Tara looked at the two grown men on her porch who had this lost expression in their eyes, not sure what to make of them. “Uhh…no… I haven’t seen him since he left for the cemetery last night…”
“Have you talked to him today?” Terry practically sliced off the end of her sentence, revealing his worry in his urgency.
A confused squint grew over Tara’s brow. “No, I haven’t… Why? What’s going on?”
He tried playing off his discomfort with a shrug. “Nothin’.” She didn’t buy it. “His sister was just worried about him. She hasn’t heard from him either.”
She thought maybe she was beginning to get the picture, but it still didn’t make much sense, the two of them just showing up at her door. “Well, he’s a big boy. I’m sure he’s fine.” A hint of fear still glazed their eyes so she decided to extend her hospitality. “You two wanna come in? You look like you can use a drink.”
“Oh, thank God…” Jimmy practically knocked Terry over to get inside. “Do you have any whiskey? I really need to loosen up a bit…”
“Heh…” Terry forced a laugh through half a smile to wean the attention away from Jimmy’s presumptuous barging in. “Sorry. He gets like this when he doesn’t get to watch his Tuesday morning cartoons…”
“It’s no problem.” She smiled and made way for him. “I know the feeling. I never miss an episode of Bob’s Burgers.” She closed the door behind them and watched, slightly amused, as Jimmy headed straight for the kitchen. “So…why can’t you get a hold of him? Is he not answering his cell?”
“Our cells aren’t workin’. Land lines are down too.”
“Oh, and the radio, TV, and internet are off line…” Jimmy rummaged through random cupboards in Tara’s kitchen, on the hunt for something stiff to drown away his budding anxieties. “And smoke signals are out of the question because of the storm. We’re basically on our own in a city full of 4 million… But I’m sure you already knew that.”
Tara was a little taken by his mutterings. “No…I didn’t… I’ve had my nose stuck in a book all day. In between that and six baskets of laundry I haven’t touched my phone or TV.”
Jimmy finally found some whiskey and a glass. “Oh, well, welcome to this week’s episode of everybody-freak-the-fuck-out.” He poured himself a shot and threw it down his throat. “All Hell’s breaking loose outside…”
The tension in both their faces steadily corrupted her cool. “What do mean?” She looked over to Terry who’d wandered in, distracted, and vacantly sat down on her couch. “What’s he mean by that?”
Terry looked up; his own misgivings peeking through his shifting, brown eyes. “We don’t know what’s goin’ on exactly… But people are starting to panic. A lot of ’em are evacuating the city. This…this storm… It’s making people crazy…”
“Storm?” She didn’t understand. “It’s not even raining. What’s to freak out about?”
“Have you seen the clouds?” Jimmy didn’t like being the only one overly worked up, especially in a room with a woman… He’d have her on his level in no time. “They’re thicker than shit, rolling endlessly without any wind…and they’re red.” That should do it, he thought. “Yeah, they look black at first, but when you catch ’em after a shard of lightning you can see the color of blood in ’em.” He was beaming right into her eyes, making sure she got the memo that now was the time to panic. He took another shot while letting his dread marinate and the whiskey do its thing. After he wiped his mouth with his sleeve he set the glass down hard on the counter. “Yeah…” he winced after the burn, referring to the whiskey when he spoke, “this…this isn’t working fast enough…” He eyed the bottle, then Tara. “You got anything stronger?”
“…Blood?” She was still trying to catch up to what was happening, but felt like her brain just hit a speedbump and wouldn’t work for her at a normal pace. She picked up the remote for her TV and gave a few channels a flip-through. Nothing but a blue slate and colored bars filled the screen so she quickly turned it off, trying to avoid the unease the high-pitch whine encouraged.
“Look,” Terry saw the tension building and decided to try his hand at keeping things in perspective. “It’s probably nothing to worry about. It just has everyone on edge, is all.”
She’d need a lot more than that before being comfortable with accepting everything as “perfectly fine”.
“Have you heard anything? Any explanation why everything’s offline? I mean, should we be leaving too?”
Terry shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The main streets are a mess. It took us an hour and a half to get here from the bar…”
“The bar’s fifteen minutes away!”
Jimmy shook his head, mumbling under his breath. “…not today it isn’t…”
Terry still felt like he needed to make his point. “We stopped at a gas station on the way over here… Twice…” and he added as an afterthought, “…Jimmy’s got a bladder like a fucking Cocker Spaniel…” He sighed. “…And both spots couldn’t accept credit cards. Their electronic systems were down. They’re all closing up shop, so driving anywhere without a full tank of gas isn’t a good idea right now.”
She walked over to the window of her small, two-bedroom duplex and pushed the curtain aside. The sky was almost too dark to see, but moving erratically, like boiling water rolling in a pot. Scarlet lightning splintered through the haze and the cloud color loosened her jaw.
“The clerk at the station said he caught some of the news before the TV went out,” Terry continued. “There was…some kind of disturbance over at the cemetery where the storm started.” He kept a wary eye out as she gazed through the window. “Somethin’ was…” He let the thought trail off, deciding not to finish his sentence, considering he didn’t have all the facts.
“Was what?” Tara wanted no part in him withholding information, regardless of how he thought it’d make her feel.
“Something…” Jimmy, on the other hand, could hardly contain himself and needed for someone else besides the all-and-balanced, level-headed Terry to know his distraught. “…was tearing the shit out of the streets, heading towards the Forum.” He grabbed the bottle from the counter and started for the couch. “Thank fuck, we were goin’ in the opposite direction…” He plopped down on the sofa and offered Terry the bottle. He declined with a shake of his head.
She still wasn’t comfortable with the vagueness of the boys’ story. “Something like what, exactly? A tank? A biker gang? I don’t understand what you guys are telling me…”
“That’s because neither do we.” Terry always felt honesty with a touch of discretion was the best approach. “But…” He stopped himself again, not wanting to fill her in on he and Jimmy’s wild presumptions.
“But?” She egged him on, unwilling to be shortchanged of any conspiracy theories the two had stumbled upon during the long ride over.
“But,” Jimmy decided on jumping in again to get a few more things off his chest. “The cemetery just happens to be the last place Marty was seen. And who else is big and badass enough to terrorize ten straight blocks if considerably boozed-up and driven into a rage-binge by guilt and anger?” Then he added, “…Well… besides J.C, I mean…but he’s dea—”
“No.” Tara shook her head. “No way. Not Marty. He wouldn’t just…flip out and go on a block-wrecking spree.” She was sure of her words and it helped set Terry’s mind at ease. “When he left here he was fine – totally in control. Yeah, he was upset, but he wasn’t going crazy.”
“Good.” He was enthralled to hear her perspective on Marty’s psyche didn’t include the possibility of him wreaking mayhem in the streets. He had no idea how well Marty’d been taking the whole situation because he hadn’t spoken with him since the night of the incident.
“Yeah…” Jimmy agreed and then decided on getting another thing clear while he had the chance. “Oh, and
the whole ‘Marty goin’ nuts’ thing was Terry’s idea, by the way.”
Terry brushed off the assigned blame and continued. “Did he say if he was gonna come back here? Or do you have any idea where he might be now?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t say. We were just playing it by ear… But I figure he’d probably go find Alex before he’d come back to see me again.”
Terry nodded. “Yeah. You’re probably right. That’s where we’ll go next. We’re supposed to meet her back there later, anyway. Do you wanna tag along?”
The look on her face spelled out the popular expression, “duh!”.
“After you and your buddy just thoroughly scared the shit out of me? Yeah… I don’t think I wanna sit here and be alone right now waiting to see what falls out of the frickin’ blood-clouds, thanks.” She moved past them, heading for her room. “Just let me get dressed.”
“No hurry,” Jimmy insisted. He looked down at the bottle and empty glass in his hands, then back over his shoulder to where Tara just shuffled by. “Hey…can I use yur bathroom?”
4
The Coach had mauled the end of his cigar with his teeth like it were a rubber chew-toy and he a teething pup. He’d seen a few cigar butts more desecrated than this, but having a hint of respect for the culture of the stogie, he felt it time to allow it some dignity and gracefully put it out of its misery.
He was poised up against the front of his truck with his ass on the hood and heel mounting the bumper. The Staff and Team Parking at the Forum were in an underground lot to the rear of the structure that opened into a large cement ramp leading topside. Eventually, he’d have to take that ramp up and out to reenter the rest of the world – that dank, lonely, shithole that had little else to offer other than emptiness and dejection. The only time he really felt whole anymore was when he was a part of this team, and leaving this place after every game was a constant reminder that he really didn’t have much else to look forward to.
He lobbed the butchered end of his Cohiba like a live grenade as far as he could and watched the sparks explode from the cherry in the distance. Times like these, when there was a recent death somewhere close enough to hit home, he couldn’t help but think of his son…
He was a tall, wiry fourteen-year-old with chestnut hair, bright hazel eyes, and a smile that could light up the Forum. He loved the game of hockey but was as clumsy as a drunken skunk with the puck. His drive was what kept him skating at the level he had, and he was well on his way to proving that hard work and determination could turn an all-thumbs klutz to a soft-handed pro.
But he was dead now…so that was the end of that.
Jean-Claude Le’Duprie was a bastard of an opponent, but had earned his due respect, and the Coach felt honored to have played against him. But ultimately, if his dirt-bag antics cost him his star player, he’d have a tough time remembering him fondly, to say the least.
It was strange, he thought, that he’d be so shaken by what he heard in the locker room next to his. It was obviously Cayman’s laugh – the barbaric, 240 Lbs. twenty-four-year-old 3rd-liner who was nearly as rowdy and booming as J.C. Often when a group of guys would get together who were as close as those on a semi-professional hockey team, a few would exchange traits, unintentionally resembling each other in random ways. It shouldn’t surprise the Coach that the younger centerman would have a laugh like Jean-Claude’s. It was…unnerving – it being so soon after he’d passed – but a sort of comfort. He hoped the young man could be at least half as much a pain in the nuts as J.C. had been over the last few years. The Hounds would need him to be if Marty was ever let back in the league…
The Coach shifted his attention to the back-exit of the Forum, about two hundred feet from where he’d parked, and realized he hadn’t yet seen anyone leave the building. He glanced down at the watch on his wrist and was surprised to see it’d been nearly an hour since he’d left them to get washed up and back in civilian gear. Usually, it wouldn’t take his boys more than thirty minutes to be out and headed for home, so…what the hell was taking so long? And unless he’d been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed, none of the Hounds had left the building either…
Next to the staff exit stood a large, metal garage door that enclosed a room where the Zamboni was kept along with any other tool or piece of machinery needed to maintain the ice. It usually went unnoticed since it was so rarely opened from this side, but the sound of the Zamboni’s engine switching on behind the thin sheet of metal drew the Coach’s ear. There may’ve been some event he was unaware of taking place after the game, requiring the bulky, box-shaped, ice-resurfacing truck to make another round. Either that or someone planned on taking the ol’ Z-boat out for a joy ride in the moonlight around the city…
He chuckled at the thought, shaking his head while puffing away his troubles, but was startled by a clamor that sounded like the start of new ones—
A crashing, hollow bang rang out when the Zamboni collided with the inside of the closed garage door, and the Coach lowered his cigar to observe. It tore the metal sheet from off its rotor in liberation from its cage and pulled it under its wheels in the process. The crunching tin echoed through the underground parking garage and the Coach cringed… But nothing could’ve prepared him for what he heard next…
He stepped a foot closer to get a better look, cautiously curious, then stumbled back against the side of his truck to nearly drop his jaw on his shoes when witnessing what he had. The painted, white and blue Zamboni bulldozed its way from the dark garage with blood running off its every edge and bodies piled three or four high on top. Loosely hanging limbs draped from the sides as it climbed over the defeated garage door, making that terrible, metal scream ricochet off the walls. And just beneath that horrendous rumpus rang another, even more frightful tune…
J.C. stood straight and tall at the wheel of the Zamboni behind the battered pile of two dozen broken corpses covering its frame and smiled ear-to-ear under his hockey helmet, proudly singing at the top of his powerful lungs the Canadian National anthem…in French…
“Ooooo, Caaanaadaaa! Terre de nos aiieuuuux! Ton front est cieeent, de fleu-rons glor-ie-uuuuux!”
The Coach’s heart nearly imploded in his chest at the terrifying spectacle of the tone-deaf monstrosity…
He stumbled against the side of his truck, flailing to the ground and getting back up all in one stride as he tried removing himself from the impossible. He retreated from plain sight, ducking behind the bed of his pickup, never once shifting his eyes from Jean-Claude’s Zamboni of Gore torpidly transporting the ruined bodies of his dearest friends.
J.C. howled his victory anthem as he guided the slow-moving vehicle past where the old man crouched. The Coach couldn’t help but hide, and felt ashamed in doing so, but knew that if he hadn’t, he’d be a last-minute addition to the Zamboni chariot ride from Hockey Hell. It was times like these he wished for the authority to keep one of his semi-automatic weapons in his truck… But in all honesty, he was so terrified by what he witnessed, even if he had been armed he might not have found the balls to do a damn thing.
When the Zamboni finally made its way past, he discovered the fortitude to steal a glance around the bed of his truck, but regretted it the second he did. Staring toward the pile of fleshy carcasses, he caught the expression of terror in the dead eyes of his dear friend Mac, sandwiched in the center of the pile with only his head and left arm protruding from the carnage.
He couldn’t break his stare away from Mac’s lifeless, bloodshot eyes, and in seeing him so defiled, found a glimmer of strength, realizing he had to track the son-of-a-bitch who’d killed his boys.
Then it hit him… Like a ton of petrified shit…
What the fuck was going on? Jean-Claude was dead. He was fucking dead! This…… This couldn’t be right… This couldn’t be real…
In his past, after losing his faith, he had a painful awak
ening that led him to believe that there was no God. And if ever there was proof of that…this was it. This was either some form of psychotic, hallucinogenic breakdown brought on by depression and stress, or was distinct evidence that if ever there were a lord in heaven watching over him and his Priests, he had long since abandoned his post. Mankind was on its own, and the demons rotting in Hell decided they wanted a piece of what was left of God’s green Earth. And apparently, they’d chosen J.C. to rise up from the Pit and take it for them.
Jean-Claude – or as he preferred to be referred to as, Jean-Christ – followed the same emptied path of destruction he’d created to the Forum and headed merrily back for the cursed soil of the veteran’s cemetery, singing for the long, first half of the ride.
The Coach followed intently, several blocks behind with his truck’s lights off, slipping around every corner he could to keep his vehicle out of sight. Either J.C. couldn’t hear him from as far back as he was, or he didn’t care to think he was being followed… But in the end, the result was the same. After twenty minutes of snooping, the Coach realized where they were headed, but had no clue as to what he would find…
A growing army of dead soldiers ripping away a circumference of destruction surrounding the cemetery rallied in the distance, carrying the bodies of their victims back to the graveyard to be buried, like swarms of ants hauling bits of food to their colony. If this…insanity was any indication as to what was to become of the world, he suddenly felt as though he should be sure not to have to face it alone. Mankind would need its soldiers to combat this abhorrent evil, and he knew of the perfect warrior to lead the charge. He just hoped he could get to him before the abominable Jean-Claude Le’Duprie turned him into a casualty along with the rest of his freshly deceased Los Angles Priests.
Decadence and a Friendly Cup of Tea
Blood Magik- A Cold Day In Hell Page 18