No Flesh Shall Be Spared Part 11

The two of them sat quietly as the sun slid below the horizon. Cleese periodically looked over at Chikara and was amazed that she'd returned to her meditation, effectively shutting him out. He took the time to look her over once more. Sitting this close he noticed some small ragged scars across her upper arms and neck. He leaned in just a bit closer and saw that they were several matching sets of four scratches; one scratch for each of what must have been a UD's jagged fingernails.

He figured that the scratches were a result of the way Chikara got in so close during her matches. A fighter couldn't let that sort of s.h.i.+t happen as much as she did and walk away unmarked. Luckily, no one had ever become infected as a result of a scratch or two.

No, for that, it took a bite.

"You are staring..." Chikara said with a slight smile, eyes still closed.

Cleese was yanked out of his reverie and realized that he had been staring-pie-eyed and open-mouthed-just a couple of feet away from this woman. He felt his cheeks grow suddenly hot and flushed.

"Oh... uh... sorry," he apologized.

Chikara smiled and seemed to rise like a marionette; her strings lifting her effortlessly to her feet.

"Come. We should get back." Then, "I would like it if we were able to talk more sometime later."

Cleese smiled and nodded.

"I'd like that as well," he replied and, with another groan, he got stiffly back to his feet.

"Well, good," and she graced him with another one of those smiles.

"Jesus..." he said with a wince once he'd gotten fully to his feet. He bent his back and it made another painful cracking sound. "I feel like s.h.i.+t."

"Lactic acid has built up in your muscles as a result of all of this exercise. It is just making them stiff. An interesting side note for you... lactic acid is very similar in chemical composition to something found in the UD's metabolism-something called Sarcolactic Acid. In The Dead, Sarcolactic Acid or Paralactic Acid is the chemical that causes Rigor Mortis. So, in essence, what you are feeling right now is nothing more than ante-mortem rigor. Stop by my crib later and I can give you an herbal tea that will ease some of the pain a bit."

"Man, lookit you..."

Chikara laughed aloud, her laughter sounding light and almost care-free on the evening air. She looked up at him and, after a moment, looked away. In the diminis.h.i.+ng light of the day, the blush that flushed her cheeks went unnoticed.

"Well," she said, "I, too, aim to please."

As they made their way down the hill and across the gra.s.s, Cleese stared at her for a long time. Again, something primal stirred deep within his belly. It'd been a long time since a woman made him feel the way Chikara did; too long. As he smiled to himself, he decided that he liked this feeling and wanted to explore it further.

They walked together in silence until they'd reached the outskirts of the compound's buildings. Abruptly, she stopped and reached out to lightly tug at the bottom hem of his s.h.i.+rt. Almost as suddenly as she'd done it, she pulled her hand away. A wave of embarra.s.sment washed over her face as if her body had betrayed her and done something she'd not meant it to. Her gesture was something from another time and another place. It was like a distant echo from when she'd been another person. It reminded her of how long she'd kept that person locked away from the world. For some time now, she'd not allowed herself to feel like a woman. Doing so had proven itself to be far too dangerous here. Cleese, though, was able to let her be who she was and not make her feel like that was to her detriment.

She silently feared the repercussions should she let the Woman influence the Warrior.

"I have enjoyed finally meeting you, Cleese."

Cleese smiled broadly and ran his hand through his hair. The motion was something he'd tried to control for a long time. It was his "tell." And what it told was that he was interested or embarra.s.sed. For some reason, none of that mattered to him now.

"Believe me... the pleasure was all mine."

The two of them stood looking at each other, each silently not wanting or knowing how to disengage.

"Come by before you turn in for the night," she said, breaking the awkward silence. "I will give you that tea."

"Yeah, thanks," he said and his hand once again ran through his hair. "I'd appreciate that."

And without another word, the two fighters walked off toward the center of the compound; each of them lost in the whirlwind of their own thoughts.

Last Rites As the moon slowly rose to its apex over the relative quiet of the compound, the temperature within the Holding Pen had begun to slack off and the heat of the day finally started to dissipate. Shadows, a constant commodity in this forsaken place, covered the ground as heavy and thick as spilled oil. The incessant gloom arrested the spa.r.s.e illumination and gave the s.p.a.ce a muted tone, making it seem even more menacing that it already was. The darkness was just something you got used to if you spent enough time tucked away here. It was something that usually happened shortly after you got used to the never-ending moaning of the dead.

Getting used to the smell...

Well, that took a whole lot longer.

Adamson no longer noticed any of it. He'd been looking after and caring for the dead for so long that the gloom and the smell had become integrated into the fabric of who he was. As for the sound, where others heard the horrifying cacophony of death and fear, he heard a mournful aria of loss. To his ears, the dead were not calling out in warning, but rather they cried out to the dark for some kind of understanding, a desperate plea for compa.s.sion made to a G.o.d who no longer listened, much less cared.

He'd cared about them before their resurrection and he continued to care now.

It was who he was.

Watching over The Dead was a business and it was one that Adamson knew well. The containment and control of the reanimated dead was something he understood down deep in his bones. His ability to feel compa.s.sion for them-even when no one else here did-was what made him so good. In more ways than one, he felt as if he knew the dead (and liked them) a h.e.l.l of a lot better than he did the living.

Adamson walked around the large pen where the hundreds of UDs were stored. The sound of their movement was a constant thing, a steady and unvarying tone which was heard as the dead milled about in their never-ending search for food.

While the building was large, most of its floor s.p.a.ce was taken up by the cattle pen-like enclosure. The air was kept cool by large refrigeration units housed on the roof of the building. Their use was nothing more than a token gesture to try and slow the inherent decomposition of the dead, but it did little good. Time would have its way and there was little anyone could do to slow it. Like fragile flowers, the dead too would wilt and fall into corruption and decay. It was another one of those immutable laws of nature; an edict that offered neither appeal nor demurral.

Seven foot high walls made of chain link and corrugated metal formed the large rectangle of the Pen, the enclosure which housed the League's most important-and dangerous-resource. At each corner stood a guard tower, giving the place a concentration camp-like appearance. Sitting high in the towers overlooking the meandering dead, guards manned large caliber United States Air Force issue GAU-2/A miniguns. An electrically powered Gatling gun capable of delivering over three thousand 7.62mm rounds per minute, it could reduce a crowd of UDs (or people for that matter) to mashed potatoes in seconds. Adamson considered the guns his fail safe. If his herd were to ever break out of their enclosure, the mounted artillery (as well as a few more portable XM214 Microguns) would stop that s.h.i.+t before it ever got too out of hand.

Adamson approached the furthest guard tower and, laying his hand on the railing to guide him, walked up the gangway to where the guard stood watch. As the clock rapidly approached midnight, it was almost time for a change of the guard s.h.i.+fts. As part of his unending job description, he made it a point to dismiss and greet each and every one of the guards at the beginning and end of their s.h.i.+fts. While it seemed like a formality, the ritual served a couple of purposes. One-it made each man feel connected to the whole, made him feel as if his oftentimes boring work was appreciated. Two-it was a chance for Adamson to look each guard in the eye and silently a.s.sess him for cracks in his veneer. The job these men were being asked to perform was both exceedingly boring and exceptionally dangerous. It was boring in that they ended up watching over an area where literally nothing happened... until the time came when something happened and life got real hazardous, real fast. The gig went from mind-numbing boredom to critical ma.s.s like that.

It was not a job many could perform. A lot of men were lazy and undisciplined- a dangerous combination that meant death for them and potentially everyone else. If that happened, it was a situation where the Watcher could potentially become the Watchee. Even though The Dead seemed dim-witted, they were forever vigilant having all the time in the world to watch and wait and scheme. Death was a finality that no longer mattered in their world. It was a concern that had been quite unceremoniously wiped from the table.

Now all they had was time; time and their ever-present hunger.

As he stepped into the relative cool of the tower, Adamson saw the guard on duty turn to greet him. Miller was the guy's name and he was a trusted employee who'd managed to adapt to the job's requirements and make it work. A kid in his late twenties with short-cropped hair and a reddish complexion, he had this open-eyed gaze like he was in constant amazement at what Life had to show him. Adamson liked the dude and considered him to be someone he could trust.

"Miller," Adamson said in lieu of a more formal greeting. "How're things?"

Miller smiled that dopey smile of his beneath a set of standard issue night vision goggles. Realizing they were there, he reached up and pulled them off. Once they were clear of his face, he set the bulky headpiece into the frame mounted on the wall to the right of the minigun.

"Everything's a-ok here. The dumbf.u.c.ks are doing what the dumbf.u.c.ks do best," Miller said. Even though Adamson disliked the term "dumbf.u.c.ks," he knew that there were worse euphemisms used by the guards for the UDs. He also understood that the use of those types of things were coping mechanisms which were necessary for the men to distance themselves from the reality of their occupation.

"Next s.h.i.+ft is gearing up now," Adamson explained, "your relief should be along in a second."

Adamson stepped up beside Miller and looked out over his pen.

Spread out before his eyes was an undulating sea of dark motion made up of hundreds of roaming bodies. There were eddies and slipstreams within the ma.s.s as the crowd aimlessly moved about inside the enclosed corral. It was a tide of the undead that, at one time, would have meant certain death for anyone unlucky enough to come up against it. Now it was just an ocean of reanimated meat. A low chorus of moaning acted as white noise and seemed to come and go like the soft cras.h.i.+ng of waves against the sh.o.r.e.

As Adamson looked out over the darkened corral, it never ceased to astound him how many there were or how tenuous the balance of power remained.

"In so many ways, these are my children," he said softly. "They're all I have left..."

"Excuse me, Sir?" Miller asked.

Adamson was shaken out of his reverie and looked up as if embarra.s.sed. He quickly shook it off and returned to business.

"Nothing... anything going on that you think I should know?"

"Well, I wasn't going to mention it, but..." Miller said and looked back out over the heaving crowd.

Adamson turned and looked at him sternly.

"If there is something going on that I need to know, Miller, I need to know it. Out with it, please..."

Miller took a quick, almost nervous look around the small s.p.a.ce within the guard tower and lifted his gaze to Adamson's. He looked like a kid who was about to tattle on a sibling.

"Well, the priest has been coming around a lot lately and doing his thing near the pens."

"Handel?"

Miller nodded and stared down at his feet. "He comes in like this, usually late at night, and hangs around toward the back of the building in the walkway there. Some of the guys are saying they hear him," and he raised his obviously concerned eyes to meet Adamson's, "talking to the UDs."

Adamson knew the man well. He'd come to the League a few years ago after having spent his life as a priest in some place Adamson couldn't remember. There were rumors of him having gotten into some kind of trouble with the diocese for reasons no one ever talked about. He'd come onboard as a Psych Counselor and was supposed to help the fighters come to terms with the reality of what they were being asked to do here, but he still carried himself like a priest. He was a guy who looked a lot older than his already advanced years, but that wasn't too terribly abnormal. After everything that had happened in the world, who didn't have a few extra wrinkles and grey hair?

Adamson took a moment to look deep into Miller's eyes, plumbing the man's depths for any hint of malevolence or manipulation. Finding none, he turned and directed his gaze toward the back of the building. Beyond the undulating crowd and the ever-present fencing, he could just make out some movement deep within the veil of the shadows.

"Ok," he said with a sigh, "I'll check it out." He patted Miller rea.s.suringly on the shoulder.

Miller nodded and stepped up to retake his position on the minigun. Slowly, as if deep in thought and already feeling bad about reporting the priest's activity to management, he lifted the night vision goggles from their stand and pulled them on.

Adamson took a couple of steps toward the walkway and stopped.

"Miller..." he said paternally, "you shouldn't feel guilty about telling me when something's happening that's out of the ordinary. If someone is f.u.c.kin' up he puts all of us in danger."

Miller nodded and smiled with relief.

"We clear on that?"

"Yes, Sir. Clear as crystal."

Then, it was Adamson's turn to nod and he turned and walked back down the walkway and into the gloom.

Father Handel stood with his small briefcase in hand in the shadows behind the Main Pen and carefully looked between the slats into the dimly lit expanse of the enclosure. Dark figures swayed in the half-light, rocking back and forth, moving from side to side. As always, the acrid odor of death was pervasive in this place, but every so often an extraordinary wave of putrescence would waft between the corrugated lengths of metal and a.s.sault his senses anew. This was an odor he'd come to know well ever since the dead had risen. G.o.d knew, he'd lived with it long enough at St. Joseph's. It had become inextricably linked to what he considered his mission.

As he gazed into the undulating crowd, the face of a child pressed itself up against the chain link. It was a small boy, no more than nine or ten, who stared out at him with an unnerving mixture of open-mouthed wonder and abject hunger. His face was an utter mess. Long raking slashes tore down his right cheek, the white of his skull visible through the coa.r.s.e separations of his anatomy. Coagulated blood was splashed and caked across what was left of his ruined features.

"Dear G.o.d," Handel softly whispered, "so many of Your children. So many... and so lost."

He pulled himself away from the boy's unwavering gaze and with renewed vigor got back to the bit of business which brought him here. He set his valise on the ground and carefully opened it.

"O Lord," he intoned in a hushed voice, "who has said, 'My yoke is sweet and my burden light,' grant that I may so carry it as to merit Thy grace."

The priest removed from the case what looked like a thick crimson scarf. The material was deeply colored and had a cross embroidered in gold thread at each end. Holding it aloft, he kissed each end where the cross was st.i.tched and held it to his forehead.

"Protect me, O Lord, so I may resist the a.s.saults of the devil and cleanse my heart with the Blood of the Lamb so that I may be deserving of your eternal reward."

He laid the scarf around his neck so that it draped down his chest. Softly, he whispered, "Restore to me, O Lord, the state of immortality which I lost through the sin of my first parents and, although unworthy to approach Thy Sacred Mysteries, may I deserve nevertheless eternal joy."

He then withdrew a small bottle filled with Holy Water and held it gingerly in his hand.

Now, more or less prepared for the ritual to come, he turned his back to the pen and carefully ran his hand along the wall, searching for the small nail he'd placed there on a previous visit. Finding it with his fingertips, he reached into his case once more and pulled from it a silver crucifix. He kissed the figure on the cruciform and gently hung it from the nail.

He returned his attention to the pen and noticed several more of the dead had gathered around the child, all staring out at him from between the slats of the fence. They must have caught wind of him and that was what drew them to the spot. His body's odor had undoubtedly acted as a lure which enticed them one by one to come to where he now prepared to cleanse them of their sins. He knew he'd have to be both quick and careful if this was going to go as smoothly as it had in the past. His primary concern, of course, was that he not get himself bitten. Thankfully, he had some experience in this regard so he wasn't too worried. Secondarily, he knew Adamson and his people did not fully understand or approve of his reasons for being here now, doing what he was about to do. Well, maybe Adamson. There had been some discussions regarding The Dead's salvation before. He might be willing to overlook it, but The League would surely have taken a dim view.

But that was a concern best left to another time.

He carefully poured the Holy Water into his hand and splashed it as best he could onto the faces of the gathered dead. Then, he did it again. Most of the fluid landed on the fence and softly reflected in the dim light, but some of it made it through and hit the open-mouthed faces of his intended targets.

"Is any among you sick?" he said, quoting from the Book of James, in a subdued voice. "Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord; and the prayer of faith will save the sick man, and the Lord will raise him up; and if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven."

In the half-light, the dead continued to stare at him hungrily.

"Oh, Heavenly Father," he continued, "we call upon you to heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils: freely ye have received, freely give." The irony of the "raise the dead" line was not lost on him, but by now the words were flowing freely from his lips and could not be stopped.

"And into whatsoever city ye enter, and they receive you, eat such things as are set before you: And heal the sick that are therein, and say unto them, the kingdom of G.o.d is come nigh unto you."

One of the dead, an older man of about fifty, pushed his way through the crowd gathered at the fence and pressed his face against the chain link. He mashed his features against the metal and let out a sigh that reeked of the tomb, a smell of decaying anatomy and of blood freely spilled. His grue-stained fingers wound their way between the links and gripped the metal fervently.

Pausing briefly, Handel looked the man in the eye, the pupils cast opaque and milky in the faint luminosity. Slowly, the man opened his mouth and pressed himself even tighter to the fence, as if he was trying to push himself through the grating. His blackened tongue raked across swollen, bloated lips and he painfully pulled air into his lungs.

"A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a," and he paused and then breathed out, "me-e-e-e-e-e-ennn."

Father Handel smiled to himself and continued to give The Dead their Last Rites.

Adamson came around the far end of the pen and heard Handel whispering long before he ever saw him. Through the shadows, he was able to make out his silhouetted form lit by the spa.r.s.e ambient lighting. Moving forward he walked slowly, hoping to get an idea of what the priest was up to and why he was going about it with such secrecy. From some of their past conversations, he thought he might have a pretty good idea. As he got closer, he heard Handel's low voice drifting out of the blackness.

"And they cast out many devils," Handel said, "and anointed with oil many that were sick, and healed them."

Adamson then saw Handel pour something into his hand from a bottle and toss it at the fence. He punctuated what it was that he was saying with this motion again and again. From where Adamson was, it appeared as if the priest was splas.h.i.+ng the liquid onto the fence as well as whatever lay beyond. It was then that Adamson caught sight of the crowd of UDs that had gathered on the other side of the barrier. There must have been a dozen or so huddled around where the priest stood. The weird thing was that they weren't acting excited or aggressive in any way. They simply stood and stared as if transfixed. One of them pressed his face against the chain link and Adamson could just make out the thing's lips moving, almost as if it were trying to speak.

Whatever was going on here was weird and Adamson didn't like it one bit.

"Handel?"

The priest turned abruptly at the sound of his name. The bottle he was holding slipped from his grasp and hit the floor with an eruption of liquid slos.h.i.+ng out from its open mouth. The expression on the man's face was like that of a kid who'd been caught stealing money out of his mother's purse-embarra.s.sment and guilt all wrapped in one wide-mouthed gape.

"A...A... Adamson," he said and his voice quivered nervously.

"Mind if I ask what you are doing here?" Adamson inquired, having come closer to view the makes.h.i.+ft altar that had been created. A silver crucifix hung from a nail driven into the wall behind where Handel stood. The priest was dressed in an elaborate clerical gown and a small leather bag laid on the ground at his feet. Whatever he was up to, it was obvious he'd put a lot of planning into it.

"I... uh... I..." he stammered and then abruptly regained his composure and stood erect. "I am giving them..." and he looked around as if unsure of exactly how to explain... "the Last Rites."

"You're... what?"