The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  “Good Riddance” by Green Day blared over the speakers as Warnick took off heads and crushed kneecaps with the aluminum bat. All around the outside of the rink, soldiers cheered and whistled. This was hockey from Hell. If Warnick could make it till the clock ran out, he’d be home free.

  With ninety seconds to go, a dragger slid towards him and latched on to his foot, making Warnick fall hard onto the ice and lose the bat.

  The dragger’s mouth hungered for Warnick’s sweaty flesh and got dangerously close to his leg. Warnick tried for the bat, but it was out of reach. He lifted his other leg and, grunting, sank the blade of his skate into the dragger’s forehead. A sickening crunch filled the rink as the creature’s head split open like a coconut. It released Warnick’s leg, and he got away as the buzzer went off.

  We cheered for Warnick as he skated over to us. The soldiers opened the door and let him out, slapping him on the back on the way out. Still holding the bat, he looked back at the carnage spread over the ice as soldiers made their way across the rink and shot any remaining draggers through the head.

  “Impressive,” Chavez said to Warnick, with a look of mild disgust. “You cost me fifty bucks.”

  “You bet against me?”

  “Who knew you’d be a stud on the ice?”

  Saying nothing, Warnick dropped the bloody bat and pushed past us towards the bench.

  Who would be next?

  * * *

  After Warnick’s hair-raising session in the ice rink, they drove us back to the office building and escorted us to the basement. The plan was for us to eat lunch and rest. In the afternoon we would return so another victim could battle the undead. We had to decide among ourselves who would be next.

  We were silent all the way over, but once the door was locked, we opened up.

  “This is insanity,” Landry said. “I haven’t skated in forty years. What does this even prove?”

  “It proves he’s in charge,” Warnick said, rubbing his arm.

  “You okay?” I said.

  “Tennis elbow. I guess I swung pretty hard.”

  “You did a lot of damage out there.”

  “I got lucky.”

  “I can’t do this,” Landry said, massaging his temples.

  “You must try,” Ram said, touching his shoulder. “We all must.”

  “What about you, Ram?” I said. “Do you skate?”

  “Never.”

  “Look, it’s simple,” I said. “I’ll go next.”

  “Okay, then Landry,” Warnick said.

  “That leaves Ram,” I said. “What’s he supposed to do?”

  “Learn, I guess,” Warnick said. “Let me see what I can do.” He strode to the door and banged on it. “Hey, open up!” The door opened, and a soldier stared dead-eyed at Warnick. “I want to talk to Estrada.”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  They went back and forth for several minutes. Eventually, the soldier agreed.

  * * *

  Warnick was gone a short while. When he returned, he gave us a thumbs-up.

  “What’s the plan?” I said.

  Warnick hesitated. “I’m sorry, Irwin, but you’re up.”

  “What?” I said. “But why?”

  “He’s saving you for last.”

  “Good thing I lost all hope a long time ago,” Landry said.

  “What about me?” Ram said to Warnick.

  “Estrada will allow you to practice in the rink tonight. But only one of us can go with you.”

  “How did you swing that?” I said.

  “I appealed to the soldier.”

  “Who’s the best skater?” Landry said.

  “You saw how I did out there,” Warnick said.

  “Pretty damn awesome,” I said.

  “But I have no idea how to teach someone.”

  “Well, I used to play hockey. I can teach Ram.”

  “Irwin, I can’t help you skate better,” Warnick said. “But I can show you some moves which might help.”

  Warnick opened every cabinet and closet door in the room. There was nothing for him to use. Then he looked up at the ceiling, jumped onto a desk and pushed aside the plastic sheeting that covered the fluorescent lights. He twisted one of the tubes free, handed it to Landry and jumped off the table.

  “Pretend it’s the bat,” Warnick said. “Now let’s get to work.”

  Chapter Twenty

  People Die—Hope Doesn’t

  Landry looked pale as we entered Happier Times. It was after two, and the soldiers who were already inside looked bored. I’d never seen Landry so scared. After Warnick worked with him, I gave him skating pointers I hoped would help.

  A surprise—Eddie on the Zamboni. The ancient piece of technology barely functioned when I was a kid. As he circled the rink, I saw myself at fourteen in my hockey uniform and helmet, waiting impatiently with the others. I was a skinny kid, but I was strong—and fast. For a second I wondered why I ever stopped skating. Then I remembered it was a few years later that Jim and I discovered beer. After those first few binges, I never got on the ice again.

  As Landry put on his skates, Chavez came over, more serious than he’d been in the morning. I had suspected he had it in for Landry. This afternoon, though, there was a coolness about him, and if he wanted Landry dead he didn’t show it.

  “It’ll be like this morning,” he said. “I’ll give you a few minutes to warm up. Ready?”

  Landry looked at Chavez with his piercing blue eyes. He spoke loud enough for the others to hear. “I’ve thought about this a lot, Chavez, and my opinion is you’re sick. And somehow you’ve gotten a lot of these other young soldiers to go along with it.”

  A flash of hatred crossed Chavez’s face, then it was gone. Smiling, he handed Landry the bloody aluminum bat Warnick had used. “Time to die, old man,” he said.

  Landry nodded grimly. I had the strong feeling he was going to his death and there was nothing I could do about it—nothing any of us could do. Gazing around me, I saw the armed soldiers. They stood at every exit. Even if we could overpower Chavez, we’d never get out alive.

  Two soldiers pulled back the door, and Landry wobbled into the rink. He looked old and vulnerable—not the shark-suited superhero chasing after draggers in a sunlit field. I looked at Ram. I think he also thought this was the end for Landry.

  Landry skated forward, then lost his balance and hit the ice hard. Cursing, he tried getting up but couldn’t. A minute passed as we watched his pathetic attempts to get back on his feet.

  “Somebody help him up,” Chavez said.

  The soldiers opened the door, and I walked onto the ice. Looking down at Landry, I saw tears. I was sickened and wished with all my heart that I could stop this. But I couldn’t.

  “This isn’t dignified,” he said.

  I reached my hand out to him. “I know. But you have to try, or they’ll shoot you right here.”

  “That would be preferable.”

  The soldiers in the bleachers were restless. They booed and cursed at us. One of them hurled a soda can, striking Landry in the back.

  “You’re tougher than this, Irwin. I know you are.”

  He looked up at me, his jaw set. Then a familiar grin appeared. “You’re right,” he said. “Get me the hell up.”

  Landry skated forward as I left the ice. Several times he looked like he was going to topple over, but he recovered, remembering what I’d told him—keep moving forward and you won’t fall.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Chavez said.

  The music fired up. This time it was Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.” The emergency doors flew open to cheers and catcalls, and soldiers brought in fresh draggers. I closed my eyes and begged God to let Landry survive. When I opened them, I saw he was doing what Warnick had taught him. He skated in huge circles as the undead stumbled in and fell on the ice. He went after whatever he could, trying to stay out of reach of their deadly, grasping talons.

  Ten minutes was an eternity in there
, but Landry had stamina. Within the first four minutes, he crushed the heads of two draggers. I began to think he might have a shot.

  “Keep it up, Irwin!” I said. “Don’t stop! Behind you!”

  Six minutes had gone, and it looked like Landry was hitting his stride. Then, he took a bad swing at an approaching dragger and fell forward into the ravening thing. There was a collective gasp as Landry rolled over and used the end of the bat to keep the dead thing’s mouth away from his face. As he held it back, other frenzied draggers descended.

  “Get out of there!” Warnick said.

  Somehow, Landry was able to push the dragger into the others and rolled away fast. He scrambled to his feet and skated around to catch his breath. Three minutes remaining.

  “Damn, this is close,” Warnick said.

  Focused and alert, Landry skated in circles again, sizing up the three remaining draggers. One of them looked like a strung-out rocker and might be easy to take out. Another was a middle-aged woman with varicose veins. But the third resembled an angry linebacker.

  Landry kneecapped the rocker, causing it to fall on the ice and dog-paddle towards him. Next he caught the woman in the head, knocking it sideways into the wall.

  Twenty seconds left.

  As he positioned himself for another blow, the linebacker rushed him and, driving Landry into the wall, bit off his ear.

  Landry screamed as he pulled away and beat the dragger’s head to a black pudding. The buzzer went off, and soldiers came onto the ice, shooting the two remaining draggers in the head.

  Landry skated towards us, his ear gushing blood. “I almost made it,” he said. Despite the injury, he sounded strong and proud.

  I turned to Chavez. “Don’t let him suffer.” Chavez nodded and signaled to Estrada.

  Landry knew what was coming and fell to his knees, closing his eyes. It was the greatest demonstration of strength I’d ever witnessed.

  “Don’t give up, Dave,” he said, his voice steady and strong. “I know you can beat this thing.”

  “Sorry, old man,” Estrada said, and let a single bullet rip through the back of Landry’s head. He fell forward, still on his knees.

  “That was one salty old son of a bitch,” Chavez said, tipping Landry’s body over with his boot. Warnick, Ram and I glared at him. “Just sayin’,” he said, and walked off.

  * * *

  All I could think about was Landry as I skated hard around the rink, holding Ram’s hand, trying to keep him from falling again. It was night, and we were alone except for a few armed soldiers.

  “You need to relax,” I said. “Keep moving forward.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Ram fell again, and I stopped to help him up. Looking towards the bleachers, I saw two bored soldiers, their AR-15s in their laps, watching with extreme disinterest as we drilled.

  I thought of everything—trying to talk them into letting Ram go, escaping through the emergency exit doors. In the end, I knew we were stuck. Even if we did make it outside, we’d have the rest of Chavez’s men to deal with. We’d have to go through with this.

  “I lied,” Ram said.

  “About what?”

  “Actually, I skated once. Badly. In New York. I traveled there at Christmas to visit a girl. She took me to Rockefeller Center. It was so beautiful. Everyone dressed in winter clothes, the shops, the Christmas lights. She did as you are doing. Held me up. It was a wonderful time.”

  “Did you …” I said.

  “Oh yes. I’ll never forget New York.”

  “What happened to the girl?”

  “She was attending Columbia. After graduation we lost touch. I think she’s married now.”

  “Hey, Ram? Don’t look, but you’re skating, dude.”

  Ram realized I was no longer holding his hand. He let out a whoop, which caused the soldiers to grab their weapons. When they saw him whizzing past and waving his arms like a madman, they laughed.

  “Time for hot cocoa,” he said.

  * * *

  We didn’t sleep that night. We talked about everything that had happened, about the people we’d lost.

  “The inmates are running the asylum,” Warnick said.

  “And they have guns,” I said. Then to Ram, “You okay?”

  “I’m excellent.”

  “If we ever make it out of here,” Warnick said, “I’m going to find the other soldiers, the ones who are still trying to restore order.”

  “What makes you think there are any left?” I said.

  “They’re out there—I know they are. It’s like Landry said. Most of these guys are just following orders. I think we can turn this thing around.”

  “What are saying, Warnick? Have faith?”

  “How do you think I made it this far?”

  Sometime around dawn I drifted off. The last thing I remember was Warnick reading his Bible as Ram lay next to him snoring.

  * * *

  Warnick and I were groggy when we entered the ice rink. Ram seemed alive and at peace. We stayed close as he put on his skates and wobbled over to the equipment bags for a weapon. After a few seconds, he picked up the pipe wrench. I thought it was kind of an awkward weapon, but when a man is about to stare down Death, you don’t argue about his choices.

  “Want to warm up?” Chavez said to him.

  “No, I’m ready.”

  “Suit yourself.” Chavez signaled for the draggers to be brought in.

  There were more this time. So far they hadn’t thrown any more than five or six at us. Now there were eight. I looked at Ram with concern. But he wasn’t frightened—he seemed pleased.

  As they released the shrieking demons into the rink, Ram skated in big circles at one end, swinging the pipe wrench as the draggers slipped and fell. These past couple of sessions had taught us that in a few minutes they would figure out the ice and learn to walk on it. Ram was patient. And he didn’t try to take advantage of the situation. It was as if he wanted them to walk.

  The soldiers in the bleachers booed and cursed. It was clear they wanted a show, and Ram wasn’t giving them one. One dragger after the next got to its feet, and they made their way clumsily towards Ram. He skated around one last time, did a perfect hockey stop, which I didn’t realize he knew how to do. As the draggers closed in, he threw the pipe wrench aside, shut his eyes and waited.

  “No,” I said.

  “Crazy Indian,” Warnick said.

  It took no time at all for the horde to tear Ram to pieces. Everyone looked on in silence. The disappointed soldiers couldn’t even celebrate his agony. He never made a sound. Never opened his eyes. Never moved. It was as if he’d already left his body behind for the undead to feast on while he went to whatever destiny had been chosen for him.

  When it was over, the soldiers took to the ice to kill the draggers and put a final bullet through Ram’s head. But they needn’t have bothered with him. There were only pieces and parts left.

  * * *

  It was just Warnick and me now. As we sat in that dank basement prison, I felt the hatred from the soldier guarding us, like it was our fault their fun had been spoiled.

  “He might’ve chosen the better way out,” I said.

  I pictured Ram smiling with those beautiful white teeth, skating with his girl in New York at Christmas. Having the time of his life.

  “There’s always hope,” Warnick said, waving his little Bible in my face. “Always a chance for things to turn around.”

  “I left religion behind a long time ago.”

  As those words left my lips, I felt a sting in my heart because I knew how deeply Holly believed—enough for the both of us. But me, I was like a dragger with no thought of the future and nothing to hope for. I was already dead spiritually. Landry may have misjudged me. All I could see was blackness and ruin.

  “I’m not talking about religion,” Warnick said. “I’m talking about faith, remember?”

  “Warnick, is this how you survived so long?” I found that I was angry
and wanted a fight.

  “Dude, I’m not that old.”

  I laughed, all the anger leaving me like an exhale of stale air. I knew it wasn’t him I was mad at. It was this place. What Warnick and I were in was madness. I don’t know how else to describe it.

  “I don’t even know your first name,” I said.

  “Nathan.”

  “So do you they call you Nate?” His glare told me no. “Nathan it is then.”

  “Just Warnick.”

  I touched his shoulder, then went to my bed to be by myself. All I could think about were Holly and Griffin. Would they be among the undead brought into the ice rink to fight me in the morning? If that happened, I would choose Ram’s solution. A deep, longing agony racked my body, jarring it out of the numbness I’d felt these past few days. I didn’t know what it was.

  “Hey, read me something,” I said.

  Warnick opened his Bible and read aloud from the New Testament. I now know it was from Colossians.

  Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetousness, which is idolatry:

  For which things’ sake the wrath of God cometh on the children of disobedience:

  In the which ye also walked some time, when ye lived in them.

  But now ye also put off all these; anger, wrath, malice, blasphemy, filthy communication out of your mouth.

  Lie not one to another, seeing that ye have put off the old man with his deeds;

  And have put on the new man, which is renewed in knowledge after the image of him that created him.

  I don’t know, maybe I was getting religion—or faith—in my old age. I felt a spark that cut through the pain, but only for a second. It warmed me and made me think there might be something else waiting for us out there.

  Those words sounded good to me now.