gym, a mixed martial arts training space and, of course, a Training Octagon.
Masterson raised his right arm and pointed with his middle finger.
'Beyond that is The Chest which is what we call our equipment room and armory. Further on, is the Firing Range and Quarter Mile Track and, over on the far side of the compound, is the Holding Pen, which you can’t really see from here, but is where we store the all of the training UDs.'
'UDs?'
'Verbal shorthand, I apologize. Undeads or, as you and the rest of the world have been referring to them, ‘Zombies.’'
Cleese looked at Masterson like the man just shit in his morning bowl of corn flakes.
'Are you telling me that you keep zombies here?
Masterson nodded. 'It’s what we do, Cleese. Get used to the idea that you will soon be dealing with Them on a very intimate basis.'
'How many?'
'What?' Masterson asked, sounding annoyed.
'I asked how many of them do you keep here?'
'We store up to three hundred at any given time. The number ebbs and flows depending on the kind of training we’re engaged in.'
Cleese shook his head in disbelief and stumbled to a stop. His mind reeled at the thought of someone willfully keeping that many of those fuckers together in any one place, at any one time. The things could be a handful if encountered one on one—he’d seen that firsthand—but gather a half dozen or so together and you could end up having a very shitty afternoon. And to think, these fuckin’ imbeciles were casually talking about 'storing' them by the hundreds. He trotted to catch up with the still-walking Masterson.
'You ever have any of ’em break out?'
'Never.'
'Never?' Cleese said with a slight chuckle.
Masterson stopped abruptly and Cleese had to skid to a stop to avoid running into him. He turned to look Cleese square in the eye for the first time since the two of them met in San Francisco. His gaze was direct and allowed no argument.
'Never.' he said emphatically and turned.
An odd shadow, cast by a sun slung low over the horizon, danced across the man’s back as he continued walking toward the training hall.
Monk
The two men entered the Main Training Hall and the heavy, metal door echoed loudly as it slammed shut behind them. The first thing Cleese noticed as he walked deeper into the building was the smell. It was a pungent mixture of leather, sweat and bitter antiseptic. The place reeked of hard work and exertion, of men pushing their bodies beyond their physical limitations and of painful learning.
It also smelled like death. A swirling odor of putrescence and decomposition hung over the room like a pall, tainting everything it touched. It was a smell that stuck to the back of your throat like paste and made gagging a very real possibility. It was, simply put, a smell that once experienced you never forgot.
Once, a long time ago, Cleese had broken into a local funeral home and made off with a couple of bottles of embalming fluid. Some freaks he knew in the neighborhood made a habit of dipping their cigarettes into the shit, letting them dry, and then smoking them. They’d called them 'Sherms.' Got real high on them, they did. The things also burnt their brains out like napalm. Cleese had to go into the mortuary’s prep room to get the stuff. That place had the same smell to it then as this one did now.
As they walked deeper into the main part of the Hall, Cleese saw what looked like a locker room and showers off to the left. Directly in front of them was a large open space covered with interlocking mats on the floor . Up and further to the left was a weight training area where several workout machines glistened in the low overhead light. The mirrored wall at the far end reflected racks of free weights and a dozen or so treadmills. An open-beamed ceiling arched high above them, its supports fanning out like a ribcage. Hung sporadically from the rafters, large round lights threw pools of illumination over the interior.
'Here’s the martial arts area, over there, the gym. You’ll be expected to conform to our way of doing things here, our protocol,' Masterson explained as they continued deeper into the building. 'Here’s the way it all breaks down… We hold fight and tactical classes every day at zero-eight-hundred and again at sixteen hundred. Your attendance there is mandatory. Later in the day, we offer gymnastics and Judo, which are elective. Some guys’ fighting styles don’t make use of it and so not everyone is required to come to class. You’ll need to check the schedule for you and your trainer’s spots in The Octagon.'
'Is that when we fight the zombies?'
'No.' Masterson sounded slightly annoyed. 'It’s where you train. Live combat is saved for the televised events. It was one of the first rules laid down by The League. When people tune in, they want to see a show. This isn’t professional wrestling or any of that staged kinda bullshit. They don’t want matches that appear planned or biased in any way…' and then under his breath, 'not like you could plan, much less reason, with those damned things.
'It just keeps things honest and above board,' he continued. 'You will be required to train with the UDs as well as living opponents. The UDs will, of course, be wearing bite blocks and harnesses. It’s to maximize your safety and minimize our liability.'
As they walked together across the mat, Cleese saw an older man coming toward them from the opposite direction. He stood not quite as tall as Cleese, about fifty or so, with salt-and-pepper hair. His body was well- muscled and yet compact—solid, like a boxer’s—only it looked as if capable of inflicting a lot more damage. Even though he was an older man, he still gave off a vibe that said he’d seen some shit in his time and, if troubled, he’d be only too happy to carve off a major chunk of your ass.
'Monk!' Masterson called out and waved a hand.
The other man returned the wave, but Cleese noticed that he didn’t smile. He strode over and shook Masterson’s hand. From their body language, Cleese immediately assumed that these men had known one another for some time. He also noted that although their acquaintance had been long, it was not particularly deep.
'Good to see you, Sir,' Monk said. His voice was gruff and scratchy, like silverware drawn over broken glass. He immediately looked Cleese over, appraising him as if he were a racehorse. With a discerning eye, he circled Cleese and, every so often, poked or prodded at him.
'Monk, this is Cleese.' said Masterson. 'Cleese, the man before you is James Thelonius Montgomery. Although the last man to call him ‘James’ or ‘Thelonius’ is, I believe, still able to breathe as long as no one unplugs him. It’s safest if you just call him ‘Monk.’'
'How’z it goin’?' Cleese said with a jerk of his head and extended a hand and waited for it to be shaken.
Monk ignored him and looked accusingly at Masterson. A displeased look sat on his face like a fat man on a lawn chair and he shook his head in disgust.
'He’s too skinny.'
Masterson sighed. His shoulders slumped and he rubbed at his right eye with his fist.
'He’s too skinny and he’s too green,' Monk continued. 'He’ll never be worth a shit.'
'Monk, it’s been decided' Masterson said calmly. 'You’ve read the file.'
'Hey, fuckin’ ex-cuse me,' said Cleese. 'I am still standing here.'
'And he’s stupid.' Monk ran his hand over his face, pulling his features into distortion. 'Motherfucker doesn’t even know when to keep his mouth shut tight.'
'I recall someone once saying some similar things about you,' Masterson smiled.
'I’m going on record right now as saying that I think he’s the type to shit the bed, but ok. After all, you guys are the boss.'
'Duly noted.'
They both turned and looked toward Cleese, who scowled and held up his right hand, brandishing two fingers. His expression let it be known that it was not a gesture of peace he offered.
'Two things,' he said with a tiger’s slow smile. 'Number one,' he said as he dropped his index finger. His
