“Don’t waste vodka, idiot.” He grabbed the bottle from his brother drinking down a long swig. The creature tried to clap out spreading flames devouring its body. Mavis wiped offf a thin coating of grime from her face. She was watching the pair dispatch the sad creature. The Driver’s fluids stank like melting fly larvae. She gagged a bit, yakking up a portion of her breakfast.
“There. Get that, you two jackasses!” Mavis pointed towards the sharpened stake reinforced with metal. It had fallen along the wall nearest the fiireplace. The younger brother hopped over, grabbing it up with his hand. He looked down at the spear.
“What. Huh.” He pondered. “Damn it! Give it to me.” Mavis twisted her ankle free as the older man with greasy hair lifted the heavy furniture. She got to her knees handling the heft of the heavy weapon. Pivoting on her good hip, Mavis brought down the spike into the headless corpse’s chest. Its torso convulsed trying to free itself. Between the flames and loss of brain tissue, it was a futile endeavor. Mavis sent the Driver straightway to hell.
The two men watched as the old woman held on to the vibrating stake. Flesh roiled, bubbled and burst before dissolving into the dusty shag carpet. Dust cooked along with the body, melting into the dirty fiibers. Mavis’ hands smoked a bit as the creature softly yowled her soul away dissolving into nothingness on Christmas Day morning.
The spear had gotten burning hot. The young men watched as the old woman’s flesh tore away from sizzling metal. It sounded like packing tape tearing away from its roll. Mavis wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. There was a moment when all three people stared at one another. Harsh gusts of icy wind howled as it blew snow onto the porch. An unwanted party guest, white tendrils endeavored to enter the home. Dropping temps inside the house lowered comfort levels a few more degrees.
Two men with chewed mullets, one older and the other duller, exchanged glances with the old warrior. Mavis broke the silence, smiling at the young men. The taller male was confiident, a surly viking of a man used to getting his way. His smaller counterpart stood, shoulders hunched, ready to apologize for his stupidity or block a blow to his cranium. Mavis wiped at her eyes.
“Boys. Good to have you home. Get me a damn bandage.”
Chapter 7
“Abbie? Charles? You guys home.” His ears hurt. It took Doug a few seconds to uncrackle the scarf woven around his head over the skull cap. The kitchen looked just as it did the night before when the men had had an argument and Doug had left with Cray to fiinish Erna. God knows the smaller Limey had some explaining to do. Why had the man lied to them about the black box? There was so much to ask, yet it seemed no one was home. That was wrong. Where could they go? Had Abernathy taken Charles away to get aid?
In that moment of peace, he recalled his recent efffort in journeying here. Doug had decided to run over to the Brits’ house. He had cleaned up his parents’ home, even though he knew the new owners (his brother and sister-in-law, both Religious acolytes) would fiind fault with the cleanse somehow. It was a a blessing they were snowed-in somewhere up in Wisconsin or Minneapolis on some remote Bible retreat. No better time to get closer to Jesus than during a snowstorm. Maybe Doug would actually get a nephew or niece out of it nine months down the road. He smiled. The memories he had of his brother. He was grateful to have had a place to heal. Nice to have family, no matter how opposite they were.
One good attribute to the arctic air was that pain receded from the cold. Doug couldn’t feel anything. Snow crunched underfoot, but sound seemed slow to reach his ears. Snow siroccos sprung up whipping ice crystals into his eyes. His face was numb. He was dressed for a short jog, not a marathon.
He knew it would take him seven or eight minutes of hard running to reach the house. He’d tried calling their phone, but there was only buzzing, no connection. The whole area must still be out.
Climbing over remnants of a crushed garage took an extra couple of minutes. Doug climbed the jack-knifed truck he’d jumped earlier. He cleared the bumper when a black shape darted away from him into an adjacent yard. A black Labrador retriever looked back at Doug, then disappeared under junk piled in the yard. The mass resembled an igloo. Probably how exposed animals were surviving. Man, his heart was pounding in his chest. Poor mutt, he thought. Seek shelter.
Doug avoided other mounds hiding buried cars and climbed over more snapped limbs. The neighborhood would take a long time to recover from the blizzard. Spring would reveal a huge mess. How many body parts as well? Doug shook the somber thought away as he crunched into the Brits’ backyard. His face hurt. Warmth would be a panacea to numb flesh. Doug saw the open door. His body responded to the escaping heat. It would feel good to get out of the elements.
So it was. His muscles began to limber up. The house stood silent. Doug inhaled, the hairs in his nose defrosted enough to register smells in his brain. Doug picked up the aroma of fresh dirt. After that scent, followed the stench of death. It was akin to moth-balls drenched in stale urine pickled in rotten beef. A repugnant force was in that house. Douglas straightaway took down a soup pan, lighting the front ring on the oven. His other hand took out a plastic bottle Mavis had given him. Pouring the contents into the pan, he fiilled it with turgid liquid. No sound yet, but the thrusting of wind.
His body tensed. Doug could feel an immense presence in the house. He moved quickly. The dead creature wouldn’t tarry. Liquid began to bubble.
It started low then, resonating from a deep chuckle to full throated laugh. Douglas ignored it. His hands moved faster. He checked all the weapons on him. They were primed.
“Fee Fi Foe Fum...I smell a fopdoddle whose body I will drum.” The bass voice was meant to terrify. Douglas inhaled. ‘Chance favors the prepared mind.’ was his fiield
commander’s favorite bromide when he was training. Choice words. Prep-work was time best spent. It had kept Douglas alive. He waited for his enemy to show itself.
It was his only chance to stay alive now.
“Here’s the mumblecrust, I seek.” The large gure of the Gray appeared out of the gloom at the kitchen thresh-hold. Doug breathed deep, steadying his nerves. He turned to face Gray standing in front of the pan at the stove.
Wild black hair shot o fff in diffferent directions, his dark bushy beard bristled with energy. Soulless eyes burned into Doug’s soul. It was true what these things could do. Their gaze confounded the living. Knocked them around a bit. Doug felt his body shake. He broke his gaze offf, staring towards the left of the doorjamb.
Gray stood in leather boots, breech pants, vest, and a long coat. It looked as if the man before him stepped out of the 19th century. Dust and dark green mold covered his clothing at diffferent spots. Doug could smell the dead thing’s musky age. He dry-swallowed trying not to gag from the nasty stink.
“You have strong will. Not afraid. You have the spirit I felt.”
Doug spit onto the kitchen floor, surprising both of them.
He spat again. The Gray stood dumbfounded. Doug cleared his throat.
“Listen man, You smell like shit. How about a shower? They got one upstairs.” The Gray smiled. He began to chuckle again. Doug realized that was a trick for his prey. He knew assholes like this. He’d served with big muscled men. Warriors who used their size and brashness to intimidate. Doug had been able to kick most of their asses. Very few big men had learned how to really fiight. Relying on your size got you dead real quick among men who were trained to kill.
Doug grabbed the pan, knowing the deep laughter hid a coming attack. His action tipped the pan, sloshing a bit of the liquid over the rim. Perfect, he noted. Drops sizzled in the flaming ring. Doug swung it offf the stove carrying with him as he stepped back to prepare.
“Listen to the rakefiire. You’ve outstayed your welcome, little man. I don’t like my food talking back to me.” Gray began to walk into the kitchen. His teeth were large and white. His approach was fiilled with lumbering confiidence.
“Quite foolish to come here unarmed.”
&nb
sp; Doug clicked open the zippo in his right hand. He had to click the cylinder twice until it was ready.
“Who said I came unarmed?” His luck held. The zippo lit on the fiirst flint-strike. Doug ignited the pan from the drippage on its side. It lit up nicely as a wick. He braced himself like a tennis player tossing the flaming liquid onto his bulk as Gray approached. Gasoline mixed with Styrofoam bits spread in the air. It globbed onto Gray’s chest, part of his neck and a huge chunk smacked onto his face. Flames hungrily danced as flaming drops found their mark all over the Gray’s clothing and flesh. The homemade napalm worked.
Gray roared with surprise as the kitchen lit with flames. He was afiire. Doug backed away from the thrashing form of the heinous creature. Knowing the Brit's kitchen as he did, the young man ran back towards the cooking island. Doug hoped the English couple hadn't removed the weapons. The fiirst drawer revealed a revolver and four sharp knives. Doug grimaced. These would slow the big dude down but not stop him. No time to gloat. Keep attacking.
Three of the four knives found their mark. Douglas then walked up, unloading the revolver into Gray’s face now burning with flame. The bullets made the giant’s head buck with impact.
Yet he remained on his feet. What would it take to put him down? The huge creature stood there, laughing. Douglas, working offf adrenalin, fiinally realized what was happening. Only one thing would slay this thing. Gray’s Victorian buttons popped as napalm worked up his body. Doug refused to quit. He took out the two stakes Mavis had left him. Inch by inch, man. Doug licked his lips.
“Well played, rake fiire.” Gray rumbled. He saw the stakes in Doug’s hand. Flame caught on his coat, burning parts of the sleeves and lapels. The smell of dirty, black cotton and greasy hair fiilled the kitchen. A fiire alarm went offf, the beeps echoing offf industrial metal and hard ceramic surfaces.
“Think you can stop what I do? Foolish. Hence, I allow you a few more hours of pain.” Gray’s leather greatcoat snapped as he turned, striding away from Douglas towards the front door. Black leather hip boats thumped across the once pristine wooden floor. The younger man pursued, but not too closely, fearing a feint on Gray’s part. Doug saw the huge man grab the portrait of himself offf the wall. Gray turned towards his nemesis.
Most of the flames had eaten their way through layers of clothing, hopefully licking for more fuel. Gray's hair burned. He lumbered away into the freezing night, a true burning man.
“Soon, food. Soon.” Abernathy's disagreeable uncle spoke once more, the words thrown over his shoulder. He continued, kicking his way out through the front door releasing arctic gusts from behind their barricade.
The burning vampire laughed as the icy cold wrapped him in their embrace.
Chapter 8
Doug stood trying to make sense of Gray’s last words.
“I leave you with my newest acolyte. Doubt we’ll meet again, mumblecrust.” The Gray threw away remainders of the oil painting frame after ripping the canvas free with his nails. The painting had hung near the basement doorway. Doug gritted his teeth. Gray had ripped the front door offf its hinges, throwing it at Douglas. It had spun like a playing card wedging a corner into the hallway wall. The monster disappeared into the arctic cold. Strong winds whipped snow pellets into the ornate house like invading hooligans. The temperature lowered quickly in the house.
Doug felt like he was a rabbit and a wolf was near. It started deep inside his genitals, like a spoon was being used to scoop them out. He was prey before an unknown force. The wooden stakes remained in his hands. He could have used them, but the Gray had retreated so fast. He’d missed his chance to end it. All this bizarre crap was far from being over. Still, that creeping feeling hung on.
He felt something bad was left in the house. The air smelt like sour milk. Doug picked up a cold piece of metal, part of a destroyed sofa. Its frame had been built with iron. An expensive solid piece. Gray had cracked it in half, scattering smaller bits of metal around the room. Once, the sofa had been a French Classic. Now, it was a blunt tool.
A low long rasp emanated from the dark bedroom. Doug knew the British couple had kept that side room equipped as a functioning hospital. Charles had quipped that both of the men were antiques and that emergency space was their repair shop.
Doug’s skin, already cold, felt chicken flesh covering his body. It was all he could do to not run. His strong resolve was the only weapon he had left. He knew in his heart what was in that dark cold room. A voice, like soft sandpaper, floated from the room.
“He’s afraid of you. You might have taken him just then. You are formidable, you know.” Blowing ice pellets swept by relentless gusts continued to ping and ting on the glass outside. Silence hung in the room. Doug found his skin growing colder. He knew what was coming next.
“You need to go, Douglas. I’m not in control of myself, I’m afraid.”
The voice sounded like Charles, but only as if his friend had been gargling gravel. Doug’s heart broke. Once again, he wondered where Abernathy was. Charles’ lover was supposed to have fiinished it, if the worst were to happen. What propelled him to leave? They were absolutely devoted to each other. Yet here Charles was. Left behind. Abandoned. That realization depressed Douglas more than the fact he knew what the Brit had changed into.
“Please. Leave now. Or it will be too late.” The voice pleaded.
The kind giant was left behind to sufffer. Doug reflected on Charles’ gentleness. He spoke again.
“If you prefer, you can stay, and I will drink you like a child’s juice cup.” The kindness that Doug had known was gone like dew in the morning sunlight. Charles began to heave chuckles, burping up hellish shrieks that ended with his torn white body running out of the hospital room. He charged straight at Douglas, hands extended, desperate to rip him apart. Charles screamed, a dead hairy Ginger. Red eyed and wild. Doug had never seen anything like this before.
Charles was feral. A rampaging bu fffalo kicking and smashing through shattered furniture. His mouth was open, sharpened teeth extended towards the younger soldier. A constant hoarse rasp stunned Douglas. Gray had trapped him with his dead friend, counting on emotional weakness.
Charles was nearly on him, hot breath spitting bile into his face. Doug feinted to his lef t holding his ground, bracing the sharpened metal bar against his hip. He had seen pictures of soldiers doing this to horses in medieval battles. Doug braced the metal bar as a pike against his gruesome friend. Charles trucked on, taking the pronged metal bar through his neck, shattering his spine above his shoulder blades. The metal released black blood. It exploded out the back of his neck. The young soldier pivoted away from Charles’ falling body.
The wounded man staggered with fury, trying to dislodge the metal impaling him. He crashed into a beautiful cherry cabinet demolishing it. Charles had told Doug a day ago the sweet story: how his mother had given it to the men as their wedding gift. In Life, Charles loved antiques. He had loved that particular piece so. It’d meant the world to him, being in his family for ninety years.
Now, the intractable thing lashed out obliterating everything within reach. The spinal damage was fiinally having efffect. Charles’ heavy head collapsed upon his chest. He began to slow. Turning his shoulder to face Doug became a Sisyphean task. His arms flailed for balance, pinwheeling until one hand landed upon his head.
Blunt ngers fumbled along his cranium. Low baying, akin to a wounded coyote, howled forth from Charles chest. Black blood continued to drip from his wounds.
Doug winced. He was quick to grip the crowbar, ripping it out of his friend's wound. Charles held his head in his hands. It would take a long time for any of his injuries to mend, if they did at all. Doug could see with alarm, the grisly sight of flesh rippling, trying to knit close the gash. He couldn’t allow his friend to survive.
The metal weapon swung down, its weight smashing Charles’ right knee. His kneecap was shattered. The leg collapsed under his bulk. The Brit pitched forward offf balance. He groaned as he l
anded. Agitated flesh continued to roil and ripple desperate to repair its host.
Charles was down for the moment. It all caught up to Doug. “Damn you both.” He yelled, tears in his eyes. “Why are you making me do this? I don’t want to. Why? Where is Abernathy, damn it?”
Moments passed with only the ping, ping, ping of ice pellets hitting exterior glass being heard. The soldier lifted the metal joint doing what had to be done.
Black blood danced with each blow as Doug smashed the crowbar again and again into the huge man’s body. He obliterated all of Charles’ joints. Immobilizing these creatures was key. Friend or foe. Doug felt fevered. He saw red. The young man was beyond anger. Rage fueled his violent explosion. Blow after blow rained down on the thing that was his friend. Muscle and flesh became twitching jelly.
Af ter the hostile burst, Doug let the bar hang in his hand. He could hear the wind. Charles barely moved on the floor. Their large beautiful home was destroyed. Nothing precious remained intact. Doug wiped his face. Tears and blood mixed as he peered at his hand. He didn’t shake. He was calm. Doug knew what he was capable of. He was a killer. It was no longer a matter of pride, but of cool expediency.
He heard his hand-to-hand instructor in his mind, “If you have lethal skills, use them, soldier. They sure as hell will be used on you.”
Any further savage, positive suggestions from his conscience were drowned in the dark pool of memory from which they surfaced.
Charles laid with his skull angled up towards Doug. The Brit’s head was dented, eyes were black, but he seemed lucid. Charles tried to grin. Doug looked down at his dying friend. It was surreal: flashes of sweet Charles appeared on his face, then scoured away by the ravenous demon underneath. Sharp teeth were exposed. This newly cruel Charles enjoyed seeing Doug’s emotional pain.
“Finish me.” Charles muttered through his sick smile. “I can’t control what I do. I don’t want to be like this.” Doug reached for an overturned bottle of cognac, drinking from it. He shook his head. Let this demon sufffer. The acrid sweetness of the Jamaican rum lit his soul on fiire. He knew he had to fiinish Charles.
Grayland: Chapter Three of the Dark Chicago Series Page 4
