Blood Magik- A Cold Day In Hell

by Corwyn Matthew

  Mac figured he’d be the one to respond since it may have been his persistence that finally pushed his dear coach over the edge, spiraling him into some sort of paranoid, delusional recoil.

  “Uhhhh…hear what, Coach?”

  The Coach stood silent, listening more closely for what he thought was a chilling, familiar bellow of a laugh…but didn’t hear it again. “…Jesus, I’m fucking losing it…” He put his head back in his palms. “You assholes have finally done it…” (Mac had never noticed before, but the top of the Coach’s head was like a scene from a dire, warzone massacre with hardly a surviving morsel left standing.) “You’ve turned me into a fucking lunatic…”

  “No…wait…” Carl, rooted at the other end of the lockers, closer to the wall between rooms, spoke up with his head tilted toward the barrier and ear on full alert. “I heard it too…”

  Everyone stopped.

  They all paused together, and the quiet uncovered crashing sounds, thumps against the walls, screams…and…laughing…

  “Jesus, you think their over doin’ it a little?” Mac took the ruckus to mean the Hounds were celebrating wildly over their victory. “You’d think they won the fucking Cup…”

  “No…listen…” Carl still had his ear cocked and a perturbed face on query.

  The Coach stood up cautiously, walking toward the wall. He passed by his still-standing team and they all fell in line behind him, trailing him to the end of the room and up next to Carl. If they really listened, the ruckus sounded more like a full-on brawl than a celebration, but Carl’s more prolonged observation caught what the Coach had thought he had earlier.

  “That laugh…”

  He started the sentence but couldn’t finish it, so the Coach took a stab at doing so knowing he and his teammate were on the same page…

  “…Sounds like…”

  He couldn’t say it either. The words sounded too crazy, and he wasn’t comfortable bringing the thought out into the open.

  After a few more seconds of thumps and crashes, the noises stopped, and the more practical face of rationale poked its intruding nose in through all the speculation.

  The Coach shook his head with a dismissive shiver and headed for the exit. “I gotta smoke…”

  He weaved through the crowd of his teammates; an emptiness sinking into his heart as he brushed by. It was like he suddenly imagined the whole world might come to an end, and he’d never get the chance to see their befuddled or spaced-out faces ever again… But he shook off the sensation and forcibly chuckled to himself before exiting the room.

  All this fucking stress’s turning me into an old Betty, he thought, leaning up against the hallway wall outside the locker room.

  He reached into the pocket of his black and white, Priests windbreaker and removed a wooden container that cased his aftergame cigar. Reaching into his other pocket, he pulled out a cigar cutter, clipped off its end, and placed the Cohiba in his mouth. The thought of Le’Duprie’s laugh echoed through his mind and sent a chill over his skin that stood the hair on the back of his neck on end.

  He shook his head and gave his box of matches a habitual shake to be sure he was equipped to light a fire. As it turned out, there was no rattling of phosphorus-headed, wooden sticks bouncing around the inside of the little cardboard box…and in effect, he was not equipped to light a fire, therefore royally fucking peeved he’d have to walk all the way out to his truck before smothering his unsettled emotions under a blanket of hot, white smoke…

  Getting some distance between him and this place to grab some fresh air might do him a service, anyway. He walked down the skinny corridor to the back exit, every step putting his and his opponent’s teams further behind, and stepping one foot closer to the last bit of coincidental good fortune he may ever live to see.

  “I say we go out and find some roadkill.” Mac was thinking out loud again… “Hide it in one of their lockers for a Friday night, pregame surprise.” It sounded like a joke, but he was completely serious when expressing the idea.

  “Dude…that’s fucked up. They just lost a teammate.” Donny may have thought it was funny, but felt it necessary to show some level of respect to make up for that which his friend had lacked.

  “So? We dress the street-pizza up in a Hounds jersey and give it Duprie’s number.” Mac shrugged. “It’d be like a tribute to his career. Kinda like a float in a parade, except…you know…roadkill instead of a balloon.”

  None of the other guys seemed to think the idea was as funny as Mac did. They all just shook their heads and dispersed from the crowd that had formed at the end of the room.

  “Aww, c’mon!” Mac didn’t bother hiding his disappoint. “Those assholes are over there partyin’ like it’s fucking Maudi Graw right after they just lost a man!” He wasn’t sure if he should be defending his position, but the room seemed to need some liveliness inserted in a hurry and he was happy to provide the pep. “I’m just sayin’ we give ’em a little reminder, that’s all. Just to fuck with their heads before Friday’s game.”

  Donny addressed his friend through a disgusted sneer. “Dude…you are one mentally deranged sonovabitch, you know that?” He paused to let his comment thoroughly fester before adding with a smile, “I’m in!”

  Mac laughed, extending an arm to smack hands. “Yeah! Alright! That’s the sort of team spirit I’m talkin’ about!”

  Everyone had made it back to their lockers, carrying on business as usual, removing their skates and hockey pads and wiping sweat from their tired bodies…except for Carl. He still stood motionless, facing the chalkboard on the wall at the end of the locker room, utterly perturbed by the voice he thought he’d heard a few seconds before. He would’ve dismissed the notion already, but it was so silent on the other side of the cement now that the lack of clatter had him anxiously waiting for any kind of sound to break his fixation.

  He stepped in closer, putting his right ear next to the chalkboard, pressing the side of his face to it…waiting apprehensively…

  …

  ……

  Thump.

  Carl’s inner ear suffered the vibration from the hit: a muffled impact only he could hear. It shocked his intently focused senses and he jerked his head back to settle his rattling brains.

  He hesitated a moment before placing his face back against the chalkboard. His open, left ear picked up the chatter of his teammates so he concentrated on tuning them out to filter in the sounds from the other side…

  …

  ……

  Mac noticed Carl at the end of the room and stopped stripping away his hockey pants to give Donny a nudge, pointing toward their teammate. Donny had a “What the hell is he doing?” look on his face and Mac hushed him with his hands, slyly sneaking toward his distracted friend.

  He slid between the lockers and the bench so he’d be out of Carl’s peripheral, and gained a few eagerly awaiting onlookers while en route. He scooted a few guys from his way before he made it to the end of the bench, creeping up from behind. He looked back at the rest of the locker room who’d all picked up on his theatrics, chuckling under their breaths, waiting for him to unveil the punchline. Mac tried not to laugh as he leaned in behind Carl and put his mouth two inches from his friend’s open ear and his erect thumb up next to the rear of Carl’s boxer shorts, then—

  “HOLY SHIT, IT’S IN HIS ASS!! SOMEBODY GET ’IM SOME LUBE!!”

  He jammed his thumb against a tender spot under Carl’s boxers and Carl jumped up and sucked in his backside like his anal-virginity was a vital organ.

  The Priests all burst out in a roar that’d been a longtime coming, and Carl spun around to punch Mac in his chest.

  “You fucking asshole, Mac!” He was furious at first, but breathed easier once he socked his friend with a good, hard right. “You scared the shit outta me!”

  Mac chuckled while nursing his chest, and C
arl eventually turned up a smile. He picked at his rectum through his shorts with an awkward grimace scribed on his face.

  “If I shit blood tomorrow, I’m gonna kick yur fuckin’ ass…”

  Mac laughed a little more, then found the breath after a sigh to get a few words out over his chortling.

  “Sorry, man, I…I had to do it… You just looked waaaay to uptight.” He smacked Carl on the shoulder. “Consider it takin’ one for the team.”

  Carl shook his head, accepting the humility while rubbing his bottom, then turned back toward his locker, feeling somewhat rectally violated but no worse for the wear.

  “Yeah, he took it, alright,” one of the guys shouted.

  “Took it like a whore in a Porta-Potty!” another added, and everyone laughed some more before winding down to disrobe.

  The pain in Carl’s ass that was so often called “Mac” became a bit more literal than figurative, but the distraction couldn’t have come at a better time. Carl finally allowed himself to leave behind his downright nutty train of thought and get back to getting the hell out of Dodge so he could go see his wife and son. The guys were a few steps ahead of him, filing into the showers, joking around and in better spirits than before he’d taken that knobby, opposing digit up his frail and tender anus. And overall…so was he. Then he briefly got distracted again, saying to himself he must be going marbles thinking the way he was, and he looked up to his favorite Wayne Gretzky Bobblehead doll glued to the shelf in his locker for moral support.

  “What d’you think, Wayne? …Am I finally goin’ postal, or what?”

  He waited for the Great One to answer, assuming that if he did, he was probably fucking fruitier than a cake with three kinds of berries…

  ……

  THUMP!!

  This time, the hit against the other side of wall impacted so forcefully it vibrated the surrounding chalkboard and lockers. Carl froze solid, locked into a stare down with the Gretzky doll who decided to answer his question with a sudden side-to-side shake of its head. Apparently, the Great One didn’t think he was nuts after all…

  Carl froze, standing as still as a man surrounded by a swarm of angry midgets, and slowly reached out to put his hand over the doll’s jittering noggin.

  “Don’t fuck with me right now, Wayne…” He seemed to have fared better when manning up and taking charge of the jittery little runt. “I’ll rip that wobbly fucking smile right offa your springy little neck.”

  ……

  ………

  Yep. …That, ladies and gentlemen, is how you take control of a sticky situation.

  Carl let go of the doll’s face and it appeared to have taken heed to his warning. Good thing, too. He’d hate to have to take it to the little guy. He was, after all, a valuable collector’s piece. …Well, maybe not so “valuable” per se, but—

  THUMP!!

  God damn it, Wayne!

  THUMP!!

  “Hey, what the fuck, guys?! Quit fuckin’ around over there!”

  THUMP!!

  The chalkboard rattled against the wall and the roof creaked with the force of each blow. Gretzky looked ready to bust a neck-spring while Carl backed away from the impacts, numbed by the terrible possibilities beating against his imagination…

  THUMP!!

  THUMP!!!

  THUMP!!!!

  The chalkboard fell from off its screws, hitting the floor with a sizable crash. The rest of the Priests started peeking naked heads around lockers as Carl retreated in his briefs.

  With the chalkboard down, the point of the blows stood out through scores of cracks like veins racing across an artery. With every solid hit, the wall grew more meager; deepening fractures stemming from a single spot of pressure. Dust fell from the ceiling as a crowd formed once again, but this time at the front of the room, a reasonably safe distance from the threatening ruckus.

  THUMP!!!

  THUMP!!!!

  THUMP!!!!!

  BOOOOM!!!!!

  A huge slab of fractured cement burst from the center of the impacts, blowing white dust through the Priests’ locker room; a giant, black fist like a dial centered the commotion.

  An equally large foot smashed through next, kicking a hole in the wall big enough for a rampaging bull to trample through.

  The Priests all stood frozen in disbelief, only moving to flinch when J.C.’s fist pummeled through the wall a third time, knocking a path in the cement to reveal all 6’5” of the beast, standing proud as ever, wearing his bloodied-up orange and black Hounds jersey and a solid black hockey helmet atop a colossal, grinning melon.

  They all stood motionless, unable to do anything but marvel in terror at the sight of the fallen, former Hell Hound and his prevailing expired form. His eyes bristling red, the fresh blood of his teammates filled the lines in his face while his coach’s head hung from his clutches.

  He peered through the cloud of dust to step slowly into the Priests’ locker room over the rubble at his feet. He figured they’d all be too scared piss-less to speak, so he decided on breaking the ice with an evil smirk and a booming greeting after a long air of silence to build suspense.

  ……

  ………

  …………

  He chuckled lowly before he spoke and flashed a toothless grin…

  “Bonsoir, poosie fuckars!”

  The rookie, Bobby Shye, who stood behind Carl next to Mac, passed out and fell to the floor upon hearing the powerful accent of the dead villain, Jean-Claude Le’Duprie. Carl, being the closest to him, was the only one coherent enough to breathe a word.

  “…Jean-Claude…?”

  He could hardly even whisper the name, but did so in hopes that in facing the monster, his delusion would deteriorate and he’d find himself waking from a preposterous nightmare…

  Jean-Claude regarded him with the seriousness of a dead-man reborn. “No,” he assured him. “Not Jean-Claude…” A smile infiltrated his bearing. “…Jean-Christ.”

  Carl’s mouth gaped at the very nature of Le’Duprie’s blasphemous existence.

  “Who wan’s to be the firs’…” he sneered wickedly, “…to die for my sins…?”

  Comrie, the closest Priest to the door, sure as shit didn’t want to be the first to die, but found he had absolutely no problem being the first to make like a leaf and tree the fuck out of there…

  Jean-Claude saw the twitch in Comrie’s eyes even before Comrie knew he was trying to escape, and as he turned for the door, the Hounds’ captain threw his coach’s head right for that of the deserter’s. The spinning projectile tore through the air with a look on its face like it was screaming against the g-force of the throw, its eyes and mouth wide and flabby cheeks hard-pressed against brittle bones.

  The two skulls collided against each other making a cracking noise that broke through the shock of the rest of the Priests who all winced at the impact. Comrie plummeted face-first after receiving the blow to his head, and before losing consciousness, realized that no matter how much he’d never wanted to know what his locker room floor tasted like, he was well on his way to finding out.

  “Bingo!”

  He probably meant “bull’s-eye”, but who the hell had the balls to tell him any different?

  As soon as Comrie’s body completely collapsed and slapped against the cold cement, it was like someone punched the scatter-button in the brains of the crowd causing everyone to react at once. Twelve men rushing for one door at the same time seemed almost as asinine as a French-Canadian hockey-zombie pitching a strike with the severed head of his ex-coach, but nevertheless…ridiculousness, in this case, trumped reasonable doubt.

  Four panicking meat-heads crammed the opening to the only exit as seven more figured following in their footsteps may miraculously result in a better turnout the second time around… Carl was the only Priest who didn’t move,
mesmerized by the glowing ruby corneas and the booming laugh of the dead monstrosity boasting before him.

  Jean-Claude ripped away a bench from its bolts and used its metal legs like a hook to reach over the crowd of funneling lemmings and yank them back into the locker room. The flailing human bowling pins fell over each other into a growing pile of naked people, and J.C. flipped the bench he held and used the flat side to bash into the mass of bare flesh. Laughing while swinging this fifteen-foot man-swatter, he joyously whacked away at the squirming heap of Priests while Carl stood by entirely stagnant, too shocked to even breathe, let alone run and hide.

  Smash after smash after smash turned strong, athletic men to mush with gore seeping from the bottom of the pile, slowly approaching Carl’s retreating toes. He looked down, wanting to move, terrified of the color of death crawling toward him, but found his feet weighed as much as planets and weren’t about to budge. He stared into the oozing lake of human butchery – his eyes froze open – until he was finally able to move, but only to flinch when J.C.’s face peeked back at him through the reflection in the blood. He looked up to see the beast had stopped tenderizing the corpses of his friends and was grinning directly at him.

  “Boo.” J.C. chuckled at his own charisma and got into a batting stance, bench cocked back and ready to swing. “Bases loaded…”

  Carl gasped his last gulp of air as Jean-Claude swung for the fences. He caught his victim with a swing so hard and fast it ripped his head from off his shoulders and sent it flipping over the lockers into the showers.

  “Touch Down! HAHAHAHA!”

  The crowd would have gone wild.

  3

  “Hi, Tara. Is, uh…Marty home?”

  Terry lowered his head in embarrassment of his juvenile sidekick. “Dude, don’t be such a child.” He sighed. “Hey, Tara.” Suddenly he felt like a child himself, going door-to-door, aimlessly looking for his best friend. “Is, uh…Marty home?”