“Where is Abernathy? Why did he leave you like this?” Doug looked down at his friend expecting an answer, then drank a swig forcing himself to believe what he was looking at. Black blood had stopped flowing. The exposed flesh was in the midst of repairing itself. Tendrils of loose skin extended, beginning to reach and secure itself to other portions of ruined nerve and sinew. The soulless creature was rebuilding itself before his very eyes. He even saw the spinal cord slowly repair itself. These actions exposed why the blood-suckers were near impossible to kill. Unless you took their heads.
Demon Charles spoke. “Abbie can rot in hell. He left me. Like the coward he is.”
Sweet Charles surfaced. Doug shook his head.
“Just lef you? He tried saving you. Can’t see him just running offf.”
Demon Charles returned.
“Shut up! Damn you! Sweet meat, let me drink from your neck. You have such a tender long neckkkk!” Doug raised the crowbar again. He expected an attack. He saw only the frustrated placid face of a dying friend. There was no tension in its face.
Charles spoke sounding like his old sweet self. “When this body repairs itself, I will rise and kill you. No matter what you do to this body, I won’t be stopped. Please. Help me end it.”
Doug looked down after taking another swig of rum. “How?" Charles looked at Doug, black tears dripping from his eyes. He instructed the young man how to take his head. Separating it from his body was one sure way to fiinish it. Doug stared at Charles, before the Brit added a fiinal postscript.
“In the kitchen, there’s a red switch. Depress it and the rest will follow. You’ll have 3 minutes.”
Chapter 9
Cray Lamb ripped into the sheep dog. The lost canine felt weightless in his arms. Before his new dead-Life, he never would have had the strength to lift the canine, let alone feast on it while holding its body in his hands. Sharpened nails tore at the carcass from both ends ripping its belly open.
There was a cascade of blood. Fountains of red plasma splattered onto pristine snow marring the peace of Christmas Day. He wasn’t a total savage, Cray thought. He had broken the mutt’s neck before feeding on it.
Cray stood before a tidy white bungalow on Lowell. He looked up. There, reflected in the wide picture window was the sheep dog hovering in air, dripping blood. Cray saw no self-image. There was nothing of him left. The large dog hung suspended in mid air like some horrible Grand Guignol magic trick.
It was true, Cray thought. There was no remnant of what he had been. Taking away the ability to see how you appeared, how you existed reduced your being, your soul. It made you a forgotten ghost. A loss of self.
His mind was a confused jumble. He’d run like a yellow coward after forcing the Driver to attack Mavis. New girl was gone now. There was an absence where her presence had been. His actions had taken more away from who he had been.
Did that mean he would never see how he looked for all of eternity? Cray’s emotions swam up to meet him then, waiting for his thoughts to catch up to his actions.
Maybe some pal could take a picture. If he hadn’t killed all his friends. Was Doug still alive? What would happen if they met? What would his friend taste like? His teeth hummed.
Cray fed on the slaughtered beast. It was satisfying. Blood slaked the hunger. It refused to fiill up his soul. Being dead like this, left you pitifully needy, empty as well.
This is what made you a monster: death of self. You were no longer what you knew yourself to be. You traded your life for a death. An un-death really, judged Cray. The change into being a blood sucker seemed to efffect everyone diffferent, though. The young man knew he had been an addict all his life: drugs, alcohol, sex. Now in this existence, he had traded his earthly cravings for that of blood. Was his new addiction what allowed him to accept his fate better say, than the emo girl in black had done?
An addict is an addict is an addict, thought Cray. He laughed spilling a mouthful from the canine’s liver.
Cray suckled on its kidneys. The grisly thought of him devouring his friend announced itself brightly in his mind. Cray Lamb wondered how Douglas would taste. His mouth sucked the canine's heart chambers clean. Dropping the carcass in the snow bank threw up a cloud of white powder. Slowly, the ground turned burgundy, yet not as dark as Cray’s thoughts.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing? That’s my dog!” Cray turned to the sound of the wheezing woman wrapped in a shawl and green babushka. Blood dripped down, saturating his face, covering his naked body in crimson. Cray licked his lips. The old lady demanding answers uttered a startled “Oh!”, as she spied her
desanguinated canine, then ran back up her sidewalk, disappearing into the rear of her home.
The naked bloodied Cray snarled at her. Startled, he began to run as well. Cray felt shame for a split second, spurring him on to zig-zag away down the street.
Cray Lamb kept running looking behind him, astounded that he actually felt terrifiied. That old lady had no fear. Her anger was palpable. It was thick. And chewy. Her raw emotion was raw meat throbbing in his mouth. Hellish chaotic thoughts jumped around in his head. He was a fledgling blood sucker and stood no chance against the insanity.
No longer able to sweat, yet the glandular fervor to flee and survive overwhelmed him. His body bounded over a fallen elm. He landed in a crouch then heard words in his mind.
“Stop running.” They commanded. A husky rasp of a voice chafed the bone in his skull Wind whipped ice and snow over his lithe frame. Cray felt nothing. He found it impossible to continue moving.
“Tell me where you are. We need to end opposition to us.”
Lamb knew it was his master. Gray, the dark man. All his Life he had bristled against authority. Listening to superiors and commanders while soldiering had been a near thing. He had always felt like he could snap if pushed or teased too far. The Unit he served in, bore Cray’s smart remarks, insolent looks and insubordination. Up to a point. It had been close friends that had saved him from himself. Douglas, in particular, had worked tirelessly to help Cray Lamb avoid prison time. Fighting had always come natural to Lamb. He had fought his parents, teachers and any authority fiigure he deemed annoying. He had been a rebel. He liked to fiight, hence his enlistment in the armed forces.
Now, newly devolved, Cray belonged to a new clique. He had no choice. His body and mind belonged to the Gray. It chafed the persona of who he had been. The voice spoke again.
“Where do the human scum huddle?” Cray Lamb grimaced. He had never been a squealer. Growing up, being a rat was the lowest form of life. Now he found in death, there were even lower degrees to fall. He didn’t want to give up his friends. Fighting against his own codes of honor, Cray lost his nerve. He had no choice to but reveal where Doug and Mavis resided. His own personal thoughts were property now of the dark man.
“Struggling is useless, new dead. Don’t make me break you. See where they hide. You will accomplish this now!” Cray stood shaking in de fiiance. Gray gave the naked bloody warrior his instructions. Lamb’s brain burned. Being powerless was not a state he enjoyed at all. Suddenly, the Gray released him, and was gone from his thoughts. The grip over Cray was gone. Doug’s friend found himself pitched face-forward in the snow. His body still quivered.
His naked form lay curled in a fetal position for minutes. After a time, Cray accepted his fate. Swearing into blowing snow, his face covered with ice, Cray rose. Obeisance was the only recourse left to him.
Even dead, there were orders to follow.
Chapter 10
Douglas ran through streets. He could only see two feet ahead, so fiierce was the whiteout due to blowing winds. He held the property he was able to steal from the Brits. A buried tree limb caught his leg. Throwing out his right arm as he fell, barely halted Doug’s body as he skidded into a buried mustang.
Snow had stopped falling hours ago, yet sti fff winds continued to roar like the legendary Fire Chief locomotive or the Chicago and Northwestern trains. Doug’s father had
taken him to see the fast movers standing at Gray Land Station when he was a boy. The wind whipped him then too as they zipped past, a blur in his eyes. Laying on the ground, he checked his jacket. The papers he’d snatched from the kitchen table were tucked snugly in his leather jacket.
He considered what had just happened back at the mansion. It hurt his head to recall. Just a lot easier to lay there in the snow and freeze to death.
Consciences were damnable things though. Doing what was right was ingrained in Doug.
Had he done enough to help the Brits?
The last een minutes had been too densely packed, too intense. Af ter relaying instructions to him, Charles had fainted. Douglas didn’t want to get too close to his pulped body fiiguring he’d have enough time to separate his friend’s head after clicking the switch.
Charles hadn’t moved, even though beaten flesh and tissue continued to repair itself. Muscles reattached themselves, nerves knit under the skin, flesh rippled among the large man’s wounds trying to close them. His friend was unresponsive, but these things were unpredictable at best. A bubble of flesh popped on Charles’ neck emitting a stench of spoiled garbage.
Doug got hold of himself. He needed to move. The basement. Doug looked towards the doorway presenting the few steps to the fiinished room below. He remembered Abernathy telling him there were weapons and plans he could use to fiinish Gray. Tearing his eyes away from the foul thing on the floor, he dashed instead for what lay below. Doug took the steps three at a time.
The downstairs den, once adorned with trophies, paintings and deadly antiques appeared to have been sacked. Ripped papers were strewn everywhere. Drawers had been emptied. Doug grabbed a box standing on its side. He saw photographs, papers he’d been shown before by the smaller Brit, all those things he thought would be useful to stop Gray.
The history of the Smythe clan, as well as the lineage of the myriad enemies facing them. Doug had taken everything in the last three days with a grain of salt. But now, the salt could fiill a silo. He stufffed what he could into the container.
Doug found bottles of solutions useful in their fiight, his eyes gravitating towards a silver decanter left upon a wooden tray.
There was a note taped to the bejeweled bottle: ‘Finish it. I cannot. 3 minutes.’ He frowned. Again with the time limit. Leave it to the Brits to remain cryptic and dour. Only Russians were worse. Doug took a last look around at overturned furniture, mountains of paper and discarded weapons. He couldn’t take it all. Where the hell was Abernathy? What had happened to him? Did Gray kill him sometime earlier?
Doug crossed himself suddenly. Where did that come from, he mused. Shit must be getting real if he decided to pray a quick one to the big guy.
Laughter upstairs brought his attention back to the job at hand. Doug bolted up the steps grimacing, salvaged material in hand. He snuck up the last steps, worrying what he would fiind at the top of the landing. Knife in hand, the young soldier checked his sixes defending line of sight as he darted into the living room.
He’d been too long. Charles was gone. Damn it. Doug couldn’t allow his friend out of the house to threaten innocents. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Laughter echoed again obscuring its source since the walls were bare. Most of the paintings and fiine tapestries had been torn down. He listened, hearing only the wind. It howled like a hungry wolf.
A titter again. Charles was in the kitchen. Doug set the box down nearby uncapping the decanter from below. He advanced with open bottle and stiletto at the ready. He peered around the opening of the kitchen door. Gray had apparently torn it offf its hinges. The wood hung at a diagonal resting on one hinge.
Charles was leaning on the wooden butcher’s block. He held his head with one muscled arm. Being in the SAS for so many years had kept his body in decent shape. He still looked a mess. The older man tried to focus on Doug. The cracking of bones was heard. Straining to lean upon the block took all of Charles’ strength.
“Look at you. Come to fiinish me offf with that pigsticker?”
Doug checked his line of sight even knowing there was only the two of them left. Charles kept ranting.
“Couldn’t do it, could you? Gray knew that. You’re weak.” Doug could hear the wind roaring through the open back door. Only now, there was another sound, like gas escaping. He checked the stoves. There were no rings lit. Had line been slit?
Charles cracked more bones into place.
“Well. Do it, you bastard. Once I’m mended, I’m going to eat your face.” Doug brought down the knife hard on Charles’ closest hand, the blade sliding right through. It pierced squarely the middle of his friend’s palm, the handle burying deep into the wood. Charles was slow to follow the movement. Douglas followed up with the decanter, dousing his friend with the liquid inside.
The e fect was immediate. Charles smoked, his exposed skin turned black like a mushroom exposed to extreme light. Deep red flame ignited from his skin. His dear friend was burning. Insult after injury, Douglas threw the empty decanter at Charles’ head leaving a squishy dent in his skull. Charles, his body aflame, screamed as he writhed.
The holy water Abernathy left behind worked on this creature, his friend. It helped to believe in God, after all.
“Taking…you…with…me.” Threatened the vexed thing. Charles began to shake then, all the progress and repairs his body had made, regressing into a steaming black mess. His body vibrated. Flesh flew in all directions as if each hellish cell tried to escape the heavenly salvation of the blessed water. Still, as his friend roiled in pain, Doug knew he had to do one more act to save Charles from himself.
He was lucky. The biggest cleaver Doug had ever seen still rested in the second drawer of the pantry. Using both hands, he got close enough to Charles to use it. No easy feat. Doug saw that even damned things fought for their twisted afterlife. Every second on this sweet earth was worth fiighting for.
Charles croaked, “Hurry. Do it.”
The last vestige of his sweetness begged for swift mercy. Doug refused to pause this time. The blade’s arc was true, the sharp edge cutting deep into where Charles neck had already been gashed open. His spine severed fully. Charles eyes rolled back with the weight of his cranium. His huge body pitched forward. His entire body blew apart then even while shuddering, desperate to stay present on earth. Douglas heard the high pressurized sound. He threw his body to the tiles.
His friend exploded.
Pieces of Charles splattered his own pristine kitchen with copious amounts of middle British beef. The whine of escaping gas continued growing louder. Doug jumped to his feet realizing what it meant. The red knob in the kitchen had been thrown. Probably by his friend. Charles in his demonic state had wanted Douglas to die with him. These evil things were real assholes, he thought.
No idea how much time he had lef t. His hands grabbed as much of the contents of the box stufffiing his leather jacket too full of junk. He looked around once more as a loud click in the basement was followed by a mufffled explosion. The damn boiler, thought Doug. Everything not bolted down flew up into the air fiive feet. Douglas did too.
Flames leapt out of the basement licking the walls like chained fiire demons. Doug landed on the floor, his head smacked the wood. Lightning bolts of pain shot up his frame. He thought he’d run out of ways to hurt himself. Stars clouded his vision. Trying to rise again, the force of another explosion knocked him forward ten feet, pivoting offf a brass coat rack and smashing the remaining mirror on the wall.
Another explosion ung him closer to the open doorway. He clawed onto the contents of the container. Crawling for the front door, another explosion spat a heavy oak footstool into his groin. There were no words for the pain. Still, the young man moved forward. A silver tea set rode on another explosion, embedding expensive knives and forks along the wall where he just lay. The kitchen exploded next. A deep groaning began as support beams began to snap. This forced the structure to fold back in on itself. Doug staggered out the front door, hi
s left foot catching on the surface of a discarded oil painting.
Gray had ripped it in half. Doug stared down upon the man’s face. He took the seconds to pry it offf his foot which had stepped through it. Doug tossed it back into the fiire.
Walls had begun toppling backwards upon themselves. The Brits had planned a triggered implosion for their domicile if it had ever been compromised.
Jesus, who the hell thinks like that? Doug thought to himself. That was his last thought as the fiinal fiireworks began. Doug’s body was lifted as if by fiiery angels, a subtle gift given by the concussion he was sustaining. Hot air, aided by explosives, forced his body aloft where it was bufffeted by icy winds, then caressed by sub-zero temperatures. Gravity harshly landed his mortal remains onto Grace Street.
Doug’s eyesight cleared enough to watch the once beautiful building surrender to its inevitable demise. No other structure surrounding it was touched. Abernathy and Charles had been such thoughtful neighbors, Doug rambled wildly. Falling bricks had tamped down hot flames. No more explosions were heard. The home was a smoldering ruin.
At present, there were no fiirefiighters to call. No authorities to reach. It had all been planned that way. Doug grimaced. Wind blew away plumes of dark smoke. Doug forced himself to stumble forward if not exactly walk.
It was if the brick mansion had never been.
So much had happened in the last fiifteen minutes. Laying on the ground, satis fiied his actions were just, Doug licked his lips. He stood up gingerly, crouching a bit to fiind his balance. He could see no evidence of the violence that had just happened. It was as if his friends had never been.
After a moment, he began jogging towards Kildare Street.
Chapter 11
Grayland: Chapter Three of the Dark Chicago Series Page 5
