Doug cared no longer, giving himself up to the bloody fangs of fate.
Chapter 45
It had taken the wee man six hours walking through the cold. He’d gone a good eight miles with numb toes trudging through the middle of Chicago’s snow crusted streets. He felt nothing. His only purpose was the simple act of forward movement.
Af ter crunching down dozens of blocks to Clark Avenue, the man caught the attention of a lone Uber driver. The Chicago Muslim was an opportunist in an orange Hummer. Salesh waved at his fare. A price was agreed. It was steep, yet haggle-worthy, it being Christmas Day and all.
The small man’s journey continued. Salesh made his way, the Hummer demolishing countless snow drifts, to Union Station downtown. His mute passenger avoided peering at his reflection by wiping away condensation on the glass.
The city of Chicago was a battered survivor. Having overcome a massive fiire, countless blizzards, floods, Holmes, Speck and Gacy, even an onslaught of rats; Chicago was nothing less than resilient. Street by street, shadowy fiigures appeared working to move stranded vehicles, fallen limbs and pieces of debris.
The best people survived in this Gray Land. Roofs had collapsed on buildings. The wind had torn free any fragile structure re-distributing it miles away down the road, Salesh rumbled his orange tank on Lake Shore Drive. One lane of the roadway had been cleared of buried cars. Middle Eastern music played from the front console as both men drank in the magnitude of the damage to Chicago.
The Magni fiicent Mile was mostly dark. John Hancock had the only beacon with its top two floors illumined with green and red. It was meager, but gave hope to the residents. On the corner of Sheridan and Diversey, there were a few wandering forms looking lost in the blinding wind. It seemed the fiigures were scurrying somewhere. It was impossible to tell. Bundled bodies ignored each other, looking down at the treacherous tundra, each preferring to exist in individual misery.
Catching sight of his visage, the passenger grasped his leather valise, his personal brolly jammed through the top hasps. He did not recognize the grim face looking back at him.
Salesh stopped his Hummer outside Union Station. Downtown Chicago had fared a bit better, since the Mayor’s edicts were always to have the four mile expanse clear at all time. It helped having tall buildings. They were terrifiic barriers against the storm. Salesh counted at least ten snow and plow trucks as they rolled up Adams. Vast columns of steam vented from the Stygian depths of the train station. It was a gamble to catch any train still running at this hour, but worth the chance.
What else do I have to lose? Wondered Abernathy.
Thrusting more cash into his palm than Salesh had expected caused the Muslim to erupt into prayer. His fare preferred to nod, then disappear into the driving snow. Other men and women were running inside and out of the station. The small man kept his head down moving towards the stairs.
Visibility remained only a good ten feet which probably was the reason a burly black construction worker bumped into him carrying orange cones over his shoulder. The man mumbled an apology even as he faded into the wind. It shook the traveler out of his depressed reverie. He could see his reflection in the door’s frosted glass. More of an elongated funhouse mirror apparition floated in the glass, an appropriate visage for what he’d become.
Af ter someone else jostled him, he realized he’d been standing there for what seemed like hours. He moved forward pushing open the heavy metal doors that thousands of Chicagoans had walked through for decades. His feet propelled him down the famous marble steps where the ticket kiosk was. Frozen leather clacked on the tile in the sparsely peopled corridor.
Chicago still worked in this Gray Land. Two ticket windows remained open. Sta fff looked blearyeyed from lack of sleep and liberal nips of Holiday libations. He paid for his ticket West without fanfare. His feet carried his body to the train departure doors. Soft jazz constantly had its flow interrupted with constant weather and news alerts over the comm. system. A train trumpeted its horn somewhere below him.
A conductor took his ticket trying to engage in pleasant banter with the traveler, his breath sweet with Peppermint Schnapps. When met by silence, the conductor turned as buzzes rang and the train readied to leave the station bound for Northern climes.
“Merry Christmas, Sir.” He said. Both the ticket taker at the window and the conductor made it a point to relay how this train was the fiirst one to leave since the blizzard broke and would be the only one to leave on Christmas Day.
It would be slow going until they got past the Rockies. The traveler didn’t care. Time was all he had left. The small man sat in his private compartment listening to the hiss of the steam cannons cleaning the diesel, the whiny roar during its buildup to full strength, and fiinally the hoarse cry of ‘all aboard.’
Abernathy put his head in his hands and wept. The train pulled out into the arctic cold, its gusting winds covering old lives left behind.
California, ho!
Chapter 46
Doug’s tongue licked concrete. The fresh taste of paint over stone reassured him on some level. Vision had cleared. The light was soothingly dim. He had no idea where he was. Rough stucco lead to the base of a hot water heater. A small pile of worn sealant lay coiled on the concrete in front of it. Seemed to be a basement somewhere. Was he back in his parents old house? Hard to be sure.
Trying to rotate his head caused bolts of pain. Doug was violently stubborn. He refused to give in to any more pain. You just allowing yourself to die not ten, fiifteen minutes before. His thought shamed him that he would even contemplate giving up.
Doug forced himself to rise. Took some time for his limbs to respond.
“Bro, stop thrashing around. Hurts to watch you move. Like a floppy Muppet.”
The raspy hiss stopped Doug. It sounded like his friend had been all hollowed out.
“Man, this being dead shit makes you hungry all the time.”
Doug forced himself to look. Cray Lamb sat on the edge of the drier. Doug recognized where he was. Lamb must have dragged him back to his parents’ house. They were in the basement. Doug grabbed onto a gray main beam above him. His friend hung there, like a bat.
“Why give me a chance? Planning to draw this out?” Cray remained in shadows, an angry silhouette. Doug could feel the unease of his hungry friend from where he lay. Lamb shook his head.
“Got me wrong. Had to do what I had to, bro. That ahole had the pull on all of us. Couldn’t stop myself no matter how much I wanted. Once you become this, it’s like …” The pale fiigure tried to search for the words. “I don’t know. There’s less of you.”
Doug spat dried blood and sputum. The blob landed at Cray’s feet.
“You piece of shit. You killed Joan.” “Yeah, about that.” Cray rubbed his scalp. There were many claw marks and scars warring with his face. He felt the welts. Guess your skin did knit back, but you always left some part of the old you behind.
Lamb began talking, telling the story how Abernathy had interrupted his attack. How the little man had burned his face thwarting his attack. That both of them had disappeared into the cold.
He wanted to explain to Doug how things had changed after that. There was more of the old Cray back.
Lamb just wasn’t sure how much he believed of that himself. “Have no idea where the runt got to, man. He saved her from me. After I pulled myself together, I looked for him, but he was gone. As for the girl ...”
“Where’s Joan? What did you do with her?” Cray ignored Doug, seemingly more interested in rubbing his scars. “Funny how all this turned out. Even with the Dark man’s hold erased, I still don’t trust myself.”
“Then why should I?”
Lamb ngered a tooth.
“Well, you shouldn’t. No telling who else is left out there.” The house creaked overhead. The gusts must have started up again. Canadian arctic winds continued to run their course.
“Why didn’t you just split? Leave when you had the chance?”
Doug massaged his shoulders and neck. His muscles were coiled tight.
“Just couldn’t jet, man. After you killed Gray, I was free to help. It’s hard to explain to you. You’re a norm.” Doug spit again. “Not really. Get the fuck out of here. You’re rotten. All you are is a problem now. Promised Mavis I would end this one way or the other.”
Cray, e fortlessly did ten roll ups from his hanging position, rancid remnants of clothing fluttering with the movement.
“What you saying, you going to stake me? In the shape you’re in? Do you really even want to? To kill me? We’re friends.”
Doug’s legs shook as he prepped to attack his friend. “Sit down, before you fall down, bro. You don’t want to do this.”
“Doesn’t matter what I want. You’re going to kill again. You know it, right?” Cray held his body along the pipes. He didn’t need to breathe, so he didn’t. Doug waited, watching shreds of clothing flutter in the dim light.
“No answer? Did Gray take your soul as well as your body?”
Cray landed quietly, inches in front of Doug. He bent down in front of his battered body.
“Listen. You’re my friend. Most of me is still in here. I just need a little help.”
Doug looked into Cray’s red eyes. Scarlet irises gleamed. “What kind of help? I’m not starting this whole drama over again.”
Cray nodded. “I can’t stay here, bro.”
“No shit. What are you asking?”
Cray Lamb collapsed silently, sitting Indian style in front of Doug.
“I’m saying: send me somewhere I can do the most harm.” Both friends held their intense stares. Doug laid his head back against a heavy beam holding up the house. Cray looked down at his newly taloned hands.
“Well?” He rasped.
Doug looked up at the basement ceiling.
“Can’t do this now.” He began to say more words, or at least form them with his mouth, but was again swept away by sheer exhaustion. Cray watched Doug pass out.
Hours passed before he came to.
Cray had disappeared. Overall, the pain had eased. Pressure in his ears subsided. Winds hugging the house was by now a comfort to hear. The house creaked from the cold, all the wood floorboards squeaking in the icy vacuum.
The hum of the furnace toiling away was comforting in the near silence. Doug’s ears were ringing less, probably a concussion from the blast. He thought he had been through the worst back in Afghanistan, but Chicago had left its mark on him.
Using the beam he had fallen asleep against to brace himself, Doug gingerly began getting to his feet. Every step lit up his spine. But he wanted to go upstairs. He was ravenous.
It took him fiifteen minutes to walk up the basement steps. His legs collapsed in the living room. He crawled onto the ochre sofa. He looked around the home. Doug missed his brother. He had fond feelings for his sister-in-law as well. Memories were swept away by his body fiinding exquisite comfort in the soft cushions which began to swallow him up.
Doug was beginning to ease into a dead sleep when his ears picked up faint scratching.
His eyes focused as he tried to pinpoint the sound. Cray was not around. Maybe he was hiding. Like I could do anything, thought Doug. Douglas was up and into the kitchen before the pain could reach the rest of his body. He kept moving towards the source of the sounds. The floor was cold. Dumb to be barefoot in winter.
Doug’s heart beat increased as he neared the pantry door. His parents’ heavy iron shovel stood perched on the ledge offf the basement landing. Doug had passed it on his way up the steps. He went and grabbed it.
Returning to the kitchen, he stared at the pantry. It had been rebuilt as a cozy area to store mops, canned food and other junk his mother liked to keep close at hand. Maybe Cray wanted to sleep in there.
Reaching for the knob, Doug remembered the black box that had caused so much trouble. Another door to open. Another secret to learn. His body was tense, running purely offf of adrenalin. The shovel was in his left hand. Slowly the knob turned.
Someone was curled up in the pantry corner in a pile of blankets his brother had folded and left behind.
“Hello?” Doug offfered. The small form shook in the heap of blankets. Doug remembered his father had attached a flashlight to the door and reached for it. Clicking it on, the battery weak, the beam threw light onto the lumpy covers. He saw a face wrapped in the clothing.
“I can’t seem to get warm.” The person whispered.
Joan, looking thin and frozen, peered up at him. Doug’s heart broke.
He began to cry even as he fell to his knees reaching for her. Joan burst into tears as she received him. They hugged and wept for minutes, not speaking a word. Doug rubbed her back caressing her shoulders, warming her up.
“I don’t understand. Douglas, what’s happening?.” “I know, baby. It’s over now. Done. It’s done.”
“What were those creatures? What happened to your friend? He tried to kill me.” Doug wiped her cold tears o fff. He smiled, lifting her up in his arms, carrying her up the stairs. Joan laid her head against his chest. Both said nothing as they entered the top floor bathroom. Doug threw back the shower curtain adjusting the knobs for maximum heat. He undressed Joan delicately. She sat on the closed toilet seat until he was naked as well. Doug gingerly lifted her up onto her feet. They stepped into the hot water slowly adjusting to the soothing stream. Doug uncapped the shampoo and slathered Joan’s trembling body laying on with his warm hands.
Joan stopped shaking after a while allowing his fiirm fiingers to massage each muscle in her legs and arms. Confusion seeped away with gentle contact. Her head leaned onto his shoulder as Doug began kissing her forehead, her neck, pulling her smaller body into his. Joan connected with his lips opening her mouth letting their tongues explore each other.
Doug pulled Joan down onto him as hot water cascaded their bodies. Under the restorative hot deluge, their bodies melded into each other with each slow thrust.
Steam coated the walls and mirrors. Both disappeared in the fog, lost in each other’s body.
Chapter 47
Hours later, Doug wrapped Joan in the layers of blankets. Her arms detached themselves from his body. She’d tried to sleep yet kept waking in terror, clawing for him. Doug watched her for an hour, until total exhaustion overwhelmed her, aided along by a couple of his mother’s blue pills left in the medicine cabinet. He had to slake her fervent hysteria to allow her body to heal.
Leaning in the doorway, he listened to her breathe long and deep. Her arms jerked slightly, then she lay silent and peaceful. Doug mused taking stock of his wounds. His mind sustained the worst damage. Whatever those things were in that rift dimension, they had plans of their own. The doorway to Earth had been slammed shut with Gray being consumed by those damned things. The box had gone missing in the explosion.
Mavis was dead. Jimmy, lost. John was gone. All those poor old men at the YMCA. So much collateral damage as well. It would be Spring before full ramifiications would be known. That reminded him. Looking out the upstairs hallway window towards Mavis’ home, the winds continued to gust, blotting out even the six feet between the two homes. His eyes adjusted though and he saw more.
Lights remained on next door. The shade on Mavis’ hallway window had been ripped away. Doug could look down into her bloody front room and even into part of her kitchen. He could see George, drinking, smoking and eating like a lord. He sat surrounding by garbage, appearing to stare at the old wood paneling kept from the 1970s. Doug watched him for a while: a shot, then staring intently at some spot on the wall. The cycle then repeated. At some point, Doug knew he would have to help the young man clean the abattoir that Mavis’ home had become.
So much left to do. There were several messages on the answering machine, all of them from his brother and sister-in-law asking about all the destruction in the Old Irving Park area. They wanted to come back, but the snowstorm had veered back towards the plain states locking them in to Iowa.
Travel remained impossible for them at present. Did Doug mind watching the house for a little longer? They wouldn’t be home for another week. Merry Christmas. Pray for a Happy New Year, and Amen.
He sighed. Cleaning the place would take a few days. At least, it was only messy, not trashed like the other house. He sat in his father’s favorite Laz-e-boy chair. Doug was lucky to have scavenged two beers hiding in the back of the fridge. A bottle of Jack had been knocked over,(luckily it had been capped), Which had been hidden under Cray’s boxers. A reward for searching the nasty, Doug decided.
The roaring wind soundtrack continued outside, music they all had become used to. Shrieks of lost souls came to Doug’s mind as wind wended its way around the structure. Lonely calls from the North. The picture of those creatures beyond the door grew in his thoughts to accompany the sounds. He worked hard to stop them getting any bigger.
He drained the beers. And some of the whiskey. It took a few swigs, but decisions were made.
He had obligations to keep. Lights in the basement remained o fff. Ambient light from outside illumined the thick glass cubes. Each footstep down into the dark comforted him. Knowing that there were monsters awake in the world, and that Mavis and he had vanquished many of them, provided confiidence for what he had to do.
“Come out. I know you’re there.” A few moments hung in the silence, the world holding its breath. Doug waited. Only the constant blowing of the wind broke the quiet. By now, the low howling in Doug’s ears reassured him. He knew the spirits in the wind wanted to be heard. Hearing them was their gift.
“How did you know I was here.”
Doug sighed. He put his hands on his bruised hips. He winced.
“I can smell you. You’re ripe. ‘Summer Khandahar in the gutter’.” That last phrase was their combat unit’s nickname for the foulest smell imaginable. It had been a private joke between the band of brothers.
Grayland: Chapter Three of the Dark Chicago Series Page 20