Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

And The Dead… they were just more lions waiting to be fed.

Cleese stood fully erect and pulled the spike from the back of the last UD’s head. Grey matter clung to the blade in sticky, wet clumps. He whipped his arm about and dislodged the material by centrifugal force. Then, with a snap, he retracted the blade and stepped out from beneath the pile of the last round’s dead.

Once again, he almost didn’t hear the buzzer go off; he’d grown so distracted by the chorus of complaints emanating from his weary body. He felt tired and drained mentally. His arms and torso were coated with a thin, slimy veneer of brains, sweat and blood. His skin felt completely drenched in the stuff. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like.

Raising his head, he saw his image on the television monitors mounted on the Pit’s high walls. What stared down on him looked more like a hellish demon—all red and black with a maniacal, blood-thirsty gleam in his eyes—than a man. He smiled for the cameras, hoping it might soften the image.

It didn’t.

God… I’m ready to for this shit to be over— like now .

As he stumbled to the center of the ring, the echo of the buzzer vibrated through the stadium’s metallic skeleton. He didn’t so much hear it this time as he felt it reverberate down deep to his core. The vibration rattled him down to the soles of his feet. Wearily, he crouched into his loose fighting stance and took a quick look around. The Pit stretched out before him, blanketed in a cold, unforgiving stillness.

Remarkably, the spindles remained still.

A ripple of expectation shimmered through the crowd and, just for a moment, every person in the stadium held their breaths as one. The feeling of anticipation was palpable: heavy and electric.

Cleese walked inquisitively to the center of the ring and looked up toward the control booth. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the strong, overhead lights, but saw nothing.

The quiet within the stadium soon became a deafening weight that pushed down on the interior of the giant space, pressing each member of the audience into their seats. It was a silence made all the more oppressive by the vastness of the structure in which it was contained.

A heartbeat passed.

Then, another.

Then, with an abrupt teeth-rattling boom, the spindles spun and locked themselves into place. The ear-splitting, metallic sound cleaved the air like a blade. It was a noise that lacerated molecules and carved a savage gash into the meat of the still atmosphere.

Cleese relaxed his muscles and fell back into a half-crouch instinctively. He swept his eyes around the diameter of the pit; scanning the immediate area, looking for any threat. His gaze flickered from one spindle to the other, his brain locked and loaded to catalog any impending threat or hazard.

They’re empty!

All of the spindles spread out before him were empty.

No weapons, no UDs, no… nothing.

What the fuck?

Cleese rose up onto the balls of his feet and gingerly walked toward the nearest position to him: Position Five. Quickly and carefully, he checked the interior of the spindle for some hidden menace, but there was nothing.

He did the same with Position Four and got a similar result.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a hint of motion—from Three—and he whirled to face it. Across the sand, he could just make out a dark silhouette as it rippled deep within the blackness of the turnstile. The form stood back in the shadows, clutching at the back wall of the spindle. Its figure was squat, but thicker than most—at least its shadow was. Its manner was pure fear and volatile confusion.

"Uuuuuuuuuuh…???" the thing moaned; sounding confused and almost scared. The voice sounded muffled inside the enclosed space of the spindle.

The crowd erupted in applause the instant they saw that there was a UD in play. When they saw the first hint of movement, their ovation rained down over Cleese in a thunderous waterfall that was overwhelming and suffocating. Collectively, they understood that if there was to be only one UD released, it must be a formidable opponent; perhaps one of the survivors from a previous match. Whatever it was, it meant that the match was on once again and the wave of their blood lust had yet to crest.

Cleese strode across the sand, his gait fatigued, but intent and still very, very lethal. He hadn’t been sure exactly what was going on before, but now… Now, there was a target in his sights and that meant there was something toward which he could direct his fury. As he approached the spindle, he slapped the spike back out and into place and aimed the point towards center mass, directly at the thing’s unbeating heart.

"What say we get this shit over with, huh…?" Cleese said aloud.

He stepped into the shadows of the spindle, firmly grabbed something inside with his left hand, and then threw a solid blow into the blackness with his right. His fist struck the thing within squarely in the back. The spike slid smoothly between its ribs like a baker’s knife into icing. In a live man, the spike would have pierced his heart and death would have been instantaneous. For an undead one, spearing it was merely an efficient way of getting the damned thing’s attention.

The dead man in the turnstile arched back with a deep, wet, coughing sound. Blood and phlegm splattered against the walls of the turnstile in thick, coagulated globs. Cleese felt the UD pull backward a little bit against the spike, but it was difficult for it to gain any leverage. There simply wasn’t enough room in the tight confines of the spindle to move. It was a lot like wrestling in a phone booth in there. Still, he felt the tug of the thing pull on his arm and strain his shoulder.

"Ok, Bub," Cleese said as he firmly set his feet in the sand. "Time to dance."

Cleese forcibly dragged the figure out and into the light with a vicious tug. The crowd caught sight of the impaled zombie and erupted into more mindless cheers and applause. Cleese got cocky and let the thing go with his one free hand while keeping the other, the one with the spike, firmly lodged in place. Hell, why not? If they were going to give him only one UD this round, he’d make the most of it.

The crowd responded predictably—with more rhubarb.

He stood before both the cameras and the crowd with his arms outstretched. He raised his face, his expression one of raw power, toward the ceiling. An errant cool breeze blew across his cheek and, thankful for the respite, he breathed in deeply and then sighed. Cleese returned his grip to the back of the thing’s neck and jerked him fully into the glare of the lights, exposing its face for all to see.

The UD was an older man who stood about five foot eight or so, middle aged, and black hair with liberal dashes of grey in it. His body was a solid frame…

…like… a boxer.

Suddenly, the truth hit Cleese in the chest like a two-by-four.

Oooooh, shit…

Monk stood dumbly in a blinding light and reached back with both hands for the spike which punctured his rib cage. His face had become a bloodless fish of a face as a result of his dying and rebirth. His mouth drooped to one side and his hair lay wetly across his skull. The smell coming off of him was like rancid milk. Deep, savage bites were torn from the meat of his neck from behind. The familiar yellow and red of infection ran hot and fierce around the bite marks.

Cleese felt his heart twist painfully in his chest as he stared at the wounds and thought of how they were in just about the same place as Chikara’s first bites had been. Monk had undoubtedly gone down just as she had. A UD must have come up on his blindside, been just out of his line of sight. In his mind’s eye, he could see it all happening all too easily. After all, he’d already seen it in real time once before. This end result was different though.