Blood Magik- A Cold Day In Hell

by Corwyn Matthew

  McMillan shook his head dismissively at his partner. “Okay! Don’t hurt the kid! …I’m coming out with my hands up!”

  He gave J.C. a nod. J.C. nodded back and got down on his stomach on the floor. He inched himself to the corner and turned off his laser site as McMillan put his gun up in the air. The brave Marine playing the decoy stepped into plain view with his hands high as a distraction; it being too dark for the man to see the black barrel of Jean-Claude’s M16 peek out from eight inches off the ground.

  “No guns! No guns! I kill—!”

  It didn’t take more than four seconds for J.C. to pick the spot through his scope on his target’s head and pull the trigger. The sound, even with the suppressor, was loud enough that the boy flinched when he heard it, but it happened so fast it took a few seconds for his father to lower the gun from the side of his head before falling forward, taking the boy with him. The poor kid was pinned under his dad’s corpse for what probably felt like an eternity while McMillan leisurely approached. He dragged the body over the kid’s frame and lifted the gun from its grip. He secured the weapon, shined a flash light on the boy’s head to check for injuries, then left them both where they lay.

  J.C. got up from the floor and stepped into the kitchen to gloat for a moment over his kill. He beamed down at the body, then over at the boy who was too scared or shocked to even make a sound. The boy looked up, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, and stared right into the face of his new American enemy. J.C. smiled, casually taking a step back, then grabbed a slice of pizza off the table in the center of the kitchen to take a bite.

  “Merci, garcon…” He winked at the child while he chewed. “Bon apatite!”

  He gave the kid an obnoxious farewell with a mouth full of his father’s last meal, and the boy’s blank expression turned from helpless to fierce. Jean-Claude didn’t know it then, but it wouldn’t be the last he’d see of the young rebel in the making.

  “Eight-year-olds! AAAHAHAHAHA!!”

  Jean-Claude exploded in a burst of baritone howls after his squad members had already put the joke well behind them. McMillan grinned behind his cigarette and Gomez shook his head.

  “It was a bad joke, man… No way it was that funny…”

  McMillan decided to step in and put his two cents up against Gomez’s remark.

  “Man, our whole unit is a bad joke. Seriously. Think about it.” He looked around at the five men surrounding him, their faces all trying to string together what he was implying. “Two white guys, two black guys, an Asian, and a wetback walk into Iraq.”

  This time, Wei was the one to crack a laugh, but Robinson wasn’t about to let that one slide without adding to its inappropriateness.

  “White boy, please…” he shook his head. “J.C. ain’t black… Nigga’s French-Canadian.” The men chuckled. “The combination of the two renders the idea of him being a ‘brotha’ obsolete.” He scoffed. “Dude don’t even watch football… Nigga likes Ice Hockey…”

  They all laughed out loud, releasing the tension McMillan’s jokes had built between them.

  It was the morning after their raid. A platoon of US troops who’d been stationed outside the town rolled in and handed out food-rations to the locals. Families were lined up to receive the American’s charity and to thank them for their consideration. There were close to five-hundred people living in the town, but a good fifty percent of them weren’t interested in anything the US soldiers had to give.

  “Yeah, man…” Swiener decided to join the conversation with a curious squint. “What the hell you doin’ in the US military, anyway? We the only country dumb enough to put a gun in your hands?”

  Robinson laughed before J.C. spoke up to answer the question.

  “Look aroun’ you. Do you see many French-Canadians fighting this war?” The men weren’t exactly sure what he meant. “I sign with you cowboys so I can be here. I am big hero now, no?”

  They all knew what he was really saying: that he wanted to be in the middle of the fight, getting his hands dirty. It was a little disturbing to hear since most of them were only there out of a sense of obligation to their country. J.C. just seemed to like to shoot people. McMillan knew how he felt, but even he was slightly intimidated by J.C.’s bloodlust. He decided on breaking the uncomfortable silence between them with another remark.

  “You ask me? I think he’s just gotta thing for boys in uniform.”

  They all laughed. Not that they thought it was that funny, but they needed the out to get around the awkwardness they felt knowing they were teamed up with a cold-blooded heathen.

  “I’m jus’ glad the Canadian bastard’s on our side,” Robinson shrugged. “Long as we got his ass pointin’ that gun at the enemy an’ not us…he can laugh at all the stupid shit he wants.”

  The men nodded and smiled, forcibly trying to see past the fact they were on the same side as a man who wanted to be at war. All of them would happily take a ride out of there if they could get it without being dishonorably discharged or losing a limb. Even McMillan, who had caught a bloodlust fever during his first two tours, was ready to go home and was just about running on empty – this being his third trip back to the Middle East.

  It was J.C. and Robinson’s second tour of the dessert, and it was nearing its end. Robinson had plans to start a business back in Florida. J.C. wasn’t the type to plan that far into the future. He usually acted spontaneously and went wherever his vices would lead. The only time he ever really had a plan in life was when he decided to become an American citizen so he could join the military. As far as he saw it, he’d made it to where he wanted to be. This dessert was his utopia. He would serve in this war for as long as this war would have him. There wasn’t anything else. There was a time in his life, recently, that if he could, he would’ve taken back the shot that got him court marshaled just so he could’ve spent more time out among the ranks.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the hell is this?”

  Swiener stood up abruptly when he saw a large knife in the hands of a young boy heading toward them. The rest of the guys looked over in the kid’s direction and Wei raised his gun toward the threat. Gomez noticed Wei’s weapon and gently put his hand on top of it to suggest he lower his aim.

  “Easy, man. He’s just a kid.”

  The boy was walking sluggishly through the dirt, harboring a vicious scowl and bloodshot eyes, no doubt from a whole morning of crying.

  “A kid with a big ass fucking knife in his hands…”

  He wasn’t completely comfortable not having his gun trained on the boy, but knew Gomez was right. There was no way he could hurt any of them. They were all trained in hand-to-hand combat. An eleven-year-old with a knife wasn’t a threat.

  “That’s a bad little man, right there.” Swiener was impressed with the guts of the kid. The look in the boy’s eyes exhibited a fearlessness he hadn’t seen in his enemies often. Then he noticed that that fearlessness was being fueled by anger…and it appeared to be directed at two specific members of his squad.

  McMillan and J.C. both didn’t bother to budge at the sight of him, even after realizing he was the son of the fourth extremist they killed the night before. McMillan just sat there and smoked his Camel cigarette; J.C. growing an obnoxious grin.

  “Holly shit, he looks pissed.” Swiener laughed at the heat coming from the boy’s stare. “You two owe this kid’s mom money?”

  Neither of them answered. It wasn’t hard for the rest of the guys to figure out what this was about. Robinson decided to step up to the young man before he came too close. Mostly he was hoping to stop the kid before he did anything that would get him hurt. When he stood in the boy’s way, the young man stopped in his path, never taking his eyes off McMillan. He knew J.C. was just as responsible for his father’s murder, but the huge, scary, black-man was too intimidating to stare at for long; McMillan – six o’clock shadow and squinty eyes – made a m
ore reasonable target. The boy was old enough, and smart enough to know he probably couldn’t hurt either of them, but he wanted them to know he sure as hell would if he could.

  “Now, what the hell you plan on doin’ with that dull ass butter knife, lil’ man?” Robinson figured he’d try to talk some sense into the boy. He was sure the kid couldn’t understand English, but inflections in speech patterns were generally pretty universal. The kid might not understand the words he spoke, but he very likely understood his tone. “You think you gonna walk right in here and take out the baddest dudes in Iraq with that lil’ piece of silverware?”

  The boy didn’t even acknowledge Robinson when he spoke. He only had eyes for McMillan, and McMillan respected the kid enough to pay him mind. He returned the boy’s stare for the next few seconds it took him to finish his cigarette, then flicked the butt aside. Robinson glanced back at McMillan and smiled.

  “Oooo this kid wants a piece’a that ass, white boy!” He laughed. “What should we do wit ’im?”

  By this time, other Marines and Iraqi citizens were catching on to the commotion, casting eyes toward the stare down. It was an Old West flick minus the cowboy hats and short one gun. McMillan had always been a fan of a fair fight, so he stood up, pulled out the boy’s father’s Desert Eagle he’d kept as a trophy, and threw it on the ground in between Robinson and the kid.

  “Man, what the fuck?!” Robinson started for the gun but McMillan’s tone suggested he do otherwise.

  “Leave it!!” His voice was serious enough that everyone watching thought he might shoot his own man if he didn’t do as he was told. “Get the fuck out of the way.”

  The whole time, Jean-Claude just sat and watched, flashing his full, young armament of bright teeth, quietly analyzing.

  McMillan stepped within teen feet of the boy and gestured for him to pick up the gun. “Go ahead, kid. Make daddy proud.”

  The boy’s anger was intoxicating. He glared down at his father’s gun and grew furious at the sight of it. Everyone was now fixed on the standoff and McMillan waited leisurely for the boy to make his move. He raised his arms to his side to show he didn’t have a weapon of his own and nodded toward the gun.

  “Pick it up, boy. No one’s gonna stop you.”

  His voice was calm and steady. The kid was so angry he probably couldn’t see straight, but he knew enough to not make any sudden moves. He slowly stepped forward, never taking his eyes off his nemesis, bent down and hoisted it up. Swiener was impressed by the boy’s courage and Gomez shook his head, disturbed that the soldiers he thought of as friends would put the kid through something like this. They all knew the gun wasn’t loaded, but it was still a cruel game to play.

  “That’a boy.” McMillan smirked.

  “Like I said; badass little man.” Swiener offered his praise in the heat of the moment, but it wasn’t over yet. It still remained to be seen if the young man had the balls to pull the trigger.

  McMillan gestured for the boy to raise the gun and point it at him so, slowly, he did. He watched as the boy’s index finger crept toward the trigger, anger intensifying his penetrating stare.

  “Oh, shit… Lil’ brotha’s about to pop a cap in that ass, white boy!” Robinson had played his part well, acting like the gun was really a threat, but now decided to join in on the fun as a spectator. “Twenty bones say he don’t got the balls ta pull it.”

  Swiener took another deep swim into the boy’s eyes and decided to take that bet. “Fifty says he does.”

  McMillan started closing in on his junior aggressor, his hands still up at his sides.

  “C’mon, kid. …Pull it. Put me out of my fucking misery.” He took another step and the kid’s hands started shaking so bad that if there were any bullets in it, he probably couldn’t have hit his mark. “…All it takes is one squeeze.”

  “Do it, kid! Shoot the bastard!” Swiener had a vested interest in the boy’s courage.

  “He ain’t gonna do it…” Robinson wasn’t convinced.

  McMillan took another step closer and stopped three feet in front of him. He put his palms up as if to say, “Well…you gonna shoot or not?” then decided on taking one more step, getting within reach of the weapon. In midstride, he started for the gun while he strategically surveyed the kid’s hate-filled eyes. He stretched his arm out with Swiener and Robinson both eagerly watching for the outcome as if in Vegas betting on a ballgame. Gomez had seen enough and turned away, but Wei was drawn in with the rest of the crowd, entranced by the captivating drama, the edge of his seat hosting his excitable rear.

  Everyone was too preoccupied to notice J.C. had drawn his weapon, and that the smile he had before was perverted into a soul-piercing stare. In the midst of the commotion, he’d analyzed the situation and reached the conclusion that although the boy wasn’t an immediate threat, he was still the enemy. He had a gun, and it was pointed at the closest thing he had to a friend, and would very soon be proving he was ready to become a soldier for his country’s cause. He went through the whole scenario in his mind and reached a decision that would soon change his entire life. If that boy pulled the trigger – bullets or no bullets – he was going to put him down.

  The boy couldn’t think straight enough to weigh the circumstances. The only thing he could think was that he’d never see his father again, and this American spot of camel spit in front of him was the reason.

  He remembered the weight of his father’s dead body falling on top of him, and the force of the floor smashing into the side of his face when he fell. He remembered the white-man getting closer – torturously slow – then stealing his father’s gun from his dead hands. And he remembered the huge, black-man walking into his kitchen and taking a slice of his family’s pizza as if it were a joke to him. He took a bite in front of him, smiled, and even winked when he spoke. What was it he had said? What were his exact words?

  He abruptly shifted his aim, pointing the weapon directly at Jean-Claude who had his weapon trained right back, and whispered softly,

  “Bon…apatite…”

  …then pulled the trigger.

  His words and actions surprised everyone and McMillan turned to look back at J.C. right after the kid let the hammer go. He heard the click of the empty chamber and followed its aim to see Le’Duprie pointing a loaded weapon directly back at the boy. He knew immediately that his partner was going to shoot – he could see it in his eyes – and he yelled out “No!!” with hands raised, hoping to stop him from firing.

  The look in J.C.’s stare was one of pinnacle intent. He’d already reached his decision to fire even before he pulled the trigger. And when he did, the child smirked at the spark of his enemy’s conviction.

  In that instant, a thought went through Jean-Claude’s mind as he looked into the eyes of the brave little boy and saw no fear: Was this the boy’s plan from the beginning? Did he know J.C. would shoot him all along, purposely coaxing him into doing so to make the Americans look bad? The boy’s father told him they were all too arrogant to not see themselves as heroes…

  After today, none of them would think themselves heroic ever again.

  Jean-Claude grinned at the thought of the eleven-year-old rebel as he sat waiting in the cemetery for his companions to be reborn. The kid was all-balls and pure spirit – he reminded him of himself. There was a time when he’d retained anger toward the little soldier for making him fire the shot that got him discharged from the military…but not anymore.

  In life, J.C. had been bitter and livid, frustrated with the outcome of his existence and was only ever happy when he was smashing the crap out of an opposing team against the boards on the ice. In life…he’d felt cheated; born into a society that wouldn’t allow him to indulge in his potential. There were so many rules, and standards, and political ideals that did nothing for his true calling as a man of pure passion and brute strength. The world had turned away from him, frightened by
his confidence and ashamed of his unbridled audacity. In life, he was never truly allowed to live…

  In death…he had been set free.

  The scenery around him was becoming more and more like something from the depths of a depraved and twisted imagination. Every tree throughout the cemetery was set ablaze, burning endlessly without decay, fueled by the dark magik transforming the city. The faces of their trunks were melted as though they were made of wax, and they sat mangled and decrepit with their roots like old, withered fingers grasping at the ground, trying to find a grip on what was left of their existence in the world of the living. Every dead and dried-up blade of grass around him had taken on a mind of its own and squirmed restlessly like thousands of overgrown insect-legs crawling from the dirt. Soldiers with red eyes, dragging the limp bodies of dead Los Angelinos through the mud, marched throughout the graveyard, systematically diminishing the population of the living and increasing that of the deceased. The orange glow of the city in flames reflected against the burgundy clouds as far as the eye could see. The air was hot and humid, and the smell of this New Hell reeked of burning flesh and boiling blood.

  Jean-Claude looked up into the thick stormfront when the familiar sound of a jet engine tore through the sky, unable to see the enemy buried behind the clouds. It sounded like they’d passed overhead, probably attempting to visually pinpoint the cemetery for an aerial assault, but likely couldn’t get a weapons-lock. They’d have to aim manually if they were to fire on the graveyard or had any hopes of dropping a bomb through the skies.

  He smiled at the sounds of war being carried on the winds and laughed jubilantly when he was able to make out the sound of the National Guard’s air assets coming in for their second pass. He wasn’t the slightest bit concerned. Something in his gut told him their efforts would be futile. His goddess didn’t bring about Hell on Earth only to be spoiled by a few American cowboys in fancy jet-planes. They could reduce this whole city to smoldering flames and it wouldn’t stop what’d already begun. He looked forward to appreciating the event of their eminent failure and basking in the air of their defeat.