No Flesh Shall Be Spared (15 page)

As Cleese stood there gaping at it, the thing became more and more excited as it pushed its snarling face against the fencing. Soon, its manner became down-right frantic and its furor began to affect the other UDs held in the pen. As Cleese stepped away, he caught a quick glimpse of the blood-spattered clerical collar which surrounded the thing’s ravaged throat.

"Monk! Are you fuckin’ nuts?"

The shout came from out of the darkness, from one of the guard towers across the Pen.

Adamson.

"Get that fuckin’ idiot away from there. He’s agitating my herd!"

Cleese shot Monk a quick glance and took another two steps back. The look on his face was comical: eyes wide like china plates, mouth slung open as if waiting to catch flies. He stood there grinning and offering up a silent apology.

"This’s what you’ll be fightin’, Son," Monk said. "Never forget how that one snuck up on ya. This ain’t San Francisco, Sparky, where you’ll see ’em all comin’. Here, they’ll bag ya and tag ya when you least expect it."

He dropped his arm back across Cleese’s shoulder and led him back through the darkness and toward the exit.

"Always remember…" Monk said quietly in Cleese’s ear, "it’s not the one you hear that’ll get you. It’s the one that you don’t."

Cleese nodded and tried to swallow his heart which had leapt up into his throat and thumped there like a trapped rabbit’s. Together, they walked back they way they’d come and then out of the door of the Pen.

Soon, they were heading back across the field toward the Training Hall. As they walked, Monk remained silent, leaving Cleese to his thoughts and to again question what the fuck he was doing here.

The Lay of the Land

Fluorescent fixtures shone down brightly over row after row of cafeteria tables. Their flat laminated surfaces reflected the light back onto the ceiling as small irregular squares of illumination. The bulbs that were set into the assembly gave off a low, buzzing sound like angry houseflies caught in a Mason jar. Each fixture hung from two conduits set in the acoustic tiles. Each tile was peppered with tiny holes.

The room was painted a soft, off-white. Its flooring was scarred industrial linoleum. Along one wall, floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the large expanse of grass which surrounded the building and framed the rest of the compound. Far off, the Holding Pen stood brooding; a constant reminder of the true nature of this place. Even with the open view, the room had a bland and institutional appearance, as if it were constructed solely to be used for feeding the hungry and then quickly abandoned. Because of the acoustics, any sound echoed hollowly making the room seem far emptier than it was. As most dining rooms were warm inviting places, this was quite the opposite.

At the far end of the hall was a kitchen from which emanated savory smells. Just stepping into the space and taking a whiff was enough to make your mouth water. Several Asian and Hispanic women, hair tied back and encased in spidery nets, could be seen through a small pass-through as they moved about, working diligently behind the gleaming metallic counters. Large bins overflowing with food were set in the slots of the steam table. Ethereal vapors swirled over the food and coated every morsel with a glistening patina. The sheer bounty of it all was awe-inspiring.

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.