No Flesh Shall Be Spared (57 page)

It was all just so confusing. The motions, the sounds, the pain…

And the now constant twisting of hunger in his belly.

Cleese stood equally still, desperately trying to put all of the pieces before him together for himself. He stared at his friend, allowing his eyes to carefully catalog the extent of what had happened to him. It broke his heart to see Monk like this.

None of it… None of it made sense.

How in the hell? Monk was supposed to be out of here. He was supposed to be on a farm someplace, living the good life, tending goats and watching his grandkids grow up.

Cleese looked over toward the cameras and knew that his horrified expression was being seen across a few billion television screens, but he just couldn’t help it. Seeing Monk coming out of one of the turnstiles was literally the
last
thing he thought possible. Then again, with what had happened to Chikara… He figured he wasn’t scoring too high on the whole "estimating probability" thing.

He narrowed his eyes and tried to focus beyond the glare that spread like mercury across the glass. What he saw was mostly shapes and shadows moving like ethereal ghosts, but after slightly moving his head from side to side, he was better able to make out more distinct shapes. He could see the cameramen hard at work, busily recording the event. They operated their cameras like pros and dutifully racked focus on his personal nightmare.

Then, off to the side of one of the cameras, his eye registered another bit of slight movement. He took another step to the side and focused his full attention on it, being careful to keep a watchful eye on Monk. He gazed deep into the blackness beyond the glass and made out two figures standing in the shadows. He raised his hand and shielded his eyes from the ever present glare. Squinting further, he was just able to get a better look. As his eyes strained to their limits, he saw Masterson standing with the same look of evaluation that he’d had when he first busted into Cleese’s apartment back so long ago. And there, standing just behind him and grinning like a retard was Monroe.

Moooother… fuck. Tweedle Fuckin’ Dumb and Tweedle Fuckin’ Dumber…

A small voice deep in his head told Cleese that getting mad now was not any kind of answer. There was plenty of time for that…. later. Now, there were too many people, too many witnesses, and besides, he wouldn’t be able to get to them anyway. The glass and the metal of The Pit saw to that.

No… There was time enough for what he had in mind in the future.

Now… He would wait… and he would plan… and the people responsible for this would come to know the full measure of his wrath. Necessity now dictated that he return his focus to the still-dangerous thing which stood in front of him.

He turned and redirected his attention back toward Monk.

He turned… and looked at his friend.

Monk stood on his feet a dozen or so feet away, rocking from side to side. He was still reaching toward the wound in his back confusedly as if he couldn’t quite figure out what had happened. There had been great pain moments ago, and now, there was none. His face contorted as he tried to think it all through. And his jaw… His jaw chewed continually in that way The Dead all had, as if he were literally chewing over the problem that had been set before him. Despite all of his best efforts, his mind just couldn’t make the necessary connections.

He looked drunk, swaying on his feet, his head lolling back and forth like a pendulum. It was almost as bad as it had been that night on the roof of Weaver’s place except that his clothes were disheveled now. His face and hands were smeared with dirt and caked with dried blood. He’d undoubtedly fought hard when he first awoke from the sleep of death. Cleese could tell his friend had pitched quite a bitch from the deep abrasions on his wrists and throat. It was clear that the collars and restraints the handlers had used on him had not been kind.

Monk stared straight ahead blankly. His gaze remained unfocused and imbecilic. Then, he raised his head and sniffed at the air. Once he caught a whiff of Cleese’s scent on the stagnant air, instinct abruptly took over and focused his thinking. The realization that food lay somewhere nearby struck his diminished intellect like an arrow hitting its target. He turned and it was almost as if Monk was seeing him for the first time; like he had no recollection of their painful reunion just moments before. He lunged forward, coming on fast, his hands a clawing dervish aimed at Cleese’s exposed throat.

Cleese took a couple of shuffling steps backward in order to give himself some room and to buy himself a little more time. Monk, however, was undeterred and continued coming on at break-neck speed. Cleese slapped Monk’s hands aside and grabbed at the front of Monk’s bloody shirt, quickly twisting at the waist. His old friend went sailing over his hip and on toward the sandy ground. Monk struck the sand flat on his back, dead air knocked from his now-still lungs with an audible
woof
.

The crowd overhead reacted with an exultant cheer.

 Cleese stumbled away in the hope that some more space might also spur a bit of insight. He knew he needed to figure this shit out and he needed to do so pretty damn quick.

As he circled Monk from a safer distance, he quickly ran through the things he knew for sure. This was no chance meeting—not with Masterson grinning like a gargoyle from behind the safety of the glass. Not with the way that cocksucker Monroe looked with that smug expression and self-satisfied grin on his prissy face. No, this was something that was all going according to their fucked up little plan.

 Maybe it was payback for that stunt he’d pulled back at the Training Hall. Maybe this was their way of making things more exciting for the home audience. Maybe… it was just a display of power, of what they could do if they wanted to. It was hard to say… One thing was for certain, whatever had happened to Monk, it hadn’t been accidental. Sure, he could’ve gotten tagged while burning up his time in the UFL. His attention could have strayed, been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Shit, it had happened to Cartwright easily enough.

On the other hand, it was totally within Masterson’s and Monroe’s playbook to have arranged for Monk to be in that wrong place at that wrong time for no other reason than to pull off this little set-up here. There’d been far too many things like this happening of late to still be throwing the word "accident" around. Not when these little fuckups were happening to specific people in specific situations. It all seemed a little too perfect, a little too pat.

Who the fuck knows…

The important thing was… Monk didn’t just wander in off the street. This had most definitely been arranged and someone—or maybe a pair of someones—needed to sack up and swallow a heapin’ helpin’ of responsibility. Even if that taking of responsibility meant being killed where they stood by Cleese’s bare fucking hands.

Cleese stood fully upright and drew in a deep cleansing breath to focus his thinking. He needed some emotional distance away from all of this. He needed some time to sort it all out. He needed to be able to mourn his friend, to come to terms with his dying first. He could come to terms with his rebirth after that.

But… since all of that was evidently impossible, he’d just have to deal with it and sort out his grief and sense of vengeance later.

He watched Monk slowly, awkwardly, climb back to his feet. He stared sadly as his friend teetered and regained his balance like a toddler. What had once been fluid motion was now replaced by spasmodic convulsions masquerading as motor skills. He felt a deep sense of melancholy wash over him. No one should have to end up this way, especially not Monk. No one should ever be denied their eternal rest. Cleese suddenly felt like an asshole for his part in all of this: the matches, the money, the notoriety, The League.

He closed his eyes and sighed forlornly.

"It’s time… Time for us to go home, Pal."

As he opened his eyes, he saw that Monk had gotten back to his feet and was staring at him. Now that he’d decided his course of action and that both Masterson and Monroe were pieces of business that he would deal with later—especially Monroe—his mind was clear to deal with what now stood before him.

Right now, he had bigger problems.

Right now… he had Monk.

His friend had risen to his full stature and begun to lope across the pit toward Cleese. Unlike other UDs who came on like pissed-off drunks, Monk crouched down low, in that all-too familiar boxer’s stance. It was clumsy and old school, but it had obviously been hard-wired into the machine.

Cleese had seen that stance before—long ago—in Training.

So, they do remember parts of their lives after all.

If Cleese remembered his friend’s modus operandi correctly, Monk would go for his legs first in a bastardized Greco-Roman wrestling move. He would more than likely swoop in and try to pick him up and off his feet and then attempt to slam him onto his back. It was something that was designed to kick the air clean out of your opponent and—if it was successful—make any further breathing painful and laborious. It’d always been one of Monk’s go-to opening moves.

As if on cue, Monk ducked in low and made a lunging grab for Cleese’s thighs.

Having already expected the gambit, Cleese leapt back and, as Monk came in, he threw a downward slicing haymaker. The blow shattered Monk’s jaw and made his open-mouthed gape even more pronounced. Monk’s body corkscrewed from the strength of the impact and he spun to the ground.

The crowd erupted into furious applause. While they may not have fully realized the importance of what was happening down on the sand, the bastards could sense that the fight was back on.

Cleese danced backward in a move he’d copped from Muhammad Ali. As he backpedaled, he looked at Monk’s face and was shocked at how much different it was. Sure, it was basically the same face he’d come to know and love, but… it was also noticeably altered. Its fundamental structure hadn’t changed, but now every piece of musculature just kind of sagged. It was almost as if someone had pulled downward at Monk’s chin and the rest of his face had fallen in line and stuck there.

Cleese’s gaze fell, at last, on Monk’s eyes and his resolve shifted just a little, just enough. Despite it all—the blood, the death, the danger—staring out at him from behind those clouded eyes was his friend.

Not a UD. Not a zombie.

Just Monk, plain ol’ Monk.

And, from the look in his eyes, somewhere deep beneath the anger and the violence, his friend was terrified, hopelessly confused and blindingly hungry. It was as if he’d gone to sleep and had what surely must have been the greatest dream imaginable and then, without provocation or preview, he’d been dragged back into a world he no longer understood.

Similar, in dimly remembered ways, but still changed; still
different
.

Now, there was only the pain… and the disorientation… and the hunger that never seemed to fully go away.

By now, Monk had scrambled sloppily back to his feet and renewed his attack. He came in with his hands up, elbows drawn to his sides; old habits refusing to die. Despite all of the interference his brain was getting in the way of varied signals, Monk still managed to fall back onto instinct and his manner became a little more assured.

He came in fast and hit Cleese at the waist. Monk lifted him off his feet and, not fully being able to compensate for the weight, they both fell to the sand. While Monk had the seemingly superior position, Cleese retained the Closed Mount position and, being the stronger of the two of them, was still able to more or less control his opponent. Cleese could feel his friend’s hands crawling and scratching over his chest. With all of his upper body’s strength, Cleese lifted Monk up and away from his body. Monk’s mouth moved back and forth as it nervously chewed the air. Saliva dripped dark brown and thick from Monk’s chin and pooled on Cleese’s exposed stomach.

The crowd ooohed and aaahhed above their heads.

"Monk, no!" Cleese shouted, shoving his hands up and away.

Immediately, Monk stopped struggling and, for a moment, simply stared at Cleese. His expression was a whirlwind of emotions scrawled across a slack and deadened slate. He was confused, but still hungry; his rudimentary brain conflicted over which was the more pressing need. The important thing, to Cleese’s mind, was that he’d stopped trying to take a bite out of him.

Cleese quickly cleared his head and decided right then and there that if he wanted to get through this shit alive, he had better start acting like a fighter or else he'd end up just like Monk. And as a great man once said, "Fuck that!"

From his position on the ground, Cleese let go of his hold and threw four fast punches. Two rights landed at a point just to the left of Monk’s right temple, effectively stunning him. The next left hit Monk just under the nose, shattering the cartilage there and opening a spigot of thick, black blood. The last punch came in hot on the heels of the last one. It hit Monk right under the chin, shutting his jaw with a click. The accumulated force of all four punches landing within a span of a second or two sent Monk up and off of Cleese. As Monk collapsed to the side, an arc of blood flew back and painted a thick stripe of red onto the sand.

Cleese jumped to his feet and, for good measure, threw his back into a front "field goal"-type kick which sent Monk’s head snapping upward. His body went slack and he collapsed onto the sand.

Overhead, the crowd once again did their thing.

Cleese watched as Monk slowly crawled away and then painfully pulled himself up onto all fours. His friend moved with what looked to be excruciating pain. His face twisted up into an agonized grimace with his every motion.

The whole damn thing broke Cleese’s already broken heart.

This is what they have done to my friend.

Standing there staring sadly at the millieu around him, an idea suddenly occurred to him. Maybe it was possible to tap into the man Monk once was. After all, he’d obviously retained his fighting style from before. He’d reacted to the sound of Cleese’s voice just a second ago. Maybe there was a way to reignite the man’s now dead brain by memory recall.