"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 s.h.i.t 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 middle finger jutted from his fist in unabashed defiance. "Don't talk s.h.i.t about me like I'm not here." He spun his fist around in a tight circle. "You have something to say, you say it to my face or not at all. And number two," the middle finger lowered slowly into a fist. "I get treated fairly here and I play nice, but if I think that anyone is trying to b.u.t.tf.u.c.k me, I walk. No bulls.h.i.t and no second chances."

He pumped his fist like a heartbeat.

"We work on a mentor system," continued Masterson, ignoring everything that Cleese had just said. "Every new recruit is paired with a veteran. Your mentor is Monk. The two of you will bunk together, train together, eat, sleep, and s.h.i.t together. When in the pit, you are to know where your partner is at all times. Remember, the people who have forgotten that have been carried out of here in pieces."

Cleese looked at Monk and then back to Masterson.

"Is that understood?" Masterson asked.

Masterson looked quite pleased with himself, like a child who'd been given a job and been able to complete it to satisfaction. And why shouldn't he be? His package had been picked up and delivered in exactly the manner that The League requested. From here on, Cleese would be Monk's problem. Masterson was out of it unless, of course, the fighter f.u.c.ked up. If and when that happened, he would personally pitch the son of a b.i.t.c.h out of a helicopter and throw him back into a world of s.h.i.t.

For Monk's part, a look of dissatisfaction continued to squat across his features, like an old woman taking a dump. He'd been around this game for as long as it had been around and he'd seen more fighters come and more fighters go than even he was comfortable with. It was sad for him to think that this guy standing before him would no doubt be dead in a week, maybe less. From the look of him, Monk was starting to think that betting heavily on the "maybe less" would be a good idea.

"Ay-yup," Cleese said with a heavy sigh. "Let's do this..."

Indoctrination.

Over the course of the next few days, Monk showed Cleese how things worked around the compound. He learned there was a rigid five day schedule in place which started with a big breakfast, martial arts and weight training in the mornings, an enormous lunch, and then free sparring and what was referred to as "target specific training" in the afternoons. After that, it was more food, more training and more pain. It was a h.e.l.luva lot of work, but despite some initial b.i.t.c.hing Cleese found that he enjoyed it. It had been a long time since he'd worked his body this hard and in a short amount of time he regained some of the strength and vitality he'd lost years ago. h.e.l.l, he'd even gotten back some of that muscle definition he'd thought was buried forever beneath the avalanche of booze and bad bar food he'd once called a diet.

During the evenings, both mentor and student were encouraged to spend their time doing whatever activity they chose just as long as they remained together. Some of the teams played chess or played music; others drank and took in women. The more serious of them studied the day's lessons and pored over the compound's vast fight tape library. Whatever the two of them did, it was always in one another's company. The generally accepted theory was that if the two fighters were together at all times, constantly looking out for one another, a trust would develop. It was similar to an ethic that the Spartans once developed in their soldiers.

Besides, in this game, you could always use someone who was willing to watch your back.

Cleese was grateful when everything finally settled into a routine and he could get his first real look at some of the other fighters. There were a lot more of them here than he'd initially thought. They were an odd a.s.sortment of personalities that had been collected together for an equally odd a.s.sortment of reasons. Some of them had nothing left to lose, having lost their families and whatever pa.s.sed for their lives back before The Dead first crawled from their dusky tombs. These folks started fighting back then and now continued doing it because that was all they remembered.

Others were nothing more than professional adrenaline junkies: guys who'd given up their s...o...b..ards, crotch-rockets and thrill-seeking base jumps for a pistol and a blade. They'd gotten hooked on the notoriety and developed a real jones for the high that only came from stepping within sc.r.a.pping range of the ultimate, dangerous animal. Of course, the money was a pretty big incentive as well. Cleese noticed early on that a lot of these guys had wide-eyed, jittery looks about them and if local myth was to be believed, they usually ended up being torn to shreds in short order.

Another group, one who kept their members apart from the others, referred to themselves as The Budo Warriors. They'd attached a complex theology to the carnage that took place within the confines of The Pit. Each of them had given up his ident.i.ty from Before and adopted a samurai-like outlook to their work here: "Live today to the fullest, for tomorrow, we die."

It was, in their minds, a perfect marriage of canon and confrontation.

Their leader, a good-looking bit of femininity named Chikara, was the stuff of legend around here: leader of the Budo Warriors, a woman without a sense of remorse, fighter beyond equal. She'd been in the League for almost as long as Monk and it was rumored that she'd come here after something she'd held dear was lost to the rampaging Dead. After she'd walked away from her life back in The World and joined The League, she'd not given a good G.o.dd.a.m.n whether she ever made it out of the pit alive. The League welcomed her mostly because she kicked a.s.s and, as a woman, she was a rarity in this killing game.

At first, her technique was more b.a.l.l.s than brains. Then she got wise and applied some intellect to her retribution. She periodically allowed the UDs to come in real close and almost get their grip on her-too close in many trainers' opinions-and then she'd lash out with everything but the kitchen sink. It was a fighting style that, although unorthodox, was completely practical and incredibly proficient.

Other fighters saw what she was up to and flocked to her and her cause. h.e.l.l, everyone loves a winner and if Chikara could offer these inexperienced men knowledge to help keep them alive a little bit longer than the initial five minutes of their first match, everyone had been up for it. Chikara had been smart about it, too. She wrapped whatever fighting technique she had to offer in a tattered veil of spirituality. If she could only free these men's minds, then their a.s.ses would soon follow. She'd doled out nourishing little spoonfuls of Nietzsche and Schopenhauer with a liberal dose of Zen Buddhism, Shintoism, and some cool lines from old Bruce Lee movies.

Soon enough, she had forged for herself a formidable team.

Monk explained to Cleese how all of the Budo Warriors believed that they were already one of The Dead and that the UDs were just another task set before them on their way to enlightenment... or G.o.d, whichever. Chikara made little differentiation between G.o.ds: hers, theirs or anyone's. Life was merely a test given to the faithful to prove their capacity to serve. G.o.d, Jehovah, Jesus, Buddha, Allah... none of these things made a bit of difference to Chikara. A person's relationship with his or her G.o.d was something that remained between them and their chosen deity. Chikara's only concern was whether or not you could pa.s.s the ordeal that was set before you.

On more than one lazy evening, Monk had shown Cleese a variety of the Warrior's fight tapes and they were an eerie thing to watch. To a man, the Warriors all had the same creepy, calm approach to their fighting: sometimes standing perfectly still until the very last second, then reacting with a lethality that took your breath away. They were, in many of the fighter's minds, combat personified.

All of the fighters-no matter how they saw their place in the world- did agree on one thing and it was that The League was all important. It was Life. It was Death. Fame... Prestige... Money... Horror... Pain... Fear... It was what defined many of them. For the fighters, there was only the Training ("The Way is in the Training") followed by the money and the glory of the live televised events. One always followed the other like clockwork; as regular as breathing-in-out-in-out. And soon, Cleese was told, he would catch on and come to understand.

After only a short while, Cleese discovered that he felt at home here and was growing to actually like this new routine. There'd never been anything even remotely resembling a regular schedule in Cleese's life up 'til now. He'd pretty much done as he pleased since he left home as a kid, but this new discipline just felt right to him. Sure, he'd not had to face a live (or rather dead) opponent, but he knew in time that he would, well aware of the fact that he'd be sparring with the harnessed UDs and all of this mundane s.h.i.t of lifting weights and going over reaction drills was going to fly right out the f.u.c.king window.

Cleese was also pleased to find, despite the inhospitable temper displayed at their initial meeting, Monk was growing on him and vice versa. Sure, he was a foul-mouthed, hard drinking son of a b.i.t.c.h who'd come to the Leagues when they'd first been formed but he was also a man who knew a thing or two about fighting. In the short time they'd been paired together, Monk demonstrated to Cleese dozens of new ways to kill a man. Some were clean. Some were just plain nasty. The bottom line was that they were all effective and would, no doubt, prove useful once Cleese found himself down on the sand in the pit.

As the time dragged on, both Cleese and Monk came to consider themselves lucky to be paired with one another. Some of the pairings were not as good. Some had friction built into them from the get-go as a result of competing personalities. Others had one person exerting more control over the other and both of the fighter's styles suffered because of it. With Monk and Cleese, it was different. It became evident that they both loved the intellectual aspect of what some called the "sweet science;" that chess-like quality combat could sometimes possess. They also came to respect one another as fighters and it was that respect that made becoming friends all the more easy.

In Cleese's opinion, most of the other fighters were nothing more than cannon fodder, at best. Monk though... Monk was different. Monk was cut from a different kind of cloth all together. He knew something. He knew something special, but he was only willing to dole it out in tiny bits and pieces. He was like a gardener carefully watering and feeding a fragile young plant until it was able to support itself and bloom on its own.

He'd give Cleese ideas and concepts and then give him enough time and enough s.p.a.ce to put them all together for himself. He would let it all sink in-from the scribblings he made in the sand to the lengthy discussions they'd had over fight tapes played at slow motion-and allow Cleese to internalize it, ponder it, and then turn it into something lethal, something that the crowd would suck up like mother's milk.

Yeah, training was good. Cleese felt better than he had in years, but he also knew that they'd be climbing down into The Pit with The Dead, putting both their lives and their a.s.ses on the line.

And when they did, it was going to be a wild ride.

The Squad.

Before...

Cpl. Lance Johnson intently studied the field spread out before him. The air was still and birds could be heard singing hesitantly far off in the tree line. The weeds and brush carpeting the ground beneath his boots were only a couple of feet high, but he'd learned from past experience that death popped up where you least expected it. Since joining the squad, he'd seen more than a few men fall in fields exactly like this. They'd be walking along-running Point mostly-and then, suddenly, gone.

Dragged down into the brush.

Sometimes they'd go screaming, sometimes they'd go silently, but go they did. A subdued hiss would come up from the foliage and that sound would be the only thing to mark their pa.s.sing. Well, that and their shrieking... By the time any of the squad could get there and shoot off the things that had swarmed all over the guy, he would be torn to shreds. Ripped to ribbons.

After awhile, when it happened the squad would just blast a hole wherever the man had been. With the stalks of green and brown moving and all of the commotion coming from the ground, it was usually safer to just put down whatever was there-friend or foe.

No one ever made it up intact after being swarmed over on the ground like that, anyway. The Dead were like sharks in that respect. Once they got their teeth in you, you were done.

Caught. Cleaned. Cooked.

The team had been on a House-to-House for the past few weeks, ever since their unit was called up and told that big s.h.i.t was brewing over in Cress County. The Dead had come back to Life was the story they'd heard. None of them believed it, at first. After all, who would? Who'd ever heard of corpses getting up and eating the flesh of the Living outside of a G.o.dd.a.m.n horror movie?

Seriously... what the f.u.c.k was that all about?

The whole concept seemed fabricated by a combination of over-active imaginations, irrational fear and blatant stupidity. Any one of those things by itself was a dangerous thing. Add them all together and you had a catastrophe of biblical proportions.

Lance looked over toward Sgt. Masterson, the team's leader, and saw the big man rattle off a series of commands by way of a combination of intricate hand signals. His movements were practiced, concise and instantly understood by the men. One by one, they all dutifully complied.

Masterson was from the old school. He was a burly man in his mid-thirties with a dark flattop you could cut paper with and when it came to things like family and friends, it seemed that he'd made his choice a long time ago. The Corps had been his life and his love for as long as he could remember. There never seemed to be a good enough reason to change that. He readily admitted to being what was often referred to as a "lifer" and he was proud of that, however now that The Dead had come a "callin'", it looked more and more as if that life might just be the death of him.

Masterson motioned for the big black man known as "Ray Dog" and the guy they'd picked up on the road who called himself "Slider" to take Point. The Dog waved the M-60 in his hands in front of him like a divining rod and made his way past where Lance was crouched.

"'scuse me, Brutha..." Ray Dog said in his deep baritone.

Slider rose up and fanned the Mossberg shotgun back and forth as he came up on the right. Slider came to be a member of the squad when they'd run into him at one of the bivouacs popping up on the roads along the way. He'd been traveling west from Jersey when the s.h.i.t hit the fan. The fact that he happened to have the Mossberg and a s.h.i.t-load of ammo in the trunk of his car pretty much bought him a place on the team. His ability to clear a room with the weapon and keep his head while doing it kept him there. His nickname, he said, came about as a result of his love for White Castle burgers. If all the food in the world disappeared overnight, it would be those greasy little hockey pucks that he'd miss the most.

The two men crab-walked past the group and crouched near a split-rail fence for a second to get their bearings. Then they ducked under the strut and made their way carefully across the field in a fast moving crouch. The barrels of their weapons swayed back and forth, following each soldier's ever-wandering gaze. The rest of the squad dutifully followed along, each checking both the path in front of him and the one behind for even the slightest signs of movement.

Midway down the knoll, a dirt road cut across the field and angled down toward what looked like an old farmhouse. The building was still a good distance away, but its eaves could be made out over the tops of the trees. You could just see through the foliage that the structure was flanked by a small utility shed on the left and a large barn on the right, near the back. The barn looked to be set up for horses or cattle, maybe sheep. In another time, it would have been a place where folk could live out their entire lifetimes in peace. These days, it looked like a death trap.

Reaching the dirt road, the men stood up and let a little of their tension ease. Keeping their eyes moving and a.s.sessing their surroundings, they regrouped. Masterson made a few more quick hand signals and they turned as one and headed down the road in a two-by-three formation toward the house.

"s.h.i.t, Sarge, how many more of these Sweep and Clears are we going to do?" said the man they all called "A-Rab." He was one of those guys who was always complaining about how much work they all had to do, the conditions, the weather. It was always too hot or too cold or too wet or too dry for A-Rab. The Dog said once that A-Rab was the only guy he knew who could be getting laid and still find a way to complain about the p.u.s.s.y. All of it was whiny-a.s.sed bulls.h.i.t, but carrying the M249 SAW as he was, he'd proven himself a valuable a.s.set to the team. The gun could cut just about anything-living or dead-in half with a burst of its firepower. When you found yourself in s.h.i.t as deep as this, that kind of weaponry made the difference between life or death; between being taken along or left behind.

"Can the chatter, Son. I have neither the time nor the inclination to listen to your bulls.h.i.t today," Masterson hissed in clipped tones.

A-Rab looked down, dejected; his diaper having been suitably spanked.

The six men continued to walk silently down the dirt road, each one carefully checking every shadow and shade for even a hint of motion. Once they'd seen to it that the area was clear, they began to relax and talk amongst themselves, albeit in low, hushed tones.

"Hey, Bruce," Lance said to the small, Asian man whose real name was William Takahashi, "did you get a quick one from that broad you were sweet talkin' at that last compound?" Despite the fact that Takahashi was of j.a.panese heritage, the men had given him the nickname "Bruce" after Bruce Lee who, William theorized, was the only Asian guy they all knew.

Takahashi smiled broadly. "Let's just say that she was very grateful at our having rescued her from the top of that water tower."

"Yeah," laughed Lance, "but did she show you her appreciation."

Bruce winked and grabbed at his crotch.

"The only thing was..." Ray Dog whispered back over his shoulder, "she was h.o.r.n.y again an hour later."

The group laughed and for a moment it almost felt as if things weren't so dire. For a second, they collectively forgot how bad things had gotten over the last few weeks, forgot about how most of the people they had known and loved were now dead. Dead or walking around with their faces torn off and trying to eat anything still left alive.

For a second, they were just a group of guys hangin' out and shootin' the s.h.i.t.

Then, Masterson spoke and brought all of that to an end.

"Stow it, Ladies," he said in a whisper that to the men's ears seemed louder than any scream. "We've got movement."

As one, the men dropped into a crouch and immediately broke off into the brush on whatever side of the road was closest.

"By the shed... on the right," hissed Masterson.

Lance directed his attention toward the small shack that looked like it was a combination utility shed and place for a gas-powered generator. The squat building had the same look as the larger ones far off across the homestead: colonial and just a step out of time.

For a moment, things looked pretty normal. The birds chirped in the trees, the gra.s.s swayed in the soft breeze and none of the dumbf.u.c.ks could be seen. Things looked clear. Then, just below the rise of the hill where the shack stood, a small blur of color could be made out.

Then, another.

"Sarge, you amaze me sometimes," Bruce said quietly. "You sure you don't have E.S.P? I mean, the way you track these f.u.c.ks makes my head spin."

"Well," grumbled Ray Dog from the back of the pack, "I guess that makes you a dis-oriental."

The men all chuckled under their breath.

Suddenly, three of the reanimated dead staggered around the side of the shack. Two of them were men; white guys dressed like they'd worked as farmhands on this or a neighboring spread. The other was a woman who looked as if she'd almost been pretty once, in a plain sort of corn-fed way. But now something had gotten to her and gnawed off the lower half of her face, leaving her ravaged.

The two males circled the structure, trying and re-trying the door in a vain attempt to gain entry into the shed. The rusted lock that hung from the latch held firm despite their fevered efforts. Futilely, they both hammered their fists on the door's frame.

The woman stood by, momentarily distracted by the flies that circled over and around their heads. She seemed to be patiently waiting for her companion's labors to bear some blood-sodden fruit.

The team fanned out and cautiously approached as Ray Dog and Slider moved ahead. The soldier's approach was silent and skillful. The Dead never noticed a thing until they were almost right on top of them.

"Yo, n.i.g.g.a," Ray Dog rumbled as he stood up and flipped the safety on his weapon to the fire position, "'Sup?"

Ray Dog pulled the trigger and cut the two men down with the M-60. The ma.s.sive 7.62mm sh.e.l.ls tore through the first guy's upper body, severing his right arm at the shoulder. The stream of bullets then back-tracked as the ma.s.sive gun was swung back, effectively decapitating both of them.

The woman, who had been standing and swaying slowly and unsteadily on her feet, visibly jumped at the reports of the '60. She'd only begun to realize that her companions were down for good when Slider came up behind her and pushed the Mossberg's barrels up against the back of her head. He pulled the trigger and her expression of disbelief was blown apart by the back of her skull.

Masterson sidled up next to Bruce and whispered something in his ear. Without a word, the Asian took off at a run toward the farm's main house with his MP5 tucked under his arm. He stayed slightly crouched so as not to be seen, but his pace was just this side of "sprint."

The rest of the team secured the area and searched the shed, which they found empty.

"What d'ya think they were looking for?" Slider asked.

The Dog walked up behind him, pointing the barrel of his M-60 toward the ground.

"Your mom."

In a few minutes, Bruce returned and fought to catch his breath as he spoke directly into Masterson's ear.

"Ok, b.i.t.c.hes, show time! Bruce here tells me that we have five-count 'em, five-more dumbf.u.c.ks up around the house," Masterson explained. "I want The Dog and Slider to approach from the front. If any of these f.u.c.kers even thinks about trying to attack from there, you'll stop that train of thought before it ever gets on the track. A-Rab, you and Lance take the left flank. Bruce, you and me are on the right."

The team split up accordingly and each drew and checked his weapon, racking rounds and flipping off safeties. The change in their collective demeanor was abrupt but clear. What was before a group of guys jolly-timing it suddenly became a sharpened team of professional killers. This was not their first rodeo and, despite all the bulls.h.i.tting and d.i.c.kin' around, these were hardened soldiers. Some, like Masterson, spent a lifetime honing their skills while others had been dragged up a very steep learning curve. It was a field of study that to fail to learn meant death... or worse.

The farmhouse before them was an impressive two story structure with a large, wooden porch around its perimeter. On the right, a large willow tree snuggled up against the side of the house and blanketed it protectively in shadow. On the left, a storm cellar door led into the bas.e.m.e.nt. The place seemed deserted, but they'd all seen that sort of scenario go sour a time or two before. It was how they'd lost Roehler and Fredrickson at the Home Depot and Dupont, Jackson and Miller at the gravel pit.

Having their instructions, A-Rab and Lance sprinted off, making their way around the left side of the house. Lance aimed his AR-10, sweeping the area for any unfriendlies and A-Rab came up behind with the SAW. Once they were set, the two men knelt down and waited for Masterson to give the "in position" signal.

On the right, Masterson and Bruce moved ahead and took up a spot next to the willow's trunk. The Asian moved slightly further to the right to cover the squad leader's flank.

Ray Dog and Slider stood calmly beneath the warm sun, feeling the weight of the artillery in their hands. It was turning out to be a nice day, weather-wise, and they were both grateful for the chance to drink some of it in.

"Hey, Dog," Slider said, "If we had us some Margaritas and some honeys, we'd be set, eh?"

"You know it, man."

The two men burst out laughing, but quickly cut their amus.e.m.e.nt short. They both knew the dangers of giving themselves away too early to these things. They'd been there to mop up when a squad of National Guard guys had their a.s.ses handed to them when they went wandering into a Starbucks making too much racket. Time and time again, being lackadaisical bred stupidity and stupidity bred carelessness and carelessness brought on a world of hurt.

Lance and A-Rab heard their friend's laughter and glanced over to see what was so funny.

The Dog saw the two men staring and flipped them off.

"Lance," Slider hissed, "on your nine."

Lance shot a glance over and saw a zombie coming around the back of the house. The guy looked like another farmhand, which made sense given the locale. It stumbled over something on the ground, but continued to gaze up toward the farmhouse's windows. It looked like it was searching for something, a way in maybe.