Doug did not want to look like a child in front of the neighbors. Some were out on their porches drinking, listening to the Cubs game. Sound carried up the street. Gossip abounded.
He was furious standing there waiting. It took a moment to recognize a gentle touch on his back. His mother had followed him to the curb. A slight woman, she held Doug by his arms again, turning him towards her. They looked at each other. Suddenly, she pushed away his arms, hugging him in the middle so very tight.
She whispered, “Proud of you, honey.” Doug had looked down at her refusing to show emotion. His mother nodded twice. She let him go, walking back into the house to fiinish her drink. The screen door slammed. His mother never looked back. Less than a year later, they both were dead from his Dad’s drunk driving. Stubborn all the way to St. Peter’s Gate.
“Merry freaking Christmas,” muttered George. “I gotta piss.” Doug sni fed. He hadn’t cried recalling his family. He’d always taken pride in controlling his emotions. It was what his father had taught him.
Doug didn’t know if that was a good thing.
Chapter 13
The Ping Pong tables in the Kiddie Room at the YMCA reflected back light from the remaining working street lamps on Kildare Street. Irving Park Road still had power for its lights. The small relay compartment for the transformer was shielded from the snow and ice by the thick concrete walls of the Edens expressway. Strong cables provided the way back to an Illuminated civilization for the Olde Irving Park enclave. One by one, the neighborhood lights whose poles remained undamaged, began to flicker and blink on as their LED bulbs flared back into life.
Wide wall sized glass at the YMCA looked out with confiidence at the lit corner of Irving Park and Kildare like a proud parent. The glass was double-paned to protect children from Chicago weather. Inside the Children’s playroom fiilled with games, stufffed animals and toys, all was silent. Waiting areas or spaces where parents dropped their children offf while they went to work out had rows of empty chairs sitting idle. The YMCA occupants, many of whom were older single men down on their luck, out of rehab or forgotten by family members were asleep in their single rooms on the six floors above.
Some younger guests were drinking their Christmas Day breakfasts, while others smoked. Their windows were cracked open, watching gusts provide shadowy dancing fiigures on their walls. The elderly men recalled a time when they were children and had been loved by authority fiigures long dead. Music played from iPods or battery powered boom-boxes. It was a sedate morning full of regretful memories and bittersweet recollections of happier times.
Gray threw the blue mailbox through the glass window downstairs. It caromed into the plastic climbing apparatus for preschoolers bouncing end over end until fiinally landing against the flimsy plywood partition near the front doors. The glass cacophony was diminished by the roar outside. The dark man leapt up the ten feet from street level into the center of the deserted room. He scanned his environs. Realizing he was standing on plush stufffed toys, a smile crossed his burned face.
Babies. The young.
Gray had always enjoyed drinking the blood of youth.
Wind blew ice pellets into the cavernous room. Already a thin coating of snow greedily covered the toys left in circular barrels positioned in corners. The dark man enjoyed his propensity for chaos and violence. He delighted in devastation. The power he wielded enticed him to always push the limits. The box took advantage of his weakness. Deep in his pocket, the voices called to him again.
The unholy entities wanted out. They wanted to share in the fun of spreading so much pain. Gray wasn’t sure yet how much he wanted to share with them. His fiingers caressed the fiine black walnut exterior. There were more than just this one scattered across the globe. But it was the only one his acolytes found in over a century of looking. Granted, opposition to their quests had been formidable, the losses to their malignant clutches staggering. Worldwide, Nosferatu had been slain by the thousands.
“More where they came from.” Gray smirked at the remembered reference. He’d once headed a council in the Northeast back in the 1700s. The clutch was of decent size. His closest aide at that time engaged in wordplay. Almont was his name. Whenever there was a set-back or the living killed many of his followers, Altmont provided temporary relief.
“We can always make more.” His aide remarked, trying to take the sting out of defeat. Gray missed his humor. Irony was a gif t of perspective. So many companions lost their way thru the decades. Their stories needed to be heard. Tales told by friends near the hearth side on a moonless night.
Enough maudlin sentiments. Gray concentrated. His thoughts spread out among the closest undead in Olde Irving Park. A bat uses sonar to fly and recognize obstacles. His ability was akin to that. It was a feral mode of communication like that of a wolf howling. His minions were wild predators.
A few new weak members had been created not much use at present. Dee responded to his call, cooing where she stood in the snow on Irving Park road. Alert to her master’s commands, she began walking towards the fiirehouse.
Cray Lamb was searching for more prey. He had feasted on one canine. Gray saw that his most useful pawn was now dining on a small opossum. The human had spied it under a porch, pursued it and had it in his jaws when Gray contacted him.
“Finish them all. Hunt any stray friends of yours. If you see my relation, save the midget for me. Hobble him. But I want to know what a Smythe tastes like.”
Forced to respond, Cray scampered offf with the opossum in his mouth. Gray frowned. What frail constructs these new humans purported to be. Opening the black box, unleashing Hell among them would actually be a blessing. All they were worth was to be food for their betters. Gray sensed the sad state of afffairs occurring in America as he lay there in the dirt for decades. He had nothing but time. This progressive society threw away education for the sake of being entertained. Young people allowed themselves to be dumbed down, distracted by minstrel shows. Scores were thrown into the rational world with fewer and fewer skills every year. The Illinois land he owned had residents living upon only focused on personal wealth and comfort. They had lowered their expectations to the point where being owned by a bank, a debtor, a company was easier than self awareness. Evil always required good people to lay still and do nothing. An easy path as a conqueror was always preferred.
The dark man was about to break o fff when his thoughts hooked upon a weak signal. An entity almost forgotten. He could taste Erna’s strong presence with this one. Gray had been afraid of Erna. She’d grown too strong. It’d been his prudent decision to allow her to be destroyed by those young scoundrels.
Who was this that he sensed? Gray reached out. The tendrils of his thoughts found the new acolyte weak but trained with a classical education and a sterling character. He determined that Erna had wanted to use said person for herself. Now the Gray would utilize this creature’s talents. He continued reaching out to the newly discovered soul when a flashlight swept across the room interrupting the communication.
The Gray winced at being surprised by a tiny gnome. The ancient human was wizened. Dangling out of his mouth was a thin cigar. By the Gods, Gray missed himself some excellent tobacco.
The tiny human croaked.
“How in the Sam Hill, did your sorry butt get in here?” His dentures clicked as he surveyed the damage behind the dark man.
“Look at that. Will ya look at that. How do you think that happened, huh?”
The Gray smiled broadly.
“Let me show you.” He said.
Gray’s dark shadow fell upon the septuagenarian blotting out the pale light.
Chapter 14
“Abbie’s gone. The house is trashed. The Gray man is out.” Mavis was pissed. She was pacing again glaring at Douglas as if he somehow was responsible. The historical remnants he’d brought were scattered over the kitchen table. Of course, beer cans, bottles of vodka and bourbon had taken up defensive positions nearby as well. James and George le
aned against half submerged appliances, the annoying clutter feeling comfortable now. Human mess was preferable to the carnage they’d all witnessed in one form or another.
‘Jimmy’, corrected Doug in his thoughts. It had been years since he’d seen the two brothers. They’d always been older than him. Wild men on bikes built from cannibalized parts before other kids had thought to design any. Motorbikes they had, when other boys were comforted by BMX road bikes. Souped up cars when other young men had just been given their families’ rusted Chryslers or beaten up Fords. These two hellions had always been trailblazers for the boys in the neighborhood. Anything you had done these two had done earlier, faster and crazier than you. These brothers grew mustaches earlier than you and their balls dropped sooner. They had fooled around with girls before most other boys had stolen a kiss. And as Doug learned, they both dropped out of high school fiirst and gotten into prison before anyone else as well.
Doug had always been the little kid in the neighborhood. He remembered Jimmy making his fiingers point like a gun and whisper ‘bang’ when he saw him. Douglas had always raised his hands like he was being held up or shot. That had usually brought a smile to Jimmy’s face.
George was always nodding and slinking along behind. He was Jimmy-lite. It must have been hard to be a little brother in the shadow of such a charismatic force.
“Is any of this useful?” Asked Doug.
“These papers prove he lived here over a century ago. But, of course, no one will believe it, since the entire idea seems so fantastic. One cannot wrap their heads around it.” Mavis pufed her cigarettes, stalking around the kitchen.
“Can you?” uestioned Douglas. “Of course, kiddo. What the hell do you think I’ve been doing here my whole life?
Besides other than looking after these knuckleheads?” The old woman rubbed her forehead.
“Feels like I’ve been training for this since high school. That’s what the Mother Superior trained me for.” Jimmy and George were watching the conversation like a tennis match. They both were drinking hard, rapt with attention. Mavis continued talking.
“It just hits me the right way. I’ve seen things that make no rational sense. Science doesn’t account for it. So what am I going to do? Walk around denying what is right in front of my face? It’s what is so wrong about people today. Like climate deniers, days are hotter, weather patterns have changed, yet most politicians think it is a fluke. Mummys and dummys.”
She took a long drag. “In Chicago alone, we have tornadoes now when we never had storms anywhere near as severe. Years ago, those activities never happened. Downtown has been hit with micro-bursts, due to local weather pressures and changing in the upper Atmosphere. The world changes. What’s it for me to say that some remnants of the Olde World hasn’t survived? Like Gray laying in Race Mansion for nearly a century under the earth.”
There was another long drag. No one else moved. “I’m in awe of how his acolytes organized it. The amount of destruction they caused took months to plan for. How did they do it? I’ve got so many questions. Damn shame the midget isn’t around for us to talk to. You sure he’s dead?”
Doug shrugged. He’d already told his story twice. “So advanced carbon levels have made these things blood suckers?” Asked George.
Mavis looked at her youngest son as if he had farted loudly.
“Darling, a little ed-jication is a dangerous thing.” Jimmy threatened to punch his little brother again. Doug was still disturbed to see men in their thirties act so dim. Their mother continued her home-schooling.
“Not the point I was trying to make. The point is, for those who missed out on advanced philosophy, I believe what I see in front of me. Accept the fact that these things exist and spare yourself the mental heartache. The only pain you should consider is how much of a beat down you can visit upon these unholy things.”
The old woman paused to hitch an empty sword hasp to her back. Doug watched as she tied the leather belt around her slight frame.
“I intend to lay waste to the entire Race Mansion.” “Dangerous plans.” countered Doug. “But I agree.”
Mavis ddled her hand at him, waving offf reticence.
“I’ll tear him out of there even if I have to do it brick by brick.” Doug patted his hip fiirming up the resting place of the machete. The olive backpack zipped up as a statement of readiness. The readying had been taking place as the words kept flowing. He was almost ready.
“In for a penny …" He started. Mavis grinned, cigarette in her mouth.
“Screw the pennies, I’m going to bust his bank.”
Chapter 15
Cray Lamb ran through the streets following a scent. He wanted to fiind that girl he’d seen back when he was human. It was when he was with Douglas. Back when he had a sense of self.
Other scents danced in the wind, enticing him to run astray. He remembered the scent of the small man who liked his Scotch. Lamb’s own sweat glands exuded the wonderful nature of alcohol. Abernathy was nearby. Cray scanned the white world he was exiled to. Everything looked the same. Boring humans in their boring world. Cray wished he had paid attention when he was living. He could easier accomplish the Gray’s desires.
Row upon row of large dark A-frame houses, built in the 1900s huddled, covered with snow. Countless mounds of hidden vehicles landlocked by ice. Any humans out in this wretched weather would have been noticed by now.
Cray knew his prey was hiding. The midget was cunning. Under shrubs, behind a copse of tree. The wind bufffeted scents. Abernathy could be anywhere.
Taking a moment, the naked youth threw back his head and howled. He ran on hoping to catch sight of something familiar. Thoughts flew down corridors. His neurons like illegal fiireworks exploding in every direction. Chaos scattered Cray’s attention.
“Where are they?” The sentence echoed loud in his skull. Gray repeated the question. Cray cowered behind a frozen Ford F-150, both its rear tires were flat. His body shook with failure.
Walking down the halls of the YMCA, the Gray tore out a folding metal security gate, used to prevent children from entering rooms, preventing egress to the residents floors above him. Festive music could be heard faintly. His beard dripped with blood. Old humans lacked vitamins and tasted bland, like skim milk gone bad after having being left out.
The song heard was catchy, Gray thought. Some sultry voice sung out ‘Santa Baby’. The huge man wanted to fiind this female. Cray summoned him back to task. “I’m lost.” Mulled Cray. Gray stopped. These damn new pawns had no learning curve at all, he fumed. How could he get Hell’s black box open with such inferior tools at hand? Why was good help so hard to fiind?
Turning about face, The Gray strode past the corridor leading to the food upstairs. He kicked open a sliding door which led to a nearby circular room. It was a large gym. Gray looked up as the two storied room echoed his heavy footfalls. Feeble light came through the windows on the second floor. Wire mesh protected the glass from inside. Gray saw the orange of the exit sign ahead. His boot slammed down upon the release bar with such force that the door careened offf its hinges. Falling back offf the concrete staircase, the door fell onto two snow covered cars below. Both vehicles squawked with faint alarms. Their batteries were nearly frozen solid. The fiirst vehicle beeped once then died. The other continued for a few seconds until the Gray pummeled the front of its hood. Both front tires blew out. The engine smacked the concrete ripping free of its frame. All was quiet again. Gray smiled. Brute force was what this world needed.
He would oblige. Gray spoke his thoughts.
“I’ll deal with these obstacles.”
Cray was scared to ask the question, but some insolence remained.
“How will we fiind them?” Gray guillotined Cray’s attitude. “I’ll make them come running.”
Chapter 16
Everyone in Mavis’ home was silent. Jimmy and George both drank from their beer cans afraid to utter a word. Doug massaged his bruised scalp. His breathing was normal a
gain after intermittent pain. How much stress could his body take before breaking? The brief respites between fiights did little to help heal him. He remembered telling his counselor back at the Military Hospital in San Diego that returning to Chicago would restore his mental vigor. Who was he kidding? Coming home had nearly killed him so far.
And Christmas Day was still young.
“What about Joan?” Mavis piped up.
Doug looked straight into her eyes. “Joan? You got a girl squared away that we don’t know nothing about?” squawked George. “Squabbling and screwing. Best duo there is. Sheee-it.”
Jimmy smiled. He leered at Doug.
“Only Joan ‘round here is Luckert up the street. Nice choice, man. Juicy.”
George joined in.
“Getting lucky with Luckert. Wet and slick. That reminds me I knew this broad ...”
Jimmy’s st smacked into his brother’s shoulder silencing the room. George opened his mouth and covered his body.
“Stop. Shit, that hurt. Maaaa ...” He whined. Mavis withered them with her death stare. After her sons were cowed, she continued.
“I saw Cray. Nekkid as a jaybird. He’s one of them, you fiigure?”
Doug frowned. “My parents’ doors were lef t open, looked like a fiight happened in there. Some black blood smoking in the snow. No bodies. I don’t know.”
George looked stricken.
“Black blood? That can’t be. Who ever thought those things would have black blood?” All were whispering quietly in the kitchen where all secrets stood revealed. Doing so kicked a memory loose for Doug. When he was a boy, every time his parents wanted to talk serious grown up stufff, they did it in the kitchen. His grandmother even had a heavy oak door that none of the children could move. All the serious news was handled in the kitchen. Adults only. It was a linoleum-tiled doily-adorned Panic room. Doug remembered peeking under the crack of the door jamb, where he could hear hushed words and see the soles of their shoes. His head ached. So many random thoughts were fiiring in his head. Events of the past few days were taking a toll on his sanity.
Grayland: Chapter Three of the Dark Chicago Series Page 7
