Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

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.

Fuck… at this point, it was worth a shot.

"Monk!" Cleese shouted. "MONK!"

The old man slowly crawled up and sat back on his haunches. His hands fluttered lazily over his shattered nose, vainly trying to stop the flow of blood. He stared up into the glaring lights from his kneeling position on the sand, his mouth falling open and slack like a carp’s.