* * *
Tariq was still shaking from the dream he’d had early that morning: The dark wolf stole his baby granddaughter from her crib and snapped her in two in its massive jaws. He awoke in a cold sweat and in tears, and no amount of consoling from his wife could soothe him. He’d left his breakfast untouched and just stared out the window at the gray dawn, the image of the wolf still before his eyes.
“Fenrir.” The name had seemingly come out of nowhere, until he remembered the cold stare of the black wolf at the sanctuary he’d visited with his grandchildren the weekend before.
Tariq tried a Google search on the animal’s name. Fenrir Industries. Fenrir’s Sprite Domain. Titan Fenrir CPU coolers. And then references to Norse mythology and entries in demon dictionaries. The haunting images from his nightmare came back in a blinding flash.
Unable to escape his disquiet at home, Tariq left early for his groundskeeping job at Hillsboro Stadium even though he had the day off. There wasn’t much for him to do now that the grassy field had been replaced with artificial turf, but the Portland State University football team would take on the University of Montana at 11 a.m., and Tariq liked the ritual of checking the field before every game.
He now sat in the stands to watch. The game was still in the first few minutes of the first quarter, and PSU fumbled the ball on the second down. Tariq munched on a last bit of hot pretzel and was licking mustard off his fingers when he felt the phone in his pocket start to vibrate.
“Aye, Afra.” He held the phone firmly against one ear and tried plugging the other with his fingers so he could hear his wife on the other end. “Afra, please speak up. The game is on.”
He bent low in his seat as the people around him jumped up to cheer. “No. I think PSU just scored.”
A collective groan of disappointment echoed through the stadium, and the fans in Tariq’s section sat back down again.
“Portland State Number 44, Ronnie Sheen,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “Incomplete pass, intended for Number 30, Bud Harris.”
“Sorry, Afra, no score.” Tariq listened to his wife make a comment about athletics, and laughed with her as he watched the teams form up on the field for the next play. “I’m sorry about this morning. Yes, it was just a dream, but being here this morning for Viking football makes me feel better.”
Tariq stopped. Vikings? He looked at the stadium scoreboard: Portland State Vikings vs. Montana Grizzlies.
In a half-daze, Tariq lowered the phone and rose to his feet. He looked at the flaming horn logo on the sweatshirts and ball caps of the PSU fans all around him—and emblazoned on the flags and across the chests of the Portland State cheering squad.
Vikings. A buzz of excitement ran the length of Tariq’s spine. He lifted the phone back to his ear, ignoring the frantic voice of his wife asking if everything was all right.
“Afra, I’m going to have to call you back.” He slipped the phone into his pocket and looked down onto the field. The ball was in the PSU quarterback’s hands as he looked for an opening to pass down the field, but then the entire PSU team froze in their tracks. The quarterback and offensive linemen stood as still as statues while the Grizzlies kept scrambling around them, trying to thwart their play. As a single unit, the Viking players both on and off the field looked up at the sky. Even the PSU cheering squad dropped their banners and pom-poms and stood silently on the sidelines, also staring upwards.
“What the hell are they doing?!” shouted a woman to Tariq’s left.
“Uh, folks, I’m not quite sure what’s going on here,” the announcer’s voice echoed through the stadium. “It looks like the Vikings have just stopped playing.”
One of the Montana players grabbed the football out of the PSU quarterback’s slackening grip and tore across the turf toward the end zone. Grizzly fans leapt to their feet with wild cheers, while the PSU team lowered their gaze and looked silently at one another.
“Vikings,” Tariq whispered, then jumped up excitedly on his seat. “Yes! Vikings!” he shouted, his voice barely carrying outside his own section as he pumped his fist in the air. “VIKINGS!”
“Sit down, fella!” A man shouted from a few rows back. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Vikings!” Tariq climbed down and danced toward the stadium steps. He looked down at the field again and smiled. The entire Portland State complement—players, cheering squad, even the mascot and pep band—turned to walk off the field and out of the stadium.
“Vikings!” Tariq shouted again and hurried down the steps.
~ twenty-two ~
Valhalla Page 42