Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

As Masterson walked away, Lance felt a fleeting impulse to shoot the bastard in the back. God knew it would serve him right, but as the men slowly began to follow the Sarge’s orders, he knew that he wouldn’t do it. He knew that he’d do just as he was told and pray this whole thing would be over soon. With enough time and distance, it would all become just a vague memory of something that could only have happened in a dream. The squad would move on and someday The World would get a handle on all of this crazy shit. Life would go back to the way it had been before and all of it—The Dead, the killing, the bodies, and the blood—would fade from their memories.

But Lance knew today would be different, today would be with him forever. Deep down, he knew he’d remember the look in the old man’s eyes and that moment, the one just before the bullets starting flying, would replay in his mind—in his nightmares—again and again, and every time he remembered it, he would get the same sick feeling in the pit of his gut as he had now.

Today though…

Today, the world was falling to shit and for better or for worse he was still alive. If he intended to stay that way, he knew he’d need to keep his mouth shut and just follow the orders that were given. So, with his face set and his eyes looking downward, Lance gathered his gear and tried to prepare himself for whatever might be lying in wait at the next farmhouse up the road.

The Monkey Dance

The light fixtures set in the ceiling of the weight room were turned off in an attempt to keep the room cool against the remaining heat of the day. Just below the lights, blades of circulating fans churned the warm air like dark and malignant butter. The hottest part of the day had almost passed, but in this place the heat never fully went away. It was always oppressively hot, day or night, and any cool breeze, no matter how slight, was appreciated.

The fighters working out were happy for the respite after a long day too full of sun and the bright lights of the Octagon. What each of them wanted now was to have some peace and quiet and to remain uninterrupted while toiling in the relative calm of the gym.

Cleese lay on his back across the bench press and looked up at his spotter. Monk’s face floated there like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. It drifted there and his stern, upside-down expression was almost comical. Cleese closed his eyes and tried to shut out all external stimuli. He ran his fingers through his long sweat-dampened hair and, being too tired and too hot to do much else, sighed. They’d been at this for a good couple of hours now and even though he felt exhilarated by the exercise his muscles burned from tendon to ligament. His flesh was hot to the touch and the flush of exertion burned warm and red across his skin.

They’d had a quick, but strenuous five mile run on the compound’s quarter mile track to warm-up, then the two of them came to the gym to do some weight training and, more importantly, to try and calm their souls. Lately, Cleese felt like his nerves were on the short edge of frayed. Even Monk could tell how close he was to breaking. Damn, anyone with half a brain could see it. Too much had happened far too fast and he hadn’t had the chance to just chill out, sort through his thoughts, and centralize his concentration on something he knew and knew well… his body.

It had been only a short time since he was brought out here to the middle of goddamn nowhere and asked to adapt to a new paradigm and an entirely new routine. He’d been dropped into a maelstrom that was about as foreign to him as a jump shot was to a circus midget. The whole thing was like nothing he could have ever imagined. Sure, he’d seen his share of weird before. Hell, he’d bartered in some pretty bizarre shit once upon a time, but this… this was just out there.

This made weird look like weird was on vacation.

If pressed, Cleese would have probably said that he’d been happy in San Francisco, back when his aggressive ignorance seemed like bliss. He’d had some money, plenty of broads, and access to pretty much everything he could have ever wanted or hoped for. Yes, he’d given up pieces of himself over the years in exchange for those things, but life had been good.

More or less.

However, deep down he knew that it was all just an empty replacement for the one thing he most craved: a place to truly fit in and call his own, without ties or caveats.

But as they say, that was then and this is now…

Now, he found himself sitting square in the eye of a shit tornado and from the look of things life was going to get a hell of a lot worse—or at least a heck of a lot weirder—before it ever got better.

That said… if this routine supplied him with anything, it was a place and a role. He was a fighter. And as a fighter, that meant he was a man who put his mettle to the test day after day in the most inhospitable—and most unimaginable—of places. He did what few others would do—what few others could do.

Or at least that was the plan… just as soon as he finished this training, completed this next set.

Cleese slowly opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling and Monk’s grinning Jack O’Lantern face. Jesus, he was a hideous motherfucker, hovering there and looking like Death and Ugly had a baby and it had been allowed to grow up. He closed his eyes once more and silently prepared himself for the next lift.

Raising his hands, he slid them across the straight bar that sat on two posts welded to the bench on each side of his head. He moved his hands roughly eighteen inches apart, stopping when he felt the knurling carved there under his fingertips. A quick check as to the position of the three forty-five pound metal plates on each side of the bar and he braced his hands against the steel. He took a deep breath, then another, and pushed against the weight. Once clear of the supports, he carefully moved the bar over him and held it there.

The plates rattled softly as he slowly lowered the weight to his chest. He felt the bar bounce gently off of his sternum and held it there. He contracted his pecs, forcing blood deep into the muscle. The flesh grew still warmer and, slowly uncurling like a serpent, pain raised its cobra-like head once more. With a grunt, he pushed at the bar, and the weight rose slowly and steadily to the fully extended position. Cleese methodically repeated the "lower–contract–lift" motion another six times and then, with a deep breath, set the barbell in its rack above him.

Once more, Monk’s face came into focus wearing a grin which cut fiercely across the lower part of his face.

"You’re a goddamn animal," he said, his voice brimming over with delight.

"That’s what your momma said," Cleese puffed as he sat up.

"Like fuck…"

Cleese leaned over and picked up a small towel from the floor. He reached up and wiped at the side of his neck. As he caught his breath, he felt the serpent in his chest recede and the flush subside a bit.

"I gotta tell ya," he said as he slowly caught his breath, "this feels good. I haven’t done this kind of shit in quite a while."

"Well, from what I hear, you weren’t living the healthiest of lifestyles when they did your Retrieval."

"Yeah, well… We can’t all walk the straight and narrow."

"Son, you ain’t seen the straight and narrow since you were a dribble on your daddy’s dick," Monk said as he reached down for an additional thirty-five pound plate. He slid it onto the left side of the bar and then went to do the same on the right.

"Hey, that additional weight isn’t for me, is it?"

"Damn straight, Skippy. I wanna see you either beg for mercy or cry like a four year old school girl. Frankly, either one’ll do."

Cleese laughed and wiped the other side of his neck. When he was done, he dropped the towel to the ground and lay back onto the bench for another set.