No Flesh Shall Be Spared by Thom Carnell Page A

never fuckin’ forget ’em." Monk said and leaned forward, his forearm resting on his knee. "Forget ’em and you will almost assuredly have your ass carried out of here with your toes pointing toward the ceiling." His manner was secretive and almost conspiratory; as if great knowledge was about to be handed down in a lurid, oral tradition.
    "You may think you already know this stuff, but as with all things, you don’t know shit from shaving cream."
    Cleese leaned back and closed his eyes. He gently prompted his mind to imprint the words he was hearing upon his memory; to sear them into the meat of his brain. They were just a few days away from Cleese’s first training session with the UDs and he knew better than to blow this off.
    This… this was important shit.
    "One man goes inside," Monk explained. "He has his bare hands, a blade, and a side arm with one full clip. We use Beretta 92Fs with Teflon M882 hollow point rounds for side arms. We’ve opted for the meatier slide that’s sixty grams heavier and one millimeter wider to improve control for when you’re firing multiple shots in quick succession. The Beretta is used because it’s a damn reliable weapon. The hollow points because they make for splashier bullet hits. These are televised events after all and we want to keep it exciting for the crowds. You’ll have fifteen rounds in the first clip with one up the pipe."
    Cleese nodded, taking it all in and mentally transforming principles into instinct.
    "As the rounds progress, you’ll come across a rash of shotguns out there: Mossberg 500s, pump action Remington 870s, Winchester 1300s… even semi-auto Browning A-5s and Benelli M1s. There’ll also be chainsaws, harpoon guns… a whole host of shit. We’ll have a ton of weapons training available, so we’ll make use of it all. You don’t want to get caught out there with a locked and loaded weapon that you don’t know how to use."
    Monk dragged the back of his hand across his chin. His stubble produced a harsh, rasping sound. For a second, his mind seemed to slip away to a time when he’d first been given this speech. It seemed like a lifetime ago and the talk, quite literally, changed his life. After a moment, he returned to the here-and-now and continued with his explanation.
    "Oh, and a word of advice: save your bullets for when you draw a crowd. The people in the stands came to see Spartacus not High Plains Drifter so be frugal, you get me? You go in shootin’ up the place and you’ll find that you’re out of rounds when you need them the most. And then… Toes up."
    Monk shrugged and broke away. He paced back and forth along the front of the benches. He’d found long ago that keeping himself moving helped him to think. At a time like this, it wouldn’t do to forget something important.
    "A match begins with three UDs released into The Octagon. Every two minutes, a buzzer will sound." He jerked to a halt, and pointed a finger at Cleese. "Listen for that sound, because that sound… is your ass."
    Monk raised his right arm and made a tight circle in the air with his finger. The room echoed with the sound of a loud buzzer. Suddenly, the X-frames spun a quarter turn and locked into place with a hollow, metallic sound.
    "Motherfu…" Cleese exclaimed. He’d heard the sound before, but for some reason, this time it made him damn near jump out of his skin.
    Monk waved toward the scorekeeper’s box as if in thanks. Inside the elevated room, the shadow Cleese had previously seen waved back before evaporating back into the gloom.
    "At the sound of that buzzer, the eight corners of The Octagon will pivot like you just saw," Monk continued, returning his full attention to his enthusiastic student. "In your head you should assign each corner a number and remember what’s what so you can keep ’em all straight in the heat of the moment. Once those spindles move, you’re gonna find one of four things there."
    He counted them off aloud, using his stubby