“Hey…” The convict was a large, heavyset Mexican with a shaved head and prison tattoos on his neck and arms. “Hey, you lookin’ for somethin’?”
Smoke stopped sharply in his trek, as did the clanking of his pick against the bars while a hum still buzzed through its steel. He turned his head with intent to let the poor bastard who brought attention to himself get a good look into the eyes of his demise. The man instantly felt the fear of death upon seeing the ruby glow of blood in Smoke’s retinas and cautiously leaned back, but didn’t want to make any sudden moves. He then spoke again with a somewhat friendlier tone, as if they were both batting for the same team.
“Maybe I c’n help you, homes…if you get me the fuck outta here.”
Smoke didn’t bother wasting his breath.
He swung his ax between the bars, aiming for the middle of the con’s glaring forehead. His movement was so fast it appeared as a blur, and before the man could even flinch, he had an unforgiving chunk of cold steel lodged in his skull between crossed eyes. Smoke could’ve swung hard enough to cut the ignorant douche-hole in half, but the ax would’ve hit the crossbar in the middle of the cell door and snapped the wooden handle. He’d hate to ruin his new toy on a worthless sack of sweat and dung before his night even got started…
A shocked choir of “oh’s!” came from the prisoners in the surrounding cells, watching from behind bars that normally kept the outside world safe from them, but tonight kept them safe from the horrors that stalked outside.
He examined the horrible look in the eyes of the man he murdered, then yanked the ax back out of his skull to watch the cadaver collapse to the floor; a canyon gouged into his head like an inverted hood ornament, deep enough to reveal the fleshy brain-tissue bleeding at its center.
“Anyone else feel like makin’ a deal with the Devil’s heir?”
The question was rhetorical and didn’t require a retort. The inmates all appeared to understand that fact and kept their conniving mouths shut in the hopes of going unnoticed.
Smoke looked around in a challenging display before confidently proceeding down the hall. His father was supposed to be housed in the seventeenth cell which would be on his left, coming up within the next few strides. Coincidentally, that was where the scent of fresh blood seemed to come from and was the only unit without someone standing at its gate. Smoke looked down to see a thick pool of burgundy seeping past the bars and kept his eyes locked on the shimmering liquid while on approach. When at the cell, he looked up from the pool at two men: one hanging dead from the ceiling – his neck wrapped in the wire from an uncoiled mattress spring – and the other seated on the floor, Indian-style, with his broad back toward the hall.
The dead man was a small, light-haired inmate, too young to be his father. His neck was clawed at where he tried to break the grip the metal wire had around his throat before dying. Blood still dripped down his body and off his bare feet, trickling into the puddle on the ground. The broad-shouldered con, with his back to Smoke, sat behind the spillage of gore, facing the opposite wall. He was breathing steadily, as if meditating, with his hands balled into two fists on either thigh.
Smoke was convinced by the sheer size and shape of the man that he was indeed his father, but found himself unmoved when seeing him alive. He decided to address him as though he couldn’t care less…which he couldn’t…and didn’t.
“You Kalon?”
Kalon was his father’s name. An Irish name that may have held some cultural meaning to it…or might just stand for “Shit-Eating-Mick” for all Smoke could care.
“Who’s askin’?” His father spoke calmly with his head still buried in shadow against the back of the cell, voice rough and baritone.
Smoke thought he’d throw his real name out there to see if his father bit.
“Jacen…” He paused before going on. “Your son.”
Kalon’s head turned the slightest bit, but not enough to reveal an expression; just enough to expose a cheekbone to the hall lighting.
“Yer mother send ya?”
Smoke reached out and pulled the cell door from its cemented roots and easily threw it aside.
“Fuckin’ A,” he answered.
His father still hadn’t budged, even at the horrendous sound of steel-bending Armageddon right behind him. The rest of the prisoners were dead silent, shocked by what they witnessed, and remained content to keep quiet and to themselves.
Smoke stepped into his father’s cell, dead-center in the lake on the floor, and waited patiently for him to make the next move.
Kalon took a deep breath, hoisted himself up and spun around all in one controlled motion, fists still balled to his sides. It was too dark to make out his face – him still being submerged in shadows near the back of the cell. He raised both dripping fists out in front of him so the light from the hall illuminated them, palms up and still closed, then spoke again.
“Then you’ll be needin’ these.”
He opened his hands and stepped into the light. In either palm he held an eye, and when the light from the hall hit his face, it became clear the eyes were his own. His blood had left tracks down his cheeks that now leaked from his palms, and Smoke grinned proudly. If it were possible for his father to even slightly impress him, he’d have done it with this gesture. Kalon must’ve known Imala would come for him and knew damn well she’d require an offering. Freely giving his own eyes would go a long way with the demon witch.
Smoke wondered how much the old man knew; if he had any clue of what was soon to come… But there would be time for a father/son chat on the ride back to see his mother, he thought. What that reunion would bring upon the world…only time would tell.
“What’s with the stiff?” He figured his father had earned his respect so he should speak to him as an equal…for now.
“He said if we ever got out of here…he wanted to hang.”
“Ha!” Smoke found his father’s distasteful humor inappropriate enough to rival his own. “He looks a little up-tight for my taste.” He reached out and gave the hanging man a playful shove, his body swinging back and forth. “Not exactly the life of the party, is he?”
Father and son. The demon and the damned. The dead and the degenerate. Nothing good could come of this despicable duo. Fate had unleashed a disease on the world of man, and these two tyrants were its dirty syringes.
2
“Hey, I don’t know if it’s such a great idea to go out in this shit…” Jimmy peered through the window of Tara’s duplex at the empty street outside. It was a little after midnight and a settling, reddish fog weighed against his chest with worry. “Looks like something out of a fucking monster movie out there.” He mumbled his observation under his breath and let the curtain fall, turning toward his two friends.
Tara flipped her hair out from the neck of the sweatshirt she threw on and Terry couldn’t help but notice her body’s curves in her light-colored jeans. He gave her a quick, covert inspection while she was zipping up her lilac hoodie, then reasserted his attentions to address her as platonically as possible.
“We takin’ my truck?”
She reached off to the side, grabbing her keychain from the kitchen counter.
“We’ll take mine.” She threw him a set of keys with a pink rabbit’s foot dangling from it, and he reached out to pluck it fluttering from midair. “It’s a four-door. Tank’s full.”
Terry held up the keychain, drawing eyes to the severed animal limb hanging from its ring. She glanced up and he gave her a skeptical, raised brow. She smiled, knowing he was making fun of her taste in superstitions before Jimmy spoke up again and interrupted the moment.
“Guys…seriously… We should probably wait ’til after this fog lets up.” They weren’t paying much attention to his fretful words of worry. “Plus, I got asthma. This shit can’t be good for my condition…”
Terry shook h
is head. “You don’t have asthma, you little sissy. Shut the hell up and let’s go.” Terry grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to face the door. Jimmy was still a little hesitant, so he gave him an extra shove for moral support.
“At least let me hold the rabbit’s foot…” He figured a bit of luck couldn’t hurt on a night like this.
Terry shook his head and Tara smiled, bowing hers to conceal her amusement.
It was a good thing their spirits were still on the up-and-up despite the uncomfortable tensions surrounding them, but it wouldn’t last. The streets outside were starting to turn. The blood-clouds and crimson mists were only the beginnings of several elements of the underworld they’d soon come face-to-face with. The three, unsuspecting companions had one hell of a ride ahead of them…
“Oh, wait…” Tara spoke up just as Terry opened the front door. “I almost forgot.” She turned around, heading back to her bedroom.
Jimmy looked over at Terry, then down at the rabbit’s foot in his palm, and Terry sighed. He maneuvered his hand to fiddle with the foot and removed it from the ring.
“Here.” He gave his friend the pink-furred good luck charm and he eagerly accepted his graciousness. “Don’t lose it. …It might save yur life.”
Jimmy smiled triumphantly and used his thumb to pet it.
Tara came out of her bedroom just after, confidently holding a 9mm black Beretta with a four-inch barrel. She popped in a 13-round magazine, cocked back the slide to load one in the chamber and flipped the safety on.
The boys were stunned to say the least.
“If all Hell’s breaking loose out there, it can’t hurt to have some firepower on our side.”
Jimmy glimpsed down at his pink rabbit’s foot then back up at Tara. “Yeah… I’ll just…I don’t know…paw somebody to death if things get outta hand. Unless, y’know…you wanna let me hold the gun…?” He figured he’d throw out the bait to see if she bit.
Tara shook her head while putting the Italian made hand-cannon securely behind her back. “Sorry, sweetie. No one puts their mitts on this pretty little bitch but me.”
She started heading for the door and Terry couldn’t help but take a stab at an assumption:
“Army brat?”
She shook her head. “My father owns a deli...” she tightened her belt, adjusting to make sure her sweatshirt set right over the weapon, “…in Brooklyn.”
Terry nodded as she passed. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he agreed with a contemplative frown and followed her to the door.
Jimmy grabbed his arm before he stepped outside and put his hand over his mouth to whisper flippantly at his friend.
“She called me ‘sweetie’.” He gave him a goofy smile and Terry just shook his head, pushing him and his pink rabbit’s foot out of the house.
“Yeah, yeah… Keep it in yur pants, Bugs Bunny. Let’s go.”
The night was warm. The streets were wet. The streaky, burgundy mists hovering in the air thickened as soon as they began to drive. The peculiarity of it left the three of them speechless, and they stared uneasily into the emptiness of the once busy city. Had they been so caught up in their own lives and thoughts of Marty that the rest of the world just left them behind? What about those without vehicles? And the homeless, for that matter?
Every so often they’d drive by a home with a person peering from its window, fear and uncertainty fogging up the glass they stood behind with each heavy breath. Tara began to wonder about things like whether the police were able to communicate with each other or if the same interference blocking out the radio and TV were also a problem for them. Terry started thinking about his teammates and those of the Hounds’. A sickening sensation twisted in the base of his gut and he tried shaking it by thinking rationally: There really wasn’t any point in him worrying about things he couldn’t control.
It’d only be minutes before they’d reach the street that would lead them to the freeway. The traffic the boys described earlier thinned out over the last hour, but a few headlights still passed by, all going in the opposite direction. The three of them were heading west, more toward downtown, whereas everyone else went east, abandoning the uncertainty of the inner-city to those stupid enough to seek answers.
When they made it to the freeway, the pattern still held true with their side being nearly deserted and the opposite road backed up with absconding citizens hoarding the shoulder lanes. Highway patrolmen stood on the busy side of the freeway trying to maintain order, and as they passed, a few glanced toward Tara and the guys. The looks on the patrolmen’s faces were of scrutiny, but they were too engrossed in their pandemonium for it to linger enough to grow into concern. But their concern wasn’t necessary. The accumulating layer of blood against the SUV’s windshield from the fog grew enough concern between the three of them for them to think twice about the direction they were headed.
Terry hit the wipers and the soap-spray to wash away the maroon streaks from his view.
“So…” Jimmy, as usual, figured he’d have to be the one to say what no one else was willing. “Who wants to be the first to reach out and sample the red stuff dripping off the side of the truck?” The other two wished they could just laugh and assume it was all a joke, but they knew he was right. “Seriously… If that’s blood…?” He didn’t even know how to begin to finish that sentence.
Terry ran through his analytical thought processes, attempting to find a good enough excuse not to do as his friend suggested, but in the end, decided if he did take a taste, it would be one hell of a relief to find out it was something else entirely.
He lowered his driver-side window and reluctantly reached out to wipe at the edge of the windshield. He brought his stained hand back in, hesitated a moment, then dove tongue-first into a spastic “Is this the end of the world?” index-finger taste test.
Tara and Jimmy both gaped with surprise, shocked he actually had the balls to see it through. Then their surprise mutated into a fidgety impatience, nervously awaiting an analysis…
Terry’s pupils widened at the mydriatic touch of the wetness against his tongue. His heart jumped at its taste like the flavor was laced with adrenaline. The suspense had the two passengers on the edge of their seats, figuratively and literally holding their breaths. They both needed to know what he tasted but were too afraid to ask. …His silence inevitably spoke volumes.
“It’s blood, isn’t it?” Jimmy got the impression he already knew the answer, so he found it in himself to ask. Terry didn’t bother responding. Jimmy groaned uncomfortably. “…Jesus fucking Christ… What the hell is going on?” His swears rolled off his tongue and he leaned against the backseat’s passenger window, the strength to hold his head seeping from his neck along with his befuddled words.
Tara found herself speechless and Terry had his hands full just trying to stay focused enough to drive.
“This…this can’t be right… This can’t be happening…” Jimmy continued mumbling, confused and panicked dialog spilling from his lips. “It’s not even possible…is it? I mean…blood-fog? Fucking death-clouds?! …It…it can’t be real…… Can it?”
They heard him…but they didn’t have any answers. …Were there any answers? Was this really happening? Terry found himself getting lost in his own mind until he came across a piece of the puzzle that stood out over the rest.
“Alex knows something.”
“What?” Tara was surprised to hear him speak and found herself hopeful at his words.
Terry glanced back at Jimmy through the mirror and then over to Tara.
“Alex. She knows…I don’t know…something.” The wheels in Jimmy’s head turned in thought. He knew where Terry was going with this. “She…she’s the one who told us Marty was in trouble. She was freaked out way before any of this shit started happening.” His eyes focused intently on his listeners, shifting from one to the other, being sure they followed alon
g. “She told us to be careful. She knew something was going on.”
“How?” Tara wanted more. She needed more.
“I don’t know…” He had nothing else to give. He wished to God he did…but he didn’t.
He looked over at her frightened and hopeful gaze but had to end her eagerness to gain any more insight with his own air of dejection. As of now, they were all lost, and their only answers were in the hopes they’d find Alex and Marty alive. Not that having any answers would change what was happening, but the hope for a greater understanding was all they had. Terry let the slow-moving traffic to his left draw his eyes before they were sucked up into the red and black sky. …He’d never really realized how comforting the moonlight was until now that it was gone.
3
If Marty thought making his way across town to find Alex would be a simple task, he quickly realized why deductive reasoning was never considered one of his strong suits.
After he left behind the cold pile of bloodied mud that was once two officers of the United States Navy, he took a stroll through the veteran’s cemetery, marching past dozens of empty graves until he inevitably ran into a handful of walking dirt-bags escorting broken bodies back to vacant holes in the ground.
Six men geared up in military attire held at least a corpse apiece – three of them carried two bodies, one in each hand. They were dragging the corpses by their hair, wrists, or feet across the dead grass of the graveyard, leaving murderous tracks behind to get lost in the patchwork of death-smudges that decorated the city. The whole scene outside the cemetery was like an urban battleground with cars torn to shrapnel, stoplights and street-signs pulled from their cement bases, blood splattered on anything with a visible surface, and broken glass and busted homes off in the distance. The sides of apartment buildings had telling signs of human thievery with gore trails leading up walls and out doorways with no doors left in them.
Blood Magik- A Cold Day In Hell Page 22
