'You bring him in here and he’s your problem. I take no responsibility.'
'Yeah…yeah… I know. Fine. Just let us in, ok?'
Adamson pulled open the door a few more inches and then disappeared back into the gloom without a word, much less a backward glance. Monk stepped inside and led Cleese through the entryway. Once they were past the threshold, he secured the door behind them with an echoing sound.
It took a minute for Cleese’s eyes to adjust to the sparse light, but once they had what he saw laid out before him was mind blowing. He could see, even in the limited illumination, that the building was nothing more than four walls and a ceiling, like an airplane hangar only a little bit smaller. Walkways extended along the perimeter and in the center was a huge square cattle pen about seven feet high and at least the size of a football field. Off to the right was a convoluted series of chutes and gangways which were all governed by hydraulic gates. These could be raised and lowered as needed in order to move the UDs toward either the training pit or to the transport trucks. Beyond that was a long passageway which slanted abruptly into the ground. Set at specific intervals, guard towers overlooked the pen. Inside each tower the shadowy forms of men could be seen manning large belt-fed guns.
Cleese recalled visiting the Chicago Stockyards with his father back before the old man left him and his mom to attend Casino school in Florida or some such nonsense. They’d never seen him again. These pens—with their slatted fencing and mazes of corridors—reminded him of that slaughterhouse. The putrid stench reminded him of his dad.
'These…' Monk interrupted, moving his arm as if he were on a game show presenting some fabulous prize, 'are your opponents. The tunnel over there leads underground and to another holding pen located under The Octagon.'
Cleese stepped forward and looked between the corrugated slats making up the pen’s walls. Inside, in the dim light, he saw hundreds of ghostly figures milling about without purpose or reason. They shuffled and careened, oftentimes running into one another, as if their feet were held down by weights. Their heads drooped from the stalk of their necks like sacks of fetid meat as their eyes searched the shadows for something—anything—to eat. The air hung above the pen, undisturbed by any breeze or draft. It was as if even the atmosphere of this place wished to remain dark, dead and poisonous.
He leaned in closer to the fence in order to get a better look. Despite his revulsion, there was something inherently sad about the place. Each of The Dead had once been a person. They’d had family, harbored hopes and dreams, and just wanted to live. Instead, for whatever reason, they’d gotten themselves infected and all of it came crashing down around them. As Cleese looked the pen over, there was a part of him that felt a twinge of sadness for that loss.
Abruptly, something slammed itself against the space between the slats of the pen directly in front of him. Cleese jumped back, shouting out, his fist suddenly drawn back instinctively. Pressed against the railings, its features pinched into a rictus snarl, was what had once been a human face. Yellow-green teeth gnashed ineffectually against the metal and saliva dribbled down its chin, coating the fence and giving the metal a sheen that glimmered in the half-light. The thing’s right eye socket was nothing more than a cavernous hole that had been punched into its skull. The other eye’s pupil was clouded over, its tear duct wept a sticky, whitish fluid.
As Cleese stood there gaping at it, the thing became more and more excited as it pushed its snarling face against the fencing. Soon, its manner became down-right frantic and its furor began to affect the other UDs held in the pen. As Cleese stepped away, he caught a quick glimpse of the blood-spattered clerical collar which surrounded the thing’s ravaged throat.
'Monk! Are you fuckin’ nuts?'
The shout came from out of the darkness, from one of the guard towers across the Pen.
Adamson.
'Get that fuckin’ idiot away from there. He’s agitating my herd!'
Cleese shot Monk a quick glance and took another two steps back. The look on his face was comical: eyes wide like china plates, mouth slung open as if waiting to catch flies. He stood there grinning and offering up a silent apology.
'This’s what you’ll be fightin’, Son,' Monk said. 'Never forget how that one snuck up on ya. This ain’t San Francisco, Sparky, where you’ll see ’em all comin’. Here, they’ll bag ya and tag ya when you least expect it.'
He dropped his arm back across Cleese’s shoulder and led him back through the darkness and toward the exit.
'Always remember…' Monk said quietly in Cleese’s ear, 'it’s not the one you hear that’ll get you. It’s the one that you don’t.'
Cleese nodded and tried to swallow his heart which had leapt up into his throat and thumped there like a trapped rabbit’s. Together, they walked back they way they’d come and then out of the door of the Pen.
Soon, they were heading back across the field toward the Training Hall. As they walked, Monk remained silent, leaving Cleese to his thoughts and to again question what the fuck he was doing here.
The Lay of the Land
Fluorescent fixtures shone down brightly over row after row of cafeteria tables. Their flat laminated surfaces reflected the light back onto the ceiling as small irregular squares of illumination. The bulbs that were set into the assembly gave off a low, buzzing sound like angry houseflies caught in a Mason jar. Each fixture hung from two conduits set in the acoustic tiles. Each tile was peppered with tiny holes.
The room was painted a soft, off-white. Its flooring was scarred industrial linoleum. Along one wall, floor-to- ceiling windows displayed the large expanse of grass which surrounded the building and framed the rest of the compound. Far off, the Holding Pen stood brooding; a constant reminder of the true nature of this place. Even with the open view, the room had a bland and institutional appearance, as if it were constructed solely to be used for feeding the hungry and then quickly abandoned. Because of the acoustics, any sound echoed hollowly making the room seem far emptier than it was. As most dining rooms were warm inviting places, this was quite the opposite.
At the far end of the hall was a kitchen from which emanated savory smells. Just stepping into the space and taking a whiff was enough to make your mouth water. Several Asian and Hispanic women, hair tied back and encased in spidery nets, could be seen through a small pass-through as they moved about, working diligently behind the gleaming metallic counters. Large bins overflowing with food were set in the slots of the steam table. Ethereal vapors swirled over the food and coated every morsel with a glistening patina. The sheer bounty of it all was awe- inspiring.
The League fed their fighters well and even though the food was dispensed in a cafeteria-like fashion, its quality was of the highest caliber. The men who toiled here needed sustenance and their requirements were very specific. Nutritionists had designed each menu to give maximum caloric benefit with a minimum amount of fat. Lean buffalo steaks could be both seen and smelled as they sizzled behind the women while large, sumptuous filets of salmon were grilled off to the side. Brown rice and mashed sweet potatoes sat in large pots near a carving station of the leanest prime rib. Bins of romaine lettuce and a literal garden of vegetables completed the mouthwatering tableau.
The doors leading into the building had only just been unlocked, but already there was a line of hungry people waiting to get in. The stomachs of the compound’s population were more reliable than any Swiss timepiece and their grumbling would let them know when it was time to eat before any clock. When you pushed your body as hard as the fighters here did, food was second only to air in its necessity. The majority of the residents had by now lined up and was slowly working their way through. The others would surely be coming before long.
Monk and Cleese walked into the room and each grabbed a tray and a fistful of metal utensils which were made available in large plastic bins just inside the door. Taking their time, they quietly circled the room and stepped up to the back of the line. Monk motioned with his head for Cleese to look around. Since Cleese was still getting to know the lay of the land here at the compound, Monk said it was a perfect opportunity for him to size up the competition.
'Pay attention,' Monk all but whispered as he leaned in close. 'Knowing who’s who—who you can trust and who’s a complete asshole—could one day save your ass.'
