No Flesh Shall Be Spared by Thom Carnell Page B

fingers as a visual aid.
    "One: a weapon. It could be a better pistol, a shotgun, a chainsaw. You’ll never know, but whichever it is, you’ll be damn glad to see it. Two: ammo. This ain’t Halo or Quake out there, Buddy. There’s no cheat codes, so sooner or later you’re gonna need to reload. And that’s as good as fuck a reason as any to conserve your ammo. Three: A very pissed-off UD. They’ll be disoriented at first, but soon enough, they’ll smell you and come a-runnin’. Four: Nothing… Nada… Bupkiss. There are eight spindles and we have to maintain some sense of drama. We don’t want this to be a goddamn turkey shoot. Again, we gotta keep it interesting for the crowd. It is, after all, what they’re paying for.
    "Keep this in mind, by the time the next buzzer sounds you’ll need to have thought about a lot of shit: your position in the Pit, the position, if any, of the remaining UDs around you, your weapon’s status and what you need to replenish it, where the spindles are (which can be both a good thing and a bad thing depending on what is there when it next spins). Lotsa shit… You’re a smart boy. You’ll figure it all out.
    "When that buzzer sounds, kill whatever’s around—fast! You move on to get what you need, but only after those first UDs are down. Don’t stand around fucking shopping. Kill—Grab—Move on. You with me so far, Champ?"
    Cleese sat up and looked the ring over. His eyes narrowed and as he thought, he spoke his thoughts aloud.
    "Ring. Spindles. Buzzer. Weapons. UDs. ‘Kill—Grab—Move.’" He looked back at Monk and grinned malevolently. "Got it."
    "Ok, genius, after six minutes and three rounds, the buzzer will sound each and every minute with the odds of a UD being ‘spun’ being higher. Think of it as a game and you’re going on to harder and harder levels. At ten minutes, the buzzer will sound every thirty seconds. You reach fifteen minutes and you’re done! Make it through and you’re a hero, a media fuckin’ god. Sound simple enough?"
    Cleese sat thinking, going over the math in his head. No matter how he added it all up—it sucked. It also sounded crazy, but… as they say, "in for a penny, in for a pound."
    "By my count, that’s a fuckload of UDs, Monk."
    "It’s roughly fifty of the slimy bastards in those fifteen minutes. It’s why you’re being paid those big bucks, Pal. But none of that shit is gonna make a lick of difference ’cause, if you have to shoot, you’re gonna aim for the head. Demolish the lumps of shit that pass for their brains as quickly as you can. Remember, it ain’t considered a kill unless you destroy the brain or lop their heads from their shoulders.
    "And don’t get cocky and don’t play to the fuckin’ crowd. Not at first. You get the job done and you’ll be back in your trailer gettin’ your dick sucked by a big-titted blonde faster than you can say "wet and sloppy."
    Monk raised a hot dog of a finger.
    "Fuck up…"
    "I know… it’s a vinyl body bag," said Cleese.
    "Fuck the body bag, Bronco, that’s for your momma to cry over. You get stupid out there and step in it, some UDs gonna be having your ass for an appetizer."
    Cleese stared out over The Octagon, rubbing his hands over his eyes. This was some world of hurt he’d gotten himself into, but if he were to be honest a part of him was almost excited about trying this. He’d fought his way out of San Francisco back when the shit first hit the fan, but this… this was something else.
    This was sticking your dick in a bear trap and callin’ it pussy.
    This was crazy and Cleese fucking well knew it.
    "Come on, Cochise," said Monk slapping Cleese across the back. "We need to get you fitted for your gear."
    He turned and walked away.
    Cleese continued to stare down at the fighting ring, weighing his decision… and his options. The last place he’d called home had been a bit of a bust. He’d been out of work—honest work that is—since he bitch-slapped Stolie,