No Flesh Shall Be Spared (34 page)

As the thing tried to sit up, Jimbo leapt high into the air and came down with both feet—hard—on the thing’s chest. His heavy boots were driven with debilitating force onto the dead man’s sternum. A loud cracking sound echoed across the pen.

The crowd "oooh-ed" and "awwww-ed" as if they’d experienced the blow firsthand. Blood, black and oil-like, pumped from the thing’s mouth in lumpy pulses. A tortured, confused look dissipated like mist from the dead man’s features. Its labored attempts at drawing breath broke the stillness in an asthmatic pant.

Jimbo squatted over the crushed thing and, for a second, watched it burble and cough as it struggled for breath. The giant grabbed his opponent and lifted him from the ground and put him in a half-nelson in a quick motion. From a side-sheath, he deftly drew a blade and cut deep into the musculature of the thing’s neck. As deep, maroon dribbled out and onto the undead thing’s chest, Jimbo cut and twisted the head around on the stalk of its neck, working it back and forth. His actions were accompanied by stomach-turning, wet, crunching sounds. A garbled choking came from deep within the throat of the dead man. Jimbo pulled and wrenched and soon, his efforts were rewarded. The thing’s head came away from its body, dragging a portion of its shattered spine along with it.

The crowd became very silent as it watched Jimbo claim his grisly trophy.

By now, Jimbo’s bare upper body was drenched in gore. He stood slowly, hefting the severed head by its hair. The dead thing’s eyes danced and whirled in their sockets while blood fell dark and cancerous from its mouth, nose and stump of a neck.

Jimbo walked slowly toward the side of the corral, extending his hand and the head it held like an offering to both his partner and to the crowd. The crowd collectively took a step backward. One woman off to the side vomited and turned away.

Weber smiled broadly and turned to the crowd, centering his gaze on both Cecil and the good Hansford Tillman. He dropped his arms around the two men’s shoulders and patted them like a brother on their backs.

"Gentlemen… I think our point is made, don’t you?"

He turned and extended his hand in anticipation of his payment. The faces of the gathered people were a mixture of disgust and amazement. It was pretty clear that the mountain of a man before them was more than he seemed and could handle the reanimated dead with apparent ease.

"I think it’s fair to say that Jimbo and I are both owed our payment."

By this time, Jimbo had arrived at the railing and looked inquisitively at Weber. His boss acknowledged him and continued to keep his hand extended in order to accept the money the locals were digging reluctantly from their pockets.

When Jimbo saw the winnings being handed over, he knew that there would be no trouble. Mr. Weber had taught him to always wait until the money had been exchanged before relaxing. In other camps, at other times, people had periodically been unwilling to pay, figuring some kind of fix was in. Like that was possible.

At those times, Mr. Weber would remind them all of what Jimbo had just done to a thing he cared little to nothing about. He would then suggest to them the kind of damage Jimbo could and would inflict once he had a certain vested interest.

As if by magic, the money would always appear.

"Hell, Mister," Cecil said sounding repulsed. "I don’t rightly believe what the fuck I just saw, but yeah… I think you have indeed proved your point."

Jimbo now smiled to this crowd like a child seeking praise and casually tossed the head over his shoulder. The thing hit the ground with a wet "chud" sound and rolled to a stop at Bubba’s feet. The dead man’s eyes still twirled in their sockets as the severed head rolled to a stop in the dirt. Bubba looked nauseated and pulled away as if his mother’s sex-soaked panties had been laid at his feet.

As Jimbo wiped his hands off on the thighs of his pants and stepped out of the corral, Mr. Weber finished gathering up their money. Once clear of the railing, he stood to his full height and once again smiled for all to see. The crowd took a hesitant step back and gave him a wide berth.

Both Weber and Jimbo knew down deep in their bones that they were on to something here. This same scenario had played itself out now for weeks. The two of them would come into a camp like this, wait for an opportunity, and then they’d make their move. The whole deal was starting to look pretty sweet. And if they were careful and played their cards right, this gig could turn into something substantial. Mr. Weber would often talk to Jimbo late into the night about how rich all of this was going to make them both.

For Jimbo’s part, he was just happy to have someone he could trust. Life was hard when your thinking was simple and it was important to have someone you could rely on. Mr. Weber could do the thinking and the talking… and Jimbo would do what Jimbo did best.

The arrangement seemed a good one, at least to Jimbo’s way of thinking.

As long as Jimbo could keep from making a mistake and keep himself from getting bit, things would be fine. Besides, there was plenty of money and food and women for them both. Mr. Weber was his friend and Jimbo was sure he wouldn’t let anything bad happen.

"Well, folks…" Weber said as he rolled his winnings into a tight ball and shoved it into his pocket. "I appreciate your patronage. Now if you’ll excuse us, Jimbo and I must be on our way."

Weber had learned that it was important to get while the gettin’ was good. Make your score and hit the road was proving to be the best course of action for them. He’d come to know that if you gave the fleeced sheep long enough to think about it, they’d forget about the danger and the implied threat and decide they’d want their money back. Gambling losses had a way of making people braver than they should be. Sooner or later, the image of Jimbo tearing a dead man to pieces would fade and only the hole in their pockets would remain. It would be shortly after that they’d remember the guns in their hands and the vastly superior numbers. It was better that the two of them would be halfway to the next bivouac by then.

Weber patted Jimbo on the back and directed him back the way they’d come through the crowd. As they walked along, the mass of people before them once again parted and made way. Once they’d moved by, the crowd closed again, swallowing them up.

Back by the side of the corral, Cecil looked around at the awed faces of his friends and neighbors. Then, he turned and stared at the severed head laying in the dirt and moving its eyes near Bubba’s feet. Still trying to piece it all together, he ran his hand through his hair, scratching his head in thought.

"Well, son of a bitch…" he muttered softly and then wandered off to get himself another beer.

Valedictions

The crowd within the Allied Sports Center coiled in upon itself like a viper preparing to strike. Its combined weight squashed down into the seats of the stadium and made the foundation of the building growl like a hungry animal. 19,939 paying customers had packed themselves into the building for tonight’s televised broadcast of The World Gladiatorial Federation’s
Fight Night
. The event was being broadcast to an estimated 19.4 million Pay Per View subscribers in the US and another 240 million worldwide via the Internet.

Teams of baton-wielding security guards were out in full force patrolling the coliseum both inside and out; making sure that no one in the crowd got carried away by the night’s festivities. People could often get unruly at these events, especially when the matches had been exciting and there was plenty of blood on the sand. When there was more than the usual amount of carnage, the people responded to it and could get caught up in the moment. If unchecked, there were usually a lot of fights and more than a fair share of stabbings. The presence of a heavily armed security force ensured that people behaved themselves.

It was shortly before the night’s opening match and Cleese found himself sitting out behind the arena, immersing himself in night’s cool air. He’d already gotten into most of his gear and wanted just a few minutes to himself before his first match was scheduled to begin. He still needed to hook up with Weaver and get the finished gauntlet, but he thought he deserved some time alone. He glanced at a clock mounted above one of the loading ramps.

It was still early.

He figured that he had a little time to kill before it was time to kill.

He leaned up against one of the League’s large Mack trucks parked regimentally in the loading bays behind the stadium. The metal of the truck felt cool against his back as he rested against it. He’d only been sitting there for a few moments when he heard footsteps come up softly behind him.

"This a private moment?" he heard Monk ask, half-kidding, but also not. No one knew better than Monk how nerve-wracking the time just before a match could be. He was sensitive to it and didn’t want to cloud his protégé’s mind with unnecessary blather.

"No… Of course not, Buddy." Cleese made room on the fender for his mentor and friend.

"Lemme guess…" Monk said paternally, "you’re out here keeping yourself busy chewing over the hows, whys, and wherefores…"

"Of what?"

"…of how exactly it is that you ended up in this predicament."

Cleese stared at him silently for a second and then said softly, "Yeah, something like that."

"I wouldn’t beat myself up too much over it, Cochise. Look at it this way: you’re just a guy to whom God—or The Big Stuffed Panda—has given the wrong set of skills," he said with a grin. "Put that into a blender along with poverty, debauchery, and you being a bit of a sociopath and—voilà!—welcome to The League."

"Well, that certainly is helpful. I don’t know what I was thinking."

Monk shrugged and continued, "Fuck it, Slugger. Why ask why? All you gotta do is go out there and play the hand you were dealt." He leaned back and settled in against the truck.

"Life just made you one badass motherfucker and now…" another shrug, "now it’s time for you to show Life a little appreciation."

Monk gently nudged Cleese in the ribs with his elbow.

"Shit, I know nothing ever comes at a cheap price, Son. But, listen… This is your time. These people ain’t ever seen the likes of you. You were born for this shit. Hell, I’ve seen lots of guys who thought they were, too," he shook his head, "They weren’t shit. I watched as they scraped every one of them dumb motherfuckers out of the sand with a kitty litter scoop."

Cleese looked over at his friend across the darkness. Monk had become, over the last few short months, a closely-held and valued person in his life. There were far too few of those growing up.

After his Dad left, the only men he felt he could trust were the ones he’d found in books. He’d read once—and growing up he was someone who haunted the public library like a ghost—that Nature abhorred a vacuum and, like it or not, something always rushed in to fill a void. Without a male role model in his life, he was drawn to the heroes that lived in fiction. The men he found there were men of strength and courage. They were men of ideals—of honor—who possessed a deep-seated sense of loyalty. They had all of the qualities that the men he’d met in real life lacked. To him, the heroes he’d found in books were like gods and, as a result, he dreamed of one day being like them. And so, names like Conan of Cimmeria, Solomon Kane, Bran Mak Morn, John Carter and Miyamoto Musashi were hallowed and inscribed upon his heart and into his soul. They were the personalities who’d made him into the man he was and remained ideals for the kind of man he wanted to be.
Now
, he thought to himself,
Monk’s name would be written there as well.

Deep down though, he knew that after tonight both of their lives were going to change… and change for good. Monk was off to do his time in the UFL and then to live out his days with his daughter and her family—to tend cattle or sheep or some shit like that.

Cleese… Cleese would continue on to whatever fate The Pit had in store for him.

One man stood at the end of his road and the other stood at the beginning.

Cleese knew without a doubt that after tonight nothing would ever be the same.

"You ain’t gonna try to kiss me, are ya?" Cleese asked, coming apart with laughter on the last word. He leaned back and chuckled to the emptiness of the night’s sky.

"Like fuck…" Monk guffawed, shaking his head. "You’re one stupid motherfucker. Do you know that? I ought to just go back in there and get a bird’s eye view of you getting your dumb ass torn limb from fucking limb."

"I love it when you talk dirty."

Monk stepped away from the truck and started to walk away. He looked back, almost forlornly, and smiled at Cleese.

"Welp… I guess I’m a ghost. My ride leaves in a few and I’m off to my greater glory. It’s time for me to share my immense body of knowledge elsewheres. It’s been a real pleasure, Fucknut," Monk said and waved his hand casually into the air. "Try not to get killed out there."

Cleese smiled.

"Well… Considering that I was trained by you… I oughtta be dead in just about a minute or two."

Monk put on a stern face and silently pointed his index finger at his friend. Then he turned and walked away. He was never a man for soppy farewells. Monk figured that in a game as close knit as this, sooner or later, they’d see each other again. If not in the near future, then someday.

"When this is all over for you, come visit me," Monk said over his shoulder. "I’ll show you how to milk a sheep."

"You don’t milk sheep, you ignorant sop," Cleese said smiling. "You milk cows."

"Sheep… cows… same fuckin’ difference."

Cleese watched his friend’s back recede until his form disappeared back into the shadows.

"I’ll be seeing you, old man," Cleese said under his breath. He looked towards the door of the arena and smirked, "…hopefully in a better place than this. Although, with the kind of luck we both have, it’ll probably be in one a whole helluva lot worse."

Cleese walked off grinning toward the back entrance of the arena.

~ * ~

Weaver caught up with Cleese as he waited at the entry to the walkway which led down to the Pit. He walked hurriedly, toting a small canvas bag under his arm. The large man waddled as he walked and when he got up next to Cleese, he was short of breath.