No Flesh Shall Be Spared (44 page)

She wriggled and thrashed in his arms; her legs kicking futilely. Holding her this close, he couldn’t help but be aware of the feel of her flesh in his arms. Her skin was smooth and soft, but underneath lay musculature that was firm and supple and very well defined. His face pressed into the base of her neck. His nose was buried in her hair that was damp with the sweat of her exertions. The smell of her was intoxicating; a delicate mix of jasmine and wild honeysuckle.

It had been a long time since Cleese had smelled anything as amazing as that.

"See there…!" he said trying to clear his head and calm the stirrings coursing throughout his body. "Despite all your Zen posturing, you have a habit of being so committed to your plan—of slaughtering what’s right in front of you—that you end up leaving your back exposed. You gotta think in
three hundred and sixty degrees
!"

He quickly let her go and she dropped back to her feet.

In a conscious act of pure self-preservation, he took two giant steps back and away from her. As he did so, he could see her deeply thinking about what he’d said. It was pretty obvious it was not the first time she’d heard it. She stood there thinking and for some reason subconsciously rubbed at a spot on her left elbow.

"Monk recently told me something that has stuck in my head…," he added, driving the point home. "He said, ‘It’s not the one you hear that’ll get you… it’s the one you don’t.’ Become a slave to your plan or to your training and you leave yourself open to becoming a victim to it as well."

He let her stew on that for a minute and then said, "Again?"

She nodded and they stood facing one another once more. This time, it was Cleese who threw the first punch. The blow just missed the side of Chikara’s jaw line, but at his arm’s full extension, he flicked the tips of his fingers, snipping the tip of her ear. The snapping sound caused her to flinch, which surprised him. She seemed unflappable, but he could tell that his zeroing in on what she felt was a perilous weakness deeply troubled her. It was almost as if he knew her inside and out even though they’d only been spending time together for a relatively short time.

Her response to the ear flick was quick, sharp and had none of the self control he’d come to expect. Two quick punches struck him in the chest and hurt. The follow-up uppercut to his solar plexus made those, by comparison, seem like a walk on the beach. The air was kicked from his lungs and he quickly decided that the best move at the moment was to get the hell away from her, for both of their sakes.

It wouldn’t do for him to get pissed and let fly with anything near his full strength. She could undoubtedly take the force of the punch, but… Again, it was hard to put your best foot forward with a woman after breaking her jaw or cracking her one on the nose.

As he moved further around her—almost as an afterthought—he abruptly reversed direction. Her confusion by the ploy was obvious. Hastily, she tried to counter with a back fist, but it was sloppy and ineffective. The thing was… that in doing so, she once more left her back open and exposed.

He wrapped his arms about her and pinned her arms to her side for a second time. He pushed down with most of his weight and felt her legs buckle a bit under the burden. She groaned slightly as she attempted to support his weight. Once more, his face was buried into her hair and he could feel the heaviness of her breasts as they rested on his forearms. This closeness was making it really hard to think.

"Girl, you did it again!"

Chikara went tense and he could tell she was pissed; not at him—he was only the catalyst. She was clearly more ticked at herself.

He backed off of the pressure on her and loosened his arms just a bit. She stomped her foot and turned around in his embrace, facing him.

"It just pisses me off. Creed used to tell me the same thing back when he was training me. I’ve been working on breaking the habit, but… I can’t seem to help it!"

"Hey, we all have our shortcomings. I mean, look… I am well aware of the fact that I tend to shirk technique and rely on my power
way
too much. Nobody’s perfect," he said, rubbing her back with the flat of his hand. "Just don’t go and kill the messenger, ok?"

"No… no." she said looking up at him. "I appreciate your honesty and your willingness to point it out. Others… would not be so forthcoming."

Cleese stared down into her eyes and watched her lips as they continued to move. His attention drifted away from what she was saying and settled on the line of her jaw, the arch of her eyebrow, and the gentle bowing of her lip. After a minute, the fact that she’d stopped talking tapped him on his shoulder.

"What?" she asked, a soft blush reddening her cheeks.

"Huh?" he said, stupidly.

"You’re staring."

"Oh, sorry… It’s just that… You…" and he looked down toward his feet and then slowly back up into her eyes. "You’re… Well… You really are a beautiful woman."

Chikara looked away, but settled into the warmth of his embrace. It had been a long time since someone she thought so highly of had said anything like that to her. Not since Creed… Her heart, while still knowing it should proceed slowly, beat perceptibly faster.

"You aren’t so bad yourself," she whispered and slowly put her hands on his waist. "You’re… Well, you’re different."

Chikara felt a wave of emotion well up inside of her and suddenly there were words pressing against her tongue, fighting to get out. She fought them off for as long as she could, but then she felt his hand slowly slide up the small of her back.

"I… I missed you when you were gone. Missed seeing you."

"Yeah… me, too" was the best he could come up with.

Baka!!!

"Look," she said, "I had a simple life once upon a time, Cleese. I had
a
life
years ago and that was taken away from me. I had people I cared for and
they
were taken from me. I had Creed, and he…" She stopped and swallowed hard. "…and he was taken from me. Jesus, I’ve been doing
this
a long time… too long… and I… I mean, I know the score."

He looked deep into her eyes and saw tears slowly fill them. Wisely, he said nothing.

"But now… now that I’ve met you… things have become… I don’t know…
different
."

He smiled broadly and winked at her. Deep down, he sensed this train of thought, this view into the things that were important to her, didn’t happen often. He knew better than to interrupt its flow.

She shot a quick glance over his shoulder and then slowly turned back to him. The smile remained on his face. She saw it and mistook his pleasure for self satisfaction.

"Well, don’t let it go to your head…
Darlin
’," she admonished him and then poked his belly firmly. "It’s just that… now…" She looked away as if she were unable to say what she wanted to say and still look him in the eye. "Now that I’ve found something…
someone
… worthwhile, well… I just think it’s time for me to do a little taking of my own. I…"

Cleese reached up with one hand and took her chin in his fingers, tilting her face up to meet his. Her eyelids hung at half-mast and her lips softly parted, wet and inviting. He smiled and she returned it warmly as if she were bestowing a gift. Not wanting the moment to end, he gently inclined his head and lowered his lips to meet hers. As they touched, a spark passed between them. They held each other closer and, like travelers lost in the desert and dying of thirst, they drank deeply from one another’s mouths. When they regrettably pulled away from the kiss, they continued to hold onto each other and, for the moment, forgot all about The Dead and The Pit, and how either of them could die at any moment. For now, they were happy to have found one another and both silently made a wish that this embrace would never end.

~ * ~

Across the empty Training Hall, hidden deep within the blackness of the shadows, a lone form, hair tied back in a ponytail, silently watched and considered all the ways that this new development might benefit him.

The OFM

"The ‘Oh, Fuck’ Moment"

"Ladies and gentlemen, you don’t need us to tell you that it has been one exciting first half. There’s been plenty of blood already spilled and, as we head into the second half of this match, there’s bound to be plenty more. As all of you have seen over these past few months, Cleese has proven himself to be nothing short of amazing in his matches. Absolutely hell on wheels and tonight is proving to be no exception. He’s really been pulling out all the stops here and this crowd is eating it up."

"That’s right, Bob. This fighter has been taking no prisoners and giving no quarter. He’s completed each and every round with minimal difficulty and has, as of now, sustained no damage. I mean, he’s completely unscathed! However, that may all change now that we’re heading into these later rounds and the danger level is even higher. For now, he’s looking pretty good out there with no obvious signs of fatigue. The rest of this match oughtta be a good one!"

~ * ~

Once the last of the UDs was down, Cleese felt exhaustion hit him like a hammer to the solar plexus and his knees abruptly gave out. Bent over, down on all fours, he tried to catch his breath; pulling in—as best he could—great heaving gulps of air. His lungs burned like he’d been free-basing napalm and he was trying hard to forget about the knot that was twisting painfully in his side. He made a quick accounting of his arms, stomach and neck and was relieved to find no cuts, no scrapes and no bites.

Well, that accounted for
something
.

He’d dropped the final UD in short order, making sure that it was dead by plunging the spike deep into its left eye. The metal tip came out of the thing’s head like an antenna just above its ear. Dark blood oozed out onto the sand and soaked the granules in a blue-maroon.

By his admittedly unreliable count, this was Round Eight and he was looking at four more UDs coming up. Or was it six? He couldn’t quite seem to remember which. Shit, for all he knew, it might be eight. Whatever it was, it was going to seem like way too many.

He fought his exhaustion hard for both a rational perspective and any oxygen he could get as he tried to gauge how much time he had until the next buzzer. Thirty seconds, at best. He knew that, for now, he needed to just stay still and breathe; replenish his lungs with oxygen as quickly as possible so that his muscles didn’t cramp up on him. Forget about the crowd. Forget about the cameras. Forget about how much he wanted to puke his guts up onto the sand. He had to conserve his energy while he was able since it was still a long way to go until the final round and some of that big-titted dick suckin’ Monk had once talked about. Truthfully, he’d skip that last part in exchange for a hot bath, a good stiff drink and maybe some face time with Chikara, but he was willing to take whatever he could get.

"Miles to go before I sleep…"

He figured that whenever the buzzer went off, he would take a few seconds to survey the situation from the ground and, only then, would he decide a definitive course of action. If the UDs happen to catch him as he was halfway to his feet, he’d hit them low and hard from this crouch. Once erect, he could always spin off to a safe zone to gather his wits and plot his next move.

Far above his head, the crowd’s incessant roaring throbbed like a bee sting at the back of his skull and made it hard to think. Cleese had once heard that, in the movies, when they needed a crowd to talk, the director would tell the extras to simply repeat the word "rhubarb" over and over. He’d thought that silly at the time, but now, standing on the receiving end of it, that was exactly what it sounded like— "rhubarb."

Cleese had always hated rhubarb.

He hated it even more now.

~ * ~

Ok, John, so we’re seconds away from the next buzzer and the start of Round Eight. So far, we’ve really been getting our money’s worth in this fight. Cleese has dominated the action with some vicious hand-to-hand skills and that spike of his is an amazingly effective weapon. He’s even managed to get some time to rest between rounds. Now, here it is the beginning of the Eighth Round and he’s still looking pretty fit out there although the physical strain of any match can crush a man.

"That’s right, Bob… We’ve seen seasoned athletes get buried in few rounds."

"Boy, I’ll say… Ok, we’re getting the signal now that the next buzzer is just about to go off, so let’s go back down to the pit for more action…

~ * ~

This time, when the buzzer went off, Cleese was almost ready for it—
almost
. Still out of breath and knowing he was a little past halfway through with this thing, he hoped it would
surely
all be downhill from here. At least, that was what he kept saying to himself. Then, he remembered that the closer he got to the end of the match, the more UDs would be coming out of the turnstiles. The more UDs there were, the greater the danger.

"Danger! Danger! Danger!"

Wasn’t that what that crazy Aussie used to say on television back before a fish stuck his dizzy ass and killed him? They’d called that idiot "The Croc Hunter," hadn’t they? Cleese had always thought that anyone who would willingly crawl into a cage with a dangerous animal like a crocodile simply had to be a loon. As he glanced around the pit at the corpses and the blood, he wondered just who was the crazy one now.

"Crikey…" Cleese snickered aloud as he huffed in another breath.

The turnstiles spun and locked with their now familiar booming sound and Cleese quickly made note of where everything was. Positions One, Four, Six, and Seven had UDs in them. Position Three had a fresh clip. The other three spindles were empty.

Things could be a helluva lot worse.

Knowing that there was a new full clip waiting, Cleese decided to expend a few bullets to make his life a little easier. He sprang to his feet and briskly strode toward Six
(late teens/early twenties male, punk rocker with a crushed Mohawk, wearing a shirt with the words "Dead Kennedys" printed on it, a series of bruised heroin tracks ran up one arm)
and Seven
(forty-ish white guy—big, looked like a cop, a bullet wound was visible in his upper abdomen)
. The other two UDs seemed to be having a bit of trouble getting out of their turnstiles, so Cleese bet they wouldn’t be posing too much of a problem, not for a few seconds at least.