The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  Chavez was quiet while we ate. He seemed to be studying us, and it felt creepy.

  Warnick wiped his mouth. “So what’s all this?” he said. “Doesn’t look by the book.”

  “Those days are over,” Chavez said. “Desperate times, desperate measures. You know what I’m saying.”

  “Meaning?” Landry said.

  “Meaning it’s like I said before, we’ve been left out here on our own to deal with this thing. And deal with it we shall.”

  “Maybe the government will—”

  “The government!” Chavez said, banging his fist on the table. We must’ve looked startled, because he brought it down. “The government is not going to do shit. We’ve been cut off. Quarantined.”

  “Is that what they told you?” Landry said.

  I was getting nervous. Landry didn’t seem to appreciate that Chavez was losing it. He was like a crazy man trying to convince everyone he was making straight the path using the severed heads of his enemies as paving stones. And here Landry was, heckling him from the peanut gallery. I stared at him, willing him to shut his mouth. Chavez tucked in his shirt and went to the door.

  “You’re all under arrest,” he said, “for your own protection.” As he left, he nodded to the guard, who raised his weapon and signaled for us to leave the conference room.

  We were escorted to what looked like a training room with computers on long tables. For a second I thought I might be able to get onto the Internet to find out what was going on. But each of the computer monitors was shattered. When I saw the shell casings on the floor, my heart sank.

  There was no way out other than the double doors we came in through and the narrow windows that led to the parking lot. Soldiers stood outside the doors, and more patrolled outside.

  “Do you think Holly—” I said, but Warnick put a finger to his lips.

  “Sorry about your wife, Dave,” he said in an above-normal voice, looking at me.

  I got it and redirected. “It was my fault,” I said. “I should never have let her go outside.”

  “It’s all our faults,” Landry said. “I hope we don’t make another mistake like that.”

  “I wish I had my axe,” I said.

  “Next guy calls me Sandeep, I’m going to kick his ass,” Ram said in the direction of the locked doors.

  * * *

  Sometime during the night the sounds of screaming awakened us. Gunfire blazed outside. Soldiers bounded past the locked doors. Then a concussion as an explosive device detonated.

  “We’re under attack,” Warnick said, and signaled for us to move towards the double doors. A bullet shattered one of the windows. “We need to make a break.”

  We scanned the room. No weapons or implements of any kind.

  “Grab one of those tables,” Landry said. “We can use it as a battering ram.”

  We shoved the useless computers off a table and positioned ourselves around it, then carried it towards the door.

  “Ready?” Warnick said. We prepared to swing it on Warnick’s command. “One … two … three.” The doors cracked but didn’t open. “Again. One … two … three.”

  This time the doors gave and flew open. The offices were dark. We didn’t see anyone. We made our way to the front entrance and pressed ourselves against the walls on either side.

  Outside, soldiers shot into the darkness. We couldn’t see what they were aiming at. Men called out commands. Incoming fire shattered the glass of the front entrance, letting in the pungent smell of gun smoke.

  “Those aren’t draggers they’re shooting at,” Landry said.

  “They’re Red Militia,” Warnick said. “We can’t go out this way—we’ll be shot.”

  We fell back and hid next to a row of cubicles.

  “Let’s split up,” Warnick said. “It’ll be quicker. Whoever finds a way out can alert the others.”

  I jogged past a small kitchen, looking for a back exit. A sign glowed in the distance. As I moved towards it, someone stepped out of the shadows.

  “Warnick?” I said.

  Everything went black.

  * * *

  When I awoke, I was in a different room. The fluorescent lights glowed harshly, revealing a dingy, windowless storage area. The room was warm and the air stale. Stacks of white record-storage boxes surrounded me. I sat up and succumbed to a blinding headache. I touched the side of my head and felt stickiness.

  “Dave’s awake,” someone said.

  Weak and dizzy, I looked at Warnick, Landry and Ram. They helped me into a wobbly desk chair.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “One of Chavez’s men,” Warnick said. “Must’ve hit you with his rifle butt.”

  “Obviously, we didn’t make it out either,” Landry said.

  A low groan pierced the dank air. I tried to focus. My gaze landed on a stranger wearing camo, lying against the wall. He looked to be around nineteen or twenty and was in pretty bad shape. His head was bloody, one eye swollen shut.

  “Nailhead,” Warnick said. “They threw him in here a little while ago.”

  I tried standing but was still too woozy. So I stayed put as Warnick crossed the room and crouched in front of the injured man.

  “I already told the others what I know,” he said.

  “What’s your name?” Warnick said.

  “His name is Steve Pinkerton,” Landry said. “Used to be in my science class in high school.”

  “Mr. Landry?”

  “What the hell, Stevie? Why are you associating with Ormand Ferry?”

  “He gave me a place to stay after my dad died. He’s not what you people think.”

  “What do we think?” Warnick said.

  “That, that he’s some kind of evil genius. He’s trying to save this town.”

  “By killing our security forces?” Warnick said.

  “We shot back because you attacked us.”

  “This is hopeless,” Landry said.

  The three of them walked back to me.

  “Chavez must’ve worked him over pretty good,” Warnick said. “Whatever they have planned for us, it’ll be worse for him.”

  “Do you think he told them where Ormand Ferry is?” I said.

  “No idea.”

  * * *

  Sometime during the night Steve Pinkerton died. When we awoke, we found him cold and stiff, a trickle of dried blood on his chin. He never moved again, further proof that you didn’t turn if you weren’t infected.

  “Poor, dumb bastard,” Landry said. “Never could get a break. His mother left when he was four, I think. Father was a crackhead. No friends to speak of.”

  “Except Ormand Ferry,” I said. “Apparently he was a very good friend.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Skating Party

  After the soldiers carted away Steve Pinkerton’s body, sleep became impossible. Warnick convinced them to give us a first-aid kit for my head. Landry bandaged me up, and I swallowed four ibuprofen for the blinding pain. My vision was blurry, and I couldn’t stand without help.

  “Mr. Chavez sends his apologies,” one of the soldiers said.

  “That’s generous,” Landry said, “considering Dave almost lost an eye.”

  “You should’ve stayed in the room.”

  Our captors gave us blankets but no pillows. We found a box of garbage bags and filled those with crumpled paper. As the rest of us lay on the floor, Warnick stood by the door, asking the guard what was going on outside. The soldier told him that the nailheads had been dealt with and that all was secure.

  “Do you think they’ll shoot us?” I said.

  “They would’ve done it already,” Warnick said.

  “Looks to me like Chavez might have something special planned,” Landry said.

  “And that reminds me, Irwin,” I said. “Why in hell do you keep getting up in that guy’s grill? Can’t you see he’s nuts?”

  “He’s right,” Ram said. “We need to show respect and not make them mad.”

>   “What do you say, Warnick?” I said.

  Warnick undid the laces of his boots, yanked them off and lay on the floor with his hands behind his head. “We need to be super-careful.” Good ol’ Warnick, master of the understatement.

  In the early morning, the door was unlocked. They allowed us upstairs to use the bathroom and eat breakfast—if you want to call it that. And I learned something new. There is nothing worse than army coffee. At least I felt better, but my head still throbbed.

  A little while later Estrada walked into the conference room where we were eating. She seemed pleased. “Time to move out.”

  “Where are we going?” Landry said.

  “To a better place.”

  So they had decided to kill us. As we looked at each other gravely, Warnick’s expression told me that, instead of panicking, he was analyzing the situation. Did he know something we didn’t?

  It had stopped raining. Outside, we saw the bullet scars and shattered glass from the recent attack. Fires burned all across the office park, and we knew that meant dead bodies. They put us into Humvees and drove us to the rear of the complex. And there it was—the ice-skating rink.

  It was called Happier Times, a low, drab building painted grey and yellow. Graffiti covered one wall. The words SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT stood out in drippy red paint.

  The sign hung precariously, the blue and pink neon no longer lit up. The front windows were boarded up with plywood. All we needed was a tumbleweed blowing past in the hot desert wind.

  “Here?” I said.

  Estrada grinned. “You guys look like you could use some exercise.”

  “This will not end well,” Warnick said as we got out of the Humvee.

  They led us through the front door, past armed guards. Inside, it was dark. Beck’s “Loser” blasted from the speakers as colored laser lights reflected off an antique glitter ball onto the rough ice with faded markings. It almost looked normal except for the plywood-and-barbed-wire doors that blocked all entrances to the rink.

  I played hockey here as a kid. Though the building was old, it had always been kept up. As we got closer, I saw what looked like bloodstains on the ice and grimy white walls.

  Off to the side, soldiers played video games, shouting and laughing as they killed bad guys and raced skimobiles. We were led to the entrance, where Chavez was already waiting.

  “Games now?” Landry said, apparently forgetting our earlier conversation.

  “Training,” Chavez said, glaring at Landry, then looking the rest of us over. “It’s a different world. I need to toughen you up for what’s ahead.”

  “What is ahead?” I said.

  “Armageddon.”

  They told us to remove our shoes and led us to the counter, where I found an old man whom I recognized as the owner, Eddie Greely. I had thought he was dead. But there he was, handing out skates with gnarled hands, the fingertips yellowed from years of smoking. He was resolute, looking for the right-size skates like this were some middle-school kid’s birthday party.

  “Eddie?” I said.

  “Oh, hey, Dave.” His blue eyes were dull from cataracts. “You’re an eleven, right?”

  “Yeah. What’re you doing here?”

  “Staying alive,” he said, and handed me my skates.

  * * *

  As we stood next to the rink, a kid who couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen skated fast, swinging a hockey stick like he was cracking heads. He did a V-stop at one end of the rink, and I knew he was a hockey player.

  “So how does this work?” Warnick said.

  “Simple,” Chavez said. “A normal period in hockey in twenty minutes, right? I’m guessing you pussies are out of shape. So. Each of you will skate in the rink for ten minutes. If you survive, you can join us.”

  “What do you mean, if we survive?” I said. “Are you planning to use us for target practice?”

  “No,” he said, “nothing like that. But you won’t be alone in there.”

  “What kind of bullshit is this?” Landry said.

  We stared at Chavez to see what he would do. At first he looked at Landry with cold, lifeless eyes. I was sure he would pull out his gun and shoot him right there. After another moment, he smiled and addressed the rest of us.

  “It’s a simple test,” Chavez said. “See that kid? That’s Keller. He passed and is part of our team now.” He shouted to someone in the announcer’s booth and smiled. “Who’s going to be first?”

  We looked at one another. Then Warnick said, “I’ll go.”

  “You were always a team player,” Chavez said, slapping Warnick’s back. “When’s the last time you skated?”

  “When I was eight. I hated it then too. Do I get a weapon?”

  “Absolutely, my man. Take your pick from anything in those equipment bags over there.”

  Warnick teetered on his skates towards the black nylon bags lying on the floor. I thought he was going to fall on his face. This guy wouldn’t last two minutes in the rink.

  He pulled out wooden and aluminum baseball bats, assorted golf clubs, a huge red pipe wrench and a number of old hockey sticks. He chose one of the sticks, which was already greasy with blood.

  “What about protection?” he said to Chavez.

  “What, are you having sex? No way. Don’t worry, though. Your opponents won’t have any protection either.”

  Warnick made his way to a makeshift door and waited while two soldiers pulled it open and let him in. As Keller left the ice, Warnick skated into the rink, fell hard, got up and glided unsteadily to one end. The nets weren’t out, so it was open ice from one end to the other.

  I walked up to the Plexiglas shielding to examine the ice. It hadn’t been smoothed in a long time. I heard a thud behind me and found Ram on the floor cursing in his native language. Landry tried helping him up, then he fell.

  Chavez grinned in that cold, hard way of his and patted my shoulder. “LOL, my friend. LOL.”

  Rolling my eyes, I walked over and gave each of my friends a hand. “You idiots are going to have to do better than this.”

  “Let him get his sea legs,” Chavez said. “Warnick, go ahead and do a couple of practice laps. Take your time, buddy.”

  The party atmosphere was ridiculous. All the other soldiers had taken seats in the bleachers. They nudged one another and made comments, probably betting on whether Warnick would survive the ten minutes.

  Warnick gripped the stick with both hands and skated counterclockwise around the rink. As he became more confident, he picked up speed. Next he tried swinging the stick and skating. I had to give it to him, he was a quick learner.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Chavez said.

  The laser lights accelerated and “Fight for Your Right” by the Beastie Boys blasted out of the blown speakers. We waited. I thought a bunch of soldiers would jump in and attack Warnick with clubs. They’d make a game out of it. Some insane hazing ritual where they cripple him so he can’t win.

  But it was worse.

  The emergency doors at the other end of the rink flew open, letting in blue daylight that blinded me. The crowd erupted in wild cheering. Then I heard it—a death shriek.

  Using long catch poles, soldiers clad in body armor and helmets pushed through six draggers. They forced the creatures into the rink as they snapped and clawed. Then they released them to attack Warnick. I couldn’t imagine how Chavez had dreamt this up—or why.

  For the first time, I saw a look of terror cross Warnick’s face as he tightened his grip on the stick and began skating in big, slow circles. One by one the draggers became aware of him. This was not a contest—it was ritual sacrifice.

  The draggers snarled and came after Warnick, falling all over themselves. It was comical till I remembered all they needed was to get hold of him and he was done. I felt bad for Warnick, but what was more frightening was the idea that I would soon be in there trying like all hell to survive.

  The soldiers in the bleachers went wild, standing
and screaming, some yelling at Warnick to watch himself, others encouraging the draggers to get busy and tear him to pieces.

  The first one to reach Warnick—a young woman in a revealing orange tank top and no bra, her dead flesh spilling out—came for him, her waiting arms terminating in spiky fingers. Even with the mortified flesh, she might have been half-good-looking if it hadn’t been for the ripped abdomen that exposed her liver.

  Warnick took aim and whacked both her wrists hard. Her hands hung limp and useless like dead birds. Then he hooked her by the open wound and threw her across the ice. She slid backwards and crashed hard into the wall.

  We looked up at the clock. Eight minutes to go.

  Warnick circled again as the other enraged draggers went after him, having figured out how to maneuver on the ice. I saw what he was doing, and it was smart. Instead of trying to kill them one at a time, he took well-calculated shots at any who came near, weakening them as a unit. This tactic brought incessant booing from the bleachers. Six minutes left and it was working.

  Till Warnick slid out on a blood slick and fell.

  “Warnick!” I said.

  I tried to go to him, but Chavez grabbed me by the collar and stuck a gun in my ear. “You’ll get your chance soon enough.”

  Before the draggers could reach him, Warnick rolled to one side and scrambled to his feet. Then he hit a line drive to the lead freak’s head, caving it in and exposing a black roux of rotting brains. That was the good part. The bad part was the force of the blow snapped his stick.

  “Give him another weapon,” I said.

  None of the soldiers did anything. So I pushed past them and ran to the equipment bags. The aluminum bat was sticking out. As I reached for it, Chavez’s hand grabbed mine.

  “If you’re going to shoot me, do it. I’m helping my friend, you son of a bitch.”

  Chavez smiled with a coldness that chilled me and let go. “It’s going to be fun watching you die on the ice, Pulaski.”

  I ran back to the rink and heaved the bat over the Plexiglas. It clattered onto the ice a few feet from Warnick. Avoiding the hungry draggers, he skated around to retrieve the weapon. What happened next was like a dark, amazing ballet of blood, which caused unbridled screaming and foot-stomping in the bleachers.