Father Handel took a moment and reminded himself that this was a most precarious time. A large crowd gathered, blood in the air and fresh meat on display made his situation all the more dangerous, to say the least. He reminded himself with a castigatory thought that one mistake, one bite from one of these Dead, would seal his fate just as it had for the boy whose body was now being prepared as the communion host. The contagion or whatever it was that had made these creatures crawl out of their graves, would course through his body and in time make him one of Them. He'd nursed dozens of people suffering from such bites and he knew that once bitten the victim's death decree had been irrevocably signed with the black ink of affliction.

The first supplicant came forward, the thing's eyes staring blankly straight ahead. It dropped clumsily to its knees in front of the Father and raised its head. The man's face was horribly mangled from a mixture of ante-mortem wounds and post-mortem nibbling. Long, raking furrows were torn from his left eye across the place where his nose should have been and dug deep into the meaty flesh of his right cheek. The man dutifully opened his mouth and Father Handel carefully dropped the meat onto his tongue. The mangled face worked the morsel over; the man's jaws chewing as a rapturous expression spread across what remained of his features.

The priest held the cup by its stem and offered it to the man. He placed it onto the man's torn lower lip and gently tilted it. The dead man slurped up the viscous liquid like someone who had been lost in the desert and was dying of thirst. As the priest pulled the goblet away, the woman next in line pushed the first man so that she might receive her sample of what was now in her necrotic mind the Blood and the Body of Christ.

And so it went, hundreds of The Dead came and took their mouthful of flesh and their swallow of blood. Some were unsatisfied to get only a small piece of the boy, but The Dead had by now made their own rules and the jostling and non-verbal reprimands of the others made for a more-or-less smooth ceremony. The flock came and went in a cortege of putrescence and when the last of them had received their communion Father Handel instructed that the church's doors be shut and barred.

As Javier moved away from locking the doors of the church, the priest gazed down at his now blood-stained vestments and abruptly sank to his knees on the steps of the altar.

It is all so difficult, Lord, and I am so tired.

How many times must he go through this before G.o.d would end this madness? From what he was continually hearing on his radio The Dead were still increasing in their numbers and still no hope was in sight. The voices on his radio at night sometimes spoke about people mounting a counter-offensive against The Dead and taking back the world. Some even spoke of how the Army was planning their own solution.

But so far, Father Handel saw little progress on either front.

As he sat trying to regain his strength and hold back his tears Father Handel tried to imagine, as he had many times before, what had humanity done? What could the severity of their sin have been to bring about His wrath and in this magnitude?

Was this to be a cleansing as Sodom and Gomorrah had been?

Why had He turned His back on those who might serve Him?

The priest looked up toward the carved face of the figure hung from the cross for some a.s.surance that this was all a part of His plan.

Where was the divine justice in any of this?

His supplication, as usual, went unanswered.

Now all that Father Handel had left was to continue teaching His word and to hope that G.o.d, in His eternal wisdom, would look kindly upon his acts. After all, wasn't he merely trying to do that which he was meant to do as a part of His design? Had he, too, gone astray? He felt in his heart that G.o.d would surely look upon his acts with a certain amount of clemency, since the priest had acted in His name so that he could continue to teach His word.

Right?!?

He looked over at the body on the gurney and saw that there was hardly anything left of the bound boy now. His corpse had been practically picked clean. Father Handel looked up again to the carved representation of Christ above the altar, hung his head and wept quietly. His shoulders shook from his heaving sobs. His body was wracked by the depths of his sorrow. He sensed rather than saw Javier walk up softly and stand next to him. The boy waited patiently for the priest's outburst to abate. Once Father Handel's tears subsided, the priest felt a small hand gently touch his shoulder.

"Padre," the boy said in the quietest of voices, "I take you to your room now. You shower and change clothes. I clean up here."

The priest, who was still only just a man, painfully stood and nodded wearily.

"Bless you, My Son," he said in a hushed tone.

"Padre?" the boy asked sheepishly as they began to walk.

"Yes, Javier?"

"Will La Muerte stop coming one day?"

"I don't know, My Son. I just don't know. I've heard on the short-wave that the Army may be coming. Perhaps they will be able to get a handle on things. Honestly, I had thought The Dead would have all rotted away by now, but... they still come. We must remain patient and trust that it is all a part of G.o.d's will."

The boy walked and considered this. Absentmindedly, he wiped the blood on his hands on the seat of his pants. Deep red stains appeared on his already blood-spattered clothing.

"Padre?"

"Yes, Javier?"

"If La Muerte stops coming, who will be left for you to preach to?

"If The Dead were to ever stop coming, Javier, you and I would leave this place. I promise you that. We'd go and find ourselves someplace nice, someplace sunny and warm..." The priest raised his hand and gently mussed the front of the boy's hair, "...someplace safe." The old man looked into the deep brown eyes of the boy. "How does that sound, eh?"

The boy broadly smiled up at the older man and nodded aggressively.

"Muy bien, Father," he said with a wide grin, "I would like that."

Father Handel smiled and sighed quietly. He leaned gently against the boy, dropping his arm around the younger man's shoulders for additional support. The boy shouldered the older man's weight and led the way into the stygian shadows of the church.

Chikara Cleese stepped out of the Training Hall and walked onto the large expanse of gra.s.s which separated the gymnasium from the fighter's cribs. After a few minutes of walking, when his view was no longer obstructed by the surrounding buildings, he stopped and took in the setting sun. The slowly descending orb hung just above the horizon and bled the entire sky a deep red. The sight of the sun going down always filled him with a sense of wonder, as it had for his entire lifetime.

Some things in this oftentimes rotten life could be so beautiful.

He slowly ran a hand through his hair and pulled it back from his face. A small spasm twitched in his back and he stretched the aching muscles with a sigh. He straightened his legs and methodically bent over at the waist to touch his toes. His hamstrings burned and felt as if they were made out of razor wire. After a couple of bounces to pull the muscles loose, he stood up, spread his arms and arched his spine until he heard it crack. The pain he'd been feeling from all of the training created a fiery sensation down deep in his muscle fibers. Every movement he made now caused his muscles to cry out in a symphony of suffering.

He felt tired-d.a.m.n tired-but in a good way. He was d.a.m.n near dead on his feet, yet conversely felt like a million bucks. Pain was, after all, just weakness leaving the body. Or at least that was what Monk had told him. Monk was full of s.h.i.t like that, little aphorisms that sounded like they'd come straight out of a Shaw Brothers movie.

"Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional."

"Pain is temporary. Pride is forever."

To Cleese's ears it was all "s.n.a.t.c.h the pebble from my hand..." -type bulls.h.i.t, but it had a way of sticking in your head like gum.

A sudden stinging sensation buzzed high on his left arm. He swatted at its source only to find that a mosquito had landed and just bitten him. A small smear of blood and bug guts greased his upper deltoid. He wiped the goo off and spread it on his pants. It was a little surprising how firmer his body felt even after only the short time he'd been here. He poked at his bicep and liked what he saw.

He'd packed on some pounds and dropped literally an a.s.s-load of body fat since arriving here. As his body started to slim down, he'd felt a lot of the speed and alertness of his youth return. Before stepping out of that helicopter, he would've been lucky if he could have walked a mile. Now he was clearing the "four minute" mark. At Monk's suggestion, the blunts and alcohol stopped the minute Cleese had seen what he was going to be up against. Him being high as f.u.c.k had been fine for pulling his meat out of the grease before, but given the current situation he figured a straight head and a clear throat would be better if he wanted to keep his noggin' on his neck.

A sudden, sunset breeze blew coolly across his face. He turned his head toward it and breathed in deeply. The chilled air felt good as it swirled deep down into his lungs. It sure beat the h.e.l.l out of the salt and urine smell of The City that was for sure.

Cleese looked around and decided that since Monk had been called away for some face-time with Corporate and he had some free time to kill, he would take a little walk around the compound to check out some of the sights he'd not had a chance to see. He welcomed the alone time and the chance to clear his head. So much had happened so quickly since he'd arrived here he felt as if he needed a little perspective. Oftentimes perspective could only be achieved with time, distance and solitude.

He walked aimlessly across the gra.s.s, heading in the general direction of the shooting range. He could hear what sounded like somebody popping off rounds, but the noise now coming from the range was nothing like it was during the busy time of day. It was a given among the fighters that being proficient with a gun was not a matter of choice, but of necessity. Being good with a weapon-be it fists, blade or gun-was second in importance only to the "Don't Get Yourself Bit" credo.

For a few minutes he walked and did nothing but look at the sky and let his mind clear. Breathing in through his nose and out his mouth helped aerate his brain and calm his jangled nerves. He was nearly halfway to the range when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of some movement off to his left; at the top of one of the hills that b.u.t.ted up against one side of the range. He tried to focus on it, but given the distance, couldn't see much of anything. Whatever it was, it was low to the ground and looked like a pile of large stones. He was about to dismiss it as nothing more than a trick of the light, but then saw it move again. Almost instantly his curiosity was piqued.

Without giving it too much thought, he decided to wander in that general direction if only to satisfy his own inquisitiveness. Besides, it wasn't as if he had anything else to do much less anywhere to go. After a few more minutes of walking in that direction, he was finally able to make out that the pile of rocks he'd seen was in reality a slight figure sitting under one of the Wisteria trees planted at the crest of the hill. His interest now fully engaged, he thought he'd forego the visit to the range and just see who felt he needed that kind of privacy.

He made his way toward the rise at the base of the hill and did his best to keep out of sight. He figured he'd get a look-see at whoever it was up here and, if it proved to be someone of no interest to him, make his way back down and then head back to the Firing Range. As he climbed, his hamstrings again cried out in pain and resisted the call to strenuous exercise. After everything they'd already been through during the day's training, the last thing his muscles seemed to want was a round of hill-climbing. Setting his resolve, he pushed past the discomfort and his muscles soon relaxed, making the climb easier.

About midway up the hill, his calf got tight and gave the first indications of cramping up. Pausing to flex it out, he turned and looked back toward the compound. He knew that the place was big, but now it was obvious that it was a lot bigger than he'd initially surmised. He'd known that there were wide fields separating the large, squat buildings, but now he could see the extent of the Compound's acreage. Cleese could see what looked like miles of cyclone fence running around the vast complex. He squinted and was able to make out a thin line of electrical wire threaded through the diamond-shaped s.p.a.ces of the chainlink. Above the fencing, razor wire twinkled in the diminishing sunlight. Beyond the formidable fencing, there was nothing but mile after mile of empty countryside.

He turned and looked back up to the top of the hill. He still had a ways to go, so he lowered his head and returned his attention to the laborious climb to the top of the hill. His efforts soon brought him to the crest and put him just to the right of where the mysterious figure sat like a Buddhist monk: legs crossed, hands lying loosely in his lap.

He continued on, moving quietly.

By now he'd gotten to within a dozen or so yards away and was able to ascertain that the figure in the shadows of the Wisteria was that of a woman. He could see that her build was smaller than that of a man and her posture was nearly perfect; back straight, head held high yet relaxed. Most of the men here moved like apes, but she had an air about her that was almost angelic. She seemed to take up a hundred percent of the s.p.a.ce she occupied. Her body exuded diametrically opposed energies: totally peaceful harmony and complete deadly menace. Even though she was relaxed and off-guard, her body gave the impression that with the proper motivation all that could change... and that change would be very dangerous indeed.

It didn't take a genius to figure out this woman's ident.i.ty: Chikara.

Surrept.i.tiously, he'd learned as much as he could about Chikara as soon as it was possible. After hearing the stories, he'd sneaked off whenever he could and viewed her tapes. The more he saw, the more he was interested in her, her Warriors, and her unique fighting style. He'd never met a woman who could hold her own in a full-on fight, but this one... This one was different. Much like Monk, she'd taken what Life had given her and turned it into something undeniable. This was a woman who did what few others could.

She kicked a.s.s and took names.

And when the a.s.ses got kicked and the names had been taken the end result usually meant a lot of bodies. .h.i.tting the floor.

Cleese remembered one specific tape he'd seen. It was late in her match and she was obviously tired. Covered in blood and bits of meat, she'd stood quietly and allowed herself to be surrounded by a group of UDs. She'd batted their advances aside when necessary, but for the most part she simply let them get inside her strike zone. After giving the television audience their fair share of antic.i.p.ation and dread, it became clear by the change in her expression that she'd had enough. Then in a blur of punches, kicks and whirling swordplay, she'd dispatched them all in seconds. One moment she was surrounded and things were looking grim, the next it appeared as if someone had turned on a blood sprinkler. She literally became a whirling dervish of death. When things finally settled down, there she was, panting from the exertion, standing over a pile of bodies and grinning like a demon from h.e.l.l.

It was, to say the least, impressive.

It was also, at least in Cleese's opinion, s.e.xy as h.e.l.l.

From afar he took a moment to look at her, quietly cataloging her appearance. She was pretty beneath all of that bl.u.s.ter and violent retribution. She wore her hair short and kind of spiky which was something that a lot of fighters did. The UDs could sometimes entangle their clawing hands in a combatant's hair and that could create some major problems. It was just easier to keep a short haircut. Even Cleese, who wore his hair long, kept it tied back tight to his head in a ponytail.

From this distance, he noted how well-defined and leanly muscled her upper body was: firm musculature having been augmented by exceedingly low body fat. In the dying light, Cleese saw the thick cabling of her vascularity as it accented each individual muscle group. There was no denying that this was a beautiful and powerful woman. Silently, he wondered how she'd do in a sparring match both in the Pit and in bed. He made a mental note to try to find out should either opportunity ever present itself.

"Do you often sneak up on people and stare at them, Cleese?" Chikara asked abruptly, eyes still closed. Her voice almost tinkled on the blossoming night's crisp air.

"No. I...uh..." he stammered and then chuckled. "I apologize. I was just out walking..."

She slowly opened her eyes and languidly turned her face to meet his.

Cleese hesitantly walked the rest of the way over to where she was sitting.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," he said. As he got closer, he noticed that this woman was a lot prettier than he'd initially thought. Her bone structure was sharp and her mouth wide. Her lips were full and generous. He looked down and met her gaze. He was brought up short when his gaze finally came to a rest on her eyes. They say that the eyes are the window to a person's soul. These were dark piercing orbs that sent a cold chill down your spine. They were eyes that had seen a great deal of loss and endured unfathomable amounts of suffering.

Cleese felt that adversity tempered the spirit. Nietzsche said, "That which does not kill you, makes you stronger." If that were true, then this woman was carbon steel.

"Well," she responded, "I was in the middle of my meditation. However, I have been meaning to talk to you."

"Oh?" he asked and he c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. He'd been trying to keep a discreet eye on Chikara and her Budo Warriors since he'd first arrived. He had no idea that the fascination had been mutual.

"I have. Here..." and she patted the gra.s.s next to her, "sit with me."

Cleese made his way over and sat down heavily. Despite his best efforts to the contrary he groaned as his quadriceps screamed out in their distress. After a bit of painful adjustment he settled in and made himself comfortable. All the while, he never noticed the smirk that slid across Chikara's lips.

"Sore?" she asked, looking away to hide her still grinning face.

"Ha-ha..." he said wincing. "I feel like I've been hit by a bus. Twice."

Smiling fully, her eyes returned to the tableau before her.

Cleese took a moment to drink in the view from this vantage point and was amazed. It was stunning the way the final orange and purple rays of the sun slashed across the sky and threw long, skeletal shadows upon the fields of manicured green. He was surprised it had taken him this long to find the place.

"Wow," Cleese said with a sigh as he got himself comfortable, "this is a nice little spot you have here."

"It is preferable to the last place I used which was next to the Holding Pen," Chikara said, her voice ringing out sweetly in the air.

Cleese looked at her and realized that this was the first time he'd caught her smiling.

"I'll bet," he said. Then after a moment, "So... What did you want to talk to me about?"

Chikara drew her index finer around her right ear where two piercings twinkled in the light, and pulled the short bristly hairs back behind her ear. The movement made Cleese's pants feel funny; funny in a way that they'd not felt in a very long time.

"We have been watching you, Cleese," Chikara began.

Cleese involuntarily raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"So far, we like what we see," she said finishing he thought.

"We?"

"Yes, we..."

"I'm flattered."

"You should not be," she said with a slight sniff. "We-and by 'we' I mean the Budo Warriors-have been watching you since you first arrived. In fact, it was one of my Warriors who first brought you to Masterson's attention."

"Hmmm... so, I have you to thank for this little adventure."

"In a way, I guess... Yes. We heard about you and thought you would do well here. Now that we have seen the genuine article, it is evident that we were correct in that a.s.sumption.

"Hmm... well, thank you," he responded. "I'm guessing there's more..."

Chikara smiled again and turned to look him in the eye.

"We were hoping you would join us."

"Join you? Join the Budo Warriors?"

Chikara nodded and looked off serenely into the distance as if, her request now made, she'd returned to a peaceful place in her mind while she awaited her answer.

Cleese stared at her for a long time as he pondered the real meaning of what had been said. He was honored. h.e.l.l, who wouldn't be? Still... Cleese had never exactly been a "team player" and the idea of joining the ranks of any organization-no matter how loosely compiled or prestigious-sat like a t.u.r.d at the back of his throat.

"Well..." he said, "while I am honored at the invitation, I'm not so sure that would be a good idea. I'm not exactly someone who is able to tow a line, you know? And in case you haven't noticed, you tow a pretty stern line."

Chikara grinned and nodded. Cleese found that, despite himself, he respected this woman. She'd no doubt suffered a lot in order to bring her to where she was today, fought her way through compet.i.tion and adversaries alike and had come out on top. In many ways she was a lot like the other fighters that were here, but in other ways-more important to Cleese's way of thinking-she was quite different. She gave off an air of great strength and yet there was a deep compa.s.sion and sensitivity evident in her.

"Somehow," she said finally, "I knew you would say just that."

Cleese smiled and leaned back against the tree.

"Well, I aim to please."