Blood Magik- A Cold Day In Hell

by Corwyn Matthew

  Marty stopped in front of the six-pack of dead-men like a sentinel with a sign above his head that read: “Fuck with me, you die”. The soulless demons in their blood-crusted man-suits stopped in-kind, reading over Marty’s posture, sizing-up the giant in front of them. One of the red-eyed devils from the back of the group decided to speak, unsure of what he was seeing in the aura of the man before him.

  “…What battalion you with, soldier?”

  Marty cocked his head, unfamiliar with the dead-man’s choice of words, still not entirely understanding the situation he found the world to be in after his emergence.

  “What?”

  The Sergeant stepped forward through the center of the group, dragging the body he held by the foot alongside him. He positioned himself boldly in front of the rest and addressed Marty a second time, changing the words he used to better emphasize his question and utilizing a more demonic tone.

  “Where…does your…allegiance…lie?” His eyes flared with an iniquitous glare.

  Marty was pretty sure he now understood the question. And he was also pretty sure he had a fairly straight forward answer to give. He lifted his head high to display his chest as he spoke and his eyes glimmered with a mystic green.

  “Wherever yours doesn’t.”

  The evil in all six dead-men’s irises burned with his rebellious response and they dropped the bodies they held. Marty clinched his fists at their approach while they spread out, confidently surrounding him from every side.

  They moved with a unison that had a dark harmony to it. They seemed more in sync than your average rat-pack of military dumb-shits, almost as if they were connected on a level beneath their muddied hide. Their accord reeked of Hell, and how they convened stunk with a comparable stench.

  The first of the six soldiers who caught Marty’s stare smirked patronizingly, giving away that he’d be the one to make the first move: that being a punch thrown straight for Marty’s eye. Marty leaned aside and used the dead-man’s momentum to brush him off and easily threw him away.

  At first, he thought he was off to a good start, but before he could react a second time, another dead fist had already impacted his temple. The collision was fierce, knocking him back just as a third fist plowed into the corner of his chin. The force spun him in a circle like he was wearing a tutu and tights until his weight carried him into a set of knuckles that coldcocked him to one knee.

  There wasn’t any pain; just loss of balance and composure. He would’ve been frustrated with his lack of concentration, but a friendly black, military boot washed away his self-loathing with a kick powerful enough to launch him through the air. His hair whipped around when his head snapped back, and his body flailed helplessly through his short-lived tangle with zero-gravity. When he landed, his weight dug up the grass in its wake, wet mud chunks flinging into the air.

  He grumbled in irritation then gathered himself leisurely, unhurried and unafraid. The six creeps who thought they had him made walked toward him just as nonchalantly and surrounded him like they did before.

  “Heh…” Marty found their tactics amusing. “You fuckers are pretty organized, aren’t yuh.”

  He took a position comfortably in the center of the pack, but this time more relaxed, knowing that whatever they hit him with wouldn’t cause him any pain.

  “Let’s take it from the top.” He flexed his fingers in and out of balling fists. “Queue the punch from the skinny prick who hits like a bitch.”

  The smaller soldier who threw the first punch smirked at Marty’s arrogance and again telegraphed his swing, but this time held back. When Marty reached to grab his fist, he realized too late their strategy had changed…

  From behind him, a dead-man kicked in his knee, breaking bone and opening him up for the “skinny prick” to get a free shot. The impact burned with brutality, but Marty braced for it and it didn’t surprise him as much as it did the first time. The dead-men all chuckled at what looked to be his ensuing defeat, but quieted their snickering when Marty hardly appeared fazed.

  He turned his head up from his hunched position and his green eyes glistened through thick strands of hair. A glow rushed under his skin as he began to stand despite his broken knee – his bones mending as he stood, the sound of them resetting crackling beneath his skin.

  “Round three, shit-bags.” He put his hands up this time, staying light on his toes. “I’m gonna pound you fucking soldier-boys into six little piles of pig shit.”

  Someone threw a kick from behind that he caught by the ankle. Someone else swung for his head and he turned, grabbing his fist as it passed.

  Two more evil-eyed dung-heaps closed in next. Marty pivoted, still holding the first two by their limbs, and used their bodies to knock the approaching corpses clear of the circle. He let the two he held go, and all four soldiers enjoyed a free flight through friendly skies courtesy of Air Marty. But he didn’t have much time to gloat.

  He looked up to see one of the remaining two attacking in midleap from the side, crashing down on where he stood, fists cocked over his head and poised to strike like his hands were the heads of hammers. Marty reached up and grabbed both crashing fists with one of his, and the Hell’s soldier growled, stare locked with his enemy… Marty smirked at his own show of strength, but soon found the adversary he held was, once again, just the bait…

  The sixth dead-man in the pack delivered a punch to the small of his back heavy enough to buckle him at his knees, so the hammering soldier now stood with the high-ground and lifted a knee for Marty’s chin. Marty blocked him at his thigh before he could do any damage, then drew on his strength to throw him by his fists into the enemy to his rear. With the force he put into it, even from his knees he expected at least one dead bastard to explode into a pile of dirt like the others before, but neither lost their cohesion. These monsters were stronger than the first, likely from a greater consumption of life and a more matured existence.

  The four he dismissed earlier invited themselves back into the mix, leaping through the air like flying squirrels from his front and rear. He saw the onslaught of filthy vermin on full-spread through the air and calmly voiced his annoyance under his breath.

  “…fuck.”

  Still on his knees, he couldn’t think of anything to do but duck, so he rolled to get clear of the leaping nitwits on course to collide – his technique was rusty, but his agility and focus heightened. And since they found themselves in midflight (and hadn’t yet shown the ability to sprout wings from the centers of any clammy orifices) they crashed headfirst into one another at full, flailing force without the Priest’s cadaver there to break their fall. The speed and strength of the collision exploded skulls on impact, and the aftermath left four, headless carcasses reverting to a pile of muddy waste.

  Marty stood up afterward, looming over the dark, red and black heap with an accomplished grimace.

  “What’d I say…?” He shook his head and spat into the pile at his feet. “…Pig shit.”

  The outcome spoke for itself.

  The only two soldiers left shuffled to their feet from fifteen feet away where they’d landed after he’d thrown one into the other, and Marty turned to let them gaze into the face of wrath with shoulders square and fists clinched.

  “So…” He took a few slow steps toward his enemy, confident and brash. “How d’you want me to honor yur remains? Under my spit?” he snorted, spewed, then cupped his package. “Or my piss?”

  The Hell’s soldiers stood silent, contemplating Marty’s challenge, then unanimously decided on a response. They met eyes then lifted arms to join hands, palms both flat against the other’s. Marty wasn’t seeing where this was going so voiced his confusion with an arrogant insult.

  “Patty Cake? Seriously? You think actin’ like little girls is gonna stop me from kickin’ yur fuckin’ teeth through the top of yur—”

  The odd sight of both sold
iers’ hands melting together stopped Marty from topping off his remark. They strained to press their weight into each other until the size of their palms doubled, combining into one. Simultaneously, they then stepped together – connecting first at one foot and knee, then the other – until thighs and torsos grossly merged and they groaned against the force it took to coalesce.

  Marty was dumbfounded by the rarity of what he saw. It looked like one man fighting against his mirror image to unite himself with his own reflection, and the combined size of the two grew accordingly. Their faces melted together like mud-colored candle wax, and when they finished, they – or it – was just as tall as him and probably sixty or seventy pounds heavier.

  “Uh…shit…” He was actually, slightly impressed by the size of the thing, but shrugged it off, not more than marginally worried. “…That’s not so bad.” …But it wasn’t finished…

  The now one, large soldier before him appeared to still be gaining size as Marty cultivated an even greater look of confusion across his brow. He inspected the feet of the Goliath for answers and found a trail of cursed dirt being pulled into its form. He quickly put two-and-two together and mumbled another curse while glancing back at the lessening pile of remains behind him that leaked its mass into the trail that fed the giant.

  He had to think fast, and aside from an assortment of colorful four-letter-words that came to mind, he only had one idea that might have some impact: He remembered how, when he first rose in his new form, shouting loud enough to burst pounds of dirt off him that covered his grave, that power had come from his lungs… So, he figured he’d give it a shot since he had little else going for him beyond a frightfully intimidating vocabulary.

  He inhaled deeply through his nose, lungs filling to capacity, and exploded a breath that scattered the pile of remains into a jet-stream away from the Goliath. He watched the rubble disperse into the air and then somehow, as if it had a mind of its own, curve away from the path Marty had shown it and stream back toward the monster behind him.

  The giant creature continued to gain size, absorbing the scattering remains in a chest-swelling display of dominance, flexing its form in a restless posture while waiting to mature.

  …Marty figured now would be an appropriate time for a few of those colorful, four-letter-words he’d been saving for a special occasion.

  “…fuck….shit…sshhhit…….ffffuuuuck…”

  His drawn out “f-word” followed his gaze toward the top of the growing soldier. With every curse that fluttered on the wind of his breath the creature gained in size until it stood over twelve feet tall and likely more than eight hundred pounds.

  “This… This is what I get for pickin’ on kids smaller than me in the fourth grade…”

  The giant beast chuckled a demonic laugh and took a step closer, its one pace covering half the distance that remained between them.

  “HOW…WOULD YOU LIKE US…TO HONOR…YOUR REMAINS?”

  Its voice was behemoth – a powerful choir of demonic harmonies – and its eyes red beams of light casting a glow in front of it.

  “How about you stick my fucking foot up your ass until you choke on my toes and die…?” He wasn’t completely satisfied with his nervous banter, so he decided on an extra insult to add the finishing touch: “…you…giant dick.”

  A “George Carlin”, he was not. Dennis Leary? …Maybe.

  His first thought outside of his lack of a snappy comeback was how the hell he was going to topple this enormous pile of rat-excrement. But the creature reached for him before he could formulate a plan and Marty wasn’t fast enough to escape the simple gesture of it sweeping him off his feet…

  Its massive hand wrapped around his body and squeezed, constricting his every limb under it, rendering him physically helpless. He struggled at first, squirming and jerking, but gave up promptly after the Goliath didn’t take notice to his lesser strength.

  Then he stopped…and glared at the beast that smirked and glared back.

  He figured it would either squeeze him from all sides until it popped him like a zit, or just politely bite his head off at the shoulders and swallow his skull… So he waited, mounting frustration and anger inside.

  “IF YOU DO NOT SERVE…YOU ARE AN APOSTATE…AND YOUR EXISTENCE IS AN INSULT TO OUR QUEEN.” The creature constricted its hold and pulled Marty closer to beam into his eyes. “YOUR DEMISE WILL STRENGTHEN HELL’S RESOLVE. …HEROES…HAVE NO MORE MEANING HERE.”

  With that speech, Marty thought of Alex. Being an older brother to a young girl who didn’t have a father often meant being her hero, even if he sometimes felt he wasn’t worthy. And he thought of Jimmy…Terry, Carl, Mac, and the rest of the team who may never say it aloud, but held Marty in a similar esteem. They all looked up to his strength of body and character and he’d be less of a friend than they deserved if he’d give up now and accept defeat at the hands of this pusillanimous pile of pigeon shit holding him captive.

  He grumbled fiercely under the pressure of the giant’s fingers and his eyes burned with the strength of the spirit in his charm. The monster’s stoplight-orbs flickered in response to his growing fortitude, dimming, as if its strength was compromised, and it growled back at Marty’s chiseling scowl.

  The two were locked in a combat of wills, and the giant – grip drooping, grimace gritting – appeared to be losing…

  Marty’s vigor leaked between the fingers of the Goliath in the form of a green aura, and its shine singed against its black, mud-colored skin.

  It howled in an agony it never knew, its grip loosening as Marty realized he could now move his chest and lungs enough to breathe. Although he didn’t need to breathe to live, he did need to breathe to speak his piece…and his piece – not peace – he did speak.

  “You…” The ray of green emanating from his chest grew brighter with the guttural growling of his every word. “…will not…” The monster’s hand around his body trembled, breaking apart as Marty grew in virtue. “…take…my world…” By “my world” he meant his sister and those of his friends he held most dear. “…away……from…ME!!”

  With his last word declared, the green power in his soul exploded the monster’s grip from around his body. Marty fell through its grasp and wailed a powerful and vibrant cry that picked the beast apart one layer at a time as if he were the wind and it a sculpture made of sand. The strength within him continued to shine until disintegrating the Goliath to nothing but particles of dust floating in the haze of an emerald shade.

  When the light finally simmered, and returned into the charm, he stood noble and triumphant, ready to take on all the armies of Hell… But his sister’s wise words echoed in his mind, calming his frothing fury long enough for him to think.

  “You need to relax, and start thinking with your head and not your fists,” is what she’d said to him, and what he now thought it a good idea to consider.

  The world around him felt different now; its substance more substantial, and his awareness of its intricacies a leaping step above the monotone of the nearly colorless place he’d existed in only moments before. In the distance beyond the graveyard, he could sense thousands of demon drones doing a new devil’s bidding – that new devil a powerful echo in his mind. But he owed no allegiance to them or to her – the Demon Queen who sat gathering supremacy and creating more monsters to bring forth the coming of the New Hell.

  He shook off the onset of bombarding insight crashing in his mind and gathered himself to refocus on what mattered. His sister and friends were still out there, and he knew they’d need his help… He just didn’t know if they would still accept him – him being this lifeless monstrosity that death and black sorcery had forced him to become…

  On every corner of the surrounding city, anywhere a Hell’s demon inhabited the false skin of a human, the latest display and emergence of Marty’s strength was felt in the pits of their being. They all stopped in t
heir feasting and ceaseless pillaging of innocents and glimpsed back toward their birthplace to witness the power of the green glow that briefly lit the belly of the blood-clouds. None were sure of what they saw – not even the Demon Priestess, who in all her might and terrible glory paused while conjuring her latest elite demon to give her trifling nephew a moment’s thought:

  What strength was this that he seemed to wield over her dogs of Hades, and how would it fare against true creatures of the New Hell?

  She’d know soon enough. But for now, his existence didn’t interfere with her plans. She would have him followed, watched, and tested in the meantime until it proved worthy of her efforts to send a more powerful marauder to finish the job her undead soldiers could not.

  Marty continued on his course, away from the cemetery and toward his sister’s apartment, coincidentally in the opposite direction an old friend had arrived in only minutes later. The instant Marty found a functional motorcycle with the severed hand of its previous owner still gripping the key at its ignition, J.C. crashed his way through the fence of the graveyard at its opposite end, steering his slow-moving Zamboni into the grounds that would unite the Hounds and Priests on a single side for the first time.

  Their rebirth would be a tipping-scale in the ranks of the dead. They were not trained soldiers, like those that now stalked the Earth, but were whole in the sense that they didn’t need magic to stitch them back together from blood and dirt. Real flesh and bone made for stronger beasts. And the fact that they had their human souls and not those of demon wraiths, would undoubtedly make them a different breed of dead-men all together (as were the recent victims that now lay fermenting in their fresh graves).