Blood Magik- A Cold Day In Hell

by Corwyn Matthew

  He let a chuckle escape his throat at the idea of his uncontested triumph. It would seem he was indeed the star of this movie after all. …He thought as much. There weren’t enough older, ass-kickin’, Clint Eastwood-type badasses in Hollywood entertainment nowadays. All these little pill-popping, techno fuck-holes needed a strong role model like the Coach in their lives. Especially in times such as these.

  He laughed to himself a little more at the thought of his self-appointed heroism and groaned against the pain in his chest, unconcerned. Instead, he mumbled his victory rant over the pain and added an exhausted laugh.

  “Who’s yer daddy, ya fuckin’ snot-nosed pu—?”

  Ultimately, he wasn’t surprised when his victory slogan was undermined…

  “Who the fuck you talkin’ to, old man?”

  The familiar, hoarse voice of his presumed dead D-man, Comrie, startled the old-timer, and he lifted his gun toward the blurred image hanging above.

  “Commie? …That you?”

  “Yur not gonna shoot me, are ya, Coach?”

  “What… How’d you…?”

  He was trying his damnedest to put the face above into focus. He needed to be sure who he was about to shoot before he put a fresh hole in the bottom of their trachea. He went over the pile of dead bodies in his mind – the ones he saw J.C. hauling out of the Forum on the Zamboni of Gore – and tried to remember if Comrie’s face was among them…but he couldn’t be sure. He regretfully didn’t get the chance to take a headcount before Le’Duprie gave him the slip.

  The image above slowly became recognizable, melting into a single face and familiar grin crusted with dark blood and black dirt. The Coach may’ve dismissed Comrie’s unruly appearance as a coincidental tangle with a cherry pie and a bucket of mud, but nothing could’ve convinced him those glowing, red peepers were a side effect of a lack of bathing and assorted fruit pies.

  As his vision cleared, the look in the Coach’s eyes gave away his next move, and even quicker than he could think to pull the trigger, Comrie tore the pistol from his brittle grasp, breaking his left index with the torque of it twisting from his palm.

  “You are gonna shoot me, aren’t ya, you miserable bastard.”

  “Fuuuuck…yoouuuu…arrrggghhh…” He rolled over in pain, babying a broken digit. When he found it in him to take a breath, he spewed out the first thing that came to mind. “You… You skate like a donkey, you clumsy fuck…arrrggghhh…”

  “Wow. That was priceless. Can we do it again?” His sarcasm wasn’t well disguised. “I’d love to see what other snappy one-liners you could come up with if I break another finger.”

  “What…what the fuck do you want, Comrie?”

  “Honestly?” He seemed to mull over the question, contemplating a forthright response. “I wanna feed you yur own cock…but I don’t wanna put my hands on it and I haven’t figured out how to convince you to eat it yet…”

  “What’s…what’s wrong, son?” He chuckled in between winces. “You still mad about me takin’ yer mommy out for a test-drive?”

  “Are you fucking kidding? You did us both a favor, man! That woman needed to get laid as bad as anybody I’ve ever known. Matter of fact, if I still gave a shit about either of you, you might say I owe you one.” He smiled and cocked his head to the side. “Buuuut…”

  “But…yer an undead fuck-stick and couldn’t care less about anything other than what whoever rose you and programmed yer ass to.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right.” He falsely grinned. “That’s why yur the coach, Coach! You understand how the game is played!”

  “Which…fuck…” He groaned. “…Which brings us all the way back to; what’n holy fuck do you want with me, fuck-stick?”

  Comrie considered lying, but figured it wouldn’t make a difference either way so decided on being candid about his intentions.

  “Marty.”

  The Coach was almost surprised, but too busy trying to come up with a plan of escape to be distracted by his curiosity.

  “The fuck makes you think I can get him for you?”

  “I don’t think… I’m just following orders. You’re bait, asshole. Fitting, I figure, since yur old ass is practically worm-food already…”

  “Wait-a-minute… Whose… whose ‘orders’ are you followin’?”

  Comrie’s hesitance told him exactly what he’d suspected.

  “No…” The Coach chuckled in disbelief. “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me…” He full-on laughed at the look on Comrie’s face, knowing the look was because he knew exactly what his coach would say. “Yer followin’ Shit-Fer-Brains’ orders, aren’t ya? Hahahaha! I knew you were gullible, son, but I didn’t think you were dumb enough to follow a Hound…”

  Comrie reached down, grabbing his ex-coach by his sweatshirt to pull him to his feet in a flash. He brought him eye-to-eye and showed the old man what sort of power he now carried behind his voice and stare.

  “We’re all Hounds of Hell now, old man.” He grumbled under his annoyance but let his grip loosen a bit, remembering he needed the Coach alive. “…But I ain’t wearin’ this jersey to keep my tits warm, you hear me? I’m still a Priest. And when we find Marty, we’ll make him a part of this team again too. And when we do…‘Shit-Fer-Brains’ will be takin’ his orders from me.”

  “If you say so, son.”

  “Yeah… I fuckin’ say so. Now come on, you old goat, we gotta schedule to keep.”

  “I’m… I’m sure you do. There’s just one thing I gotta tell ya first before we go.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I hate to be the one to say it…but…” his eyes feigned hesitance, “yer mommy’s got a 70’s bush.” Comrie took a second to absorb the remark then let out a bark of a laugh, just as much from being caught by surprise as from being amused. “I was gonna ask her to trim the fucking thing until I saw that slab of meatloaf she was packin’ between her thighs…” Comrie laughed even louder, not at all realizing the Coach had just slyly plucked a grenade from his belt while he was distracted. “I mean, shit…I’d wanna hide that thing too if my snatch looked like a strip of cat puke.” He pulled the pin from under the lever while his captor howled. “Smelled like cat puke too…” He didn’t know if his plan would work, but he figured it was try or die. “…Tasted even worse…”

  “AHHHAHAHAHA!!”

  With Comrie’s head back and eyes closed in laughter, the Coach tossed the grenade behind him into the street. It exploded a second and a half later, blasting bits of shrapnel into his ex D-man’s derriere. The Coach found shelter from the explosion behind his opponent’s body, but the grenade wasn’t meant to do anything other than distract. Comrie spun toward the sound behind him and when he did, the Coach unhooked his grenade-belt, pulled out his hunting knife, and stabbed Comrie dead-center in his back with the knife pinning the belt between his shoulder blades.

  He grabbed a pin from a frag-grenade in the belt and took off running for cover. Comrie hadn’t realized there was more than just a knife stuck in his back, but even if he did, he couldn’t reach the blade with his hands to remove it.

  “What the fuck you think yur gonna accomplish with a knife against me, dumbass? And where the fuck’re you runnin—”

  BOOOOOOOM!!!

  The explosion scattered the Priest’s body into eight different pieces and blew them clear past the front yard, his intestines – not making it quite as far – splat over the grass like tie-dye on a hippie’s tee.

  The Coach had nearly made it around the side of the house but was pushed flat by the explosive force, hoping that if he did take any shrapnel, his vest would’ve absorbed the brunt of it.

  He wasn’t going to take any chances. He was dead-tired and bruised in places he didn’t know could hurt, but he got his old ass up as soon as he could and headed for the rifle he dropped in the lawn. He was pretty sur
e he’d nearly emptied the mag, but there was a good chance a few rounds remained, and at least he knew where it was. His Magnum, on the other hand, that Comrie held when he went to pieces, would be a bit more of a bitch to track down in his disoriented state, most likely being morbidly camouflaged under pounds of scattered insides.

  He alertly surveyed his surroundings while going for his weapon to see if any other ex-teammates loomed in the immediate vicinity that he’d need to explode into chunks in a hurry. He couldn’t see much through the ringing in his head and the smoke in the air, but from what he could see, he appeared safe for the time being.

  He made it to his rifle on the lawn, popped out the magazine to check for ammo, then popped it back in when he saw it still held rounds. He tried not to think about the stringy pieces of meat dangling from the barrel, or the fact that the treads of his boots were likely filled with what was left of a good friend. Instead, he decided he’d walk around the perimeter of the yard in an attempt to account for all the parts that went flying in the explosion. He wasn’t sure how this whole “demon-zombie, hockey player from Hell” thing worked, and he’d hate to leave a random, animated limb the luxury of making its way into his house and shrewdly awaiting him inside his toilet. Because his toilet would in fact be his next stop after he was sure he’d secured his home. But before he made his rounds, he grabbed the blue recycle-bin from the side of his house and escorted it through the crime scene, figuring he’d need an appropriate place to put the pieces he’d recover.

  He limply scuttled to the street where a lump on the asphalt sat that might’ve been the head of his exploding comrade. It was hard to tell what the hell it was through his fuzzy vision of the hazy aftermath. He got the impression he was very likely nursing a concussion along with his broken finger and bruised ribs. He also had an upset stomach and a hint of a scratchy throat. …When it rains, it pours warm piss from the clouds and here he was in the middle of the storm, caught without an umbrella…

  He came close enough to the mound of flesh in the street to see that it was in fact what was left of Comrie’s head. Poking at it with his rifle, he rolled it over so he could look his young friend in his dead eyes. At first, he thought it was some form of post, guilt-ridden insanity that caused him to see the head staring back. But after a few soul-chilling moments, the eyes blinked, and he realized the broken bastard was still alive.

  “I hate to do it to you, son,” he checked his rifle to make sure the safety was off, then aimed it between his eyes, “but I gotta put you down. No hard feelings, huh?” He stretched his arm out to push the barrel up to his forehead, but hesitated.

  “You know what?” He couldn’t believe he was thinking what he was, but… “On second thought, I think I’ll keep you.” He lowered his aim in confidence. “This here is what we call a golden opportunity… And I might actually learn somethin’ if I pay it some mind.” He gingerly leaned over to grab the head by its hair. “Don’t mind stickin’ around a while, do you?” He stuck the barrel of his rifle into the bottom of the neck to carry the head around like he was bearing a torch. He sighed, shaking his head. “This could be the beginning of a very disturbing relationship.”

  He wondered why he felt the need to talk to the head of his undead ex-teammate. It seemed a little morbid for his tastes. But then he realized if he treated it like a person it was less gut-wrenching and not quite as hard to stomach. He’d try looking at him as though he were a pet of some kind. He may even feed his cat to it, just to see what would happen. There were so many questions rolling around his head about these things and he hardly knew where to begin, but finding out if it was contagious or able to regrow limbs, he figured, was a good place to start.

  He limped over to the next chunk of Priest he could find and put the butt-end of the rifle on the ground to use for support with his hand gripping the barrel under Comrie’s neck. He leaned down to pick up the arm still holding his gun and tried prying the weapon from his grasp.

  “Do me a favor and let the gun go, huh? It ain’t gonna do you much good.”

  Comrie proved willing to cooperate when his hand let loose its hold. “There’s a good lad.” The hand then straightened its middle digit and rudely flipped his coach the bird. He acknowledged the gesture with a rightful nod. “I suppose I deserved that.”

  He put his gun back in his holster then lobed the severed arm in the recycle bin with a thud.

  A Moonstruck Detour

  Jimmy’s head was still in a fog.

  Terry was all business, driving cautiously through the red mist, dodging uprooted street signs and abandoned vehicles.

  Tara felt like she should say something, do her part in keeping their spirits up…but was at a loss for any comforting or propitious words to offer.

  Jimmy’s heart pumped sluggishly, hindered by a hole it hadn’t earned.

  Terry’s head resonated with pain like someone held a drill bit to the base of it.

  Tara’s stomach hated her almost as much as she hated it…

  They weren’t more than fifteen minutes away from Alex’s house, and only a block from the utter confusion and mind-fuckery they’d left behind along with their spirits. Terry decided it wasn’t important to dwell on the past, and Tara just accepted it as the first of many unanswerable questions that would litter the path they traveled. Jimmy hadn’t bothered mentioning his second run-in with Kitty since he wasn’t sure what to say. It just seemed like questions piled on top of questions and almost pointless to get into. If it became necessary, he’d say something. Otherwise, for once, he just didn’t feel like talking.

  His head rested up against the car window, halfway gazing and halfway spacing out, thinking how much more bearable things might’ve been if they could’ve brought Kitty with them… But that just wasn’t in the cards. She was stuck there, in her own personal little Hell, and for now, there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe when this was all over and everything went back to normal she’d be able to escape that store for good and find some peace in oblivion. But somehow, that thought seemed like a memory from a distant dream: hardly tangible enough to embrace.

  “Shit!” Terry barked his swear and abruptly slammed on the brakes, jolting his friends in their seats.

  “What?! What is it?!”

  Tara was quick to be alert, but it was all Jimmy could do to just lift his head and stare, barely assembling a hint of inquiry.

  “Someone needs help…” His eyes stayed steady on his mirror as he stopped the truck, pivoting in his seat to peer back.

  A mortally overweight man had spilled out from around the corner they’d just passed, charging their way. He had the fear of death glossing his eyes and was running like none of them had seen a man of his girth run before.

  “Shit! Shit! What do we do?!” Tara pulled the pistol from her jeans and Terry picked up the shotgun he had resting beside him.

  “We wait. See if he can make it this far.”

  “I don’t see anything chasing him.” Jimmy finally snapped out of his gloom enough to speak.

  “Hopefully it stays that way. Jimmy, open the door.”

  He did as he was asked and slid over to make room, hoping the stranger would make it to the car before whatever he was running from rounded the corner and declared otherwise.

  “He’s gonna make it…” Terry drew on false optimism.

  “He’s gonna make it?” Tara wasn’t so sure.

  They watched as the man’s breasts beat himself in the chins while sprinting for what he thought would be his salvation, then Jimmy’s eyes randomly wandered ahead, noticing the already blood-stained concrete painted in his path.

  “He’s gonna make it…” Terry’s wishful thinking became a mantra, hoping his positive outlook could fool the fates into believing his optimism held water.

  But…

  The fleeing man’s stride looked to have found a rhythm until he stumbled ove
r his own haste, skidding against the concrete and landing above the stain of blood. The proximity of it was enough to peck at Jimmy’s suspicions and he squinted in thought; a theory stirring. He noticed a large indent in the building directly beside the man as if a blunderous object was forcefully thrust into it. So, after he made his way back to his feet, Jimmy wasn’t as surprised as the others when he suddenly threw himself into the building right where there was a depression already tailored to fit.

  Terry coughed another curse and Tara nearly jumped out of her skin, covering her mouth with her hands.

  The man was hardly conscious, but somehow stumbled from the collision point – his mouth and forehead leaking a variety of human fluids – only to be reacquainted with it a second later. His limp body fell to the ground like a puppet without strings and splashed against the red-stained concrete, bleeding a puddle that traced over the tinge to fit perfectly between the lines. After a few liters lost, a single leg was lifted at the ankle by what Jimmy imagined was an unseen hand, and it dragged the plump figure back toward the misty obscurity that spewed it. A trail of blood and torn flesh from his cheek grazing the concrete highlighted his brutal trek back to oblivion, but he vanished before ever making as far east as the alley he’d escaped from.

  “Okay…what that fuck is goin’ on?!”

  Terry’s frustration strangled his cool and Tara was still stiff with shock. Jimmy knew he should say something, but the words continued to elude him. When he finally decided to speak, his attempt was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass from above and a woman’s plummeting scream…

  Their heads whipped toward the shriek, pupils glaring black saucers. They were parked next to a fifteen-story, downtown hotel, and by the sound of it, someone from around the eleventh floor decided to bypass the elevator and make their own way to street-level.

  The sky rained glass and the thump of the body hitting the sidewalk ten feet away delivered a sickening shock to their nerves. Tara covered her head and bundled into the passenger seat as if she could hide from having to witness the horror. Terry just stared at the broken body on the ground, thinking maybe she was still alive, then decided he’d better find out before it was too late. He went for the handle to open the door but Jimmy’s hand on his shoulder held him back.