No Flesh Shall Be Spared (16 page)

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.

The interior walls of the church rose up majestically toward the heavens, adorned in the consecrated imagery of faith and forgiveness; portraits of repentance granted and redemption won. What little light there was inside had seeped into the building through two large, stained glass windows set in the masonry walls on either side of the gilded altar. The ornately decorated Sanctuary loomed at the far end of the church. Above it, a domed apse loomed high and was painted a soft sky blue. Statues carved with an obvious reverence stood regally on either side of the expansive nave where the congregation would sit and bear silent witness to the downfall of an over-confident and sinful world. The light of the fluttering candles at the feet of the sculptures added minutely to the sparse illumination within the room. Once, this place of worship had as its guests king and pauper, billionaire and bum. These days, only the shambling multitude came to hear the Word of God, for they were all that seemed to be left.

As the sun pressed its way through the clouds and continued its rise in the eastern sky, the lumbering host straggled in through the church’s doors for that morning’s mass. The Dead had come in all manner of creation—or disintegration might be a more apt term—held together despite the ravages of Time and her twin sister, Decomposition. But come they did for this was once a holy place in their minds and therefore held great import in their lives. They would come and continue to come, no doubt, for as long as their slowly putrefying bodies were able.

~ * ~

An uneven hush settled over the assembled congregation as Father Handel entered the church proper through a side door. He approached the pulpit at a languorous pace, carefully orchestrating his arrival’s sense of drama. Tall and once considered to be good-looking, the priest moved slowly across the Chancel at the front of the room, his gait betraying both his stress and his advancing age. What remained of his once dark hair had gone silver and now laid slicked back across his rapidly diminishing pate. The white vestments of his station hung from his bony shoulders like a flag on a windless day. His manner was that of an already fatigued man pushed far beyond his limits of endurance. It would have been obvious to anyone looking into the church that these last weeks had been an exhausting ordeal for him. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anyone in the vicinity left alive to witness his deterioration, so that point was a moot one.

Silence settled erratically over the crowd like a flock of nervous pigeons as he took his place at the lectern. Father Handel quietly waited for the crowd to completely calm themselves before looking up and addressing them. He was confident that there would be none of the disruptions that sometimes interrupted his services of the past. For this was St. Joseph’s and those gathered, despite their advanced state of decay and murderous recent history, instinctively knew that here—now—propriety would still rule the day. Father Handel had seen to that, gently but insistently. This almost civil behavior was one of the small accomplishments in which the priest felt he could take a slight amount of pride. He’d managed to make contact—to really connect—with these dead souls and impart to them a concept they’d actually been able to understand and one with which they could comply. Yes, there were odd disturbances here and there, but for the most part, things went according to the church’s preordained liturgy.

As the priest looked up from his podium and formally addressed the congregation, the group rose clumsily as one to their feet. Some did so awkwardly, rocking from foot to foot like they were drunk or mentally ill. While others stood in stillness, blindly following the group, staring gape-mouthed straight ahead. Hair mussed, clothes torn and spattered with blood, they stared with wide eyes and open mouths at the altar, awed as if by the presence of God himself.

There was Mrs. Roselli in her usual pew. The heavy Italian woman who once wore her piety like a shawl now stared blankly up at the Corpus Christi and reacted as if she were seeing the sculpture for the very first time. A bit of her husband’s half-chewed and decomposing lower leg, which she still held lovingly in her arms, fell unnoticed from her torn lip and hit the floor with a sharp wet sound. A small toddler with blue-tinged skin crawled about the floor under her seat and quickly retrieved the fallen morsel. Eagerly, the child stuffed the meat into her toothless mouth.

Despite the service beginning around him, The Honorable Judge Harris sat wearing his pajamas in the centre aisle, legs splayed akimbo, trying in vain to form a cross with the two matted femur bones he’d brought along with him. He continually looked from the crucifix on the wall to the bones in his hands as if unsure of how he might make one become the other. Soon his attention wandered and his gaze came to rest on the thing he’d set lovingly in his lap. The crimson lump was now a highly valued thing in his undead world and one that he considered to be of the utmost importance. He’d torn it unceremoniously from his wife’s chest as she slept. Now the chambered muscle lay cold and still in his hands. He cradled the treasure protectively for it was to be his offering for the service’s expected collection plate.

Along the main aisle near the back of the room sat little Julie Brown, a raven-haired girl to whom Father Handel had given First Communion only a month or two earlier, in a time just before the world unraveled. As she fingered a small hole in her torn and darkly matted dress, one of her bright blue eyes hung limply from its shattered socket. When Father Handel’s gaze fell upon her, she smiled. Her grin was at once wide and malignant. Her mouth held splintered teeth and clotted blood; clumps of human flesh caught between the shattered dentition.

It was evident from the empty gazes and confused stares that most of The Dead could not remember how they had come to be what they were. None could recall the cataclysm which had brought them this state of decrepitude. They only glimpsed ghost-like shadows of their past on the ragged curtains of their minds. Knowing nothing else, the multitude was forever compelled to try to recreate their dimly remembered lives. It was why many of them were here today.

Father Handel placed his tired, worn hands on the pulpit and bowed his head. The congregation fell back clumsily into their seats. He waited patiently for silence to once again return to this, his undead fold. In that short time his mind wandered and he was free to momentarily consider his present circumstances.

In the first few days of The Dead’s return the priest would have been very much opposed to the idea of willingly walking into a room full of "Shufflers," as they were called by those who were still living in the fortified encampments outside the city. He’d heard some of the refugees talking on the short wave radio which kept him company through the long nights in the empty rectory. At first, he’d begged them repeatedly to come to his aid, but it soon became apparent, due to the overwhelming numbers of The Dead still left in the city, that any such rescue mission would only end in all of their deaths. Father Handel soon came to accept himself as a sort of Robinson Crusoe who was marooned amidst a lethal and yet lifeless sea.