itself all twisted around, but this was different. This was a stench that had worked itself into the marrow of his bones, infected him to his very soul.
As he watched Cleese running, he remembered a time when he too ran; ran for everything he’d been worth. He’d run from his place of work—a place that was in and of itself a place of death—and, when his car died on him, he’d kept on running until he finally fell exhausted in a warehouse on the outskirts of town. He’d awoken surrounded by men with guns and had, for a moment, forgotten all about Mr. Robinson, Mrs. Jacob, Mrs. Devon, Mr. Lodene and the fat Mrs. Harvey. He’d opened his eyes and saw nothing except the endless abyss one can only see if one is looking deep inside the barrel of a locked and loaded gun.
Once the armed men figured out that he still possessed a heartbeat, they’d brought him to a bivouac and gotten him showered, fed and clothed in something more battle-ready than the soiled business suit in which they’d found him. Then, after a good (and safe) night’s rest and quick lesson in firearms later, he’d been out on the front line 'droppin’ Zs'—the term the militia used for the killing of the reanimated dead.
As the weeks went by, and after a whole lot of practice, he’d gotten pretty good at it. His knowledge of anatomy told him exactly where to aim the rifle for maximum effect. It also helped him to judge at a distance how quickly the undead could move once they’d engaged them—the more progressed their state of decomposition was, the slower they were. As a result, he’d become known as The Dead Guy due to his almost encyclopedic knowledge of Them.
If they only knew…
Then one day, as he finished the clearing of a large office building, a savvy and persuasive man approached him accompanied by a huge bear of a man he’d called Jimbo. The guy had all the subtleness of a used car salesman and, after many drinks and a large steak dinner, talked some shit about these big plans he had. Adamson thought the guy was as crazy as a soup sandwich, but after a few more drinks he felt more than willing to entertain such madness. This guy, Weber, heard about Adamson’s unique body of knowledge from some of the men and wanted to brainstorm some ideas with him as to how to keep a large number of the undead. Like everything about him, all of this Weber fella’s ideas were big and just this side of crazy. Apparently, Weber had these plans and if Adamson could develop a way to do what he was asking, there could be some big money in it for everybody.
Adamson’s mistake was that he didn’t read Weber’s fine print when he signed on. As promised, there was indeed money enough for everybody.
The problem was Adamson was nobody.
Flash forward to today and Weber is a multimillionaire living in a swanky high rise and Adamson a schmuck living in a hangar with a couple of hundred corpses. And when all was said and done, all Adamson had left was what he’d come with: a very specified body of knowledge and his commitment to giving the dead their respectful due. Yes, the idea of making some real money was important, but in the end it was always secondary to his reverence and protection of the dead.
As far as Adamson was concerned, the living were hypocrites and liars and they could go fuck themselves. With a deep, resigned breath he sighed and ran his fingers through his greasy hair. Almost as an afterthought, he wiped his hand off on the seat of his pants and continued watching Cleese as he made his way around the far end of the track.
~ * ~
Cleese powered into the home stretch and decided (based on the sun’s position in the sky) that it was getting late and he should probably call it quits. He was supposed to meet Monk to review more fight tapes and wanted to grab a quick shower before he caught up with him. He pushed himself to make his legs pump even harder as he approached the Start marker etched into the track. As he crossed the line and stumbled to a stop, his legs went rubbery and he almost thought that he was going to fall, but managed to maintain his balance.
He walked stiffly until able to catch his breath and then bent at the waist to stretch his already tightening hamstrings. They were still sore from the hack squats Monk insisted on him doing the day before. This running shit on top of that wasn’t doing him any favors. His muscles cried out in protest with every movement. Standing upright and walking slowly over to where he’d piled his gym bag and water bottle, his quadriceps and calves now added their voices to the polyphonic pain opera already in progress. He picked up his stuff and slung the bag’s strap over his shoulder. Walking off the track, he pulled the top off his water bottle and drank heartily. Once his thirst had been more or less sated, he opened his eyes and noticed someone standing up by the benches at the side of the track. As he came closer, he recognized the guy. He’d seen the dude at the Holding Pen when Monk had taken him there.
Adamson was his name or something like that.
The guy was lanky and had a distinctly unkempt look about him—as if he’d just said, 'Fuck it!' and given up on personal hygiene. Cleese was no fashion plate himself—his taste in clothing leaned more toward boots, jeans, black t-shirts and, if the weather was less than perfect, a beat up old leather jacket—but he at least liked a good hosing off now and again. Adamson looked like he’d not seen a shower in quite a while. His clothes looked even worse.
Cleese wasn’t sure what the guy wanted, but it looked as if he was about to find out. As Cleese approached, Adamson straightened up and once again ran his fingers through that greasy hair of his. Cleese idly wondered where the guy got his hair care products. Union 76 was his first guess.
'Cleese,' Adamson greeted him and reached out to shake hands.
Cleese grinned, bowed slightly and apologized, 'Sorry, but I’m all sweaty. I don’t want to get you all slimy.' Somewhere deep inside his brain, Cleese thought how ironic it was that here was a guy he didn’t want to come in physical contact with.
'Nice day,' Adamson said, looking around.
'Yeah… Since coming here, I don’t get to see as much of the sun as I might once have. It’s good to get out into the fresh air once in a while.'
Adamson smiled widely and said, 'Preaching to the choir, Buddy. You’re preaching to the choir.' He smiled and then the expression evaporated from his face like an ice cube on hot asphalt. 'I wanted to talk to you, if you have a minute.'
Cleese nodded and motioned for him to sit down. Cleese took a seat, his legs singing out in appreciation. As his ass hit the metal of the bench, Adamson came around and sat down near him. Immediately, Cleese caught a whiff of the same sour smell coming off of Adamson that he’d encountered when he went into the Holding Pen. It smelled like sour meat and week-old grease. It was the kind of smell that made the stomach churn and the bitter taste of bile come unbidden to the back of the throat. As subtly as he could, Cleese slid slightly further down the bench.
'What did you want to talk about?'
'Well,' Adamson said and ran his hand through that hair once again, 'I was looking over my log the other day. I keep pretty good notes on how many UDs come in, how many go out, and who it is that makes one change to the other.'
Cleese nodded. Other than a few of the fighters he’d met, everyone he’d run into in this place seemed to have a pretty advanced case of OCD. It didn’t surprise him that the guy in charge of keeping track of The Dead could tell you the exact number of Them he had in his grisly inventory.
'Yeah, and…?'
Adamson stretched his legs out in front of him and scratched at some bit of slime embedded into the fabric of his pants.
'It got me curious… I noticed you’re doing more than your share of incapacitating my Stock.'
Cleese nodded and said, 'Ummm… sorry.'
Adamson laughed and his tone brought a chill to even Cleese’s jaded senses.
'No… no. It’s not that. It just piqued my interest.'
Cleese took another swig from his water hoping the liquid would cut the sour taste that was beginning to develop at the back of in his mouth.
'Anyway,' Adamson continued, 'like I said, it got me curious, so I dug out one of your training tapes.'
Adamson turned and gave Cleese the eyeball.
'Impressive.'
'Ah, shucks…' Cleese said with just a hint of irony. '‘tweren’t nothin’.'
