Adamson found it difficult to believe what he was hearing.
From all of his time working with The Dead, Adamson had learned one thing—these were dangerous and unpredictable creatures with no sense of humanity left in them, much less a soul. They were, in many respects, like tigers that had developed a taste for man’s flesh. They could appear docile, but it was only because they were looking for an opening through which to get their claws into something. Something solid. Something wet. Any semblance of their humanity had been stripped away long ago.
'Do you know the trouble you could get into—the trouble I could get into—if you end up getting yourself injured… or worse? If someone were to find you here they’d think you’d gone nuts.'
'I know. I know. But these are—these were—still people, first and foremost. They are not monsters. They are people who have been changed, transformed if you will, but they still deserve to be given absolution by the Lord God.'
'Father… with all due respect… Are you out of your fuckin’ mind? Yeah, ok… They were people… once… but whatever they were, whatever it was that made them them, was burned away a long time ago.' Adamson ran his hand over his face in exasperation. 'Dammit, how many times must we go over this?'
Handel shook his head in disgust. He simply refused to believe what he was hearing. He’d seen it, seen it with his own eyes. The Dead… they understood, they remembered. Hadn’t one of them tried to speak to him just a moment ago? What he’d heard was not some random vocalization. It was the completion of a prayer… which suggested comprehension and context.
'Look, Father…' Adamson continued, 'back in the day, I was holed up in a restaurant’s store room for a few days. One of these things broke in and stumbled around the kitchen for a few hours. It rattled pots and pans, it broke open the door on one of the walk-in refrigerators, and from the sounds of things, it was making itself quite the little banquet. When I finally got up the nerve to sneak a peek into the room I saw it hacking away at its own hand with a meat cleaver. The fuckin’ thing chopped off one of its fingers and was stuffing it into its own damned mouth.'
Handel looked away and stared at the group of UDs through the fence. Their open and empty expressions met his. The one who’d spoken was now stupidly chewing on the metal wire of the fence.
'These are not intelligent beings, Father,' Adamson said with as much sympathy as he could muster. 'They are mindless killing and eating machines. No offense, but God turned his back on them a long time ago; back when they all went flat-line.'
'No… you are wrong.'
'No, Father… I am right. These creatures are without both intellect and soul. They are empty shells which act like people for only as long as they can get their filthy hands on us. The sole thing keeping them from ripping you apart right now is that they can’t figure out how to get through that fuckin’ fence.'
Handel silently stared at Adamson for a long time and a range of emotions washed over his face as he did so: sorrow, regret, contempt, fear, condescension… It was obvious to him, as it had been since their first discussions on the topic, that this was not a battle he would ever win. Adamson, much like many others, had made his mind up with regard to The Dead. Nothing could change that. The best Handel could hope for was a stalemate; a philosophical detente.
Handel suddenly smiled and nodded. If he were to be able to continue his work, he’d have to get Adamson’s… agreement, if not his blessing. A new tact may be in order.
After all,there was more than one way to skin a cat.
'Look, you’re probably right. Perhaps they are unable to understand, perhaps I am truly just wasting my time. But then again it’s not like I’m hurting anything, right?'
Adamson regarded the priest with a puzzled expression. It was true no one was being harmed by any of this. If the old man wanted to splash some water on the fence and think he was saving some souls, where was the real harm in that? Besides, a part of Adamson felt as if some small act of benevolence was missing in this place. So much brutality was directed at the UDs on a daily basis, some slight bit of consideration wasn’t completely out of the question. After all, wasn’t that what laid at the heart of everything he’d been taught and had tried to do during his funeral director days? Provided the old guy didn’t get too close to the fence and get himself tagged, there really was no harm done.
'Look,' Adamson said and he stepped slightly closer to Handel in an almost conspiratory manner, 'I might be willing to turn a blind eye to what you’re doing here, but…'
He ran his hand through his stringy hair making it lay flat against his skull with a wet look. There was no workable solution to any of this. He knew The League would be pissed if they ever caught wind of any of it. He also knew the depths of Father Handel’s convictions. Over their past discussions, he’d become convinced that the priest thought he was doing the right thing; that he was indeed doing God’s work. Even if Adamson forbade him from pulling this shit ever again, he knew that it would do no good. Handel would find a way to make it happen one way or another. By hook or by crook, the priest would make his way in or even bribe one of the guards to allow him to do just what he’d been doing all along.
Adamson looked at Father Handel and saw the passion burning within the man’s eyes. Who was he to stand in the way of that? After all, maybe there was a God up there somewhere and all of this shit was just another stage in His master plan?
Who was to say?
Adamson sighed in resignation. 'Look, Father, I’ve got a shift change to coordinate. I want you to pack your gear up and leave—for now. We’ll talk about this some other time, ok? In the meantime, I’ll promise I’ll check with Corporate and see if I can get you some kind of special exemption. Maybe have you go through the same training our guards receive.'
Adamson looked at the priest for a hint of compliance.
The priest smiled and nodded.
It wasn’t the resounding concurrence Adamson was looking for, but it would have to do.
And with that, Adamson reluctantly turned and left. Over his shoulder he called back, 'I’ll be returning in about twenty minutes. I don’t want you here when I come back.'
'Twenty minutes. Got it.'
Handel watched Adamson as he walked away. When he was out of sight he bent to retrieve his Holy Water and poured more of it into the palm of his hand.
After all, it was the only Christian thing to do.
Braggadocio
The Octagon looked bleak and decidedly inhospitable as it sat in the darkness at the far end of the nearly empty Training Hall. Residual steam rose in swirling clouds above the fighting space; smoky tendrils reaching out for purchase in the open beams of the ceiling. Lights blazed from above, hot and suffocating, illuminating every inch of the pit. The shadows had been effectively pushed back and dared not battle the light in this place.
Down in the Pit, Monk stood with his feet planted firmly in the sand. He held two reins out in front of him, caressing them as if he were running his fingers through a lover’s hair. Standing roughly six feet behind the harnessed UD, he held the thing on a short, but very effective lead. Headgear was strapped tightly over the thing’s head; lengths of leather bound by dull, metal clasps. A short baton of hard rubber acted as a bite block. The setup prevented the diseased mouth of the UD from getting a grip on anything or, God forbid, actually getting a hold of anyone. It wasn’t pretty, but it made handling them more or less safe. Despite all of the preventative measures and specialized equipment, Monk still kept a fully loaded shotgun propped against the wall… just in case.
The dead thing at the end of the reins shuffled and stumbled its way across the sand, intently focusing its gaze on Cleese as he crouched before it. While its gait was off-kilter to begin with, its present lack of coordination was mostly due to Monk pulling on the lengths of leather now and again, dragging it off balance. You know, for safety’s sake. The thing reached out its hands pleadingly for Cleese like a child asking for a beloved toy. Its fingers were splayed and pumping. An anxious look of expectancy lit up its slackened features.
And all the while, its jaws were working. Its mouth ground back and forth and drooled, hungering for just a taste of the living meat which danced before it just out of reach.
