudged Cleese with his shoulder.

"You’ll have to forgive him," and Monk winked at Cleese, "he’s not been himself since Calvin Coolidge left office."

The two men smiled at one another with a genuine affection and shook hands.

"We still on for Friday Follies?" Weaver asked. Cleese learned early on of how the two friends made it a habit of hanging out on the roof of The Chest every Friday night smoking Macanudo cigars and drinking single malt scotch. It was something they’d done for a long time. Those nights were an institution and to be included was a high honor indeed.

"Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Bubba. Tradition is, after all, tradition."

"This your new Cherry?" Weaver looked Cleese over with a familiar appraising eye.

Monk nodded.

"Shit, you oughtta see this guy. He fights like your mom…" and Monk again nudged Cleese and winked. "Only, if I remember right, your momma kicked a little more ass than he does… or was it that she took it in the ass a little more, I forget which."

Both men fell out, laughing; this insult game was obviously a favorite and important part of their friendship.

"You got a name, Cherry?" asked Weaver, putting on a straight face.

"Cleese. My name… is Cleese."

"Hmm…" the old man said, looking him up and down like he was breeding stock. "You’re here to gear up, yes?"

Cleese nodded.

"Ok…" Weaver said as he scratched at his beard. "I’m guessin’ you’re about a 36 waist, right?"

A bit surprised, Cleese nodded and said, "How’d you know?"

"I’ve been at this shit for too got-damn long not to know a man’s size at a glance, Son. You wear a large shirt, eh?"

Again, Cleese nodded.

"Not any more, Junior. People in the cheap seats want to see all those muscles you’ve been working so hard on. You’re in a medium now and you’ll do sit-ups until you want to puke your nuts up in order to fit into it."

Weaver looked at Monk and grinned.

"Here we go…" said Weaver and he walked backward toward the shadows of the racks. "I’ll send all of the shit I give you today to your crib and to your locker, but everything you get you need to care for. This ain’t Macy’s where shit gets replaced."

Weaver turned and, without another word, disappeared back into the shadows. Within a minute or so, he called out over the stacks.

"Shoes?"

"Huh?" questioned Cleese, looking toward Monk in confusion.

"He wants to know your shoe size."

Cleese looked down at his boots.

"Umm… Twelve."

As he looked up, Cleese heard a loud thump. A pair of size twelve, black, military combat boots was sitting, rocking slightly, on the counter. Weaver had already disappeared back into the racks. For a man as big as he was, he moved damn fast.

"Lessee… pants: black, leather, size thirty-six; socks: black, size ten to twelve; BVDs: black, size… People accuse me of being an optimist, so I’m going to say ‘large.’ Let’s see… wife-beaters: black, medium.

He ran off the list that he kept solely in his head; pulling each item in turn from the shelves, thumping them down onto the counter, and then continuing on to the next item.

"Tunic: black, with… lessee… purple accents, size… medium." Weaver held up a shirt that glittered in the sparse light. It was made of neoprene, like a wet suit, only the sleeves were removed and replaced with what looked like chain-mail. Attached at the end of the shirt’s arms were what looked like leather gloves. The trunk of the shirt ended just at about the bottom of the ribcage.

Cleese glanced over at Monk.

"A fighter going out because of a small bite on the arm is bad for business. The crowds feel cheated. So, we protect your arms with this chain-mail. It’s kind of like one them shark suits you see on the Discovery Channel. However, if you’ll notice, it’s not all about protecting your monkey-ass. We’ve left your belly and throat exposed so that if a UD gets a good hold of you there…" Monk shrugged. "Game over."

Cleese eyed the leather gloves and noticed that they were in fact not leather, but rather a unique kind of synthetic material. The surface was shinier and looked almost porous.

"What’s with the gloves? Is that Kevlar?"

Weaver smiled.

"Good eye, kid. Those are Blackhawk Hellstorm S.O.L.A.G. gloves with a dual-layer and PittardsWR100X and Armortan treated goatskin leather."

"In the beginning, we lost a lot of fighters due to them punching on the UDs and cutting their hands on the bastard’s teeth," Monk chimed in. "As it turns out, breaking the skin by getting your hand cut from a punch and breaking it cause one of the fuckers bit you is not much of a difference. Infection is infection. Weaver here came up with attaching military tactical gloves to the tunic. The man’s like fuckin’ MacGuyver."

Weaver gave a small bow and smiled.

"I do have my moments."

Cleese rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and laughed with a quiet snort.

Man, this just keeps getting better and better.

"Now," said Weaver as he approached the counter, grinning like a mental patient, "Let’s talk a bit about weaponry."

Weaver rubbed his meaty hands together and got an evil look in his eye.

"Ok, so… Guns! Guns! Guns!"

Cleese stood a little bit straighter. Once again, he knew that this was a discussion in which he would need to pay a lot of attention. Weaponry was something Cleese had worried about from the beginning. He had a few ideas of his own regarding the things he would need to fight these unholy sons-a-bitches. He didn’t want to get stuck out there with some shitty-ass gear just because he was the "new" guy.

"Sidearm… Beretta 92F… and three—count ’em—three extra clips," Weaver said with a smile.

With a heavy, metallic clunk, the pistol and magazines which were wrapped in a blue cloth marked with the League’s logo were set on the counter before Cleese. The smell of gun oil wafted bitterly in the air. He picked up the pistol and hefted the weight of it in his hands. It was black as sin and had obviously been well maintained.

"Ok," he said, and nodded his head. "This’ll work…"

"Now, we’ll need to get you a bladed weapon…" Weaver stood behind the counter and looked at Cleese as if he were going to guess his weight. "You got a preference, Hotshot? Katana? Machete? Push dagger? Spork?"

"Actually, yeah…" Cleese said and, almost as if he were embarrassed by it, drew a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket. "Can I get something like this?"

Weaver pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose, bent at the waist, and looked at the crude sketch laid out in front of him.

"Ok… this shit just got all kindsa interesting," Weaver looked at Monk and smiled broadly.

Cleese looked at his partner and cocked his head.

"Weaver loves to make shit. He’s never been a particular fan of ‘off the rack,’ y’know?"

Cleese nodded and turned back toward the counter.

On the small piece of paper which Weaver now held in his hand, Cleese had drawn a metal gauntlet in pencil and what the drawing lacked in technique it made up for in ingenuity. The sleeve went over the right hand and nestled against the musculature midway up the forearm. A thin leather strap was visible, wrapped tightly around the wrist and forearm, securing the contraption so that it became an extension of the arm. From the back of the hand, a shaft of steel protruded out what looked to be about eight or nine inches.

"The blade needs to be spring-loaded, and it has to lock. Also, I’ll need it to be able to retract when this catch is released." Cleese jabbed a thick finger at the drawing designating the back of the hand. A crudely drawn mechanism had been scrawled there. "The point and the sides of the blade need to be sharp. The point is for stabbing. The sides are for slashing."

Monk looked up and saw the two men staring at one another with mischievous grins spreading like butter across their faces.

"Well?" Cleese asked, "What do ya think?"

Weaver winked at him and smiled approvingly.

"I think that you’re one sick, fuckin’ bastard," Weaver said through his grin.

Monk, who was looking over Cleese’s shoulder, barked out a laugh.

"Can you make it?" Cleese asked.

"Oh, I can build this, all right." Weaver said. "I just think you need professional help is all."

Cleese looked over at Monk and smirked. He wasn’t exactly sure, but he thought he saw a new measure of acceptance shining in Monk’s dark eyes. It was as if this choice of weapon had proven him to be a man worthy of Monk’s friendship, and more importantly, worthy of his tutelage. In this game where Life and Death were concepts easily bandied about, Cleese found a small bit of acceptance in the older man’s eyes, and for some reason, that was something that mattered to him a great deal.

Weaver spoke and broke the awkward silence.

"Ok, well like I said, I’ll have all this shit and this little masterpiece of yours taken to your crib when they’re done," he said.

Weaver reached his hand out and shook Cleese’s hand firmly.

"I look forward to seeing you work, Mr. Cleese."

Monk clapped his hand across Cleese’s shoulders and pulled him toward the door.

"C’mon, Badass… I’ve got something you need to see."

The Holding Pen