Those who were close enough to hear the exchange looked at Weber like he was a couple of wheels short of a skateboard. They'd all been trying their d.a.m.nedest to not attract these things for weeks now, and here was this big ol' boy trying to do that very thing. The general mumbled consensus was that both of these city boys were about as crazy as s.h.i.t-house rats.

Cecil snorted, spit, and p.r.o.nounced, "This is gonna be a G.o.dd.a.m.n slaughter."

"Indeed it will. Care to get in on the wager there, Buford?" said Weber as he looked the older man clearly in the eyes.

"Ok, G.o.dd.a.m.nit , you're on, Slick!"

Weber and Cecil shook hands to seal the bet and then they, along with everyone else who had been listening, returned their attention to the corral. Weber smiled slightly to himself and nodded to Jimbo. It was a reaction that went unnoticed by everyone as they were all too interested in what was happening within the confines of the pen, but the giant man caught it and understood it all too well.

Jimbo continued to wave his arms about but he now moved toward where the dead man stood. Before long, the corpse caught hold of his scent. The man had been young, about twenty-three, when he'd met his maker from what looked like a rifle blast to the lower abdomen. His frame was not particularly muscular, but it still looked like he'd had some agility back when he still had a heartbeat. He was overall a little smaller than Jimbo in size, but even to this crowd's uneducated eyes, it almost seemed like a fair fight.

None of them, however, had ever seen the kind of damage someone like Jimbo could dish out when properly motivated. Weber had spent a good deal of time since meeting up with the Big Guy finding and utilizing those motivational tools.

Now Jimbo was pretty much a "point-and-click" kind of guy.

Wherever Weber pointed... Jimbo clicked.

And when Jimbo clicked, things got hurt.

The dead man turned sloppily on his feet and stumbled across the pasture toward this newfound meal. He moved with big, loping strides and gathered momentum quickly. His arms slowly rose, fingers outstretched, and reached hungrily for what lay before him. His mouth chewed the air expectantly, drool dribbling from his lips and wetting his chin. In a flash, the thing's gaze pa.s.sed from blunted confusion to murderous intensity. At nearly a full run now, it came at Jimbo and the crowd held its breath in antic.i.p.ation.

Jimbo had always been a big guy and one who never had much call to use what little brains G.o.d had given him, but fighting was something he knew down deep in his bones. He'd grown up fighting off his older brothers for lunch money, dinners, extra desserts, even for his first taste of liquor and women. As he grew older, he'd been able to turn his natural ability and hard head into a rather decent income. He was a man who instinctively knew how to hurt people and, if he were to be completely honest, he sorta liked doing it. So, when the undead man lurched his way toward him, Jimbo had already set his mind on the task at hand and developed a plan.

The dead thing took another couple of steps toward Jimbo, coming in wide open and accessible. The thing's hands reached out and clawed feverishly at the air. Its mouth was a pitiless, wet wound which tore savagely across the lower part of its face. Saliva continued to pour from its chops like a rabid dog's. Dirt and dried blood lay caked in clumpy lumps across the vicious wound in its belly.

Seeing as how the dead thing had yet to meet much in the way of resistance in the pursuit of food since returning from the cold embrace of the grave, it now attacked-showing no fear and little hesitation. His deteriorating brain saw no reason to believe that the living man now standing before him would be anything other than his next meal. With an additional step or two, he'd come to within arm's reach of his goal.

Jimbo moved a lot quicker than a man of his bulk should and came in low. He quickly slapped aside the dead man's outstretched arms and stepped into what he called his "pain zone." He drove his arm over the thing's grip and struck him across the side of its head with his forearm, just at the wrist. Its head cracked around like a whip and it stumbled from the concussion of the blow, dropping to one knee. The dead man shook his head to clear his vision and looked up, pupils faded to a milky white. A cold hatred burned in its dead, hungry eyes.

The thing climbed awkwardly to its feet and made another grab for what it still thought to be an easy meal. Jimbo did a little hop in the air and threw a forward "bash in the door" kick, striking the thing square in the middle of its chest. Stale air blew out of its still lungs in a whoosh. In no time, the expelled air reached the crowd, smelling of the grave and rotting meat. Some of the women outside the corral held their hands over their noses in a vain effort to mask the smell.

The dead man's body folded in on itself and fell to the ground by the force of the kick. It landed flat on its back, arms and legs thrashing. For a moment, it wobbled back and forth in the dirt like a turtle trying to right itself. The zombie's limbs flailed about in an uncoordinated spasm, its arms and legs whirling crazily in the air.

As the thing tried to sit up, Jimbo leapt high into the air and came down with both feet-hard-on the thing's chest. His heavy boots were driven with debilitating force onto the dead man's sternum. A loud cracking sound echoed across the pen.

The crowd "oooh-ed" and "awwww-ed" as if they'd experienced the blow firsthand. Blood, black and oil-like, pumped from the thing's mouth in lumpy pulses. A tortured, confused look dissipated like mist from the dead man's features. Its labored attempts at drawing breath broke the stillness in an asthmatic pant.

Jimbo squatted over the crushed thing and, for a second, watched it burble and cough as it struggled for breath. The giant grabbed his opponent and lifted him from the ground and put him in a half-nelson in a quick motion. From a side-sheath, he deftly drew a blade and cut deep into the musculature of the thing's neck. As deep, maroon dribbled out and onto the undead thing's chest, Jimbo cut and twisted the head around on the stalk of its neck, working it back and forth. His actions were accompanied by stomach-turning, wet, crunching sounds. A garbled choking came from deep within the throat of the dead man. Jimbo pulled and wrenched and soon, his efforts were rewarded. The thing's head came away from its body, dragging a portion of its shattered spine along with it.

The crowd became very silent as it watched Jimbo claim his grisly trophy.

By now, Jimbo's bare upper body was drenched in gore. He stood slowly, hefting the severed head by its hair. The dead thing's eyes danced and whirled in their sockets while blood fell dark and cancerous from its mouth, nose and stump of a neck.

Jimbo walked slowly toward the side of the corral, extending his hand and the head it held like an offering to both his partner and to the crowd. The crowd collectively took a step backward. One woman off to the side vomited and turned away.

Weber smiled broadly and turned to the crowd, centering his gaze on both Cecil and the good Hansford Tillman. He dropped his arms around the two men's shoulders and patted them like a brother on their backs.

"Gentlemen... I think our point is made, don't you?"

He turned and extended his hand in antic.i.p.ation of his payment. The faces of the gathered people were a mixture of disgust and amazement. It was pretty clear that the mountain of a man before them was more than he seemed and could handle the reanimated dead with apparent ease.

"I think it's fair to say that Jimbo and I are both owed our payment."

By this time, Jimbo had arrived at the railing and looked inquisitively at Weber. His boss acknowledged him and continued to keep his hand extended in order to accept the money the locals were digging reluctantly from their pockets.

When Jimbo saw the winnings being handed over, he knew that there would be no trouble. Mr. Weber had taught him to always wait until the money had been exchanged before relaxing. In other camps, at other times, people had periodically been unwilling to pay, figuring some kind of fix was in. Like that was possible.

At those times, Mr. Weber would remind them all of what Jimbo had just done to a thing he cared little to nothing about. He would then suggest to them the kind of damage Jimbo could and would inflict once he had a certain vested interest.

As if by magic, the money would always appear.

"h.e.l.l, Mister," Cecil said sounding repulsed. "I don't rightly believe what the f.u.c.k I just saw, but yeah... I think you have indeed proved your point."

Jimbo now smiled to this crowd like a child seeking praise and casually tossed the head over his shoulder. The thing hit the ground with a wet "chud" sound and rolled to a stop at Bubba's feet. The dead man's eyes still twirled in their sockets as the severed head rolled to a stop in the dirt. Bubba looked nauseated and pulled away as if his mother's s.e.x-soaked panties had been laid at his feet.

As Jimbo wiped his hands off on the thighs of his pants and stepped out of the corral, Mr. Weber finished gathering up their money. Once clear of the railing, he stood to his full height and once again smiled for all to see. The crowd took a hesitant step back and gave him a wide berth.

Both Weber and Jimbo knew down deep in their bones that they were on to something here. This same scenario had played itself out now for weeks. The two of them would come into a camp like this, wait for an opportunity, and then they'd make their move. The whole deal was starting to look pretty sweet. And if they were careful and played their cards right, this gig could turn into something substantial. Mr. Weber would often talk to Jimbo late into the night about how rich all of this was going to make them both.

For Jimbo's part, he was just happy to have someone he could trust. Life was hard when your thinking was simple and it was important to have someone you could rely on. Mr. Weber could do the thinking and the talking... and Jimbo would do what Jimbo did best.

The arrangement seemed a good one, at least to Jimbo's way of thinking.

As long as Jimbo could keep from making a mistake and keep himself from getting bit, things would be fine. Besides, there was plenty of money and food and women for them both. Mr. Weber was his friend and Jimbo was sure he wouldn't let anything bad happen.

"Well, folks..." Weber said as he rolled his winnings into a tight ball and shoved it into his pocket. "I appreciate your patronage. Now if you'll excuse us, Jimbo and I must be on our way."

Weber had learned that it was important to get while the gettin' was good. Make your score and hit the road was proving to be the best course of action for them. He'd come to know that if you gave the fleeced sheep long enough to think about it, they'd forget about the danger and the implied threat and decide they'd want their money back. Gambling losses had a way of making people braver than they should be. Sooner or later, the image of Jimbo tearing a dead man to pieces would fade and only the hole in their pockets would remain. It would be shortly after that they'd remember the guns in their hands and the vastly superior numbers. It was better that the two of them would be halfway to the next bivouac by then.

Weber patted Jimbo on the back and directed him back the way they'd come through the crowd. As they walked along, the ma.s.s of people before them once again parted and made way. Once they'd moved by, the crowd closed again, swallowing them up.

Back by the side of the corral, Cecil looked around at the awed faces of his friends and neighbors. Then, he turned and stared at the severed head laying in the dirt and moving its eyes near Bubba's feet. Still trying to piece it all together, he ran his hand through his hair, scratching his head in thought.

"Well, son of a b.i.t.c.h..." he muttered softly and then wandered off to get himself another beer.

Valedictions The crowd within the Allied Sports Center coiled in upon itself like a viper preparing to strike. Its combined weight squashed down into the seats of the stadium and made the foundation of the building growl like a hungry animal. 19,939 paying customers had packed themselves into the building for tonight's televised broadcast of The World Gladiatorial Federation's Fight Night. The event was being broadcast to an estimated 19.4 million Pay Per View subscribers in the US and another 240 million worldwide via the Internet.

Teams of baton-wielding security guards were out in full force patrolling the coliseum both inside and out; making sure that no one in the crowd got carried away by the night's festivities. People could often get unruly at these events, especially when the matches had been exciting and there was plenty of blood on the sand. When there was more than the usual amount of carnage, the people responded to it and could get caught up in the moment. If unchecked, there were usually a lot of fights and more than a fair share of stabbings. The presence of a heavily armed security force ensured that people behaved themselves.

It was shortly before the night's opening match and Cleese found himself sitting out behind the arena, immersing himself in night's cool air. He'd already gotten into most of his gear and wanted just a few minutes to himself before his first match was scheduled to begin. He still needed to hook up with Weaver and get the finished gauntlet, but he thought he deserved some time alone. He glanced at a clock mounted above one of the loading ramps.

It was still early.

He figured that he had a little time to kill before it was time to kill.

He leaned up against one of the League's large Mack trucks parked regimentally in the loading bays behind the stadium. The metal of the truck felt cool against his back as he rested against it. He'd only been sitting there for a few moments when he heard footsteps come up softly behind him.

"This a private moment?" he heard Monk ask, half-kidding, but also not. No one knew better than Monk how nerve-wracking the time just before a match could be. He was sensitive to it and didn't want to cloud his protege's mind with unnecessary blather.

"No... Of course not, Buddy." Cleese made room on the fender for his mentor and friend.

"Lemme guess..." Monk said paternally, "you're out here keeping yourself busy chewing over the hows, whys, and wherefores..."

"Of what?"

"...of how exactly it is that you ended up in this predicament."

Cleese stared at him silently for a second and then said softly, "Yeah, something like that."

"I wouldn't beat myself up too much over it, Cochise. Look at it this way: you're just a guy to whom G.o.d-or The Big Stuffed Panda-has given the wrong set of skills," he said with a grin. "Put that into a blender along with poverty, debauchery, and you being a bit of a sociopath and-voila!-welcome to The League."

"Well, that certainly is helpful. I don't know what I was thinking."

Monk shrugged and continued, "f.u.c.k it, Slugger. Why ask why? All you gotta do is go out there and play the hand you were dealt." He leaned back and settled in against the truck.

"Life just made you one bada.s.s motherf.u.c.ker and now..." another shrug, "now it's time for you to show Life a little appreciation."

Monk gently nudged Cleese in the ribs with his elbow.

"s.h.i.t, I know nothing ever comes at a cheap price, Son. But, listen... This is your time. These people ain't ever seen the likes of you. You were born for this s.h.i.t. h.e.l.l, I've seen lots of guys who thought they were, too," he shook his head, "They weren't s.h.i.t. I watched as they sc.r.a.ped every one of them dumb motherf.u.c.kers out of the sand with a kitty litter scoop."

Cleese looked over at his friend across the darkness. Monk had become, over the last few short months, a closely-held and valued person in his life. There were far too few of those growing up.

After his Dad left, the only men he felt he could trust were the ones he'd found in books. He'd read once-and growing up he was someone who haunted the public library like a ghost-that Nature abhorred a vacuum and, like it or not, something always rushed in to fill a void. Without a male role model in his life, he was drawn to the heroes that lived in fiction. The men he found there were men of strength and courage. They were men of ideals-of honor-who possessed a deep-seated sense of loyalty. They had all of the qualities that the men he'd met in real life lacked. To him, the heroes he'd found in books were like G.o.ds and, as a result, he dreamed of one day being like them. And so, names like Conan of Cimmeria, Solomon Kane, Bran Mak Morn, John Carter and Miyamoto Musashi were hallowed and inscribed upon his heart and into his soul. They were the personalities who'd made him into the man he was and remained ideals for the kind of man he wanted to be. Now, he thought to himself, Monk's name would be written there as well.

Deep down though, he knew that after tonight both of their lives were going to change... and change for good. Monk was off to do his time in the UFL and then to live out his days with his daughter and her family-to tend cattle or sheep or some s.h.i.t like that.

Cleese... Cleese would continue on to whatever fate The Pit had in store for him.

One man stood at the end of his road and the other stood at the beginning.

Cleese knew without a doubt that after tonight nothing would ever be the same.

"You ain't gonna try to kiss me, are ya?" Cleese asked, coming apart with laughter on the last word. He leaned back and chuckled to the emptiness of the night's sky.

"Like f.u.c.k..." Monk guffawed, shaking his head. "You're one stupid motherf.u.c.ker. Do you know that? I ought to just go back in there and get a bird's eye view of you getting your dumb a.s.s torn limb from f.u.c.king limb."

"I love it when you talk dirty."

Monk stepped away from the truck and started to walk away. He looked back, almost forlornly, and smiled at Cleese.

"Welp... I guess I'm a ghost. My ride leaves in a few and I'm off to my greater glory. It's time for me to share my immense body of knowledge elsewheres. It's been a real pleasure, f.u.c.knut," Monk said and waved his hand casually into the air. "Try not to get killed out there."

Cleese smiled.

"Well... Considering that I was trained by you... I oughtta be dead in just about a minute or two."

Monk put on a stern face and silently pointed his index finger at his friend. Then he turned and walked away. He was never a man for soppy farewells. Monk figured that in a game as close knit as this, sooner or later, they'd see each other again. If not in the near future, then someday.

"When this is all over for you, come visit me," Monk said over his shoulder. "I'll show you how to milk a sheep."

"You don't milk sheep, you ignorant sop," Cleese said smiling. "You milk cows."

"Sheep... cows... same f.u.c.kin' difference."

Cleese watched his friend's back recede until his form disappeared back into the shadows.

"I'll be seeing you, old man," Cleese said under his breath. He looked towards the door of the arena and smirked, "...hopefully in a better place than this. Although, with the kind of luck we both have, it'll probably be in one a whole h.e.l.luva lot worse."

Cleese walked off grinning toward the back entrance of the arena.

Weaver caught up with Cleese as he waited at the entry to the walkway which led down to the Pit. He walked hurriedly, toting a small canvas bag under his arm. The large man waddled as he walked and when he got up next to Cleese, he was short of breath.

"Cleese," Weaver panted, "Admit it, you didn't think I'd make it."

"I was getting a little nervous there, Buddy. I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up and I'd have to go out there with nothing but my d.i.c.k in my hand. Is that my s.h.i.t?"

"I just wanted to put a few finishing touches on it," he said as he handed the parcel over.

Cleese pulled the bag open and reached inside. Weaver had been running prototype after prototype of his gauntlet design by him for weeks. After each time he'd taken the thing back mumbling about some new aspect he wanted to change. Cleese was happy with each revision, but Weaver, it seemed, was a perfectionist.

"I was able to install pressure sensitive pads on the inside of the back panel. With these, you'll be able to flex your wrist and unlock the spike. It shouldn't just pop open like it was doing in practice. You'll still have to slap the release on the back to get it to withdraw though, but I figured that, with this new design, you'll be able to draw it out without having to use two hands."

Cleese pulled the heavy object from the bag. Its metal shimmered brightly in the dim light. The gauntlet was a large sleeve-like thing which covered most of his forearm. At the furthest end, there was a place into which his gloved hand could slide; a small strap fitted snugly between his thumb and index finger. He slid his arm into it, pulling the straps that ran around it tight.

"I've tried to minimize the weight in order for it not to be too heavy. I've tested it out and it seems to work pretty well," Weaver continued.

Cleese raised his arm and felt the thing's ma.s.s. He did some shadow boxing and, feeling quite satisfied, he smiled.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned if I can even feel it," Cleese said astonished.

Weaver just stood back and grinned like a parent watching his kid open a Christmas present. Behind the scenes, he'd put a lot of work into the piece, but Cleese was a good guy and a friend of Monk's and that meant a lot.

Cleese threw another couple of quick punch combinations-a right, a left, a couple of quick uppercuts-and barely noticed that he had something strapped to his arm much less this metal monstrosity. He was amazed.

"Squeeze the band between your thumb and index finger and flex your wrist," Weaver advised. "Careful though... the f.u.c.ker's sharp."

Shinkt!

The spike sprang out with a slight jerk and locked into place.

"Well, fuuuuck me runnin'..." Cleese said, clearly happy. "This is some diabolical s.h.i.t you got here, Weaver. Who'd you work for back in The World again, S.P.E.C.T.R.E.?"

Weaver bowed and executed an elaborate flourish with his right hand.

"I aim to please. Now, slap the release on the back..."