Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

The figure in the shadows absentmindedly scratched at the curve of his jaw line and then leaned upright. With a flick of a switch, the bike’s ignition caught and the engine roared to life. The rider zipped up his jacket and pulled a small, silver MP3 player from his pocket. He slid the headphone buds into his ears and pulled a full face helmet over his head. Looking down, he scrolled through the tracks on the player until he saw what he was looking for; a little something for the road. He hit "Play" and tucked the small square of metal back into his pocket.

In the small earpieces, a dulcimer played soft and rhythmically within the confines of his head. A woman’s plaintive voice cried out and a synthesizer wailed mournfully. Electronic drums thrummed a low rhythm which seemed to perfectly match the vibration of The Busa beneath him.

~ * ~

I walk with phantoms and leaves are burning at my feet.

I walk with phantoms.

Sometimes they rage

Sometimes they fade.

Some must watch while some are

Singing the hum of the walking dead.

~ * ~

The man smiled and pulled on a pair of leather riding gloves. He took a quick glance down and patted the sword which was secured to the side of the motorcycle within easy reach. Always now within easy reach. He looked back and watched Masterson’s car begin to roll forward, slowly heading for the stone arch of the cemetery’s gates.

~ * ~

I walk with phantoms and leaves are ice at my feet.

I walk with phantoms.

Here is the truth:

Seven wonders and the will to live.

Singing the hum of the walking dead.

Thinking of every word that you said.

Singing as garden walls ripple with the blur of bees,

Sweetly singing as sunlight streams through the aching trees,

Voices trampling the exhausted wilderness,

Singing the hum of the walking dead.

~ * ~

A small, satisfied grin danced across his lips.

~ * ~

Burning like the gaze upon a faithless friend

Burning down the lonely trees always in the end

Voices trampling the exhausted wilderness,

Dragging the heels of the walking dead.

Dragging out every word that you said.

~ * ~

Reaching out, he pulled in the clutch and kicked the bike into gear. With a twist of his wrist, the motor growled and the bike shook reassuringly beneath him. The guitar in his ear cried another plaintive note and the voice continued to whisper its intoxicating tale of sorrow and, for a second, things seemed like they might be ok— the sense of loss he felt might someday subside.

~ * ~

Singing the hum of the walking dead.

Thinking of every word that you said.

~ * ~

He settled a little deeper into the seat and an exhilarating sense of expectation rose up from the depths of his soul. Slowly, he let the clutch out and felt the motorcycle’s back tire bite into the dirt. And as dark clouds reached down from the heavens to embrace him, the figure rode off into the distance.

Epilogue

"Well, Johnny, that about wraps up another exciting WGF Fight Night. Next week, we have even more excitement for you all including a No Weapons Match and an always exciting Team Match."

"That’s right, Bob. We’ll also have a profile on newcomer Alfredo Villanueva, the Spaniard who’s scheduled for his very first match that night. Yes, my friends, it’s another Cherry match and we’ll have it all—right here—on Fight Night."

"So, I’m Bob Wester…"

"I’m Johnny Davis and for Al Sanchez down on the floor and for everybody here at Weber Industries and the World Gladiatorial Federation, we’ll see you next time—at The Fights!"

Thank You

First and foremost, I wish to thank my beautiful wife, Catia, for her constant support and love above and beyond the call of reason, for putting up with me, my weird hours, my weirder questions, and for enduring the constant stream of horror and kung fu movies. You’ve been my partner, my lover, my confidant and my friend. Thanks for believing in me and for never giving up! As Shakespeare once wrote, ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt that I love.’

I also want to thank my kids, Jhustin and Connor, for putting up with me and my moods (both good and bad), for listening when I was prattling on about everything from the code of the samurai to the subtleties of blood splatter and for at least looking like you were paying attention, for acting as stand-ins for all of the fight sequences, and for allowing yourselves to be used as a captive audience. You two make me very proud and I love you more than you will ever know.

Furthermore, I want to thank my mother, Ruth, for raisin’ me up right despite considerable odds and for being, above all else, my friend; Annie and Chuck, for being indulgent and understanding and for giving me the two gifts that have truly taken my breath away. Without you guys, this book would have never been completed—literally; Joseph Weber for sound legal advice and for being wise beyond his years. ‘Nicolo would be proud of you, my man, but then again, so would the Marquis’; Kyle Cornelius for keeping me grounded; Robert Blue Yount for teaching me that it was possible to aspire to greatness even while ‘stitching up a post’; Brian Ellison, Kelly Kuehl, and Johnny Keith for being there even when I wasn’t; Charlene, Kaiya, and Julian for bringing joy… and Popeye’s; Charles Murray for all those nights ‘outside’ and for making me laugh time and time again; Tony Cress for sitting up with me night after night, indulging this fable, and making sense; Susan Prunty for taking the time to pick things apart and for being kind enough to not spare my feelings; Rob Weber, Monica Enderle Pierce, Christopher Burch, Stephen Santogrossi and Zarina Hawkins for the critical eye and the insight; William Faith and Monica Richards for the kind permission for Cleese’s music and for being my friends; Aaron Acevedo for the artwork and for being so accommodating; Scott Pierce and Richard Valentine for taking me seriously; Jessica Von for the photos and the tacos; and to Paul Wein for one day saying, "You really oughtta write this shit down."

And much love to the others who, in one way or another, have allowed me to share their Path with them: Tony Timpone, Michael Gingold, and Chris Alexander at Fangoria & Steve "Uncle Creepy" Barton, KW Low, and Jon Condit at Dread Central for giving me a chance and for continuing to believe in me; Clive Barker, Craig Spector, and Terry Castle for the quotes and for being so kind, Brian Hodge and Travis Milloy for once saying, "That’s a nice little story you have there" and for setting the bar so high; Philip Nutman for the taking the time to look things over; Neil Gaiman, Joe R. Lansdale, Chuck Palahniuk, Eiji Yoshikawa, Robert E. Howard, Hunter S. Thompson, Philip K. Dick, Stewart O’Nan, and Stephen King for sharing and inspiring; Val Lewton, Jacques Tourneur, George Romero, Jorge Grau, Lucio Fulci, Tom Savini, Greg Nicotero, and Zack Snyder for doing it so well, Goblin & Lustmord for providing the music, John Scoleri for sound advice; Sean Smithson for being rad and for the insight; Jon Edwards for literally being the first person to buy this book; all of the coffee shops this was written and edited in for not kicking me out, and to Howard Stern, Joe Rogan & Redban, Bill Burr, Doug Benson, Kevin Smith, Scott Mosier and Ralph Garman for providing the laughs through the workouts.