want to go look at more training tapes, my young prodigy?'
'Sure,' Cleese said and stuffed the last bit of a roll into his mouth. 'As you know, I live for that shit.'
They got to their feet and quickly bussed their trays. The conversation in the room had more or less died down to a dull roar now that almost everyone had eaten. There were still bursts of laughter as well as some hooting and hollering going on, but for the most part things became a lot more quiet. For the majority of the fighters, this meal signaled the end of another tough day of training. The only thing left to do was unwind, soothe tired muscles and try to get some sleep in order to be rested enough to do it all again tomorrow. These were the fighters who took things seriously enough to adhere to a regimen and because of that, they stood a better chance of surviving.
The rest of them would drink, shoot pool in the Administration Building and try not to go stir crazy. These men were the ones who’d come here carrying a lot of personal baggage. They were the ones who’d been recruited from biker and street gangs and raising hell would always be their primary vocation. Cleese understood the mindset all too well. He often wondered which group he would have fallen into had it not been for Monk, who believed in a happy medium between the two.
Monk and Cleese dumped what little remained of their meals into one of the big rubber trashcans near a back door and left their trays in a bin nearby. They walked the periphery of the room and, as they approached the exit, Cleese saw Masterson moving like a shark toward them.
'Ah, shit,' Monk said turning his face away so Masterson couldn’t see it. 'Keep walking.'
'Monk,' Masterson said as he intercepted them at the door. 'Cleese.'
'Masterson,' Monk said and smiled a mirthless smile.
Cleese just nodded.
'How are things going with our new man here?'
'They’re ok. I still think he’s too old and he doesn’t listen too well, but… Give me enough time with him and he shouldn’t get himself killed too quickly.'
'Hey, man…' Cleese said feigning insult, 'that shit hurts my feelings. You wound me, Monk. You really do.'
'Yeah, well… if you’re looking for sympathy, it’s in the dictionary between ‘shit’ and ‘syphilis.’'
Masterson smirked and nodded.
'I see things are indeed going well. Well, welcome again, Cleese. We’re happy to have you here with us.'
Cleese raised his eyebrows in surprise. Masterson didn’t seem the type to give out compliments or warm greetings. This was not the same guy who’d kicked him out of bed not so long ago. For the life of him, Cleese wasn’t sure whether it was a sign that things really were going well or that Masterson was merely blowing smoke up his ass.
He hoped it was the former because he hated the latter.
'You aren’t going to get all mushy on me are you, Masterson?' Cleese said. 'You know how I hate it when you get emotional.'
'I think it’s a safe bet to say, ‘No.’' Masterson said, coming as close as Cleese had ever seen him to genuinely smiling.
'Well, we’d love to stand around talking all night,' Monk said, 'but we were just on our way to the Tape Library to review some of the last Live Event matches.'
Monk moved toward the exit.
'Come along, young squire.'
'Yep,' he said, and took a step away, inwardly glad to be away from the conversation since Masterson—from the day they first met—made him feel skittish. Every fiber of Cleese’s body told him not to trust the guy. Maybe it was the memory of their first contact when Masterson demanded he get onto that Blackhawk. Maybe it was the way he never felt he knew what was going on behind that dark suit and those even darker eyes. Maybe it was just simply that viper-like smile. Cleese didn’t know and, quite frankly, he didn’t want to know. He knew that he couldn’t be trusted and that he wanted to always keep a little distance between Masterson and himself.
'Hold on one second, Cleese,' Masterson said. 'Monk, Cleese will catch up with you in a moment.'
Monk shot a glance back and locked eyes with Cleese as if to say, 'Watch yourself.'
Masterson pulled Cleese over to the side of the door.
'Son,' Masterson said in a tone that was almost conspiratorial, 'I was asked by Corporate to let you know that some very important people have been watching the training tapes of your sparring with Monk and we’re all very impressed. We see big things in your future if you continue to do as well as you have been.'
Cleese looked at him for a moment and wondered, what would make someone who couldn’t have cared less if he’d lived or died a few short weeks ago suddenly start sucking his dick like this? It just didn’t make a whole lotta sense. While he considered it, he decided to dole out a little more rope to see if Masterson would hang himself with it.
'Well, thanks. I’m actually enjoying this more than I thought I would.'
'That’s good to hear, Cleese,' Masterson said with that snakey smile again and all the while staring at him. After pausing for effect, he continued talking, 'You don’t know how close you came to being booted outta here after that piece of business with Michaels in the weight room.' He paused as if to make his point and then, 'We want to see you do well here. If there’s anything you ever need, you let us know, ok?'
Little alarms starting going off in Cleese’s head. The feeling was like termites eating their way into the back of his skull. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something suddenly felt more than a little bit hinkey to him. A voice in the back of his head urged him to move along; to get as far away from this slimy fuck as possible. It was a voice that Cleese was used to listening to and he couldn’t comply fast enough to suit him.
'Well, golly…' Cleese said, his voice spiced with just a hint of sarcasm. Despite the creepy feeling he got from Masterson, there was still a part of him that took a bit of pleasure from fucking with him. 'I really appreciate you saying that, Buddy, but I really should go and catch up with Monk.'
Masterson’s shoulders almost imperceptibly bunched up, but he quickly regained control of himself and smiled that unnerving smile again.
'We’ll talk again, Cleese. We’re looking forward to seeing what you can bring to The League.'
Cleese nodded and stepped away from the conversation. He smiled slightly and slowly walked toward the door.
Almost dismissively, Masterson returned his gaze to the crowd in order to continue his observation of the fighters still left in the room. After a moment, he turned to eye Cleese suspiciously as he disappeared through the doors.
Communion of The Dead
But now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first fruits of them that slept.
For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead.
For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.
The first rays of the sun broke through a dense cloud bank and fell upon the city as the bells of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church rang out into the crystalline morning. The once bustling metropolis around the little church lay, as it had for weeks now, not merely sleeping, but quite literally dead to the world. Newspapers with headlines which proclaimed 'The Dead Walk,' 'National Guard Overwhelmed,' and 'President Declares State of Emergency,' blew about the deserted streets like origami tumbleweeds; detritus from a world gone terminal. Packs of what were once domesticated dogs roamed the desolate streets and avenues and searched for whatever food might have been left behind. Their masters, who were now far beyond caring about much of anything except the unrelenting hunger burning in their gullets, searched alongside them although their goal was for a far more elusive prey. The skyscrapers and office buildings of this slain city towered above the tiny, masonry church and cast its painted edifice in a continual shadow. The heavy, wooden doors of the parish stood propped open in welcome and, one by one, the reanimated dead were slowly finding their way inside.
