attempt to slam him onto his back. It was something that was designed to kick the air clean out of your opponent and—if it was successful—make any further breathing painful and laborious. It’d always been one of Monk’s go-to opening moves.
As if on cue, Monk ducked in low and made a lunging grab for Cleese’s thighs.
Having already expected the gambit, Cleese leapt back and, as Monk came in, he threw a downward slicing haymaker. The blow shattered Monk’s jaw and made his open-mouthed gape even more pronounced. Monk’s body corkscrewed from the strength of the impact and he spun to the ground.
The crowd erupted into furious applause. While they may not have fully realized the importance of what was happening down on the sand, the bastards could sense that the fight was back on.
Cleese danced backward in a move he’d copped from Muhammad Ali. As he backpedaled, he looked at Monk’s face and was shocked at how much different it was. Sure, it was basically the same face he’d come to know and love, but… it was also noticeably altered. Its fundamental structure hadn’t changed, but now every piece of musculature just kind of sagged. It was almost as if someone had pulled downward at Monk’s chin and the rest of his face had fallen in line and stuck there.
Cleese’s gaze fell, at last, on Monk’s eyes and his resolve shifted just a little, just enough. Despite it all—the blood, the death, the danger—staring out at him from behind those clouded eyes was his friend.
Not a UD. Not a zombie.
Just Monk, plain ol’ Monk.
And, from the look in his eyes, somewhere deep beneath the anger and the violence, his friend was terrified, hopelessly confused and blindingly hungry. It was as if he’d gone to sleep and had what surely must have been the greatest dream imaginable and then, without provocation or preview, he’d been dragged back into a world he no longer understood.
Similar, in dimly remembered ways, but still changed; still
Now, there was only the pain… and the disorientation… and the hunger that never seemed to fully go away.
By now, Monk had scrambled sloppily back to his feet and renewed his attack. He came in with his hands up, elbows drawn to his sides; old habits refusing to die. Despite all of the interference his brain was getting in the way of varied signals, Monk still managed to fall back onto instinct and his manner became a little more assured.
He came in fast and hit Cleese at the waist. Monk lifted him off his feet and, not fully being able to compensate for the weight, they both fell to the sand. While Monk had the seemingly superior position, Cleese retained the Closed Mount position and, being the stronger of the two of them, was still able to more or less control his opponent. Cleese could feel his friend’s hands crawling and scratching over his chest. With all of his upper body’s strength, Cleese lifted Monk up and away from his body. Monk’s mouth moved back and forth as it nervously chewed the air. Saliva dripped dark brown and thick from Monk’s chin and pooled on Cleese’s exposed stomach.
The crowd ooohed and aaahhed above their heads.
'Monk, no!' Cleese shouted, shoving his hands up and away.
Immediately, Monk stopped struggling and, for a moment, simply stared at Cleese. His expression was a whirlwind of emotions scrawled across a slack and deadened slate. He was confused, but still hungry; his rudimentary brain conflicted over which was the more pressing need. The important thing, to Cleese’s mind, was that he’d stopped trying to take a bite out of him.
Cleese quickly cleared his head and decided right then and there that if he wanted to get through this shit alive, he had better start acting like a fighter or else he'd end up just like Monk. And as a great man once said, 'Fuck that!'
From his position on the ground, Cleese let go of his hold and threw four fast punches. Two rights landed at a point just to the left of Monk’s right temple, effectively stunning him. The next left hit Monk just under the nose, shattering the cartilage there and opening a spigot of thick, black blood. The last punch came in hot on the heels of the last one. It hit Monk right under the chin, shutting his jaw with a click. The accumulated force of all four punches landing within a span of a second or two sent Monk up and off of Cleese. As Monk collapsed to the side, an arc of blood flew back and painted a thick stripe of red onto the sand.
Cleese jumped to his feet and, for good measure, threw his back into a front 'field goal'-type kick which sent Monk’s head snapping upward. His body went slack and he collapsed onto the sand.
Overhead, the crowd once again did their thing.
Cleese watched as Monk slowly crawled away and then painfully pulled himself up onto all fours. His friend moved with what looked to be excruciating pain. His face twisted up into an agonized grimace with his every motion.
The whole damn thing broke Cleese’s already broken heart.
Standing there staring sadly at the millieu around him, an idea suddenly occurred to him. Maybe it was possible to tap into the man Monk once was. After all, he’d obviously retained his fighting style from before. He’d reacted to the sound of Cleese’s voice just a second ago. Maybe there was a way to reignite the man’s now dead brain by memory recall.
Fuck… at this point, it was worth a shot.
'Monk!' Cleese shouted. 'MONK!'
The old man slowly crawled up and sat back on his haunches. His hands fluttered lazily over his shattered nose, vainly trying to stop the flow of blood. He stared up into the glaring lights from his kneeling position on the sand, his mouth falling open and slack like a carp’s.
'Monk!' Cleese repeated.
Monk stared blankly into space.
Cleese tried again, 'MONK!'
Monk slowly turned his head and looked at Cleese. His stare remained empty and soulless, but a small spark of recognition could be seen smoldering deep within.
'MONK!'
It was obvious from his reaction that Monk was at least slightly able to recognize his name when he heard it called to him. Surely, if that spark was there, there must be a way to fan it into a roaring fire.
'Monk!' he shouted.
The dead man looked away sadly and stared into space for the longest time. His eyes roamed the pit as if his mind had just tuned into a radio station no one but he could hear. He turned his head and his eyes fell back on Cleese with a heartrending finality. Monk’s clouded gaze seemed to bore through to Cleese’s very soul. It left him feeling a terrible coldness inside. Then, as if a sun slowly dawned across his slackened features, Monk painfully blinked and then he drew a stuttering breath.
'Cleeeeeeesssss…'
Cleese stepped back and dropped his hands to his sides. Staring up into the lights, he blinked away more of his tears. He narrowed his eyes against their harsh brilliance and squeezed away his pain. Around him, the stadium’s air had gone—whether in reality or merely in perception—utterly silent. Cleese looked back and felt his heart twist once more as he gazed into his friend’s sad, doomed eyes.
'Monk? You with me, Buddy?'
Monk sagged in his own skin as if, deep down, he was ashamed of what he was, of what he had become. He turned his face away and sheepishly fumbled at his clothing. With noncompliant hands, he tried his best to straighten away the wrinkles and stains from his shirt’s fabric.
'Cleeeeeessss…' he groaned sadly.
'Monk…' Cleese sighed, letting the situation sink all the way in. 'No. Not you…'
Bit by bit, Monk’s gaze slowly rose and finally settled once again on Cleese’s now tear-stained face. The dead man stared for a long time as if he was off, lost in thought. His expression looked almost like he was listening to a voice from far away. His internal radio quietly whispered its message from across the veil of Death. For a second, he made no further movements. He simply stared at Cleese, moving his mouth in that constant chewing motion.
And then…
