After a bit of searching and finally following the guard’s instructions, he discovered a set of doors with a sign reading Press Hall above them. Inside, he found Masterson seated behind a long table in what looked like a lecture hall. The auditorium was laid out with long rows of theater seats each with desktops that could be folded up or down depending on the needs of whoever sat there. The desks were set in a large semi-circle, which surrounded on three sides the podium at the furthest part of the room. From the looks of things, this was where The League held their news conferences. Across both the walls and ceiling, squares of acoustic tile ran in a grid-like pattern; each tile dampening any sound within the room. As a result, even the door shutting behind him sounded muted and hollow.
Along the far wall was a set of blackboards, each on rails allowing them to slide back and forth, one behind the other. The lectern stood at the center of the stage; a microphone jutted up phallically from the middle of the podium. Masterson sat patiently at a table just to the right. His fingers were tented and his eyes closed as if he were trying to snatch up any bit of rest he could.
Cleese had heard of the technique before from men in the military. They called it 'Alpha Napping' and it was a way to rest the mind (since brainwaves changed to restful Alpha Waves when the eyes were closed) when full blown sleep was a luxury the soldier couldn’t afford. Cleese figured that the military must have been where Masterson had learned it. The guy had a look about him that said he’d spent some time in Uncle Sam’s service. He noted the tidbit of information and catalogued it for later consideration.
Upon hearing Cleese enter, Masterson slowly raised his head and opened his eyes.
'Sit down,' Masterson ordered and nodded toward a desk at the front of the room.
'Nice place…' he said looking around, but not moving.
'Sit down, Cleese. I won’t say it again.'
Behind him, Cleese noticed that the two security men from the helicopter had appeared at the exit. They dutifully closed the doors behind them and stood by at attention. Their rifles, cradled in their arms like sleeping children, spoke volumes as to the reason for their presence in the room.
Cleese smiled and shrugged, then walked down the center aisle a few rows. Choosing a seat midway down the gallery, he sat down heavily, just within earshot of Masterson. His choice of seating would, at the very least, mean that his disagreeable host would have to raise his voice in order to be heard.
Pity.
As he settled into his seat, Cleese gave Masterson the once-over now that they were in brighter light. There was no doubt that the guy was as hard as nails. His manner and the look in his eyes said that he’d seen some shit in his time, but given all of the events of the last few hours, he knew that Masterson was someone he simply wasn’t going to like.
For the life of him, Cleese couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was that bugged him about the man, but it was there. God knew there were so many reasons to choose from. Maybe, it was that he was a 'Suit' and Cleese hated Suits. Maybe it was the unceremonious way he’d barged into Cleese’s room and had him yanked out of bed at gunpoint. The promise that the trip would be 'worth his while' might have been enough to spark his interest in the beginning, but more and more, even that was failing to hold water.
And then there was that quiet-as-a-tomb airlift here. The chopper ride had been about as comfortable as a cavity search what with the guy just sitting there stone-faced the entire trip. He’d just sat there, staring straight ahead, not saying a syllable.
It was enough to almost creep a guy out.
Whatever the reason was, Cleese decided the least he could do was to put a little crimp in that anally- retentive timetable of his. The prospect of fucking with him was proving to be all too tempting.
It was only after some silent deliberation that he decided it was Masterson’s sense of entitlement—that self-absorbed air of superiority—that rubbed him the wrong way.
All that other shit was just icing on an already unpalatable cake.
In the end, it came down to something as simple as chemistry…or a lack thereof.
The crux of it was that Cleese was certain that the guy was an asshole of the first order, and for that alone he deserved to be given at least some small ration of shit. And he’d learned from past experience to trust his gut whenever it grumbled. That oily feeling deep in the pit of his stomach had saved his ass more times than he could remember. So when it spoke up as it had now…he figured it best to pay it the strictest attention.
'I’m sure you’re wondering why your presence here has been requested,' said Masterson.
Requested?!? Is that what he called it? So then what were the firepower and military accoutrements for, setting a mood?
Cleese looked him dead in the eye and slowly—methodically—scratched his balls.
'It had crossed my mind,' he said over the soft sound of his ball scratching.
'That was a rhetorical question, Smartass. From here on in, I talk…you listen,' hissed Masterson, looking down at his clenched hands. 'I ask questions and you answer them. Interrupt me again and I’ll have you dropped back into that shit-hole where I found you.'
Cleese grinned his best 'I’d like to see you do just that' grin.
Masterson looked up at him for a heartbeat, silently considering whether he should make good on the threat. Finally deciding against it, he reached for the lone folder laying on the table near him. As he slid it across the table, it made a soft, whispering sound as if already betraying its secrets.
'Cleese, have you ever heard of the WGF?'
Cleese sat for a minute, quietly thinking. Of course he’d heard of them. Fuck, everyone had. The World Gladiatorial Federation and its subsidiary, The Undead Fight League, were huge—making the NFL, Major League Baseball, and NBA all look like sandlot pick-up games. The thing was…Cleese had never really given a shit for what many now called sport. He was, in his own way, a busy man and already had enough violence in his life. He didn’t really feel the need to watch a televised slaughterhouse in Dolby Digital. He left that sort of thing for people who led less active lifestyles.
Cleese shook his head slightly. He’d wondered what cards this guy was holding up his sleeve and what the real reason was for his being brought here. Now, as the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, he was almost wishing he’d never agreed to get into that damn helicopter in the first place. Then again, with all the hardware his escort was sporting, it wasn’t like he ever really had much choice in the matter.
Cleese took another moment and, looking around the room, thought back to a time before there was a need for such sport, back to when chaos first tore its way across the face of the planet, back to the day when The Dead first got up and started walking again. Hordes of Them had come spilling out into the streets, killing and eating anyone and anything unlucky enough to fall into their path. An unfathomable number of people died as a result of the initial Awakening and that only made the situation worse. Death led to more death. Soon, those who were murdered awoke and began killing. A basic understanding of exponential math should have told people just how fucked they all were.
It had been hell there for the first few days. Initially, the dead were able to move quickly and that was a major part of the problem. The Dead being as swift and as strong as they had been in life made them formidable foes, but as the days slipped by and rigor mortis and decomposition set in, they slowed right down. By that time however, there were so many of them. At one point, the tide almost turned in their favor as the days gradually turned to weeks.
It was closing in on months when the living finally got things back under control by giving the whole dog and pony show over to the good ol’ U.S. Army. Those jag-offs sure as fuck fixed things up right quick. First, they’d assessed how badly contaminated specific areas were. It became clear early on that the really big cities such as New York, Chicago, Houston, and Los Angeles were fucked. Slightly smaller municipalities could be scoured in house-to-house search-and-destroy missions, but the major metropolitan areas were all chalked up as losses because just one of those things left upright and roaming would start the whole thing all over again. It was imperative that not one of Them be left 'alive.'
And so, with a suitably heavy heart, The President ordered the four cities leveled: from downtown to the suburbs and all points in between. After that, the deaths of all those innocent citizens—the ones holed up and awaiting rescue—were never a topic that was discussed openly. It was just a fact unquestioned, but kept like pocket change: a small, hard, terrible thing that people carried and never mentioned, but were never without.
Soon after the military had their way, people slowly found their way back to a place that resembled normalcy. The Dead were still a consideration, something everyone dealt with, but now, they were more of a reminder of
