Chikara caught the force of the blow with her left hand and, just like before, spun into it. She whirled in a tight circle, and moved along the line of the punch, pushing her back up against Cleese's chest. In an eye blink, her left elbow came back like a jackhammer digging itself into his solar plexus. Cleese felt the air in his lungs rush out of him and then, suddenly, his sense of gravity abandoned him. Remotely, he felt her hip dig into his groin and he pretty much knew what was coming next-she'd draw him into that circle of hers, distract him with a nut shot and then try to hip-toss him.

The Warriors had already begun to relax when they saw Cleese's feet leave the mat. They'd all sparred with Chikara before and they knew that these matches always ended up with her opponent flat on his back, flat on the ground.

It was as immutable as a Law of Nature.

Cleese rolled with the judo throw and then, halfway through, he twisted at the waist. As he came up and over her back, his mind quickly rifled through his options. He needed one that wouldn't get him hurt or injure Chikara. As his mind raced for a solution, he had to admit it, he got lucky. His fingers caught hold of the waist of her pants and, as he continued to fall toward the floor, he dragged her with him. They both hit the mats and he clung tightly to her body, continuing with the roll until he ended up on top of her.

The furious look on Chikara's face was priceless as she lay beneath him. Her eyes blazed with anger and her lips were drawn tight with frustration. It was obvious that ending up this way was not what she'd planned. In fact, it was the furthest thing from it.

Far off, he heard the Warriors collectively gasp. No one in their memory had ever bested Chikara in a sparring match. Not even the most elite of them.

"Hmmm," he said with a smirk to hide even his surprise, "impressive."

Chikara wriggled under him and tried to shake him off.

"Get! Off! Of! Me!"

"No," he said with a mischievous grin.

"With one word, Cleese, I could have these men tear you apart."

"How? With more of your chop-socky stuff?" Cleese laughed and leaned in toward her. "Somehow... I don't think so."

He bent down further until his face came to within a few inches of Chikara's. Her eyes still burned, but in this position there wasn't a lot she could do about it. Her hands lay trapped at her sides, pinned under Cleese's muscular legs.

"Has anyone ever told you," he whispered so only she could hear, "that you're quite pretty?"

Beneath him, her wriggling got more furious.

"No? Not lately?" He winked at her. "Well, you are."

Abruptly, and so none of the other fighters might see, he placed a kiss on the tip of her nose and quickly jumped off. The instant that he moved, Chikara fired off a knee-strike directed squarely at his nuts. Only his quick reflexes saved Big Jim and the Twins.

"Hey," he said with a chuckle and wagged a finger at her. "No fair aiming for The Boys."

By now, she'd gotten back to her feet and was coming on fast. Her jaw was set firmly and her hands were balled up tightly into fists. Cleese had seen the look before. It meant someone was mad.

Once she'd gotten to within arm's reach, she threw three quick punches at him. The left jab whistled past the side of his face. The right hook struck him just under his ear. The spinning, open-handed back fist slapped him across the face. His cheek pinked up immediately.

"How dare you!" she shouted through gritted teeth, "Wait! Wait!" he said still laughing and rubbing the side of his face. He ran away from her and pulled two of her younger fighter's in front of him.

Chikara stopped her advance and shot a quick glance toward one of her men. As one, the group moved toward him. Cleese had fought groups of men before, but they were usually drunk and sloppy. These guys were well trained and, he knew, each one of them would die for their leader. All she had to do was ask and, he suspected, she just had.

"Matte! Matte! Matte!" Cleese shouted. The group hesitated just slightly, but in that second Cleese started rattling off his explanations.

"Ok... I admit it. I cheated," he said and then turned grinning toward Chikara. "I apologize. I've been...uh... reviewing your fight tapes from St. Louis and saw you did that same thing in your fourth round. I figured what you were doing halfway through it and countered."

The Warriors had come almost to within arm's reach of him and a few circled to his left and right flank. Cleese kept them in his peripheral vision, but his main focus was on Chikara. He knew she could end this before it started with but a word.

Chikara stared at him open-mouthed and eyes wide. Then suddenly, she burst out laughing. The Warriors were confused by this evidently because their forward progress ceased. Cleese watched as they looked at one another and tried to figure it out. When he looked back, Chikara had dropped to a sitting position and tears from laughing had begun to stream down her face.

For a second there was an uncomfortable pause, but little by little the tension eased.

"Let this be a lesson to you, my Warriors," Chikara said, raising her voice. "A little research can go a long way." She rose to her feet in that same weird way that she had when he'd last seen her and moved toward him. "A little subtlety can work miracles as well."

Cleese felt her come up behind him and touch him on the tricep. Gently, she led him away. For a brief moment, he focused on the feeling of her touch. He wanted, for reasons he wasn't quite sure of, to remember what it felt like. With a small chill that ran up his neck, he realized that it had been a long time since a woman-any woman-had touched him in any way other than wanting to see him dead.

He'd forgotten how pleasant that sort of thing could be.

"Continue with your drills, Gentlemen," she said. "I want to have a talk with Mr. Research here."

The group of fighters hesitantly broke off into groups of two and began practicing the throw Chikara had demonstrated. The bravest of them even tried their hands at the counter Cleese managed to pull off.

As he watched them spar, Cleese felt another slight tug at his elbow, then it released. The two of them moved off, away from the mats.

"You really think you are something..." Chikara said.

"Me? No," he said. "I just try to keep myself amused.

"I see..."

"By the way, I meant that 'pretty' remark."

Chikara smiled again and her cheeks reddened. Then, a shadow pa.s.sed over her face and she got a far-off look in her eye. It was pretty obvious past memories had reared their heads in her mind. It was also clear that not all of them were pleasant.

"Please don't," she whispered and her eyes seemed to glisten with wetness in the light. "I... I can no longer allow myself those kinds of feelings."

"Why?"

"Look, I like you... Please do not think otherwise, but..." for the first time he could remember, she was at a loss for words. As she stumbled for what to say and how to say it, she looked like a little girl trying to talk her way out of trouble. "I have lost too much, Cleese, far too much," she said and looked toward the floor. "I cannot allow myself... I will not allow myself the luxury of starting over."

"Hey, join the club, Sweetheart."

Her look of surprise at his answer was almost comical.

"In case you've been too wrapped up in your own personal tragedy, a lot of people lost every G.o.dd.a.m.n thing they had when this s.h.i.t all went down. Don't think that you've got some kind of monopoly on pain and suffering. Sooner or later you have to let go of it. Sooner or later you have to let the pain die, too, because if you don't, it'll eat you up from the inside."

Once again, Cleese saw Chikara's eyes glimmer in the half-light and he reached out and gently touched her forearm. Her arms were a contradiction, cords of hard muscle beneath smooth soft skin.

"Look... I'm not asking you for anything that you aren't prepared to give. I just thought we could talk once in a while; be friends."

She looked up at him and a smile slowly unfurled across her lips. She ran her finger unhurriedly around her ear again, brushing back the errant wisps of her hair like she had the last time they'd talked. That movement had driven Cleese crazy the last time he'd seen her do it.

This time kept the tradition.

"I... I'd like that," she whispered. Almost imperceptibly, she reached out her hand and tugged at the bottom of his shirt, just at the hem.

Now it was Cleese's turn for a broad smile to break out across his lips.

"I'd like that indeed," she said leaning in and grinning mischievously. "Oh, and for the record, pull a trick like that again in front of my men and I won't pull my punches." And then Chikara turned and silently walked back to rejoin her Warriors.

The Corral Before...

An immense flock of birds circled high in the air over the rag-tag compound set up in an open field on the outskirts of town. The spiraling cloud was made up of aggressive crows and seagulls mostly, but smaller robins and sparrows flew alongside the larger birds like Pilot Fish. They shadowed their larger brethren and eagerly picked up any bits of meat left discarded. Having been reduced by their hunger and fear to a ravenous scavenging horde, the avian mult.i.tude wheeled about in the early morning's sky like a pulsating Rorschach inkblot. Their ma.s.s cavorted in the air like kites set lose from their tethers, whirling reminders of an innocence now lost.

The green pastures spread out below were once fertile farm land, but now the fields lay forsaken and well on their way to seed. The hills rolled like emerald waves; terra firma breakers created by the undulating spasms of the Earth. Abandoned farms punctuated the silent and foreboding landscape like forgotten play sets, their crops left to rot now that no one was there to tend the fields. Half-starved farm animals milled about the hills and glens aimlessly; lost livestock dutifully sought the care of farmers, most of who were either dead or still in hiding. Cows and sheep grazed on low-lying gra.s.ses. Milking cows lowed with discomfort as their udders swelled to almost bursting. Columns of acrid smoke billowed dark and pungent from smoldering fires on the ground, their onyx plumes obscuring any view. Deep within the flames, corpses lay smoldering.

The flock lazily spun above the ma.s.s of activity which ebbed and flowed within the roadside encampment. The birds' small, obsidian eyes locked in on the commotion as they continually scanned the landscape for any remnants of food left behind by Men-either living or dead. In truth, they weren't in any position to be picky. Food was food and when the world went as crazy as it had, both man and beast were grateful for whatever provisions they could find.

Groups of heavily armed men and women roaming the countryside had become a common sight in the past few weeks; ma.s.ses of humanity whose sense of dread could only be calmed by the possession of their weapons and by the safety of their vast numbers. In reality, it was their fear that brought them together and-like glue-kept them that way. An uneasy alliance had been forged more out of necessity than any real desire or sense of camaraderie, for when The Dead crawled from their moldy graves, men became afraid and their fear hung in the air like the black smoke from their fires. Every species responded to this fear in its own way: birds took flight and searched from overhead for food, stray livestock searched in vain for their owners, and Man had come together into a tribe and did what it had always done best-fight.

The militia was more than a hundred people strong and they wandered the camp in fits of nervous energy. More and more though, it was becoming obvious that the fear they'd felt in the beginning was being replaced by something resembling an unbridled bloodl.u.s.t. In the last few weeks, these men and women had begun to work more as a fluid army rather than as a frightened mob. They had set about forging themselves, despite their panic and the obvious sense of danger, into a small but entirely self-sufficient military.

Every man, woman and child gathered here had endured the initial terror and confusion and was now bound and determined to be a survivor of this dark page in human history. Some had been lucky and got picked up by the group early in the conflict. Others were not so fortunate and were left to fight The Dead alone for days. Of those a.s.sembled, there were few who could not tell, if asked, horrible stories of loved ones and their "Changing."

The compound was not really anything more than a dozen or so Winnebagos pulled off-road and parked in a haphazard circle. Here and there, tents had been thrown up hastily, if for nothing else than to keep the cloud of flies from the group's hastily scavenged food and to offer a safe place to catch an hour or two of much needed shut-eye. It was a slapdash set-up, but it was proving to be an effective one.

Off to one side, near the back, a corral for the captured Dead had been erected using split rails and whatever nails could be found lying around the nearby farmhouses. The fencing wasn't particularly strong, but then again, it didn't need to be. The Dead were fairly weak when alone, banded together it wasn't their strength that was proving dangerous, but rather their numbers. Across the entrance to the pen, someone had spray painted a board to read "Purgatory" and hung it with some old baling wire.

A gathered crowd was a constant around the railings. The Living all stood there, smoking and drinking and gawking at the restless Dead. All of them were sure to keep a safe distance from the railing and out of reach of anything inside, each having seen the cost of getting too close. But gather they did for they all felt a deep compulsion to try and understand-or rather to confront and come to terms with-the very beasts which had thrown their lives into such chaos.

"These dead-a.s.sed sumb.i.t.c.hes... They ain't s.h.i.t!" one good ol' boy was saying over the dusty top of his Meisterbrau can. He looked around at his red-eyed audience and gauged their compliance. He then cursed under his breath and wiped his hand absentmindedly at a dollop of bird s.h.i.t that had splattered down one sleeve of his faded green Army jacket.

"The f.u.c.k they ain't, Bubba. I'll tell ya... I saw a group of 'em tear that ol' boy Richard Johnson limb from f.u.c.kin' limb over at McGurgie's Feed Store," another man was saying. "You remember d.i.c.k Johnson, doncha? He was that big ol' boy what worked over at the aluminum chair factory over in Harbison County. He married that ugly, thick-ankled gal from Eatherton with them big hooters. I tell ya, those dead b.a.s.t.a.r.ds went after him like he was the main course at a got-dam Chinese boo-fay!"

Bubba shot a look of annoyance and absentmindedly crossed himself. "Don't speak ill of the dead, Cecil."

"s.h.i.t... why the h.e.l.l not? It's not like they's gonna hear us!"

The crowd laughed at Cecil's wit which was usually about as sharp as a bowling pin.

"Anyway," Bubba continued, "seeing 'em thisa way... h.e.l.l. I don't think much of 'em, ya know? Buncha slack-jawed, drooling motherf.u.c.ks is what they is."

Cecil sensed more comic gold here and offered, "Well h.e.l.l, Bubba... If they ain't nothing and you're so G.o.dd.a.m.n brave, why don't you just jump inside that pen and give 'em a few licks?"

The crowd nodded its approval and punctuated the air with guffaws, half-formed opinions and snorts of hillbilly derision. As one, they all looked questioningly at Bubba, waiting for either an answer or for him to wisely back down.

"Sheee-it, Ceese, I may have fallen offa the G.o.dd.a.m.n stupid truck, but it wasn't f.u.c.kin' today," Bubba said wiping at the acc.u.mulating dust in his eyes.

The crowd collectively nodded their approval at Bubba's newfound wisdom. Most had come to know the man as just a "c.u.n.t's hair above a r.e.t.a.r.d," but sometimes, even a r.e.t.a.r.d could have what the alkies called "moments of clarity." The group fell silent and considered the depths of what many called "country wisdom."

A sudden slow ripple started toward the back of the crowd; a slight disturbance in the throng which spread outward. A pair of men pushed their way through the mult.i.tude, politely asking to be excused but insistently moving forward, until they arrived at the side of the corral. To the crowd, it was evident that they were not from 'round here. Both their dress and demeanor said as much. The first man, the one who looked to be in charge, was built well, although not particularly tall, with short business-like black hair and a heavy brow which cast his eyes in perpetual shadow. The other guy was a regular Baby Huey: big, broad and muscular with hands like Easter hams.

"Gentlemen..." the in-charge guy said, pitching the volume of his voice at just below a shout. He bowed slightly toward one of the women in the crowd and smiled broadly, "...and ladies... My name is Weber... Joseph F. Weber and this..." He made a grand gesture toward his compatriot, "...is my a.s.sociate, Jimbo. Say 'h.e.l.lo,' Jimbo."

"Howdy!"

Jimbo's face broke into a smile that was more painful grimace than overt cordiality and the crowd collectively took a small step backward in response. He stood there, grinning like a corpse and absentmindedly working his huge hands open and closed. The two stood silently, the group having given them respectful breathing room, looking like bizarre versions of Steinbeck's George and Lennie.

Weber leaned congenially against one of the wooden rails and gazed out over the scene before him. Casually, he crossed his legs at the shin and breathed in deeply, allowing the crowd a few minutes to settle down. As silence descended back over them, he took a moment and gazed out over the corral. He'd come here wanting to be heard and, if he was anything, he was a patient man. He would wait until they were ready to listen to all that he had to say. When an expectant quiet was in effect, he cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Did I just hear you one of you boys say something about jumpin' in there and mixing it up with this... thing?"

Bubba looked over at the man and then quickly away. It was one thing to talk this kind of bulls.h.i.t to idiots like Cecil and the others, but once strangers such as this got involved, he stood to potentially lose some pride.

"Shee-it, Slick," Cecil said. "We was talking about it, but 'round here we also talk a lot about a.s.sf.u.c.kin' Shania Twain. Both have about the same chance of happening."

Weber smiled and stood there, as if thinking over the likelihood of both ideas. To his mind, he was willing to watch either of these events taking place. But then again, one was going to adhere to his agenda... and one was not. Finally, he decided to get back on point. He looked the crowd over and pitched his voice slightly louder so that those in the back could hear.

"Folks..." he said, his manner now demanding both attention and admiration, "I just happen to have a hundred dollars caysh money in here," and he patted his right breast pocket, "and it's been burning a hole in my pocket for a while now. So... I am willing to wager any of you-or all of you-that my boy, Jimbo, here will not only step into that corral with these Undead b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, but I'm willing to bet that he'll step out of that very same corral again with neither cut nor scratch. Further... I'll bet that he will, before he leaves the confines of that pen, send each and every one of them back to h.e.l.l!" His voice rose to a full shout on the last word.

The crowd laughed as one. They'd seen some crazy s.h.i.t during the last few weeks and they'd heard tales of some things that bordered on the impossible, but this...

This was just beyond ridiculous.

"I'll go you fellas one better," Weber continued. "Jimbo will not only go in there and kick this thing's zombie a.s.s, but he'll make good and sure that the s...o...b..ring sum-b.i.t.c.h is dead-and dead for good this time."

Bubba looked over at Jimbo and tried to size him up, to get a sense of the kind of man who would agree to such nonsense. Upon closer inspection, Bubba decided that the man was big enough, but he sure didn't look crazy. He looked about as stupid as a circus freak, but the behemoth just wasn't selling "crazy" all that well. After a bit of thought, Bubba decided that the giant must just be too G.o.dd.a.m.n dim-witted to be afraid of dying. Either that or he was just plain suicidal. h.e.l.l, being as ugly as he was, who could blame him?

"You're either a f.u.c.kin' liar, Mister, or your boy here is stupider than he looks," laughed Cecil, as he looked over toward Jimbo. "No offense, Haystack..."

"None taken," was the grumbled response.

The crowd nodded its agreement with Cecil and was soon muttering a host of varying opinions. They knew Cecil to be about as full of s.h.i.t as a colostomy bag, but... h.e.l.l, when a man was right, he was right.

"Well," Weber continued, "shall we put both my comrade's skills and his mental instability to the test then? A hundred bucks, folks... is all it's gonna take."

Weber looked at Cecil and Bubba.

"You want in on any of this, Boys? h.e.l.l, if he is indeed crazy and destined to die, it ought to be worth that much just to see these things tear him to shreds, right?"

The crowd muttered quietly, their heads moving back and forth as they discussed the idea. All of them had seen people die at the hands of the dead before, it had become pretty much standard operating procedure these days. But none had ever seen one go to his death willingly. And besides... entertainment was sort of hard to come by, given the current state of things.

Finally, a man named Hansford Tillman who'd once worked alongside the aforementioned (and ultimately doomed) Richard Johnson at McGurgie's Feed Store stepped forward and held out his hand. Benjamin Franklin's crumpled face smiled up from his sweaty palm.

"Ok, I'm in!"

"Hot d.a.m.n, Son!" Weber shouted, clapping Jimbo on the back. "Now, we got us a right f.u.c.kin' sportin' contest here."

And with that, Jimbo silently pulled his shirt off over his head. Once off, he balled it up and handed it to Weber. He arched his back, stretching the muscles in his shoulders and stooped down and under one of the corral's rails.

Weber deftly pulled a small spiral-bound notebook from his pocket and took any and all action, dutifully writing down the amount of each bet by its maker's name. After all of the bets were made, he stuffed the notebook back into his pocket. A hush fell over the group while others, who had also been in the camp, wandered over to see what this new brand of commotion was all about. When they saw Jimbo step into the corral, every eye locked on the center of the pen. Inside the enclosed s.p.a.ce, the lone zombie milled about, seemingly unaware of the man who had entered into their midst.

Jimbo strolled lazily out toward the center of the corral, raising and lowering his arms as if he were a great bird trying to fly away. A pink blush of exertion blossomed over his previously pale skin. He took in big lungfuls of air as he worked to infuse his muscles with oxygen.

"What the h.e.l.l's your boy doin' in there, Mister?" asked Bubba. "That doughhead think he's a chicken now?"

"Pheromones, my good man," Weber explained. "He's sending out his body odor to attract the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Pay attention now. Despite your disparaging opinion of him, Jimbo is a true artist. He won't be doin' this more than once."