He looked back again, just to be sure they were in the clear, and nothing but displaced mist hung in their trail.
Terry turned off the freeway a few moments later when they reached an exit for downtown. Alex’s apartment was only about half an hour away, but they’d have to drive cautiously through the thick blood-fog that gathered this deep in the city.
“Anyone wanna fill me in on what the hell they think just flew at us like a fucking, Spotted Lemur Monkey?” Jimmy was open for conjecture. Also, it helped his nerves to talk. It was a nervous tick. One that may end up driving his closest friends to the brink of lunacy by the end of all this.
“Looked like a fucking zombie to me…” Terry figured that estimation was as good as any.
Tara just stayed silent, not wanting to come out of her shell to partake in their debate.
“Zombies don’t have glowing red eyes…”
“Dude…have you ever seen a zombie?”
“Well, no, but…” How should he put this? “…Fucking Lemur Monkey, dude!”
Terry sympathized, but still felt his point was just as valid. “Yeah, well… looks like real zombies – or whatever the hell they are – have glowing, red eyes and can leap tall distances like fucking Lemur Monkeys.”
Jimmy felt satisfied by that surmise and allowed the conclusion to sink in. It appeared they had reached a consensual medium: They were being pursued by undead, zombie soldiers with laser-lights for eyes, incredible speed and strength, and the proportional jumping capabilities of tree-swinging Lemurs.
“What…” He still sat gazing out the front of the SUV with a nauseous frown, now focusing in on the dark, heinous chunks slopped against the windshield. “What’s all that…shit…all over the window?” Terry didn’t look to be in the mood to humor him. “Are those people chunks? Did we just kill somebody?”
Tara responded from behind her palms, eyes still closed. “Those things were not people…”
“But we killed someone. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“It was an accident.” Terry answered distantly, but quickly regained his composure. “But I don’t think it was the type of accident I need to feel sorry for. Those things were ripping people apart back there. It was either him or us.” He hit the wipers and watched clumps fling to either side.
Jimmy sat in a daze, basking in contemplation, then spoke up when his brain caught up to their predicament. “In that case…they’re chunks of victory. …Fuck it. Leave ’em there. Maybe it’ll ward off any other red-eyed, military assholes up ahead.”
Terry shook his head. “I doubt they scare that easy. The one in the middle of the road tried to grab the truck with his bare hands. And the others were tossing around smaller cars like they were made of tinfoil.”
“So, not only were they ravenous, man-eating, military assholes, but they were super ravenous, man-eating, military assholes? …That’s like, five different kinds of all-types-of-fucked-up.”
“It’d explain what was tearing the blocks up around the cemetery earlier.” Terry was just thinking out loud, putting together whatever pieces fit.
Jimmy grimaced hard against the pain in his head. Thinking made his brain hurt, but regardless, he couldn’t help from letting his mind dwell. “You think Marty made it out of the cemetery before those…assholes started goin’ ape-shit?”
Terry didn’t want to speculate. He preferred to be as optimistic as possible but didn’t need to get his or his friends’ hopes up. He needed everyone to be ready for whatever the future would throw their way. They might have to change their tune on a whim, so if finding Marty became too much of a liability, he’d have to do what he’d have to to keep his friends alive… So, he stayed silent, which didn’t sit too well with Tara.
“…This is not happening…” She peeked her head up then lowered it back into her hands, not wanting to accept the reality of her world. “…This is not fucking happening…”
Jimmy looked over at her, then back to Terry, as if weighing his options. “I’m with her on this one. I refuse to believe any of this shit is real. I’m at home, snoozing safely right now. I’ve watched one too many horror movies, and… I don’t know… Ate some bad shrimp or somethin’… I’m actually passed out on my bathroom floor, twitchin’ like a friggen fish outta water, havin’ a really fucked up nightmare.”
Terry shook his head. “Not likely.” He wasn’t going to allow him the easy way out but didn’t want to be too much of a drag. He figured he’d try lightening the mood.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because if this was your nightmare, you wouldn’t be buggin’ the shit out of me.” Jimmy seemed to think he might be on to something. “And those wouldn’t be zombies that were after us…they’d be salesmen.” He glimpsed back at his friend through the mirror. “You fuckin’ love zombies, dude…”
“And I hate salesmen… Fuck…yur right…”
Tara finally opened her eyes to paint Terry in disbelief. “Are you two fucking kidding me right now?”
“Hey…” Jimmy’s words carried a distant stare. “…You know what I just realized? I had like…five double-shots of whiskey before we left…and I think I might hafta puke…”
“Fuck, man…” Terry gripped the steering wheel. “Can’t it wait?”
He thought about it for a moment, then: “No. Definitely not. …Pull over. Quick… Or don’t come bitchin’ to me about the smell.”
2
J.C. dumped the last body from his pile of dead teammates into the grave at his feet. There were twenty-nine of them total. All still uncovered, lying in wait for a blanket of dirt to fill their graves. He’d buried them along with their team’s jerseys and placed an upright hockey stick in the ground next to each grave, thinking that when they emerged, it would help to have a symbol to unite them all as a team. It was one of the most thoughtful gestures he’d actually ever carried out on his own accord. It would appear that in death, he’d become somewhat less of a complete asshole than most would suspect.
He stood beside the twenty-ninth grave and peered down the line, tall piles of dirt resting on the opposite side of each hockey stick. When he buried Marty, all it took was a single roar from his reborn lungs to force the scattered mud back into its hole. The same strategy should apply here, he figured. It just might take a bit more vigor to bury all twenty-nine at the same time.
He stood poised in his preparation with his fists clenched, building pressure within. His eyes swirled with glowing strength and the ground vibrated against his conviction. He sucked in a deep, swirling breath from the warm mists and chiseled a grimace over his brow that could send a platoon of trained soldiers running for the safety of their mother’s arms. He held fast at the last second – pushing out, but keeping it pent-up to build force – then exploded with a roar that not only pushed all twenty-nine piles of earth over their graves, but nearly uprooted the hockey sticks next to them in the process, vibrating the cemetery grounds so the bodies settled deeper in the earth with his continued howl. His scream was powerful enough to be heard from blocks away, and if there was anyone still alive near enough to hear, they knew now that a violent end to their suffering would be upon them soon.
The grounds of the cemetery had changed since last he’d seen them. The Spirit Fortress in the center had solidified when before it seemed only an illusion; half here and half somewhere else. What looked like ten, giant, beastlike claws protruded from the ground on either side of the citadel as if belonging to two monstrous hands, sprouting from the mud, reaching into his reality from the stomach of the Hell below. They stood as pillars bordering the church and acted as a hedge of terror to ward off anyone dumb enough to approach.
Imala’s minions swarmed over the graveyard, burying the bodies of men who were promising recruits for her army, and tossing the rest in pieces into the giant pit behind the fortress. J.C. had no problem doing his part in rais
ing Hell and wreaking havoc in her name. After all, she gave him this life and the strength that he now enjoyed. But he was not one of her slaves. He would do his part in a way of his choosing. He knew he was too infinitesimal for her to give a shit how he went about spreading fear and misery, just as long as he did so in her honor. If she needed him, she would call to him. But until then, he had his own grotesque plans he intended to carve into fruition.
He’d killed Marty with the first act of his new strength and buried him here to rot without fully appreciating that he would soon rise just as he did. He knew now that he was out there somewhere – a rouge dead-man refusing to serve their queen. He planned to use Marty’s own friends and teammates against him to tear him down to size, forcing him to humbly serve Hell as he was raised from the grave to do. Marty would learn his place in the new world, and that place would be as a soldier in J.C.’s regiment. Together they would bring the society of man to its knees and cause enough strife that the stench of it would reach up and choke God in Heaven on his throne. The world would be theirs to rule, and Imala in all her demon beauty would thank him personally for his service and refurbish his flesh in her image so the two of them could reign as King and Queen.
…It would appear that in death, Jean-Claude had also become something of a sappy romantic.
He figured it’d be a few hours before his undead sports guild would all rise in unison. He wasn’t in any rush. The meat he’d picked from his coach’s bones had sated his hunger enough to hold him off while he waited for his future to unfold. He wanted to be there when they rose so he could take them all under his wing and unite two, formerly opposing squads as a single, unbeatable throng.
There would be great strength in their numbers. Maybe even strength beyond what his queen had originally intended. They would earn her pride in them by bringing Marty to his knees before her and force him to comply, even if it meant shackling the big bastard up and keeping him on a leash like a pet boar. And if that didn’t work, they’d rip him limb from limb and scatter his body across the States dipped in honey to attract ants. They might even keep his head on ice and serve his undead brain to demons in bite-size bits like a chilled, Jell-O mold. Who knows…he might even still be awake for it: half braindead, but aware enough to know he was being devoured little by little, like overpriced snacks at a concession stand. What a way for a sports enthusiast to go… Who’d have thought that Hell on Earth could ever be so satisfying? J.C. never really considered himself much of a good guy, but would’ve never guessed how great a bad guy he’d make if he’d only put his mind to it.
When he was a Marine, it didn’t take an astute eye to see that his morality wasn’t in line with the rest. There were jar heads from all over the country serving in the Corps, with all types of cultural backgrounds and spiritual beliefs. All had a similar, basic code of conduct that he didn’t necessarily concede as his own, but most were unwilling to approach him about it. And besides, he was usually smart enough to know where to draw the line to avoid any profound consequences, aside for one incident in particular which came to mind as he sat waiting for his company to join him in a new undeath—
“Hey, Swiener…you’re Jewish, right?” The stocky American Marine with the Scottish background gave his squad member a cocky grin.
“If I say ‘no’ will you shut the fuck up about it?” Swiener had a feeling he knew where this was going.
“I got a good one for ya: How many Jews can you fit in a sedan?”
“Same amount you could of sheep-fucking Scotts?”
“Wrong. Five in the seats, and about a million in the ashtray.”
“Ohhhh… That’s fucked up, man.” Robinson shook his head and tried not to laugh.
“You’re an asshole, McMillan.”
J.C. took a few extra seconds to process the joke then let loose his patented, barrel of a guffaw and shouted, “Hahahaha! Say another one!”
“Okay, okay… How can you tell when your sister’s on her period?”
“How?!”
“Your dad’s dick tastes funny.”
Swiener chuckled, shaking his head and J.C. laughed again.
“Hahahaha! Again! Again!” He couldn’t get enough of his brother-in-arms’ twisted sense of humor.
“How ’bout this one: What’s the benefit of fucking twenty-eight-year-olds?”
“What?!”
McMillan took a drag off his Camel cigarette before answering, squinting with his pull, then exhaled to build suspense.
“There’s twenty of ’em.”
“…Jesus, man…” Aaron Wei, the Asian-American munitions specialist was trying not to pay attention, cleaning up the grenade launcher on his HK MP5, but couldn’t help but breathe the Lord’s name in vain.
The other three Marines cringed at the punchline while J.C. wrestled with its meaning.
“I don’ get this ‘twenty’ of them…”
“Twenty-eight-year-olds? Twenty…eight-year-olds? Get it?”
“Man…would you quit repeatin’ that shit? You make my stomach turn every time you say it…” Robinson had a strong gut and a foul sense of humor, but even he couldn’t match tastes with Le’Duprie and McMillan.
J.C. was still trying to tackle the punchline while the rest of his unit was hoping they could forget it. There were six of them total: all experienced in the field, having been in Iraq for over six months. They’d just secured a small town and weren’t expecting any more resistance after already exterminating the Al-Qaeda insurgents they came for.
They’d caught them off guard, sneaking into their town in the dead-of-night with their high-tech night vision and infra-red surveillance. Two of the four they came for were asleep when they found them. Easy pickings. All they had to do was secure the perimeter, slip into their homes, and give the bad guys a nudge to wake them. As soon as the terrorist scum saw US military in their homes, they mistakenly reached for their weapons resting beside their beds, and J.C. and McMillan had no qualms about putting a few fresh holes in the fronts of their cotton p.j.’s. They were so quiet and efficient at what they did they didn’t even wake the kids.
Their third target was enjoying a toe-curling blowjob from a girl who looked young enough to be illegal in 48 states, and the bastard tried to hold her hostage as soon as the Marines appeared. He grabbed a ten-inch butcher knife that made his erect penis look like a pathetic excuse for an eggroll and put the blade to the poor girl’s throat. McMillan and Le’Duprie both lowered their weapons in response. As soon as the stubby-dick bastard tried to move, Wei made the kill-shot from his position twenty yards outside the bedroom window. Blood and gray-matter splattered the man’s sheets, and the teen girl collapsed to the floor in terror. McMillan headed out while J.C. took a few extra seconds to appreciate the sight of the young, naked woman covered in his enemy’s insides. If he hadn’t been so enthusiastic about tracking down the next man, he may’ve stayed to get to know her a little better. He wouldn’t have hurt her, he thought… Or at least, he told himself he wouldn’t have… The lusty triage of blood, death and sex had stirred primal cravings inside him that he never got the opportunity to explore.
The fourth target was awake in his kitchen and eating a goat-cheese pizza. Mushrooms, onions, bell peppers, raw chunks of garlic; quite possibly the world’s most potent combination of ingredients for cultivating foul smelling breath. The stench of it was like a homing beacon, luring Jean-Claude in by the curling hairs of his flaring nostrils. If the Iraqi had played his cards right and threatened to destroy the pizza instead of his youngest son (eating beside him), they might’ve struck a deal. But when he heard his enemy open the front door, he grabbed the gun he kept in the kitchen drawer instead and put it to his kid’s head. He told his son in his language he wouldn’t hurt him; that the Americans were too arrogant to not see themselves as heroes and wouldn’t risk the boy’s life. He promised him he’d be okay, and that the bad men who we
re after him would be their prisoners soon; he just had to play along.
The leaders of their unit, J.C. and McMillan, crept into the man’s home with their guns raised, laser targeting-lights cutting through dry air. The house was mostly quiet. It being 0240 hours, they weren’t expecting to find the insurgent in his kitchen with a Desert Eagle to an eleven-year-old’s temple.
The man turned off the lights as soon as he heard them enter his home and backed into a corner beside his refrigerator – his kitchen might as well have been a sturdy pine box. The only way out was forward, toward the living room where the Marines had come in, and he wouldn’t be exiting that way without a flashy new hole in his turban.
He stood silent, hiding in the darkness while listening to them discreetly check the other two rooms in the house. His wife was asleep, as was his four other children, all piled into one bed. A few seconds later, the rebel almost didn’t see the little round lens that peaked around the kitchen wall, but caught the glimmer from its reflective surface as it panned the room he stood in. McMillan was on the other end of the device wearing his night-vision goggles, watching his target in the corner staring directly at him through the video feed.
He glanced over at J.C. who was positioned beside him and flashed two fingers, signaling that there were two people. He put his hand out flat around waist-high to convey it was a kid who was with their target, then put up one finger and pointed at his own forehead. J.C. nodded, knowing his comrade was suggesting he could get a clear shot at the man’s head because the boy was so small.
The terrorist was getting antsy, knowing the soldiers were planning an attack, so he gave up on waiting and called out. His English was spotty, but clear enough to state his demands.
“No guns! No guns! I kill boy! No guns!”
Blood Magik- A Cold Day In Hell Page 27
