 
# BLOOD MAGIK

### A COLD DAY IN HELL

### (BOOK ONE)

Copyright 2018 Corwyn Matthew

Published by Corwyn Matthew at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

# Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter 0/24: The Past Meets the Future's Present

Chapter 1: Priests vs. Hounds

Chapter 2: Where There Are Sheep...

Chapter 3:...Wolves Are Sure to Follow

Chapter 4: Consanguineous Congregations

Chapter 5: Stiff Shots, Prescription Meds, and a Milf Magazine

Chapter 6: Blood Storm

Chapter 7: The beginning of the Dead

Chapter 8: These Are the Dead of Our Lives

Chapter 8.5: Prey

Chapter 9: Dead Beat Friends

Chapter 10: Decadence and a Friendly Cup of Tea

Chapter 11: The Dead Meets the Degenerate and Pig Shit Flies

Chapter 12: Demons, Spirits, and Cab Drivers, Oh My!

Chapter 13: Bon Apatite!

Chapter 14: Still Warm Leftovers

Chapter 15: Good and Buttered

Chapter 16: Her Own Little Corner of Hell

Chapter 17: Hell's Beasts Hunger

Chapter 18: Dead Bed-Fellows

Chapter 19: B-Movie Horror Flick 101

Chapter 20: A Moonstruck Detour

Chapter 21: Beauty and the Buterhanz

Chapter 22: Holy assemblage! A Reunion of Priests

Chapter 22.5: The bathroom Blues

Afterword

About the Author

Other Books by Corwyn Matthew

Contact

A Christmas Carcassing (Book Preview)

# FOREWORD

Well, this is embarrassing...

As it has it, while deeply enraptured in the thralls of this literary leviathan that is my story to tell, I've grossly surpassed the respectable page limit for a self-funded, self-published novel and toiled somewhere deep into the realms of "Fuck, dude...you wrote too much...."

Earnestly chalking this foil up to a newbie blunder, I found myself with two options that really only boiled down to one: Either eat the loss and print up a nine-hundred-page beast of a book that would cost as much to publish as it would to buy on the shelves, or cut the lumbering ox in two and hope those who lend me their quiet time won't find themselves in a frothing rage at the conclusion when discovering it's really only half the original work. Granted, the original work is only a third of the intended whole, but, to put it bluntly, this bitch was not designed to end where it has... I have, however, found a tidy little breaking point to slyly give you kids "the slip" before having to file for bankruptcy, so it's not too abrupt an end to where it's especially revolting. And since the second half is already finished, chances are that by the time you read this bumbling attempt at a "heads up," it will already be available through my website (BloodMagik.com), and/or right next to this book on the shelf in the shop that you're gingerly perusing through.

Regardless, there are enough gory good times and on/off-ice zombie action packed into this thing to be well worth your funds, so don't think you're getting undesirably boned here. You'll likely find my style of "Givin' You Whatfor" will more than keep you occupied for the price, and if you like what you read between these pages, then there's a whole _lotta_ more good shit to come. So, in summation: this is your fair warning. Finishing this novel will be the start of something you may not even know you're ready for, but I'm confident that by the time you get there you'll be hardened by the voyage ahead and eager to dig into the next edition of unrelenting zombie mayhem I have fermenting in the earth.

So, I'll see _you_ zombie troopers in four-hundred-something pages or so (in the Afterword) for an update on your next undead journey with me.

You've come _this_ far, zombros...

Soldier on.

A new world awaits.

-CM

CHAPTER 0/CHAPTER 24

### The Past Meets the Future's Present

1.

The part-time convict, fulltime asshole, and sorry excuse for a father hung grievously over the tiny, newborn baby girl held lovingly in her mother's arms; a venomous glare hardly restrained his rage as the two lovely ladies slept exhausted in their hospital bed. The color of the baby's skin alone mocked that of his own paler flesh while the poisoned words of his other lover echoed through facets of animosity in his mind.

" _You know she's not yours,"_ she'd told him. _"You can see the hidden deceit in her mother's eyes; feel the buried lies in her touch..."_ And flashes of that dishonesty rattled through his thoughts while the memory of her voice continued to fuel his anger. _"Take this..."_

He held the tiny vial of vibrant poison in his hands in the hospital room, its consistency excited by the wrath saturating his sweaty palms _._

" _Inject it into her IV; pour it into her water... Whatever method makes you happy. It's tasteless; untraceable. It doesn't even really exist."_ Her wicked smile poisoned his thoughts as she placed the vial in his hands to carry out an end to her means. _"It'll paralyze her just long enough for me to come have one last chat with my beloved big sister..._ before _I let you kill her."_ And he had asked her, _"What about the baby?"_

He unscrewed the top of the slender glass container while looming over his wife in the hospital room, extracting the paralyzing liquid with a syringe.

" _Killing her now wouldn't further my cause. I can't take the blood of my victims before they've matured. A child's life is of no value to me,"_ she had answered while caressing her own belly – no doubt a sarcastic gesture since, really, she felt nothing for his seed growing inside. _"After you kill her, I'll only need the life of one other victim from my bloodline. Whether it's her child or mine...we'll just have to wait and see."_

The clear liquid laced with vivid swirls of mystic-red slithered into the syringe as though it had an agenda of its own. He glanced behind him, inspecting the hallway through the room's window to be sure no one could see, then slyly pricked the plastic IV tube to covertly pollute his wife's stream, her veins swelling and stiffening with the venom gifted to him by the aunt of his eight-year-old boy.

The young child, Marty, left unattended in the hall, clutched at the tightening in his gut, feeling the betrayal of his mother being drugged in her sleep. He quit fiddling with his NHL action figure to peek back into the room at his father stewing over her and his new baby sister. The sight of his back to him – his hands concealed by his big body and square shoulders – was ominous; fiendish. Marty couldn't help but spin around, propping to his knees, and maneuver his head across the bottom of the window to find an angle that could uncover his father's plot.

He hadn't missed his father while he was gone. Him being locked away for a brief six months gave his mom her first taste of the freedom a life without him offered. And since he'd been back, the boy was just now getting old enough to realize how much happier she'd seemed when the lumbering blowhard wasn't around. He'd blatantly told her he wished his father would just leave, but she'd hushed him with a loving embrace and promised things wouldn't always be so bad.

His innocent, oak-brown eyes, striated with uncertainty, peered through the window into the dimly lit room, resentment coiling in his belly. He didn't know why, but he knew things would never be right between his mother and father, and that it'd be up to _him_ to watch over the tiny baby girl, newly named Alexzandra. The thought of that responsibility turned his young stomach...but a more pressing sensation soon washed over him, diverting his thoughts and allowing him escape from his future woes—

A ghostly tingle electrified the air and buzzed through the hospital hallway, jumpstarting his pulse. Lights flickered and a static feedback hissed over the building's intercom that froze him in his seat; he didn't know if what he was feeling was real or just his imagination struggling to make sense of a headful of conflict. There was a presence seeping into the halls that he could sense but couldn't see – and that got closer with every deepening beat in his chest. The ground hummed under his feet, and the nurses and patients walking through the corridor were brushed aside as if by some invisible brute with no regard for order. The air then thickened to a stagnant soup that was hard for him to breathe – stale and stifling – and the walls broke into an anxious sweat...

His breaths shortened.

He dropped his toy and gripped the chair's armrests, grounding his shooting angst with fingers turning red and white. Reverb from some arcane source smothered his ears and squeezed at his heart as disorientation from the approach of something – or _someone_ – he didn't know existed stabbed at his nerves. He tried swallowing the swollen egg in his throat to breathe...

Whatever it was that walked in plain sight without being seen was so close now he could almost feel the heat radiating from her fiery soul.

Cloaked between seams of human awareness, an unseen thing weaved her way through reality to reach her hand toward him. His eyes rattled in his head as he tried desperately to spot what he knew was there... And with only the mere threat of her approaching touch he was pushed from consciousness into a dream, arms and legs falling loosely over his perch.

This obscure mistress – rose-colored, flowing dress pressing like silk against her curves – retracted her hand from above the boy and brushed her full-bodied, black hair over her shoulder (the resemblance between her and the young mother in the hospital bed not a coincidence). Hand slithering toward the door handle, her touch erased the entire room from the perceptions of any who might pass.

Even though the boy, Marty, was out cold, swimming in a future that would haunt him, he could still sense what was happening now. It was almost as if his mother's awareness and his dreams were linked, and the amulet she'd given him, clinging to his neck and soul, glowed under his shirt with that connection as the aunt he never knew he had erased the door between them.

This young, brazenly arrogant woman – this silky, enigmatic phantom – strolled devilishly into the room and put her hand on her accomplice's shoulder, dismissing him from her sister's side. She was barely in her twenties, but her body language hinted at a much older soul that demanded his obedience. So he yielded to her touch and took a step back as she leaned over to lift the sleeping baby from her mother's tender arms.

Eyes shooting open at the absence of her child, her heart jumped against its cage when recognizing her younger sibling. And when she realized she couldn't move or even speak, those same eyes shrieked in knowing horror, and the young witch giggled at the unheard sound.

"Do you like the poison I cooked for you?" She knew her sister couldn't answer but asked anyway, just to tug at the loose threads scarcely holding together her composure. "It's the same one I used to paralyze our parents before I slit their throats." She pet the sleeping baby's head, caressing her soft cheek with her finger. "But you already _knew_ that, didn't you. You've always known more than you've ever let on."

It was all the young mother could do to follow her sister's movements with her stare and hope she didn't have the temerity to hurt her child. The fact that she couldn't move would be infuriating if she wasn't so terrified for her baby's safety. She had always been immune to her sister's tricks in the past. How she'd gotten the best of her _this_ night, she'd likely die without ever knowing.

"So...does that mean you know what _I_ am?" She had a playfully curious twist to her brow. "And what _this_ is?" Her eyes gestured toward the infant she cradled. "Hmmmm..." she smirked teasingly. "So many questions and so little incentive for me to really care." Her sarcasm was antagonizing. She enjoyed tormenting her older kin.

"You know...you were _supposed_ to be my equal." A _tsk_ escaped her tongue as she shook her head. "So disappointing."

Glancing to her coconspirator, she gave him the go-ahead-nod to kill, and the young mother's eyelids peeled back in her skull.

"After you're _dead_..."

As she spoke, he moved toward his victim with an insultingly apathetic stare, casually reaching for the pillow behind her head that would end her life.

"...there won't be anyone left alive to protect sweet little Alexzandra."

With wide eyes buried under deceit, the mother's lungs fought for life through the suffocating fabric while the red-dressed-terror continued to mock her. Their triumph was almost _too_ easy. And, secretly, the murdering husband wished his cheating spouse had put up more of a fight.

"Have a sweet, sweet death, my dear sister." She smiled softly. "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on our little princess for you." A chuckle bubbled from her throat like a burp at the thought of Marty lying unconscious in the hall. "I'm not sure how much hope I'd hold out for the boy, though," she warned, feigning a considerate tone.

Only seconds had passed after the mother's life was snuffed away when the newborn baby peeked open her pretty dark eyes to cry in her auntie's arms. She hushed the babe with a maternal bounce and gently set her in her mother's expired bosom, quietly wondering if the child's tiny weeps were the last thing her sister's dying mind had known...

Then she strut from the room the same way she came, unseen and unheard, deeply invigorated by the death that would bring her one step closer to her endgame. And as she left the room, she glanced back toward the young boy draped over the chair behind her, a strange sensation picking at the back of her mind.

The amulet the boy wore sat glowing under his shirt in a soft green hue but dimmed before she could glimpse its shine. His eyes fluttering beneath their lids, Marty twitched uncomfortably in his sleep – but nothing she saw gave the witch any reason to harbor a doubt. So she turned and left the hospital halls and the children's lives as evasively as she'd entered...until the time would come when it'd suit her to reappear.

2.

The entire hospital scene faded like a reflection in a pool as the undead, fully grown man named Marty began to recognize his surroundings. His dried skin hid behind long strands of hair curtaining a gritty visage, and his magically fulgent, gleaming green eyes regained their flare as he came to. He wasn't sure where he was at first...until the room took shape and a man's voice from a face he knew broke through his haze.

" _Marty_... You in there, boy?"

His environment grew more familiar with every second, and he realized he was in his coach's home, looking up at him and a few of his closest friends. He remembered he was dead – a towering corpse of a man – and that the world around him was no longer the one he remembered.

Digging through the freshly instilled, hospital memory, probing for some tangible understanding, he found another image overlying the entire experience: an image of the Spirit Fortress he'd seen in the center of the graveyard where he'd dug himself back into the world, but in a more solidified form than before, like hardened, structured flames burning in the distance. He saw two lengthy rows of undead US veterans with their bristling red eyes and muddied flesh outlining a path to the burning citadel. And Alex, his younger sister, being escorted to its forty-foot door by a demon beast of a creature with yellow eyes and a ferocious wolf-like snout...

"Marty, God _damn_ it, are you with us?" His coach's aged face was one of strength, but the worry in his eyes was making itself known. "Marty! Come on back now, boy, we got _work_ to do." He gave him a good shake before calling to him again. "... _Marty!_ "

" **Yeah, Coach... I hear you..."** His response was soft but still boomed with the numinous strength of his bloodline.

"Where the hell'd you go, boy? You find some happy place in oblivion to run off to on us?"

" **I... I don't know... I was..."** The faint images of what he'd seen were still there in his mind, it just took a moment to realize they were more than just the fleeting frames of a dream. **"Fuck..."** He looked into his coach's eyes, still sifting through it all, finally beginning to make sense of it. **"Fuck!...She's...she's my aunt!"**

"What? _Who_ is?"

" **The...the queen! The demon witch who's** _behind_ **all this! She's my fucking aunt!"** The glowing green in his stare grew hot and every muscle in his mammoth body tensed. **"And...and...I think..."** His large fists clinched at the thought of his endangered kin, his voice burning with enmity. **"...I think the evil bitch has my sister..."**

# CHAPTER ONE

### Priests vs. Hounds

1.

Culver City Forum, Los Angeles, CA; Now:

"Alright, _listen_ up, you vomitus, pustulating nut-rashes! Quit yer pansy, pussy-footin' around this friggen hockey rink! I wanna see Hounds' heads hittin' the glass, and pucks flyin' hard and fast at that abomination the other guys call a goaltender!"

The coach of last season's Mild Weather Goons hockey league champions, The Los Angeles Priests, was one exuberantly ruthless and mean son of God. He was the most foul-mouthed ex-man-of-the-cloth you'd find anywhere this side of the hemisphere. When he spoke, he spit. His thick, gray mustache resembled the carcass of a caterpillar stiffening on his upper lip with a brow so rigged it cast a shadow over his beady brown eyes. And his chin – nicked with old scars under stubble and satire – looked as rough and as stern as the sound of his raspy voice whenever it'd claw its way out of his throat to speak. He never seemed not to sweat at any point in a league game, and during practice he'd smoke cigars and yell obscenities like, "You call that a slapshot, you sissy! I could slap my meat harder'n that against yer mother's chubby cheeks!" or...well, other such obscenities thereabouts.

"Marty! Get yer ass out there and don't come back 'til you get me a goal or a penalty for misconduct! Jimmy, you're my Designated Decoy! Make pretend like you gotta miserable shit's shot in Hell at being a viable threat out on that ice, plant yer pudgy ass in front of that goal, and don't you fucking budge! You eat that goddamn puck and spit it in the net if you have to! We're down by two, you dipshits! That's three goals too many! Let's show these mutts why God gave man a set of balls and two hands to grab his dick with, and use those tools to fuck the fight out of these soulless rodents! Do you get me?!"

As a team, the men on the bench all answered in unison, pounding the butt-ends of sticks against the floorboards below their skates.

" _Praise the Priests!!"_

"Amen! Alright, now go out there and GET YOU SOME ASS!!"

Marty "The Monster" Grimson was the Priests' star centerman and, in all likelihood, the most badass beast of a man ever to play the game of ice hockey with any sort of skill or grace at any level of the game. He was six-foot-six inches tall, two hundred and fifty-something pounds, and had fists like fucking lead hammers. His eyes and prominent features were chiseled and dark due to his mixed ethnicity – the Caucasian in him being anything but pure, while the Native American blood that coursed his veins was nearly as ancient as the culture itself. He kept his long, brown hair in a single braid as a tribute to his mother's memory, honoring her heritage the only way he knew how, but also as a rebellious "screw you" to his father who could leap backwards off a cliff into a garden of jagged spears for all he cared. His stubbornness at times was as unyielding as a mountain, but his temper was often as sporadic as the wind. He very likely could've played professionally if the National Hockey League wasn't so averse to his prowess causing permanent physical damage to their "oh, so" costly and unexpendable star players. (Not that their reluctance to sign him was of any real consequence. His place in his city, and in this story, was not to be a sports hero to all the little kiddies of the greater Los Angeles community. When compared to that of national championships or lucrative marketing contracts, the weight that the likes of this man's life will soon hold would be utterly transmundane.)

The blades of Marty's skates crunched the ice below him with his every stride, growling hungrily in the presence of their opponents. The cold air over the surface of the rink was heavy with humidity but a welcomed breath of freshness from under the thick protective pads that buffered his bones from his enemies.

The Anaheim Hell Hounds were a reputable opponent with several men nearly the size of Marty who were just as mean and twice as ugly. One such unfortunate monstrosity was named Jean-Claude Le'Duprie: a black French-Canadian mountain of muscle who'd played for more teams in the league than he had teeth left in his purple gums (which would be saying more if he wasn't missing so many). He was a brawler that didn't have much finesse on his skates but could really shoot the puck well if you set him up with a perfect pass.

The 3rd period face-off was back at center-ice. The Hounds had just scored, making it six goals to four in their favor. The crowd was sparse but proving themselves a part of the game by way of their encouraging cheers for the L.A. home squad. Marty was the Priests' face-off man while Le'Duprie rooted himself directly across from him, grinning toothlessly, chewing on his mouthguard, mocking Marty's "professional integrity."

Le'Duprie spit off to one side and blood and saliva splat on the ice beside them, his lip busted open from a competitive skirmish the two had gotten into late in the first period. Marty smiled back at the visible proof of his victory-tally, and Le'Duprie's cocky grin abruptly became a bit more businesslike than provocative.

"Alright, ladies, there's only two minutes left in this game." The referee decided to set the pace for the rest of the contest before putting the puck into play. "Let's try an' do this by the book. Either of you two assholes drops the gloves again, yer gettin' yerself a full game-misconduct. We clear?"

They didn't bother to answer. They both understood entirely – but that little intrusive fact wouldn't change their demeanor if things escalated and became heated. But on the other hand, Marty meant to win this game and wouldn't be able to do so while sitting in the penalty box.

He loosened his grip on his stick and placed his blade on the ice, focusing his attention toward the dot at the center of the face-off circle. Le'Duprie got his stick into position next, but never took his eyes off their real target: the logo dead-center in his opponent's chest.

When the whistle blew, and the puck dropped, Marty swept it between his legs to his defense, leaning forward with his head down to shield the play. But Le'Duprie ignored the puck entirely and thrust the shaft of his stick across the Priests logo on Marty's shirt instead, knocking him back flat on his giant and unsuspecting ass. The crowd unleashed a uniformed "Ooooo!!" afterward that hummed through the arena, sympathetic to the force of the blow.

Le'Duprie didn't bother gloating over his fallen adversary before he went straight for the defenseman with the puck, oafishly hacking across the already scarred ice. (If Finesse could complain, it'd have Elegant on speed-dial, bitching about the Hound's gross neglect of both.)

Marty – winded, hardly able to breathe through the fire in his lungs – found enough strength in his hunger for retribution to get up and skate for the offensive zone. The impact of his teammate being slammed against the boards behind him caught his ear, so he looked back to see who had control of the play. Boards swaying, crowd roaring, his defenseman was down, but so was Le'Duprie who had stumbled over the player he'd felled and greeted the ice with the side of his face; the ice wasn't surprised he'd said hello. (Neither was Finesse, if you'd ask Elegant.)

The puck was already headed up the rink when Marty's left winger escorted it into the Hell Hounds' zone. The winger cocked his stick, threatening to shoot, forcing the Hounds' defenseman to throw himself to the ice in a bold attempt to block the attack, but the Priests' forward held fast—

Lowering his stick, he slipped the puck behind him to a trailing Marty at the top of the zone, the Priests' captain cutting across the ice with unopposed authority, still pushing through the pain it caused him to breathe (nursing hot knives in his lungs only adding to his thirst for retribution). Jimmy, Marty's right winger, had skated ahead and "planted his pudgy ass" in front of the net just like his coach had said to and, in doing so, had an honest-to-God, "miserable shit's shot in Hell's" chance at being a viable threat. He was screening the goaltender's line-of-sight when the behind-the-back pass found the blade of Marty's stick. The Priest captain wound up, pausing to pick his target, and ferociously blasted one toward the net for the two feet of space between Jimmy's skates and the goal...

Through the eyes of the young Priest, the shot came at him in slow-motion, but his reaction time was just as tempered. His first thought went to his "family jewels," and he cringed in a futile attempt to protect his manhood. Not that those tiny, hairy duds were worth a damn to his mom and pop, but the term still held merit concerning the fragile, though otherwise superfluous nature of the said bodily ornaments. In any case, the speeding puck smashed into the inside of his unassuming stick-blade, deflected between his own legs and those of the sprawling Goal Keep's, then found a path to the back of the Hounds' net.

"Yeah! Alright! Strong fuckin' work, Jimmy!"

The Coach raised his fist and yelled over the applause of the few thousand fans in attendance before Jimmy opened his eyes to find he was being credited for the goal.

The Hounds' goaltender slapped a frustrated stick on the ice as Marty and the rest rejoiced for a brief, but perhaps premature carousal. Marty gave Jimmy an encouraging pat on the helmet while the others congratulated themselves with wide grins and head-bumps.

"Right place, right time, my man. Good hustle."

"Shit, Marty... You shot it at me on purpose, you asshole!" Jimmy wasn't upset; he was just venting, still a bit wound up and probably feeling a little guilty for getting credit for the goal without hardly lifting a finger to score it.

Marty laughed at his seriousness and gave the back of his hockey pants a tap with his stick as they headed for the bench.

On the opposite plank of wood, Anaheim's head coach opted to slow things down and call for a timeout. He was an older man than the coach of the Priests, probably in his late sixties. He had a glaring scalp with heavy, white sideburns, wearing a painfully orange warmup suit decorated by his teams' logo: the snarling maw of a vile, houndlike beast with hellfire for a fur coat. The Priests' coach, Coach Gary Carver, remembered some of his opponent's old-style hockey tactics from way back around the time of the square puck and wooden skates. The prick was as ruthless as they'd come and instructed his team with a blatantly conniving, unsportsmanlike prickishness to match.

Marty and the rest of the boys huddled up at their bench, wiped sweat from faces and splashed water in mouths. The hometown crowd was riled up, but a team like the Priests didn't draw much more than three or four thousand to any given playoff game.

"Alright, we got ninety-seven seconds to go get us another one and take this game into O.T." His team zeroed-in on his words as he set them loose. "Marty, I want you back on the ice. Jimmy, you earned yourself a break, sit yer ass down. Carl, Donny; you two stay on D. Terry, Mac; you're with Marty." He looked around at his team nodding in unwavering compliance. They were focused. Determined. Hungry.

"Now, I know this prick. I know what he's thinkin'." Coach Gary tapped the side of his head. "He'll put that sissy Tobin on the wing and tell 'im to do whatever it takes to draw a penalty. Keep yer fucking sticks on the ice! Don't get called for some bullshit infraction when this dick takes a dive and yer pokin' yer shafts at his pucker." He paused briefly, inspecting the eyes of his men to be sure his instructions sunk in. "Win the face-off. Crash the net. Get that fuckin' goal!...Praise the Priests!"

" _Amen!!"_

The boys echoed their mantra with a cheer then skated for their positions at mid-ice.

The Priests weren't necessarily Sunday churchgoers or driven by any particular faith in God. Their puns and catch phrases were closer to sacrilegious slander than divine worship – a delicious irony outlined by their coach who God had abandoned years before when his fourteen-year-old son was killed. (An incident that held little relevance to the score of the game, but one that would be of insurmountable significance in days to come.)

A flustered Le'Duprie waited impatiently at the face-off circle, his eyes two acidic vats of boiling resolve, eager to defeat and/or disfigure anything skating in his way.

Marty took an extra moment to let the big bastard simmer and glided toward his redheaded left winger, Mac, before positioning himself for the draw.

"Mac, listen," he covered his mouth when he spoke to avoid his words casually drifting into the ear-holes of a Hound, "I'm gonna let Shit-Face win this one." ("Shit-face" was what the Priests called Le'Duprie on account of his deep brown skin tone and unbearable breath. It was certainly childish and a bit distasteful, but it stuck to the miscreant like a bad rep. on school grounds.) "When he wins, it'll go back towards his right D. Head straight for him. You'll catch 'im off guard. Strip the puck and look for me. I'll be headin' right back up the middle."

Mac nodded; Marty spit; the crowd buzzed.

Le'Duprie also covertly conspired with a winger before the draw, (just as likely to toy with the Priests' psyche as much as to formulate a plan) then drifted to center-ice where he met his nemesis head-on. He mumbled some backward vulgarity under his breath, gave his helmet a smack, then locked his stick into position at the dot. (His English swears were always a little off. When one wouldn't make much sense, the other just wouldn't seem as insulting as he'd intended.)

"What's the matter, Shit-Face? You look worried." Marty smiled provocatively, the two of them so close their helmets clacked on contact.

"Hell Hounds don' know no fear, Martee." Jean-Claude's accent was apparent but diluted with a pinch of U.S. temperament from years of living in the states. His skin was unshaven, his purplish lips swollen and chapped. "Think your choir boys c'n handle the heat?"

"Won't be the first time we've pissed on yur campfire."

The referee pointed at Marty's stick and the ice, signaling for him to get into position. Their breaths swirled in the frigid air and Marty noticed the focus and intent roiling in Le'Duprie's eyes. This time Jean-Claude was slightly more involved with the play than before Marty had put that last one past his goalie.

Marty, figuring his opponent was focused on the draw, glanced at his winger Terry to sneak him a wink. Terry nodded, knowing Marty was signaling for a pick when he made his move.

The Ref's whistle chirped and the puck dropped.

Elite athleticism on ice ensued.

Marty headed right through Le'Duprie like a sledgehammer through a cement wall, knocking him off balance, skates carving swaths in the ice beneath his blades.

Le'Duprie had won the draw and swept the puck back before being pummeled, but, by then, Mac was already on his way to intercept. The Hounds' D-man tried getting the biscuit to his blitzing centerman; Mac's stick said no. He deflected the attempt Marty's way just before the graceful brute crossed into his opponents' zone. Puck finding his blade, Marty paraded it boldly across the blue line, heading for the 'tender while the crowd's posteriors grew heavy on the edges of their seats.

Marty thought for a moment he had a clear path to the net, but the last of the remaining D was closing in. The Hound defenseman lunged with his stick outstretched, desperate to make a difference, and swatted at the puck on Marty's blade sending it fluttering into the air. The D's momentum carried him through the Priest's skates and knocked him for a spin. But Marty turned ire to focus and hunted the puck in its path, choking-up on his shaft like a bat so to crack the rubber component in mid-decent – and the fleeting moment carried the emotional weight of thousands, jam-packing a single second with minutes of timeless uproar—

Flakes of ice took flight from the flailing body of the sliding defenseman. Fans jumped from their seats, spilling beer and nachos onto the already filthy aisles. A man in the stands sprung up and knocked his wife's drink into her half-eaten popcorn – next to them, a child's mouth and eyes were wide in awe of the action unfolding on the ice. And behind him, a man wearing an orange and black Hounds jersey, spewing chunks of food from his mouth over relative obscenities, clenched the hotdog in his hands hard enough to squeeze ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise out both sides of his fists—

As Marty's stick collided with the puck, it gave into the force of his swing, bending backward like an archer's bow; and when it caught up, it catapulted the cold rubber for the top right corner of the net. Flying for victory like a line drive into centerfield, it flipped awkwardly end-over-end, scattering ice shavings off it like exploding shrapnel...

In a groin-splitting, last-ditch effort, the goalie dropped to the ice and extended his glove, covering as much space above his leg-pad as he could. But when the knuckling-puck hit his glove's lip, it tumbled just over its edge and trickled past the plain of the goal-line to gently – ever so gently – kiss the back of the net—

Mwah.

The red goal-light burst on and the siren blared, haughtily announcing the Priests' success.

Quickly the boys reconvened at their bench amid a union of congratulations at tying the score, six to six – the crowd around them roaring its approval.

Adjacent to the revelry, Le'Duprie's scowl toward Marty and the rest of the Priests warned of an evil scheme brewing between cauliflower ears (those acidic vats for eyes spilling hot fury on the ice through the sweat over his brow). From the bench Jimmy caught the glare by accident and the two had made definitive, offensive eye contact. Bathed in maliciousness, the look shot chills up Jimmy's canal. Le'Duprie's eyes may as well have been surgical scissors on account of the young Priest feeling his balls drop off when the Hound threw him an evil smile to top it off. Thankfully Marty was gliding in from center-ice, skating in front of the bench, and conveniently eclipsed the impact of the psychological neutering Le'Duprie was performing on his young teammate.

Jimmy tried to shake it off and pick his "stones" back up from the floor when the Coach started laying out their next plan of attack.

"Okay, kids, listen up. Good work out there, but this game ain't over. Terry – yer gettin' double shifted. Marty – third time's the charm."

"Sure you don't want me to sit this one out, Coach?" Marty thought he was funny.

His coach thought otherwise.

"Don't get cocky." A stern shake of his finger countered the remark. "But this time I want Terry on the draw. Marts, you take left-point. Jimbo, yer on right wing....Jimmy! You listenin' to me?!"

"Uhh...yeah, Coach, left wing."

" _Right_ wing, you nut-less _putz! Right!"_ Jimmy's scattered focus drew the eyes of the whole squad. "God _damn_ it, Jimmy, quit playing with yer nads and pay attention!"

Marty looked down at his teammate, seemingly not nervous himself but a little concerned. "You okay, man?" he asked, sneaking his worry under the voice of his coach.

"Huh...?" Jimmy was still rattled from Dr. Ball-clipper's heinous sneer. "Yeah...yeah, I'm cool, Marts." He glanced back up at his captain, disguising the discomfort in his eyes with a shrug.

Marty nodded back, unconvinced.

The Coach's plan was simple: Win the face-off and move as a unit over the blue line. Jimmy gets the puck on goal and Marty and Terry crash the net to sniff out the rebound. If all went well they'd get an offensive-zone draw if not a game winning goal.

Marty had more tip-ins and goals off rebounds than any other player in the MWGHL (a semi-professional hockey league comprising of eleven other teams spanning the west coast, Arizona, and Nevada). He was a monster on offense and not because of his size, but because of the "soft hands" he played with that had tallied such tall numbers against opposing squads – and these Anaheim Hell Hounds were not without casualties in his private war on stats.

After getting their strategy straight, the boys perused onto the ice while Jimmy hopped over the boards and got into position. And as if Le'Duprie could smell Jimmy's perspiring fear, he stared purposely at his mark, spitefully ogling, planting his vile seed of hurtful intentions. Marty saw the look from the Hound captain and started to piece together why Jimmy had been so distracted.

He responded accordingly.

"Hey, 'Shit-Fuck!' " He mocked Le'Duprie's bumbling curses with an awkward word-grouping of his own. "I'm over here, asshole!" His two large fingers pointed back at his own eyes. "Keep yur eyes on the prize!"

Le'Duprie snorted and spit, sniggering obtusely.

Jimmy felt more comfortable knowing Marty was on the ice but couldn't bring himself to get settled. He was trying to avoid looking the Hound's way and, in doing so, had a hell of a time remembering to place one foot in front of the other.

When the Ref dropped the puck, Terry won the draw. Marty peeled back, and Jimmy headed up-ice, following the habitual motion of his skates. When Marty inherited a lovely saucer-pass from his D-man, he sent the puck up off of the boards and across the rink for his dazed-and-confused winger.

So far, everything appeared to be going as planned.

Jimmy slouched against the weight of Le'Duprie's stare pounding at the back of his helmet, heart nervously racing, skates closing in on the Hell Hounds' zone. Apparently he had a touch too much adrenaline fueling his stride, however, and ended up a step ahead of Marty's pass, crossing over the blue line a hair offside. His coach was likely screaming and spitting, cursing Jimmy's lack of execution, but Jimmy couldn't hear him. He barely heard the whistle when the Ref blew the play down.

He lowered his guard to take a breath, anticipating a moment of tranquility...but had to cut it short when he saw Le'Duprie barreling toward him. A blurred image of Marty stood pointing in the background, yelling something – probably trying to give Jimmy a heads-up. But it was all he could do to brace himself for the blow.

The play was dead but Le'Duprie went that extra mile and came in for some overly aggressive, late body-contact. He crashed into Jimmy and sent him smashing against the boards, leading with the butt of his stick and an elbow up high.

A snap inside Jimmy's torso, like the muffled crack of knuckles under gloves, perturbed his excited mind. Then an elbow met his jaw and plowed his head into the glass behind him with the boards giving in to the impact so generously that they flirted with the fans in the front row. Helmet flying from his head and fluttering over the glass, the crowd recoiled with a sympathetic groan for the smaller winger. The hit was clearly too late to be legal – but protesting it after the fact wouldn't stop the damage that had been done.

Like a battered lump of snot, Jimmy slid unconscious down the boards and slumped to the ice with Le'Duprie sniggering above—

" _That'_ s _IT!!"_ Marty rushed in from behind, head full of steam, losing both his gloves to the promise of battle. "I'm fucking _sick_ of yur _shit_ , Duprie!"

Le'Duprie, still basking in his stolen glory, gladly turned to face his aggressor – but Marty had already unleashed the cannons—

The Priest landed a hard right even before the Hound could face him, spinning Jean-Claude back in the opposite direction and uprooting another tooth from the bone with the force of the blow.

Regaining balance, Le'Duprie raised his arm to his face, casually nursing the damage with a sleeve.

" _Fuck_ you, Marty, you fuckar _poosey_." He probably meant "fuck you, Marty, you fucking pussy," but the interpretation was questionable and, as always, up for debate. After his failed stab at an insult, he dropped his gloves and spit the blood from his busted gums on the ice. "You wan' to go?...Le's go."

Without a glitch or breath of indecision, Marty squared off, left arm outstretched, grasping for a fistful of jersey. Le'Duprie kept his arm stiff like a stanchion while grabbing some cloth of his own, ducking the next punch thrown, competing to fix his footing.

Tugging and shoving while swinging their free-arm rhythmically at each other's skulls, the force from the two dueling gladiators whipped them in awkward circles. It was a fist flinging frenzy, full of bare, bloodied knuckles and enraged, lumped up, vein-swelling foreheads. For twenty long seconds their blows were in sync, equally pounding the shit out of each other's angry veneers.

Eventually Marty caught Le'Duprie off balance and landed a zinger to the side of his helmet. It popped up off his head like it was spring-loaded with a hair-trigger attached to his ear and bounced off the ice beside them. While Marty was off balance, another tethered blow from Duprie found the Priest's jaw, but it slid off his face without doing much more than touching-up his 5 o'clock shadow. The missed punch caused Le'Duprie to lose his footing and he fell face-first into a freshly stacked knuckle hoagie.

Skates growing roots in the ice, Marty pulled his sprawling, sparing partner toward him, putting all his weight into his next right cross. His fist nailed the side of Le'Duprie's cheek so hard it knocked the burly bastard out cold, buckling his knees and dropping him with the blow.

But Marty, still seeing red, didn't stop at his victory strike that'd already won the battle. He saw the limp body of his friend Jimmy hitting the ice in his mind and felt the need to further punish the dog who'd hurt him. So he directed another hit for his opponent's nose and inadvertently forced the back of his skull into the unforgiving ice.

The sound of it was sickening and jarring enough to snap him out of his rage.

He let loose his handful of jersey.

Jean-Claude's large body fell indolent on the ice.

Marty hadn't noticed, but the entire staff of linesmen and referees were draped over him, digging for leverage, meaning to pry him from his opponent's body. They were frantic, surrounding him like he was a wild animal with sights set on disemboweling a child. His mind started jumping at the exaggerated drama in an attempt to piece together what exactly had happened:

How many times did he actually hit him, he wondered. He thought he'd only cracked him once after he lost consciousness – but as he looked at the body of the man lying on the ice, his heart dropped from the sight of the damage his fists had inflicted. Duprie's face was wrecked, with an appalling collection of blood pouring from what looked like the back of his skull that congealed into a thick, dark puddle behind him...

The arena of spectators was so silent the voices of the refs and coaching staff could be heard from all corners of the Forum. Trainers hovered over Le'Duprie and Jimmy's fallen bodies. They were lifting Jimmy onto a stretcher but no one would risk moving the Hound from where he lay.

Marty was almost catatonic, his teammates guiding him off the ice.

He heard voices behind him, like words from a distant TV that someone left on in another room – "He's not breathing! He's not breathing! Get the medics!" – but couldn't muster up the will to react. He was coherent enough for an instant, however, to utter one word:

"Jimmy...?"

He wasn't sure if Jimmy was alright, and for a moment, that was all that mattered... Then:

"Jimmy's good, man. Jimmy's gonna be alright." Terry found enough control to get Marty off the ice and into the locker room. "Stay here, Marty. Just...try not to _hit_ anything else." He sat him down, in a bit of a daze himself, and rushed back toward the crowd.

Marty put his face in his hands and his stomach wretched. His head was spinning.

Flashes of his fists pounding Le'Duprie's skull into the ice exploded in his mind. Hit after hit after hit. Blood dripped from his knuckles and poured from the fresh cuts in Jean Claude's face like a red river from a black mountain—

" _Fuck!"_

Furious with himself, he threw his knuckles into the hollow tin of a locker. Head heavy and stomach weak, lost to a tumult of emotions he didn't know what to do with, he stood up and tore away his equipment, half of which was already hanging off his body. He didn't understand... He couldn't wrap his brain around how it all went down...

Stumbling, aimless, he mindlessly headed for the showers, following some autonomic, after-game routine, and caught a glimpse of his angry, blood-spotted face in a mirror.

He turned away, ashamed of what he saw, not willing to own-up to the sight of his own rage...

Still only partly disrobed, the shower seemed like a swell place to start to wash away his sins, so he turned on the flow and tried rinsing the spilt blood from his face. He could taste the aftermath in his mouth and spit spastically trying to push the memory of it as far away as he could. The light broken by the spray pulsated from bright to dark, flooding his senses, and he tried wiping the blur from his vision but couldn't focus past the gore on his face that'd stuck his eyelashes together in sickening clumps. Water pounded against his head as hard and as loud as Le'Duprie's fist had moments before and, for an instant, he thought he might still be fighting, so he covered up to protect himself, ducking the raining blows of an invisible foe.

He felt the ground pull out from under him just before a loud crack sounded behind his ears – and those surrounding, pulsating lights that continued to antagonize his consciousness then took an ominous stroll toward black...

The last thing he saw through the haze of his disordered mind, before losing the battle of light versus dark, was the half-translucent delusion of Le'Duprie's bloodied veneer brooding over him, his eyes angrily willing him to slip into a nauseating and guilt-ridden nothingness.

2

"Marty..."

He recognized Terry's voice even before opening his eyes.

"Yur gonna be okay. Yur in the _hospital_... We're gonna get you fixed up."

Flashes of light passed through the skin of his eyelids, rushing over them from above, and he realized he was on his back but moving. Muffled sounds led to cloudy vision when he opened his eyes. His head throbbed, his surroundings spiraling into context, slowly coming into focus with Terry's face taking shape above.

"What...?" He wasn't sure where to begin.

"You blacked out, man. Doc says it's a concussion. Looks like you cracked yur head on the shower floor but yur gonna be fine....Just relax." Terry sounded nervous but sincere.

"Where's Jimmy?"

"He's here too. He's gonna be okay. Got his own room and nurses and everything."

Other voices emerged from a haze of jumbled sounds; technical medical babble he couldn't make heads or tails of. He wasn't sure at first why he was where he was, but a flash of his fist hitting Le'Duprie's face jumpstarted his memory—

"Duprie...?"

The hesitation in Terry's eyes put fear in his heart.

"You need to rest, man. Just take it easy, okay?"

" _Duprie?!"_

Marty needed an answer, insistent in his tone. He couldn't "take it easy" without knowing what had happened.

But Terry didn't want to give it to him. Marty saw in his eyes that he couldn't bring himself to say the words.

"Goddamn it, Terry... Duprie! _Where is he?!"_

All the sounds he had just uncovered with consciousness retreated twice as fast into a haunting silence over the next few seconds that passed.

"He...he didn't make it, man......" The words eluded him, and the only two he could think to utter were like blood-soaked cotton balls in his mouth. "He...he's dead."
CHAPTER TWO

### Where There Are Sheep...

1

Downtown Los Angeles; 20 minutes before the hospital:

There was this strange smell. Sort of like what a wet dog might smell like if it were dipped in shit and smoking Newports. He'd picked it up a few blocks back over the reek of his cigarette but didn't think twice about it since he was standing so close to a large, festering dumpster, curdling with thick fermented liquids and moldy organic wastes. Such were perks of the trade when making a living called for secluded gatherings in alleyways where no one who could give a warm and fuzzy fuck would be caught anywhere near in any better shape than dead. His physical and mental wellbeing meant very little to him at this point in his "career" – a fact that brazenly reflected the sort of lifestyle he chose to endure.

His name was Smoke – a street-handle shamelessly describing his most noteworthy pastime: the copious inhalation of gaseous byproducts propagated by the roasting of methamphetamines. He would've preferred the analogy being derived from the smoke the end of a barrel expelled after firing off a round, but instead settled for being unanimously known as the highest kite on the block. Who was he to rebut the moniker he'd so deservedly earned?

He'd sold this fidgety street kid a twenty-dollar bag of meth, collected the cash, then continued his stroll through the musty streets of where he'd been raised. Sometimes the stench of the bums on the blocks and the piss in the corners would sink into the threads of your clothes after hanging around the locals for too long. Or it might've even been that extra thick layer of big city smug and crass lingering in the air that settled into his hoodie and reeked so distinctively of a wet and rotting canine's ass...

He tilted his head from under his hood and took a sharp whiff of his tee – some obscene scene of "guns, money, and bitches" stylized in black and white graphics on its front – but the raunchy old animal-like stink wasn't coming from him. The alley behind him was at least a half-block away by now but the odor was still strong; it hung pungent in the air, stifling his enjoyment from every greedy pull of his cigarette.

He looked around with a sour sneer and checked the bottom of his shoes for shit but didn't find so much as a smudge so shook it off, trying not to let it get to him. The stench was likely seething off some stray mutt that'd been following him around, he figured. Those oversized, street dwelling hyenas have a keen sense of smell well enough to savor the hotdog wrapped in bacon on his breath right over the enduring scent of tobacco and meth smoke on his clothes. On the other hand, he could've just been imagining the whole thing. He smoked so much tweak earlier in the evening his eyes felt ready to pop out of his boney skull and bounce right the fuck out of the city, pioneering a pilgrimage into the suburbs on a quest for greater community awareness.

He chuckled at the thought of his bugged-out eyeballs heading a campaign of white-collared, Neighborhood Watchmen with whistles while continuing his patrol one lengthy stride at a time, tempered in his pace, expertly fabricating his practiced fearlessness.

Not much civilian traffic grazed the asphalt at this time of night. Just cops, cab drivers, and the occasional afterhours junkie looking to score a bag. But the concrete was heavy with late-night pedestrians. There were more vagrants and dope dealers on the blocks than stop signs or bus stops. It was a bit more competition than he would've liked, but...hell, where there were sheep, wolves were sure to follow.

Smoke indeed saw himself as a wolf in these streets and was likely perceived as such by any wandering close enough to catch his glare. He was of Caucasian descent and in his early twenties, but had the stare of a slightly older man, with definitive dark features (possibly from a mix of ethnicities) under a wiry goatee and an imposingly tall frame. He grew up as an urban kid with the look of a delinquent but grew into his oversized clothes and now stalked the streets as a force to be reckoned with. He was thin, but his knuckles bore signs of wear, and his stroll was indifferent and overly confident. He had little to no hang-ups about his lifestyle and couldn't picture himself doing much of anything else. It was as if the way society perceived him had drawn an invisible line in his mind that predetermined the limits of his aspiration: It was easy to be a piece of shit when everyone who ever glanced your way looked at you like you smelled like one.

He reached into his jacket pocket for his menthol cigarettes in between drifting thoughts of his "career choices" and accidentally dropped a medium-sized sack of smaller, weighed-out bags of meth to the concrete.

"Shit..."

He stopped and crouched down, casually reaching for his livelihood as if it were a cell phone or his car keys. But before he could get his boney knuckles fixed to retrieve it, a mangy looking dog sprang out from behind him and snatched the meth in its yellow teeth. It scuttled into the alley up ahead and left only Smoke's surprise and a steaming, rancid smell to tarry in its wake.

"Fuck!"

His swear jumped from his mouth. The scampering canine had startled him, strumming at his already high-strung nerves. Indignantly, he reached into his waistline and pulled his revolver to point it at the blurred image of the fleeing vermin – but it was long-since around the corner by the time he could lift to aim.

"FUCK!!"

He thrust his gun-hand forward, venting aggravation through a squeeze of his fist around the Colt's handle. If it had had any bullets in it, he might've shot himself in the dick when he pulled it, but lucky for his "junk" the weapon wasn't loaded. In truth he didn't even know if the damn thing still fired. He hadn't kept it loaded since he'd killed a man the year before. Usually, if and when he'd have to whip it out, all the scum bags and crack heads would scatter like, well...scum bags and crack heads. He'd normally get the last laugh just watching these dumb-shits running sideways thinking they were dodging .45's. This time, however, somewhere around that shady corner up ahead, some filthy fucking hobo's pet poodle was eating the last of his stash, and that shit just wasn't funny.

He jogged toward the corner of the alley and stopped just short of it so to not spook the stupid mutt into running any further. With his head tilted around the rough edge of the building, he spied the ass of the bastard scurrying into a dead end. The shaded corridor looked as black as Satan's taint the further back he tried to see, but he was so spunned out of his mind he felt as if he had night vision goggles plugged into his ogling sockets and so braved the darkness as if he belonged.

"Hey...buddy..." A homeless man, holding a brown-bagged, 40oz. bottle that smelled of a mix between cheap beer and a magic marker, laid sprawled out on the inside of the alley. "Spare some change?"

Smoke looked down and his pistol followed his glare.

"How 'bout I change your fuckin' face, you stupid troll?" He shook his head. "Leave me the fuck alone. I'm busy."

The vagrant took a moment for the comment and gun to register but managed to stay focused enough to counter the remark with a pudgy, middle digit from his free hand while simultaneously enjoying a swig of his beverage. It was a seemingly well-rehearsed maneuver, and he'd executed it with a kind of witty and inebriated elegance.

"Yeah...fuck you harder, pops."

Stupid fucking bum was the _least_ of his problems. That stupid fucking _crack-_ mutt had definitely taken precedence over the bashing of a drunken hobo in the face with the butt of his empty pistol. Maybe he'd bash the prick in the melon if the dog got away, he thought. That might balance out the rest of his night if things didn't get any better for him.

He stowed the thought and headed down the alley, tracking the sour funk and the faint sound of claws clicking against cement. There was an eerie layer of fog, like dry ice, that settled speciously on cue, haunting his next steps into the shadows that avoided the city lights. Facetiously he half expected a zombiefied, younger version of Michael Jackson to breakdance his way through the brick wall beside him. He imagined him in a red leather jacket, hosting an army of little boy-zombies, pop-locking to that Thriller song he did back when he was still cool. That is, before he actually was an expired pop-zombie, soulfully dancing to tunes from beyond the grave...

He shook the image from his head, regaining his scattered focus, gun hung to his side, shoulders awkwardly rolled. Every step he took felt like five more from the street behind. He looked back, just to make sure the block was still there, and found the bum he'd insulted had decidedly uncoupled himself from his curb, leaving him more alone than he was comfortable with.

Suddenly the change in his pocket seemed like a fair price to pay for a moment of shallow companionship.

Between the ominous 80's video-shoot fog and the dramatically flickering lights, he strained to find movement in the dark. He thought he could almost see a figure scuttling in the distance but couldn't be sure. He may've just been picking up random shapes in shadows that his eyes were trying to wrap his brain around... But then his nose and upper lip twitched at a familiar, rancid smell that coated the back of his throat, and he knew he had to be getting close.

He followed his entuned senses until the dog's claws stopped clicking long enough to be replaced by a rustling sound – like the sound of a medium-sized sack of smaller, weighed-out bags of meth being fucking eaten by a crack-mutt...

He held fast a few yards from the alley's end, examining the obscurity of the dark that hid his prey, pupils reflecting the void of his uncertainty. Hoping the first thing that sprang to mind was a simple, yet effective solution to his bind, he decided on a strategy:

Yelling at it.

"HEY!!"

No such luck.

His own echo startled him – but the elusive fiend didn't bother to budge.

He'd hoped to have frightened it; chased it away from his stash before it sniffed up and spilled out whatever was left. But the animal responded with a low growl instead, coat shrouded in shade.

He struggled to see through the cloak of night and thought he could almost make something out if he filled in the blanks. It looked crouched between a dumpster and a darkened corner, conveniently avoiding the dim lights flickering behind him. Its snout faced the wall: its back rounded, waves of motion rolling over ragged, black fur. He couldn't make out the head, but the growling resounded vexingly with the rustling of his bag, irritating an already irritable junkie to the point of near combustion...

Then it got deeper, choppier, like it was chuckling at him – or snorting a fat fucking rail and choking on it – until it grew violent in its pitch as he stood in limbo and watched, transfixed by its silhouette in the dark.

With his eyes glued to the veil, the ruckus went from sadistic to grievous in hurry. It was as if the mutt had met its match against the demon in the bag, and Smoke's twisted sense of justice took a dip into ultimate retribution, thinking it was overdosing and dying in pain...

Then, like ants eating a spider, the dark consumed the scene along with his moment of triumph. It coalesced wherever he'd focus, entirely erasing the animal and its groans from his perception.

He leaned forward cautiously, squinting.

Standing perfectly still, he stared intensely at a blank canvas of shadows...until he jolted in shock of a pair of yellow eyes ripping open two holes in the black to stare back.

Surprise steeled his spine, and the once absent growling crept back into his ears just before the dog's soul-chilling eyes broke away from his.

From a growl to a snarl, painful dry-heaves and intense groans crawled from the shadows next. Feral noises of anger and violence wrestled just beyond his ability to see. It sounded like something big broke through Hell's jagged gates and was stripped bare of its flesh in the process. It was a sound that was driving his mind wild trying to make out what exactly was happening.

He could hardly _stand_ it; the suspense of the uncertainty blistered at the nerves in his brain – but he didn't have to wait long before his desperate eyes were offered an emerging sight:

This shady mass, grim and formless, contorted and twisted in front of him, absorbing the surrounding blackness and leaching off his fear of the unknown. It thrashed about like a fish being hacked to pieces out of water, its own bones fracturing in the process, snapping and popping, struggling to find footing while banging against the dumpster. It appeared through the gloom as if it were twice its original size, face-down, with bony, pointed elbows stabbing from the fur on its back.

He tried backing away but the shadows didn't get any further from his feet. The blacktop crunched under the tension of this thing's transformation and the night masked the fractures as they spread, reaching out to climb the walls.

After seconds of terrible unknowns that dragged on like minutes, the snarling finally settled into a primal hum. He could hear its thick, heavy breathing, but its eyes were the only thing still visible in the dark – yellow, bloodshot eyes surrounded by a swelling, blackened shape that dined on shadows, absorbing them like food for its form.

For a time, his heart rate slowed and his breathing leveled out. There was a tranquil feel to the moment, like the eye of a storm, where he went so far as to think he might be imagining the whole thing. Maybe he smoked one too many pipe loads and was having some kind of drugged-up panic attack... But that moment didn't last as the yellow, demon eyes again locked with his and inched closer with every breath he took, tethered to his rising anxieties, breathing in his fear.

It suddenly occurred to him he should be running like hell for hallowed grounds and/or screaming like a woman for help, but the warmth on his face and the stench of its breath paralyzed him, and its heavy breathing assembled in his mind like dark, grunting whispers that were...trying to say something...

This...thing... Its deep, gruff respiring cutting through the nervousness and fear clouding his mind entwined groans with soft words in its breath. He couldn't hear them, but he...he could understand them. Like the words were buried under the warmth and the smell and were in his head instead of his ears. And above it all, he felt as if he were floating. Like the grumbling from its throat was vibrating his entire body, numbing his senses so he couldn't feel the walls around him or the ground below, but only the heat, and the smell, and the terror of this monster's presence.

Dizziness and nausea were a sick prelude to the taste of blood and vomit rising in his throat. He tried swallowing his fear and taking a breath but choked on his tongue and couldn't get his voice to push past the tumor in his windpipe far enough to scream...

He struggled for air in between the adrenaline that stuttered his heart while blood and bile filled his mouth and dripped from his chin. This thing's savage eyes and giant teeth were so close now he couldn't see anything else. And the sound beneath its huffing was like a voice from a distant memory or nightmare... And it sounded...familiar. A woman's voice that spoke to him directly and...this woman knew his name...

It was a soft whisper buried behind animal breath and fangs and demon eyes that bled. The smell was like raw meat and blood on a dead animal that'd been roasting on the side of a desert road. But this thing wasn't dead. Its hot breath was very much alive, and its hands – its claws – he could feel them gripping his throat with his feet dangling above ground, unable to find his footing.

The whisper behind the grumbling was becoming clearer now. The words were long and drawn out – ghostly – and the voice so familiar it almost frightened him more than the fact that he couldn't breathe and was very likely going to die.

She spoke to him in a tone that reeked of doom, and his eyes widened and pupils dilated at the ghastly sound of her sigh...

" _Jaaaaaaacccceeennnnn......"_

No one ever called him _Jacen_ anymore... No one even knew his real name! No one...but his...dead......sister...

And he swore he could see her in the reflection of the demon's eyes, reaching for him... Her fingers thin and frail as she wheezed with pain bleeding through hollowed words...

"...... _Joinnn.........usssssss.........innn.........hhellllllllll..."_

2

The sound of her voice in his mind stopped his heart and iced his soul. He hadn't thought about his sister's murder in over a year. Being so belligerently spunned so often clouded his memories and stunted the guilt and dejection he should've had to live with.

The man he'd killed the year before was a drug pusher he'd been "professionally" associated with. His sister met this dealer through him and had a "thing" that basically involved sex for drugs. She'd gotten tired of buying her supply from her older brother, so he put her to work to carry her own weight, cutting and bagging coke and meth to earn her fix. She'd work all day and, toward the end of the night, would eventually give herself over to him whenever she'd get so high her personal self-worth and reserve formally diminished into a haze of gratuitous opiates.

This dealer was bad news. Smoke knew that – but so was _he_.

At the time he was too thoroughly lit on a daily basis to feel any real concern for his sister's wellbeing. Apathy toward women was no stranger to him until that day he found her body naked in a cold metal dumpster. The sight of his dead sibling beaten to death, lying in a pile of discarded filth, was just enough to finally flip the switch in his brain from money and drugs to bloody-fucking-murder.

The dealer had pumped her full of dope, sniffed a couple lines, forgotten he'd just shot her up, then dosed her again. They were in this second-rate hotel, three stories up with a window big enough to push a dead girl's body through conveniently positioned over an open dumpster in the alley. She was practically comatose after the second hit and he was in about mid-climax when she pissed herself on the bed he was fucking her to death in. He flipped his lid at the sight of the mess and started punching the girl squarely in the face, so stoned himself that he hadn't realized she was already unconscious and nearly dead.

When he was done ravishing and beating her, he lifted his piss splattered self up – fists swollen and dripping blood – and left her lying naked in a pool of fluids to die.

Afterward, he systematically lit a cigarette and cracked open a cheap fifth of whiskey, leisurely celebrating his sexual prowess with a shot and a drag. Minutes had passed before he finally realized what he'd done. And when he did, he impetuously wrapped her up in blood and urine-soaked sheets to maneuver her expiring carcass through the inviting mouth of an open window.

Three stories down and around the corner, Smoke was finalizing something of a frivolous "transaction" (as most of them were) when he heard the _thud_ he'd never forget come from the alley behind him.

His indifferent stare explored the adjacent path, only passively curious, and glimpsed a naked foot poking out of the dumpster twenty yards away. He looked up at the open window above, casually making the connection between the sound and the view.

His mind slowly put together these random pieces but wouldn't allow the thought to take shape. Cautiously, he started toward the body, and as the wheels of reasoning quickened their pace his heart pounded so hard it hurt him to breathe.

As he got closer he realized the naked foot protruding from the trash was sickeningly still twitching; a rapid, soft, thumping noise tapping against the dumpster's metal frame...

She was still alive...but wouldn't be for long.

He stepped up to stare into the dumpster at the body of this dying girl and wouldn't allow himself to see his sister behind the bloody and beaten frame of her face. He didn't want to look at all, but knew he had to get close enough to see what his brain had already figured out but his heart wouldn't allow him to grasp.

Following some sort of autonomic response, he reached into the dumpster and wiped the blood-soaked hair from the girl's swollen cheeks, looking in closely at the body of his kin while she convulsed and lay dying. He couldn't react in any normal way – like by calling out her name or clutching her body in his arms, or even by removing her from the pile of garbage that so ironically symbolized the end of her life. Instead, he just stared...watching her last moments slip away as she ceased to exist before his eyes.

The moment dragged on like hours but only seconds passed before the time came that the thumping stopped, and his blank stare turned frigged and riddled with hate, glaring at the lifeless body of what he thought to be his only living family.

For a moment he didn't see the bloodied corpse of a dead junkie in the dumpster, but the sweet face of his little sister smiling back at him when she was at her most innocent: the tender age of four or five. She was regarding him with unconditional love and an unworldly bliss that had filled his heart with warmth at one point in his life that now felt like only days before. In truth it'd been over a decade since he'd seen that look in her eyes, and he'd never fully realized how invigorating a sibling's trust was until now that it was gone forever.

The child's face in his thoughts turned to that of the dealer's grimace over his sister's dying body as he fucked her and beat her for his amusement. He saw a pleasure in the eyes of the man in his mind that in reality was only a clueless expression, but to Smoke it was the epitome of all things evil and disgusting in the world. The night around him turned red and his veins flushed hot with hate. He knew then only one thing: that he had to dispose of the fucking pig that raped and murdered his baby sister essentially right under his powdered nose.

He left the body where she laid and instinctively fingered his waistline for the six-shooter he carried. Storming past a few vagrants outside the hotel, he entered the tattered building and drew his weapon to his side. Through a doorway to the right, the lobbyist saw his gun and hastily picked up the phone. The police would be there soon, but not soon enough to save the bastard who had no idea how bad he had it coming.

If that godless, parasite of a man had any brains left in his half-baked skull he would've already been on his way to _Cancun_ by then, but when Smoke kicked open the door, gun in hand, he was still there, bent over a table, snorting a line of blow.

Smoke hesitated – but only to give the prick a chance to see what it was that Fate had in store.

The dealer looked up plainly, as if he didn't know what all the commotion was about, and started to speak, voice muffled under the hand that tended to his reddened nostrils.

"What the _fuck_ , Smo—?"

BLAMM!!!

Smoke pulled the trigger from ten feet away and hit the dealer in the shirtless chest. The blast knocked his torso back into the easy chair before he looked down at the small hole in his body that almost instantly poured blood. Jaw twitching, fingers crimped and frozen in an involuntary spasm, he looked like he might've been trying to say something when Smoke stepped closer, gun positioned five inches from the soon-to-be dead man's face.

No other words were exchanged. No "you killed my sister, I'll see you in hell" one-liners the avenging hero in Hollywood movies ritualistically spouted before finishing off the scum of the century. Just sparks, smoke, a loud bang, and brains splattering the walls behind the recently deceased.

Smoke stood for a moment and stared at the open skull of his victim, silently discovering an overwhelming sense of guilt squirming inside...

He raised the gun to his head.

He saw his sister's twitching, bloody and dying body in his mind and, without another second of thought, pulled the trigger...

Empty.

FUCK!!!

He squeezed it a few more times before giving up and letting it fall to his side.

He wished to _God_ he had one more bullet left in the chamber but shook it off as a sick twist of fate, tucked the gun in his waist, then pulled the hood of his jacket over his head.

He left the building in a daze – his face as pale as porcelain – feeling more alone now than ever before.

3

"Jess..."

Smoke tried whispering his sister's name but only wheezed out the last bit of air from his lungs that had kept him conscious.

The demon's grip on his throat was so strong that it _alone_ made him feel more weak and insignificant than he'd ever had.

He heard a thump over the sound of himself choking, like something heavy – a _body_ maybe – hitting the ground below. The strangest sensation came over him when his vision started to fade and he realized the sound he'd just heard was that of his own headless corpse falling to the alley floor.

In his last moment of awareness he thought to himself, maybe Hell wouldn't be so bad if he'd get to see his sister again... And in that instant, he renounced his struggle for life and allowed the darkness to consume.

This thing that stood over Smoke's body with his head in its grip, stared into its victim's dead eyes as if searching for a glimpse of something buried behind them. It dripped saliva and blood from its snout while its yellow pupils glowed in a diabolical display – a deep, fiery yellow that swirled with darkness and power so fierce it could've only come from a place such as Hell.

The demon was called Tessura. She was a creature born from the depths of the Underworld and a soul collector for the one who summoned her and gave her her time on this plane. She was an enchantress embodying a wolf who could change the way she was perceived at will. Tessura was not what folklore would call a "werewolf" specifically because she was not now, nor had ever been human. She could appear as nearly anything, such as a man or woman, dog or tree. She could appear as a snake, or a bucket of _bolts_ if she pleased, but without ever actually having changed form. She was an illusionist who could telepathically project images, and even voices, to a handful of people at a time, but she couldn't actually _speak_. She was, in fact, an animal. Her only solid form was that of a jet-black canine or the eight-foot tall, savage, snarling beast that was neither dog nor man but something with an abundance of the worst of both.

Tessura was as clever as any human – and even more so in most cases she'd been faced with on Earth. With the dead, severed head of her first victim still warm in her grasp, she now had a job to do that went beyond her typical duty as an assassin-slash-soul-hoarding huntress for hire. Smoke's body was deceased, but his essence hadn't yet descended to Hell, and Tessura had orders to capture his soul before Hell could claim it.

She focused her stare past the shell of his bleeding skull, into the extracorporeal substance of what had once been a sorry excuse for a man and siphoned the life-energy from his flesh with a single breath. It was as if her eyes frightened the minions of Hell's serpents who had their grip on his soul and she inhaled and swallowed it whole.

To assume the dead felt no pain was presumably optimistic. If a person could hear the sound accompanying Smoke's devoured spirit, that person would submit to the world that the dead do suffer, and much more so when unwillingly a part of something requiring the diligence of the demon Tessura.

The wolf-beast quaked in arousal of its meal, enjoying the fresh tang of the dead. Then its head pivoted – fangs unfurled – at the sound of a passing city bus that exuded a particularly familiar human perfume...

# CHAPTER THREE

...Wolves Are Sure to Follow

1

Downtown, Los Angeles; Now:

On the street along the alley where Tessura had just devoured the soul of a man who, in all honesty, should've been enormously inconsequential, the last public transport of the evening slowly passed, its passengers oblivious to her diabolical mischief.

A young woman smirked at the thought of a young man before her attention was pulled into the alley that lingered in shade like a stalker hiding from prying eyes. Just a glimpse of it picked at her suspicions and reeled her in; uncertainties hidden behind the reflections on the window... But why it grabbed her, she was unsure. Just the thought of this inimical, lonely corridor birthed some slimy seed of disquiet inside...enticing her curiosity with a mystery to unravel.

The brakes on the bus squeaked and the hydraulics hissed as it came to a stop not far from the scene of a brutal murder that _should_ have gone unnoticed. Alex stepped off the bus, leery as she'd be every night, and pinched her coat closed, buttoning it at its middle to shield herself from the cold. It normally wouldn't get below forty degrees in the dead of night in these streets she grew to endure, but _this_ night seemed abnormally chilly, and her warm breath rolled from her lips into the frigid air as a dense mist as thick as smoke.

Her heels clopped against the hard cement, her stride speaking without her behest. The inviting sounds of her dressy shoes made her apprehensive when alone – like they were announcing to the local street creeps an unsuspecting and attractive female was close by and plumped for meddling.

Dark denim hugged her thighs beneath a long wool coat that only stopped to meet the top of her black suede boots. Straight black hair and curves proportional to her frame, if Disney's Pocahontas was a city girl, Alex might have been mistaken for her sister.

A nipping breeze caught the skin of her cheek. It startled her with a cold bite and a foul smell so she lowered her chin to avoid the taste as bits of trash and empty bags pushed past her feet like rolling urban tumbleweed. Her confusion then met a sudden worry winding in her chest, her heart uneasy as she neared the mystery that called to her.

Her stride slowed, but her advance was steady. Her gut knew better than to press on, clinching in protest, but her curiosity outmuscled her intuition and her feet foolishly followed her intrigue.

As she got closer, the air grew colder, and the breeze tore passed her face like ripping masking tape from her cheek. It was as if the wind was _also_ trying to push her from her course, and she might've been wise to adhere. But when she reached the alley, she stepped cautious into its opening anyway, almost as much for cover from the current as to sate her curiosity.

When her foot found the alley floor the wind came to a stop. Frantic strands of her hair running from God-knows-what settled onto her back and shoulders almost with a sigh. The path's entire sinister feel dissipated in an instant and suddenly seemed to be more normal than any alley naturally _should_...

She thought her imagination might be reaching, thinking a "normal" alleyway wasn't normal at all, but she wasn't convinced of its proposed innocuousness. It didn't seem as dark as it did when she passed by it earlier. Instead she found it well-lit and strangely uncluttered. There were no smells of trash, urine, shit, alcohol, or any other signs of the filth that otherwise saturated the rest of the block.

It appeared to offer her nothing of interest other than how disinteresting it seemed...

She hadn't walked more than ten yards in before an inconveniently placed, building wall cut short her detour. She stared at the obstruction with suspicious eyes before reaching out, fingers prodding at its validity. She didn't know what she expected to find or even what she was searching for, but she honestly never realized the alley she frequently passed had such an abrupt dead end.

She put her palm to the barrier, experiencing its texture. It was rough and cold, bulky and obtrusive, just like it appeared. It just had this _feel_ to it – like an obnoxious bouncer at a bar who wouldn't allow you to pass simply to fulfill his role as an obtuse and overgrown barricade.

She ran her fingers over the perfectly flat concrete, longing for an imperfection – a nick, a crack or a bump – then conveniently came across a split in its surface, then a chip not far from that, appearing on cue. She traced a finger over the crack and fondled the small hole next to it, bewitched by its simplicity. She didn't know why, but she wasn't comfortable with testimony of her own eyes, somehow uncertain of the truths they swore by...

If she could see what her instincts were warning her of she'd be staring helplessly at a demonic beast with a man's head dripping from its claws and a butchered corpse at its feet. Outside the illusion of the wall and quiet alley, she unknowingly stood in the center of a pool of human insides that lay soaking into the cracks of the asphalt that bit at her heels—

Tessura towered boldly in front of her outstretched hand which hovered only inches from the demon's yellow fangs. Its carnivorous nature wanted to feed on the girl's flesh and drink of her soul, and it sneered angrily at her presence... But there was something else there, beyond its understanding, forcibly holding it at bay.

She smelled Alex's hand, snorting and huffing like an animal would to identify something as edible, and slightly cocked her demon head in a subtle awareness of what hid beneath the surface. Her cunning eyes pierced the cloth curtaining the girl's figure and a circular shape formed close to her heart. Tessura focused on the object hanging from her neck and, as it became clearer to her, her eyes felt its sting – a reckoning taking roots in the corneas of her infernal stare.

The beast snapped her head back and let loose a roar that should've been heard for blocks, but by wielding the strength of her nether telepathy, she didn't allow her prey to regard the sound. But the protective strength of the amulet Alex wore dampened the demon's influence. With her hand still lost in the illusion of the wall, she abruptly felt the hot breath of the beast's injured howl.

The smell of it coaxed a surprised gag from her throat and she veered her head. Her palm jerked back as a chill ran through her body with the remnants of its breath still numbing her fingers. She shuffled away with a sudden urge to not press her luck and turned toward the street...but again felt that ominous nothingness behind her that'd sparked her curiosity to start...

Her inquiring mind briefly stuttered her retreat – until she had a second notion that warned her not to tread. It was a feeling bound by natural instinct that man and animal shared alike for the mutual benefit of staying alive.

Tessura watched the young woman walk away unscathed, and her malicious fascination distracted her from her time-pressed undertakings. Her overseer beckoned – the night sky _itself_ obeying that will – and the air over her head tore open a fresh wound that bled shards of mysticism from several yards above.

She examined the anomaly unafraid, hair frizzed around her ears and snout while a static buzz bounced off the walls.

Snarling at the fissure in the sky, she protested its intrusion as it yawned open an electric maw and devoured the headless corpse from her feet into a nebulous mass. Tessura watched her victim atomize into streaky tones of flesh and meat then get whisked away inside the voltaic mouth that hounded her before it blinked into nothing. It was a very meticulous extraction of any, and very likely _all_ material evidence. Nothing and no one would ever know of Tessura's demonic dealings...unless, of course, they were unfortunate enough to be involuntarily involved.

The demon-wolf melted away its size until only the form of a strikingly handsome dog remained, with shiny black fur and glowing, yellow eyes. It shook off its transformation like dust on its coat and sniffed around. Combing over the area, it hoped to pick up a scent that would arouse it and give it purpose; the smell of blood and fresh flesh alluring even while heavily masked by a woman's product. Tessura's eyes gleamed and her fangs dripped, her mouth watering in anticipation of the scent that escaped its fate. She growled deeply under her breath a wanting groan. It was the primal whine of hunger unappeased.

2

Alex hurried from the alley, her breathing a bit erratic but she kept a level head. She wasn't sure what provoked such fright but knew by the stillness of the night that whatever it was wasn't going to go away.

When she was a child, she had an extra awareness that reached beyond the plane of a mortal existence. She'd sit for hours at night conversing with her mother, Aiyana, who'd been dead since the night of her birth. She never told a soul about her conversations with her mother's spirit except for her older brother who'd be a part of their talks through her.

A stretch of nearly a year went by when they'd speak to her nightly. Alex and her brother would sit and tell their departed mother about their friends at school, things their teachers would say, and stuff they did they thought would make her proud. Alex was four at the time and her brother twelve, both reaching for something in the world that existed beyond the confines of their callous reality. Eventually her brother started losing his conviction and growing skeptical of his sister's ability to commune with a woman she'd never met. But the way she'd describe her, and the things she'd tell him his mother would say were so much like her that at times he could feel her there in the room beside them; even smell her hair and sense her smile.

As the life of a child would grow more complex, with new friends, homework, and boys and such, Alex saw her mother less and less until she began doubting her own eyes and ears and dismissed her visions as the overactive imaginings of a lonely little girl. Her brother would bring it up at times as sort of a happy memory, but Alex was never very comfortable talking about it. Occasionally she would still see her mother in her dreams as she did as a kid and, through further experience, knew now her visions were more than just a lonely child's fancy.

The amulet she wore around her neck she got from her brother. He said their mother asked him to pass it on when she was old enough to wear it with respect. It had a historical background that was Native American, as was her mother's heritage, and was a gift she cherished and prayed with whenever she needed guidance or strength.

She reached under her coat and clutched the heirloom in her palm as she would whenever she grew nervous or frightened. Its form was made of a silver that would never get cold when it was close to her heart. On one side, it had an eagle's claw clutching a translucent green stone about the size of a marble, its consistency as deep as the belly of the sea. On the other, the green stone sat in the center of an eye, with ancient text encircling its edge and the sun shining behind it all. Neither she nor her brother really knew its meaning since their father didn't share their mother's heritage – or any other hallowed beliefs. He was a heartless, despicable tyrant of a man who'd lost custody of his children long before Alex was old enough to have the displeasure of getting to know him. She'd visited him in prison once, mostly to gain some insight into the "gifts" her life had been burdened with. Her visit proved to be less than heartwarming, but disturbingly insightful—

"Hi...dad."

The word "dad" was harder to pry from her throat than she expected. It tasted bitter when she said it, like a lump of sour mucus on the back of her tongue. She immediately wished she could take it back but hoped to use it to get him to drop his guard.

The middle-aged man behind the prison glass in an orange jumpsuit smiled, although it didn't bring Alex comfort to see. It was a vile and obnoxious split in his visage that reeked of arrogance and deceit. He was a white man in his late forties, with salt-and-pepper hair, broad shoulders, and a face and stare that looked like it'd been dragged through three lifetimes. Freshly shaven to reveal nicks and scars on a square jaw and cleft chin, he spoke to his seventeen-year-old daughter in a twistedly perverse tone.

"Hey, sugar-plumb." His voice was deep and raspy, not sincere in the slightest. "You look... _just_ like yer mom." He sized up his daughter's face and posture, purposely looking her over to make her feel uncomfortable.

Alex swallowed her unease and cleared the lump from her throat. "I, uh..."

"...You wanna know more about yer mother." He arrogantly put his words into her mouth and, when he spoke, wasn't looking at her eyes, but at her lips and breasts. He hadn't seen her since she was four and she'd grown into a stunning sight to see.

She leaned back in her seat as if she could move away from his stare, and he smirked, knowing his attempt to make her feel violated was realized. He knew she came to get information from him and didn't plan on making it easy. She didn't come to see _him_ , he was sure, but he wasn't sure what she wanted. He planned to get his own sickly pleasures out of this once-in-a-lifetime visit, and to keep her there, dangling on the edge of his every word for as long as he could.

"You wanna know what she was _like_ – if she had any other family: sisters or brothers you could call auntie and uncle, who'd welcome yer orphan ass with open arms and loaded _wallets_." He _hmphed_ while leaning back in his chair, rearranging the look on her face from nervous to cross.

"Mmmmm..." he groaned perversely. "You look even more like her when yer _angry_." His smile was almost genuine now, but even more deranged. He slid his free hand off the counter housing the glass between them and onto his lap, continuing to mock her civility with his tone.

"You wanna know how such an 'innocent' and _caring_ ' young woman could've gotten mixed up with a piece of dog shit like yer father, _don't_ ya, sugar-plumb."

She wasn't sure what to say to him – or even if she should bother wasting the air – but figured she'd give him a few minutes to show his cards. Maybe he'd answer her questions without her having to pry.

"You wanna know how yer beautiful, sweet lil' cherry of an ass coulda came outta the disgusting loins of the ol' con sittin' in front of ya," his hand fiddled under the table between them and she could see his arm moving but tried not to think about what he was doing, "... _don't_ ya, sugar-plumb."

An uncomfortable silence painfully lingered, the stench of it nearly unbearable. Alex almost got up and left, not wanting the old perv to get any more pleasure from seeing her insulted. But then he continued to chirp so she stayed seated and listened.

His voice went softer, and his breathing deeper. He got a sick pleasure out of every unwillingly moment he took from her and displayed his demented enjoyment through a heinous grin (shamelessly exposing obviously neglected dental-hygiene).

"Yer not thinkin' about leavin' already, are ya, sugar-plumb?"

" _Don't_...call me that." It bothered her to respond to his taunts, but she wanted him to see she wasn't there to be bullied.

"Oh, so you finally found yer words, huh, sugar-plumb." He chuckled at her irritation. "Nice of you to join our special little, family talk." He seemed to be as amused by the sound of his own voice as much as his hand in his pants. "So...let's hear it. What is it you always wan'ed to tell yer dear ol' daddy to his face if you ever got the chance, huh? No wait – lemme guess: 'Fuck you, dad. It shoulda been you that died.'...Is that it? Or – or 'Why'd you do it, dad? Why'd you rob that store and shoot that poor ol' man and leave us all alone?' "

His tone was purposely childish, attempting to get a rise out of her. He hoped to stir up more anger in her eyes. It turned him on when a woman was mad but her expression hardly changed. She decided not to let him bother her. She wasn't going to react emotionally to anything he said if she could help it.

"Fuck you, dad. It should've been _you_ that died." She said it plainly, without any feeling, as if it were a fact read from a book in school library. "I'd ask what my mother saw in you, but I already know." She smiled the slightest bit. "A _challenge_ to try and make a man out of an animal....She probably _pitied_ you more than she ever really gave a shit."

He smiled back at that. Her attempt to insult him didn't take – at least not on the surface. He, instead, embraced it.

"Oh, it wasn't pity, princess. It was perversion. Yer mommy was a sadistic little whore with a taste for domestic drama." And with a grin he added, "You're a brave one, aren't ya, sugar-plumb. Standin' up to yer big, bad father. Comin' down here all by yerself..." Then a thought occurred: "Where's that pussy lil' role-model, athlete-for-a-son I raised for the better part of a decade, huh? He too piss-scared to come look his evil father in the eyes?...Afraid he might see hisself sittin' here behind this glass?"

"Marty isn't afraid of you. And he isn't anything _like_ you." His comment on her brother irked her more than she was prepared for. "No matter how much you tried to raise him to be as bitter and as pessimistic as you, he turned out to be someone who would make a mother proud," then she added, "and a sorry excuse for a man _envious_."

That mouthful touched under the stone-cold surface of the old con and she saw it in the twitch of his eyes. The truth hurts, it would seem.

"I'm not here to whine about not having a mother or father—"

"Then why _are_ you here, sugar-plumb? Not that I'm not _really_ enjoying our special little talk." He chuckled provocatively. There was no doubt his remark was a reference to his hand on his "package."

She hesitated a moment, waiting for the right amount of suspense to build before dropping the bomb. The one thing she really _had_ wanted to say to her father when the time came. The thing that would set the tone for her for the rest of her life if she came by the reaction she suspected to get. His reception now could confirm her suspicions about her mother _and_ herself, and the "gifts" she's had to live with—

He could almost see it coming in her strategic silence and tried to brace himself for the blow...

"I'm here to look into the eyes of the monster who murdered my mother."

The Earth stood still.

His facial expression went from "fuck you" to "oh, fuck..." and he leaned back as if he could escape his own surprise. It was as though he was confronted by the only possible thing left in his life that could actually get a rise out of him. She _couldn't_ have known what he'd done... His accomplice made uncovering any trace of it _impossible_.

He was so noticeably affected that his stupor told her exactly what she wanted to know. It'd almost completely confirmed that, one: her mother didn't die from complications during child birth – unless the term "complications" encompassed premeditated murder due to a lethal cocktail in her saline solution followed by a hospital-pillow-sandwich. And, two: her dreams were real. She had seen her mother murdered by her father...and now she was sure she knew why...

"You're not really my father, _are_ you."

3

Sharp claws clicked against cement in the distance, and Alex clutched the pepper spray in her palm. She hurried down the concrete sidewalk, trying to keep ahead of the feeling that something was watching her, scrutinizing her very existence...

No one was left on the streets at this point, which was odd since her neighborhood never slept. The block was barren, empty and grim. The street lights flickered and struggled against the dark, but were ultimately defeated, quivered, and then burnt out, leaving a black, lightless void ominously lingering in her wake.

She heard what sounded like whispers in the wind that crept through the block but couldn't be sure if they were real or just her hyped-up senses acting on overdrive. She didn't know what exactly was happening but was sure she wasn't alone. Something had followed her, expertly concealing its presence like a predator stalking its meal, and the night itself conformed to its decree.

A chill climbed over her spine that was so intense it rung in her ears just as a gust of wind blew passed her face and nefariously whispered her name...

" _Alex......"_

She jerked her head, looking over her shoulders.

The whisper was so clear that if it was a real voice, the mouth that breathed it would've been inches from her ears. The wind even felt warm on her lobes when it spoke her name and she wanted to scream in the hopes she'd get some reaction from her surroundings. Maybe a Good Samaritan from an apartment nearby, running out to check on her... Or, hell...even a bum would do. Anything to break the stillness she was drowning in that enshrouded her like a dream she didn't realize she was having.

And like a knife in her gut, her cellphone blared out loud, startling her terribly, shortening her breath. But when that passed, it was a blessing to hear.

She reached into her purse when it rang a second time, pulled it out and placed it to her ear, not bothering to look to see who was calling.

"Hello?" Her voice shook when she spoke, struggling to maintain control.

"Hi... Alex? It's Terry. I'm a friend of your brother's."

She didn't know him well but knew of him. "Terry, hi." Then it hit her. "What's wrong? Where's Marty?"

"Nothing's wrong, sweetheart, he's okay....Umm... He's in the hospital, but he's gonna be fine. It's just a concussion. He didn't have his phone on him and couldn't remember yur number." Something in his tone made her feel uneasy, her insides twisting at the conjecture. "There was an, uh, accident on the ice." He paused and the silence between them filled her mind with dread. Then: "Just...just come down whenever you can. Don't...don't worry, though. Really. He's okay."

Nothing else mattered now. Her bad dream was over, she thought...

Or had it only begun?

"Where is he?"

Terry texted her the details after he let her go, and she conquered the stairs to the entryway of her apartment building through the fog of her worry. She got back on her phone when she found her apartment and called a friend for a ride, all while unknowingly leaving behind a trail of freshly bloodied footprints that pointed right to the front of her door.

# CHAPTER FOUR

Consanguineous Congregations

1

Culver City Hospital; Los Angeles, CA:

Submerged under an ocean of slumbering delusions, Marty dreamt of a young, long-legged blond in his hospital bed, his face hosting a frigid icepack on his lumped and scuffed up forehead. He hid a mischievous grin under a swollen upper lip and afternoon stubble like a secret, temporarily enjoying his tranquil moment of recovery.

The blond in his dream was named Tara: an infrequent girlfriend of his that couldn't manage to hold his attention long enough for him to slap an official title to. Their partnership seemed to have more of a convenience theme to it as opposed to an actual, real emotional attachment. Contrary to what one might think, considering Marty's reluctance to "seal the deal," she was noticeably appealing. A tall dirty-blond with an athletic figure, his favorite features were her soft lips and lightly freckled nose. She tended bar at a hole-in-the-wall he and the boys nicknamed "The G-Spot" where they'd rally after games to drink to their victories or sulk in defeat. In his dream, he and his teammates were getting rip-roaring shit-tanked at the leisure of the establishment, celebrating while toasting loosely to their claim of a second championship. It was a scene set a year in the past that felt vaguely familiar, but he dismissed it as turbulence due to his rambunctious swilling of stout and turbid ale.

Tara poured him stiff double-shots at the bar, one after the other, and he'd knock them back as fast as she could fill them up. Jager, after Jack, after Jim. The taste was musty and bitter on his tongue and his gut felt as though his thirst couldn't be quenched. His accustomed surroundings were garbled and hazy, and the majority of the bar's occupants were of a fairer sex than on most drinking nights. There were girls in plaid skirts and tight tube-tops scampering about, wearing colorful plastic beads, smiling and pressing their breasts against his back when they'd pass. Raising glasses with his teammates, they'd cheer and laugh and spill beer down the fronts of their shirts while happily toasting to whatever would get them another round.

Tara slowly leaned over the bar, purposely flaunting her cleavage and puckering her pretty lips like she'd do when she'd want his attention, and she pushed her streaky, blond hair to one side. She seductively brushed the skin of her lips up against his ear and kissed his lobe softly to start, then gently nibbled at its edges. First it was an arousing tease, and Marty smiled and chuckled at the sensation. But soon a pinch intruded on his pleasure and pressure began to build as she bit harder into his flesh—

Pain shot through his head from one side to the other, stabbing at the back of his eyes. She clamped down – grinding – tearing at his cartilage, and he found himself frozen from the shock and growing agony that rang through the meat of his skull.

Grunting against the grip of her jaws, clutching a fistful of her hair, he fought against her impossible strength, helpless to remove this rabid thing from his personal space. His blood poured from the open wound in his ear and gushed between her teeth, morbidly drizzling off her chin and painting the bar with splashes of his pain. It filled the empty shot glass between them until it spilled over its brim, the pure insanity burning in her stare enough to make any man fear for his genitals.

In the midst of the struggle, the glass tipped over the counter when she finally ripped a chunk of his ear from the side of his face and chewed on it in front of him, giggling hysterically with his maimed flesh squishing like bubblegum in between a blood-dripping smile, her eyes empty holes of soiled gore—

"Marty..."

He groggily thrashed about in his cot, still caught in the intensity of his dream, resurfacing slowly to a familiar tone of a young woman's voice.

"Marty!" She snapped his name a second time when he didn't respond. "Wake up!"

He heard his sister's distant call through a hypnagogic daze and fluttered his lids, wincing from the pain in his ear. Alex had her hand to the right of his face, pinching his lobe between two fingers until it turned a painful shade of plumb. He eventually recognized the culprit of his torment and swatted at the hovering nuisance.

" _Oww_... What...what the hell?!... _Stop!_ "

"You were smiling." She wasn't afraid to show her irritation through inflections. She let his ear go and replaced her death-grip with a flustered scowl. "What the hell were you smiling about?"

"Shit..." He looked around with a pained grimace. His head was throbbing, and he wasn't real clear on where he was. "I was...having a good dream...until _you_ showed up....It...was about Tara... She—"

" _Don't_." She didn't want to hear about her brother's erotic imaginings. "Don't tell me. It didn't look appropriate." She sighed. "Are you alright?"

" _No_ , goddamn it, my fucking _ear_ hurts."

"Oh, don't be such a wuss. It's just a little red." She gave it another flick for good measure.

He flinched at her sisterly hazing and responded with a sarcastic glare. "Yeah, nice, sis. Thanks."

He scooted upright to look around the room, spotting a paper cup with water in it on a tray next to his sister. He reached for it so she picked it up and gave it to him, her hands mildly shaking but Marty didn't notice.

"So, really, are you okay?" Her voice softened and a hint of concern slipped through. Under her sturdy disposition, she always had a soft spot for her older brother's wellbeing and was more worried than she wanted to let on. Things just didn't feel _right_ right now, like a force beyond reckoning tugged intrusively at the strings of their lives.

Marty practically inhaled the water from the stingy cup and a few leftover drops dribbled off his chin. He crumbled it up in his hands and threw it to the side. He wasn't sure how to answer her question. He felt like shit but knew he'd be fine – though he was pretty sure that that wasn't the answer she was fishing for. He decided not to bother responding since he didn't know what to say.

Alex wasn't sure if now was the right time to bring it up but figured the situation was better addressed sooner rather than later. Albeit inconvenient and amply _agonizing_...sooner happened to be now, but later was sounding better by the second... Her focus shifted away from him when contemplating her words – then back to his distraught, bloodshot gaze.

"I know what happened out on the ice today." She paused strategically, weighing his reaction and giving her comment a chance to sink in.

He was staring forward at nothing at first, almost as if he wasn't listening, then he put a hand to his brow. The icepack on his head wasn't cold anymore, so he slid it from his forehead to chuck it angrily across the room. It slapped the wall under the television mounted near the ceiling and made a thud when it hit and a smack as it met the floor. He looked like he wanted to say something...but couldn't find any words that mattered.

Alex buckled a little at the pain in his eyes, swallowing the concern in her throat. She was trying her best to be strong for her brother – like he'd always been for her – but she'd never seen him so shaken before.

He put his hands back over his eyes, and she put hers on his shoulder. His body quivered as a tear snuck out from under his palms. Alex let one escape her eye as well (as if their emotions were symbiotic and whatever he felt, she involuntarily reacted to), but she quickly wiped the evidence from her cheek, not wanting her sentiments to escalate his.

After a few seconds of manfully restrained sobs, Marty took in a deep breath then let it out as a loud, aggravated sigh.

"Ahhhhhhfffffuuuckkk!" His sigh very naturally morphed into a swear. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!!" He slid his hands from his face and wiped away the wetness, groaning in frustration. "I really fucking hated that asshole." He almost laughed at that but didn't have the energy. "I can't believe I..." His mouth wouldn't let him form the words. "I didn't, did I? I mean...it was an accident...wasn't it?" He looked over at his sister, pleading for moral support, eyes puffed and red.

Alex couldn't help but let another tear fall at the sight his torment. "Yeah." She said it because it was what he needed to hear. "I know you wouldn't..." Then her sentence trailed off, hanging unfinished in the air, not entirely convincing.

" _Do_ you?"

She avoided his stare, uncomfortable with her own doubt – but thought it through and looked back confident and sure.

"Yes. I _do_ know. You're not a killer, Marty. You didn't mean for this to happen."

He broke their gaze.

Her reassurance made him feel better. Pressure released from his chest that made a world of difference – like a valve opening up so he could finally breathe. He didn't care if the rest of the fucking planet thought he was a monster as long as his little sister knew he wasn't. The last thing he ever wanted was for her to think for even a second he was anything like his sadistic father.

He let out another deep breath as a release before going on.

"Shit, Lex... What the hell am I gonna do?" That pressure that'd just left his chest started building all over again. "Fuck... They're probably gonna send me to jail for this shit," he shook his head. "It was a fair fight! It's fucking hockey! It's like someone dying from a dogpile in football or somethin', right?"

She wanted to say yes, but...

"I don't know, Marty... Yeah, I mean, I agree with you. I...I just don't know..." She almost choked from the uncertainty in her heart. "Terry said the refs were trying to stop you, but you just kept hitting him. They said you went crazy." She hated having to say it but it needed to be said. "You scared the shit out of people, Marty. There were kids in the audience – and families – and I don't think that's gonna go over well in court. The league already stated they're not paying for your lawyer so it'll have to come out of our pockets—"

" _My_ pocket. I don't want—"

"No." She shook her head, insistent. "Stop right there. We're not doing this right now. I don't wanna hear any of that macho, big brother bullshit. I'll help in any way I can whether you like it or not."

Marty wasn't about to argue with her. He couldn't win this one even if he tried.

"Yeah, I know. Sorry. I just...I just don't want this to ruin both our lives." His chest deflated with a sigh. "Fuck, I'd rather rot in prison with dad than take you down with me." That thought marinated in their silence for a moment. "Shit, I'd love to get my hands on that old bastard for what he did to mom..."

"Stop, Marty. Okay? Just stop. That's exactly the type of stupid shit that got you into this mess. You need to relax and start thinking with your head and not your fists." She smacked her hand atop his to emphasize his swollen knuckles.

She was right. She usually was. Alex had always been the brains of the family. Marty wasn't stupid by anyone's standards, but Alex was easily above average when compared to any random get-together. She'd always helped him to see things more clearly through the fog of anger that would frequently cloud his judgment. He inherited that instability from his father. _She_ obviously wouldn't have that problem.

"Alright," he winced, eyes closed, "just...give me 'til tomorrow." The pain in his head wasn't helping him think. He needed rest.

"The doctor said she wants you here for another forty-eight hours—"

" _Forty-eight?!_ "

"Forty. Eight. _Hours_. Just relax, okay? The minute you get out of here, your life's gonna turn into a fucking _zoo_ , so just sit tight for as long as you can. I'll get in touch with a lawyer for you and we'll get through this. _Together_." She got up to walk out of the room, her mind racing but focused and in control.

"Alex." He stopped her from leaving before he could tell her how much he cared. "I love you, sis." He tried digging up a smile but it didn't really come out right. "And I'm _sorry_." He didn't need to say it; he just felt he should. "You take it easy too, okay? You always worry too much about me."

She turned back and found time in her distracted scamper to conjure up a genuine smile. She walked back toward him, leaned over and kissed her brother on the forehead.

"Don't worry about me worrying about _you_ , you big goof. It's what I do." She took off the amulet decorating her neck that he'd given her from their mother and put it over his head. He looked down at it resting on his chest, picked it up and examined it. "Here, hold this for me. And get some rest. I'll be by in the morning."

At the mercy of the moment, he watched as his sister left and took a second to reflect on how much he revered her influence. She had a heart big enough for both of them, and he knew he wouldn't be the man he was today without her. If it weren't for Alex, he was sure he'd be just another bleeding scab on the itchy ass of today's society like his bastard father. Of course, he may've just inadvertently proven to _be_ that blistering, violent rash he'd tried so hard not to scratch. He killed a man with his bare hands today, and he'd never get that blood out from under his nails. His knuckles were stained with death and rage, and his mind had the perfect silhouette of a dead corpse burnt into the back of it. Whenever he'd blink it was like the image was painted on the inside of his eyelids, and he'd see Le'Duprie's lifeless body lying in a pool of soupy, red ice...

Anxiety started building in his chest while a blinding, white pain pierced his skull and shortened his breath. Again – as if twice wasn't enough – his head started spinning and his vision blurred. Echoes of the sound of the crowd cheering him on bounced around his memories as images of the fight flashed through still-frames in his mind like a slideshow speeding through a reel. Random pictures of bloodthirsty fans with excitement splashed on their faces were screaming for a vicious bludgeoning. Blood flew up from the puddle behind his victim's head, spraying his face and those of the spectating referees. He could hardly recognize the features of the man he was beating to a pulp until he finally stopped hitting him long enough to see that it wasn't Le'Duprie's face he'd been pounding into the ice...it was his own...

In his mind he leaned over his own dead body and looked into the reflection from the pool of blood surrounding his lifeless form. The reflection that stared back didn't belong to him – but instead to his father; the image smiling sinisterly with blood dripping from his cleft chin and into the puddle...the ripples distorting the details of his father's face.

In the hospital bed he slipped from consciousness back into a deep, but unsettled, R.E.M. sleep. This time, however, his dreams were not of busty, bouncy women pouring drinks and friskily biting ears. They were of him as a child, scared and helpless, being hunted ruthlessly like a miscreant.

He spent the entire night in his mind running from his crazed father, fearfully pulling his little sister behind. He was searching in the dark for places to hide, symbolically fleeing from a self-diluted image he'd created of himself: a misconstrued illusion of the man he feared he'd become, conveniently wrapped in a familiar shell resembling his infamous forbearer.

As he found in his dreams, there is no easy escape from one's self. The incessant chase was tedious and draining. Eventually, one would have to stop running, come to face the mug of the demon hunting him, grit down, stare that big bastard right back in the eyes, and kick him dead in the nuts. That is, assuming one was inclined to conquer the savage beast. There is, of course, the ulterior option of joining him, in which case a truce by way of handshake or some such would suffice.

Marty would face his demons in his dreams this night, and the outcome of that realization was a bouncing ball on a spinning roulette wheel, placing the fate of all men against long, iniquitous odds, unknowingly wavering the world's destiny toward an apocalyptic doom.

2

Smoke gasped for a breath of air from the blackness surrounding him but couldn't feel his lungs inflate or any hint of life-giving-oxygen flow through his chest. He felt as though he'd been suffocating endlessly but wasn't allowed to die. It was as if he could smell the air around him but didn't have the option to breathe.

The last thing he remembered was the eyes of a repulsive, evil beast, and the feel of his life slipping away as his head was severed from his exanimate body. He remembered dying; suffocating in his own blood and vomit and hearing his dead sister call his name...inviting him into Hell...

He couldn't see or speak but could smell and _taste_ his surroundings. He could feel the walls of the cage that entrapped him and hear the sloshing of thick, warm blood splash below his knees.

He reached his arms out blindly in front of him, judging the shape and space of his cell. The walls were only inches away and felt warm and humid, like raw meat lathered in mucus. The smell was of bowels and iron, the taste of spoiled blood. He tried to yell out, desperate for some element of control no matter how small, but not even the quietest chirp escaped his throat. The absence of his voice was enfeebling. He couldn't cry for help or even scream to vent, and he never would've guessed how helpless that made him feel.

He put his hand to his neck to examine his throat and it felt as the walls around him did; meaty and raw. His fingers hesitantly traced the course of his body to find bony protrusions outlining his chest and ribcage. When his hands passed over his stomach, he could feel his intestines spilling from his body, slipping through his fingers and out his grasp, splashing into the swamp of organic mud at his knees. He franticly grasped in the dark, trying to catch his entrails, attempting to pull them back inside his body – but finally realized it was futile. He was already dead, he thought. What the fuck did he need his guts for?

Was this it? Was this really all that Hell had to offer? Sullying darkness, morbid sensations, and a bad taste in his mouth? Where the hell was his sister? Was the suspense and uncertainty part of his torment or was he some place in between death and damned, waiting to be sentenced at the mercy of some unknown, metaphysical ass-wipe whose job it was to pass judgment over the scum of the Earth?

He began assuming the worst possible scenarios, including an eternity of reclusion, alone in a rotting pool of sanguine fluids with only his panicked thoughts to keep him company. His own _mind_ would undoubtedly drive him insane within weeks if not sooner... How long would he be condemned to serve in this prison made of sultry flesh and bone? Was this to be the extent of his continued existence throughout eternity? His own personal cage in Hell until reality and consciousness no longer had meaning and inevitably deteriorated into an endless dissonance of violent insanity?

Before any considerable time had elapsed he was already prepared to agree to any deal offered to be free of this cerebral impound. He was ready to renounce his very humanity and wholeheartedly sell his soul to the armies of Hell just to not even have to _consider_ the possibility of an eternity alone. Fortunately for him, someone, or _something_ , seemed to hear his traitorous pleas for mercy and was eagerly willing to deal—

The surrounding walls closed in, pressing against his front and back, and the swamp of cruor and guts he stood in ascended as high as his mouth, slithering its way past his lips; a metallic and rancid tang. His cage constricted with a heave as though it were attempting to expel him by force, and his body contorted unnaturally, trapping his arms behind him, his head then leading his ascent through a web of wet cartilage and sinew. It was a sickening sensation, and all the while he still felt as if he needed to breathe but was unable to savor any air.

Soon a sharp pain tore over him that ripped meat from bones, and again, as if he'd forgotten the effort was hopeless, he reached inside himself to let loose a scream. His voice he still couldn't hear...but there was a sound that he could... One that sounded like something choking or gagging – like Satan was coughing up his soul as bloody phlegm.

Suddenly it occurred to him, between the strange sensations and the bits of memories he could piece together, that he was in the bowels of the monster that murdered him, being regurgitated toward the back of its villainous throat. He couldn't grasp any reason why he was conscious – or even whole, for that matter, and not dead in pieces – but the fact that he may shortly be finding his way out was what concerned him most. In what condition would he find himself if he did indeed make his way from the belly of the beast?

All coherent thought rapidly faded into searing pain when a blinding light emerged from a speck in front of him and grew into a ball of spinning, white flame. He could see now what was left of his surroundings in the mouth of this monster where rows of yellowish fangs outlined a path toward the consuming light. This glistening ball of fire pulled him from the demon's throat and disintegrated his body into threads in the process, like a white-hole devouring his atoms one particle at a time.

When he finally emerged, he quickly realized he didn't actually have a body attached to his pain, but instead was only a tortured essence of the person he was (the sensations he experienced just illusions spat from a panicking mind).

He took in his surroundings as he could somehow perceive them and witnessed what was left of his own dead and severed head laid to rot only inches away.

He found himself in a cellar where his head rested on a wooden slate atop a slab of cement with his body tossed in a corner like an old rug. The demon Tessura still coughed up and out the remaining torn fragments of his bartered soul while spewing what was left of it into the ball of light that hovered in midair over his offed cranium.

After regurgitating his spirit like food for a hatchling, the floating soul-fire that trapped him sunk willingly into the dead flesh of his disembodied skull. It saturated his brain through his eye sockets so they radiated with a white aura, then eventually dimmed to a flicker. When his soul finally settled into his dismembered skull he blinked his dead eyes twice before looking around the room through dry and stiff, ocular lenses.

His vision was obscure and strange. He didn't feel like he was looking through his own eyes but through those of an automaton. The world around him was black and white with shades of gray that formed dull outlines of a life that was no longer his. When he'd blink he could feel the rigor mortis in the stiffness of his eyelids as they'd scrape over his dead, black eyes, and could hear the ripping of muscles in his jaw when he first tried to move his mouth to speak.

But there was someone else in the room with him, looming over him, directly in his limited line of sight, specifically making her presence known...

A robust outline of a woman's body blended into the tones of light and dark, but the rest of the world around her seemed to mean nothing, like a bland painting without form.

His scarcely conscious mind could see what looked like a large blade rooted in the blurred image of her right hand. And he watched as the woman placed the knife against her wrist and elegantly cut open a two-inch gash...

Instantly there was color in his world when the beautiful sight of red plasma poured from her arm. The half-aware demeanor of his decapitated head perked up with want as she sadistically brought her gore dripping flesh within reach. She spilled her own life's fluid into his mouth and eyes, pumping her fists for the flow, and he could feel its strength rush into his brain while its absorption lubricated the muscles in his face. The stiffness throughout his flesh softened and his vision became clearer. And the sensation he experienced was indescribable... But if you were to compare it to one felt in life, it might be something like a starving, dehydrated man being injected with a sustenance that delivered instant fulfillment and satisfaction. It was like giving life back to a dying man along with the most succulent flavor and agreeable texture anyone could imagine.

The life-giving juice soaking into his tongue and lips made it possible for him to move his mouth more fluently, but he of course couldn't speak. The woman standing before him was almost a clear picture to him now – but still drawn in black and gray monotones aside from the ravishing color red dripping from her body into his.

She was impressive, and probably in her late thirties, with long black, wavy hair, outfitted in modern denim that accentuated her hips and a wine-colored top that exposed her shoulders and chest. She had full, dark lips and deep brown eyes that caged more than a mortal woman inside. There was a powerful force concealed within her stare that he could feel orbiting her when, consequently, he could feel little else.

Bluntly, absent of the bother to be graceful, the woman reached for his black hair, clutched a handful, pulling at his scalp, and lifted his bodiless head to meet her eye to eye – her blood still dripping from the gash in her wrist, highlighting the contours of his face.

"Hello, Jacen." She spoke casually and caught him off guard with her candor. "Do you know who I am?"

Smoke couldn't speak or move his head because he didn't have a neck or lungs. He could, however, move his eyes, and despite her oddly casual question, he had a hell of a time not paying more attention to the blood streaming from her wrist than to her words.

Her voice was matured, and she was full of herself when she spoke. She was confident in her every move and slightest facial expression freely laid out for the taking.

"No, of course you don't. How could you? I made sure you wouldn't."

The presence in her voice was unavoidable, as if he had no choice but to listen. He continued lapping at the falling blood from his lips and when he'd swallow, the excess would pass through his throat to drip from his neck and onto the floor. With every taste of her life he consumed, his mind's eye became clearer and closer to forming solid, coherent thoughts. He was now staring at this woman who held his head in her grip, and he got the sensation that he knew her face. This unnerving feeling intruded on his cravings for blood, and suddenly he thought for sure he'd seen her before – or that maybe she reminded him of someone...

"Mmmmmm..." She saw the pieces of the puzzle arranging themselves as a picture in his mind. "Even with the cloud of lies I surrounded you and your sister's foster lives with, I can still see the growing twitch of recognition gleaming in your eyes. You do know me, don't you. Or at least, you're starting to realize you do."

He pictured her face in his thoughts, superimposing the image of his sister with the woman in front of him. His sister wouldn't have been any older than twenty, but this woman had an uncanny resemblance to who she might've grown to be.

His mouth moved in an attempt to form a word he thought he'd never say to another woman but found himself trying to say it now. His dry lips pressed together to mimic the letter "m," and the woman smirked perversely.

"That's right, sweetheart..." She brought his head closer to her lips to whisper in his ear. "I'm your _mother_." She smiled, mocking a caring expression. "...Welcome home."

Smoke's dead face and blackened eyes expressed the unlikelihood of this bizarre family reunion. Funny that his mother's presence surprised him more than him being a reanimated severed head did, but after what he'd already been through, nothing could've come as more of a shock than to find it was his own biological parent who'd sic the beast upon him.

Before today, as far as he knew, his blood-mother and father had been dead for a decade. He never gave them much thought since they put him and his sister up for adoption at such an early age. It was this misfortunate circumstance that set him on a course in life to be brought up around people who only merely tolerated him. A mother's love wasn't something Smoke ever truly enjoyed, and so was something he never thought he'd have to face. It's surprising to see what depths a man could sink to if he never had to look into the eyes of a mother who loved him. Ironically, he was not faced with that dilemma now, and if anything, his situation was more akin to being confronted by his mother's wrath. And it was his obedience, not his love, she demanded.

The smirk on her face spawned from a feeling of triumph over her mischievous child; one of anticipation for the consequences that him being reanimated would bring.

Her name was Imala, and she was an abomination.

In her past, she'd acted out such atrocities as the premeditated murders of her parents as well as that of her own sister, and in doing so, saturated her fiendish soul with a wealth of villainous power that could only have been achieved through selfish acts and sinful deeds. Her bloodline was ancient – enriched with native mystics and sorcery – and the immorality she fashioned her life around had tapped a more insidious source of wizardry that hadn't been awakened for a millennium. The sort of wickedness she inspired in others was a gateway for her blood-magik to revel in terrible evils, and to harvest a type of power beyond that of mortal men. Imala was the reckoning the world of man deserved. She would bring about a plague of horror so devastating that Hell itself would emerge on Earth, and in the end, _she_ would garnish its throne. Lucifer would kneel before her and call her queen, and God in all his glory would crawl to her, wallowing in sorrow, and beg her for her mercy.

She cradled the head of her newly resurrected servant, probing into his perplexed, dead eyes.

"I can see the questions stirring in your desecrated mind...but don't feel obliged to answer them." She was strong when she addressed him, as if he were an underling and not her son. "But," a smile twisted the corners of her lips, "it might entertain me to show you where you came from. It could make you..." She contemplated the words. "...a more devoted soldier to our cause."

Smoke wanted to respond but found not having a body to be a bit of a bump in that road. Oddly enough he wasn't afraid. It was strange, but fear didn't seem to weigh on his predicament at all. Instead he wrestled with an anxious sensation in his mind: one of an emptiness inside that yawned for his attention. A hunger was building in him that he couldn't yet conjure a word to describe. He knew it began with the blood he'd tasted that gave him life, but he wasn't sure where it would end.

Imala whispered softly under her breath in a tongue that Smoke couldn't understand but seemed eerily familiar with as though it was agnate to his being. It sounded to him like a backward language – like it wasn't a human dialect at all, but more along the lines of something else. It was dark and powerful; elegant and dangerous.

A breath of wind amassed from nowhere and blew through her hair. With her eyes closed, her words swirling inside the gusts bouncing between the walls, she brought Smoke's head to her lips and softly kissed his pale, bloodied forehead—

Her kiss was an electric hammer pounding against his skull. His eyes saucered and his jaw gaped. A rush of images flooded his brain that were so depraved he wished he could turn away – but there was nothing he could do but allow this transference of thought to run its course and hope his mind didn't catch fire in the process...

There was a story behind the images, but it was hard to pick through the barrage of pure violence to discover its plot. Some of the images didn't make sense at all, as if they were misplaced in time and didn't belong – ancient and savage flashes of memory spanning an ancestry untold. But others felt more familiar, as though they might've been directly related to him.

The first scenes he could make sense of were of a young girl, Imala, at the age of five or six, poking a stick at a dead cat on the roadside. Its stomach split open and guts collecting maggots, the young Imala removed the eyes to replace them with stones, then refrigerated the stolen organs as the first set of a larger collection to come. Another girl, her older sister, was in the background, pleading futilely for her to stop tormenting their dead and already defiled pet.

The next images were of the girls' parents: A Native American mother and father verbally and physically abusing one another in the house where the girls were raised. Their father had a handful of the mother's hair and smacked her with his free hand hard enough to drop her to the living room floor, blood pouring from her face to the carpet. Again, Imala's older sister was there, this time crying in a corner of the room as one would expect, but Imala never shed a tear, her latent stare unknowingly fueling the anger and distrust between her parents that should've been less than trivial. Later, Imala collected a patch of the blood-soaked fibers from the floor and added them to the assortment of other tissues and soiled cloths she'd kept that'd captured her mother's pain.

As the images progressed and became more graphic – like a dramatic documentary in his mind – Imala and her sister aged accordingly. Imala grew more apathetic with every flash of violence while her sister continued struggling to cope, being noticeably affected by the wrong doings fate forced her to live among, unable to shift the tide.

Soon, a brutal feud between their father and uncle barged its way into his mind, and he witnessed it happen as the girls did years before, except with an insider's view of how Imala had somehow been the inappropriate cause of the brawl. The uncle bore a similar resemblance to Smoke: tall, thin, and had short, dark hair. But the father was clearly the more boorish of the two. He was beating his own blood out of his brother in the presence of his wife and daughters without a thought of restraint. He'd grab anything within reach – a lamp or a glass – and smash it over his brother's head. His blood poured heavily into the floorboards, and while the mother screamed and the sister cried, curled under a table, Imala just stared at the violence like a child watching TV, entertained and stimulated by the onset of drama leading to her uncle's brutal passing.

The girls were now teens: Imala thirteen and her sister seventeen. There was a young man involved with her sister who was Caucasian and exuberant in his youth with the fashionable look of a "bad seed." Imala was intrigued with the young man and would stare provocatively at him when he and her sister would kiss. Through her memories, Smoke could see the lust the man had for the younger Imala when his eyes would advert from her sister to look at her. She'd taunt him with her lips and her body's curves, conniving in her attempts to strengthen the want between them.

When no one could see, Imala would secretly hide the eyes of dead things in her sister's room and fantasize that she could stare through them. She'd watch her sister and the young man mess around, pretending she was hiding in the closet or behind a dresser, touching herself while consumed by the dark. Sometimes her sister would think she'd see Imala in the shade, watching...but when she'd look closer, she was never really there.

In the next memory-flash, her father was drunk, as he often would be, and she could hear her mother crying through the paper-thin walls. Imala would crack open the door to her parents' room and watch while her father sexually abused his spouse. She would act like she didn't mean to get caught, but in truth, would purposely provoke her father to punish her in the same way. She'd struggle against his grip, but only because she liked for the torment to appear real. Smoke got the impression she enjoyed the sickening feeling her own mother felt when she knew what her husband was doing to her daughter in another room. Imala played her part well and would sometimes pretend to cry, and other times would just let her mind leave her body to enjoy the dramatic show through the dead eyes she'd hide in her home. She could see her sister covering her ears, bundled under the covers in her room, not wanting to hear Imala's screams, and her mother pathetically sobbing, being helpless to do little else but weep.

The thought churned in his mind, thinking he might be the degenerate product of his own grandfather, but then the images switched again to that of her sister's youthful boyfriend. Smoke saw in the eyes of the young man that he was indeed his father and witnessed that consummation briefly through flashes of sadistic passion.

Imala had a silent grip on the young man's mind, tainting him with her eyes day after day as she'd done to her father until he became exactly what she wanted him to be. He was her sister's boyfriend...but Imala's pawn. He saw that almost as much as Imala wanted her sister's man, she wanted him because he was her man. He even witnessed the thoughts that trickled through her mind while they sexed in her sister's bed, and they were maliciously that of her sister – those thoughts peaking her climax that much more...

Murder rained down in Smoke's mind as he witnessed Imala's long awaited conquest over her parents; their throats and wrists cut as they lay in bed, wet with their daughter's triumph. The specifics weren't there. It was more like a spasm or frenzy of joyous emotions as she caroused in their blood, surrounded by the décor of dead eyes haunting the murder scene like an audience enjoying her performance

It was somewhat clear to him that her parents had conspired against her, being vaguely aware that a kind of dark influence secreted from her very being, so she drugged them just enough to keep them docile before draining their lives from the cuts in their flesh. She filled a wine glass to its brim with their blood and facetiously toasted to her triumph, swallowing the essence of her parents' souls, streams from the runoff trickling down her throat. She didn't know it then, but it was that ritualistic murder that opened a doorway for her that led to gaining a power greater than she ever thought existed. A power she was destined to consume, but at the time had no idea for what it was meant. That power is what summoned the demon Tessura to obey her will, and what eventually brought her murdered son back from beyond the veil.

For a moment he thought the story was over, and that he'd be released from the grip Imala had on his mind, but another image began to shape:

It was a scene set in a hospital where her older sister, Aiyana, was pregnant and giving birth to a baby girl. Aiyana's boyfriend, who'd still visited Imala in secret, was in the hospital after the baby Alex was born, along with a young, eight-year-old boy named Marty beside him. Smoke saw the hidden anger and backward agenda in his father's eyes as if he'd known something that hadn't been said on the surface. Aiyana too was uncomfortable with her boyfriend's distant gaze but tried her best not to rouse suspicion.

Later, when she slept, he laced the drip hydrating her body with the poisoned syringe given to him by her own sister. And Imala indulged in the invigorating rush as her sister's life was taken essentially by her conniving hand.

With every life she took that shared her bloodline she became more powerful and irreversibly treacherous. Smoke was the latest dismal addition to her quest for dominion over the dormant power in the blood of her ancestor. A power that now boiled inside her with a sinister and sickening zeal—

Imala's lips pulled away from his forehead and his expression was one of exhaustion – that is, however more exhausted you could imagine a corpse to look. Only seconds had passed, but Imala's dark magik forced hours of twisted and chaotic memories into his mind. There were thoughts in the back of his conscience – questions he wanted answered. But any sort of curiosity or confusion was second to a rousing hunger in the pit of his darkening soul.

Imala looked deep into his lifeless eyes, curious to what could be going through her son's mind.

"Hmmmmm." She was teasing in her tone. "I wonder what you'd have to say for yourself." She looked over her shoulder, Smoke's face still cupped in her hands, and called out to her demon wolf sitting idly by. "Tessura." She ordered the beast to comply. "The body."

Tessura, in her elegant canine form, snapped into action when Imala loosed her command. The demon was already resting beside his carcass – the smell of a corpse _invigorated_ her – so she lowered her snout and grabbed it in her teeth by the jeans at his ankles. She tugged at the weight of his decaying cadaver and dragged it toward her master. Tessura was intelligent enough, however, to know her services would be more beneficial if she took advantage of her ulterior, monstrous embodiment. So, when she placed the body beside Imala's feet, she backed away to give herself room to shape-shift into her more demonic and sizeable self.

Bones splintered under the strain as her metamorphosis began, her muscles reshaping making a sound like cloth ripping under her pelt. She groaned in discomfort but with a hint of masochistic thrill. Smoke tried watching through the corners of his eyes, and even upon seeing the beast that killed him still felt no fear stir within.

Imala smirked at the sight of the creature as it straightened its posture, standing over eight feet tall.

"You really are an impressive sight, my pet."

Tessura growled at that, not happy with being called _anyone's_ pet. It was clear her loyalty to Imala was not out of a bond of kinship. Imala indeed had her ensnaring grips on the frightful beast, but Tessura was not one to be tamed. If her master ever let slip her hold, she may indeed find herself at its mercy.

Imala was subsequently _not_ impressed by its displeasure or display thereof. The look on her face flattened out as she gestured for the beast to put the cadaver on her altar.

The altar's wooden surface had symbols and sigils scribed into its blood-stained face. There were scratches on either side that looked as if they may've been gouged out by human fingernails, and a miniature furrow outlined the edge of the platform several inches deep. The base was concrete, and the channel around the wooden top was chiseled into the brim of the cement foundation.

Tessura lifted Smoke's headless body by the shirt around its neck and flopped it onto the top of the altar, and Imala gave the beast an annoyed glance as if expecting it to be more graceful. It didn't take notice to her glare and simply huffed over the body instead in a primal show of dominance.

Imala placed Smoke's head into position above his tattered neck. He couldn't do much else but shift his eyes to examine his surroundings and wait to see what kind of twisted magics she had in store.

In the furrow around the altar rested a level of dirt fresh from the cemetery above, moist with Imala's blood. She clutched a handful and patted it onto Smoke's severed throat like a mason uses mortar to cement bricks in a wall. The moist and bloodied sludge absorbed into his dead skin and repaired the ligaments and muscles connecting his head to his body. He was soon able to pivot his neck, but still couldn't speak or get his limbs to do as they were told.

" _Slowly_ , now. Your body is still deceased. You need to rejuvenate your mind and soul with human flesh and blood."

She placed her forearm over his mouth and dripped her life into his. He opened wide to receive her charity, lips peeled back exposing teeth and tongue eager to taste flesh. And she smiled at his eagerness, teasing him with the smell of her body.

"My arm might _smell_ appealing, but if you were to forcibly bite into me, my blood would burn through your throat like fire through cloth. I'm protected from any harmful doing you or this beast might have in mind for me." She felt it only fair to warn her son before he made a crippling mistake.

Smoke continued to indulge in her majestic secretions until he unexpectedly choked when his lungs regained their strength and attempted to inhale the stale air around him. He swallowed the fluid in his mouth then enveloped a chest full of air to test his reassembling – but found no satisfaction in its taste. It would seem oxygen wasn't a necessity – or at least not one he couldn't substitute for with human blood.

His body then twitched, convulsing involuntarily, and the muscles in his arms evidently became functional when he instinctively reached his hand up for his mother's wrist. It wouldn't be long before he realized his palm was burning at the slightest touch of her. His eyes lit up and lungs pushed out a wale as he jerked away from her acidic flesh.

Imala smiled. "And so shall he be heard!" She tugged at her shirt and ripped away a piece of its fabric to wrap around her bleeding wrist. "And let that be a lesson to you." Tessura, still towering close by, snorted a demonic chuckle at Smoke's pain. "As the living dead, born by the essence of my strength, you will feel no pain save for that delivered unto you by way of me," she explained with a cocky arrogance and a comedic tone. "So, my boy... What do you have to say for yourself?"

Smoke, still cradling his steaming right hand, took a long, strong look at his mother, allowing the entire situation and her bestowed memories to sink in. He picked through the images in his head to come upon the one that intrigued him most, then sat up on his own and perched, seated, on the edge of the altar.

He took a breath before he spoke to exercise his lungs and addressed his newly discovered messiah with a growing sneer.

"I...... I...have......a _brother_..."

Imala smiled back at the delightful look of wickedness that began to take precedence in her son's eyes. Then he continued to speak, slowly, still developing control over the muscles in his jaw.

"When...do...I...get......to eat him?"

# CHAPTER FIVE

Stiff Shots, Prescription Meds, and a Milf Magazine

1

The G-spot; Los Angeles, CA; Late Afternoon:

"Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?"

Marty raised the bottom of his glass over its top and swallowed its contents like he had a bone to pick with the whisky. He wiped the scotch that missed his mouth off his lips and slammed the glass down hard on the bar.

"I had a dream about you." He addressed Tara as he would on any occasion, with confidence and amorous advance. Really, he was just looking to get his mind off the incidents haunting him from the night before. Flirting with a beautiful young woman, he figured, might serve as a much-needed distraction from his mind-consuming woes.

"Mmmm..." She refilled his glass while he kept his eyes on her pink lips. "And what part did I play in this dream of yours? Was I your bartender," she looked up from his drink to meet his eyes with hers, "or your girl?"

He burped a sarcastic chuckle and spoke under his breath. "...more like a zombie..."

"A what?"

He shook his head. "Never mind." He threw his head back and smothered his inner turmoil with eighty-something proof. "The point is, you were on my mind. So I thought I'd stop by and say hi." He set the glass down considerately this time, more focused on his distraction, and lightly tapped its brim, gesturing for a refill. "So," he gave her a flirtatious glance and a teasing smirk, "when can we get out of here?"

She smiled back at that, intrigued by his advance, and wiped the counter in front of him. "I just got on, Marty. It's four o'clock in the afternoon." She grabbed the glass from under his fingertips. "And it's a little early for you to be drinking like this."

If his hopes were a wafting, iridescent bubble, dancing atop the breath of her words, her answer was an obnoxious finger that unsympathetically popped the expectations he had of a pleasantly distracting evening. She knew what he wanted to hear, but what he didn't know was that she was already well aware of why he was drowning out what was left of the day with inexpensive booze. She spoke to his sister the day before, after Alex left the hospital, and got the story from her. Tara wanted to be there for him, to help him get through this mucked up mess he'd gotten himself tangled up in...but knew he wouldn't respond well to the proverbial "shoulder to cry on." He wanted something to numb the pain. He didn't want to have to deal with it, and honestly, neither did she. Alcohol and sex wouldn't miraculously solve any of his problems, but it would sure as hell help him to cope.

He reached out and grabbed her by the hand that held the glass and gently brought it back down to the counter. He did the same with her other hand that griped the caramel colored bottle of Johnnie Walker and playfully guided it to do his bidding, pouring himself another drink through her hold. Then, in a seductive tone, he offered up a solution to their bind while carefully refreshing his glass.

"Why don't you...talk to yur boss..." his eyes followed the pouring liquid, admiring the life it gave back to the bleak and barren glass, "and see if he really needs you here tonight. It's a Monday, and I think, if you asked real nice-like – like I know you can – " he lifted his stare to draw her in, "he'd be more than willing to handle the place on his own."

When the glass was full, it spilt over the brim, and they both playfully smiled at the mishap. Tara leaned forward, putting her lips to his.

" _I_ think," when she spoke, their lips touched, teasing each other terribly, her warm breath leaving the impression of her taste on his tongue, "that _you_...don't know what you're getting yourself into."

She moved her mouth down the outline of his jaw, bowed her head toward the counter, and put her lips over the full shot glass in front of him. Without the help of her hands, she hoisted the glass in her mouth – her lips caressing its edges – tilted her head back and erased the whisky in a single swallow.

Marty slowly twisted the empty cup from the grip of her mouth and set it on the bar. He was enormously aroused but played it as cool as he could. He leaned forward, put his lips to her ear, grazed her lobe softly with his teeth, and whispered, "Meet me outside in the car." He playfully bit and kissed the side of her face, sending erotic shivers up her spine before adding, "And bring the bottle."

2

James Albert Delaney – better known to his teammates as "Jimmy" or "Jimbo" or "Numb Nuts," if you'd ask his coach – was back at the hospital, nursing a sore, pudgy jaw and a broken rib when Terry – a long-time friend and teammate – cruised into his room and tossed a magazine at his lap from ten feet away. It fluttered sideways in the sterile, hospital air and landed on Jimmy's stomach as he lay recovering, broken and bruised. Jimmy cringed when it hit him and Terry laughed with a mischievous grin. (Terry always had a sort of caring look in his eyes, even when being overly obnoxious.)

"Oww! Shit, man, take it easy! I got three broken ribs here!" It didn't hurt as much as he let on. Really he only had one fractured rib, but he liked to embellish his misfortunes and bask in his friend's sympathies as often as possible. He looked down at the magazine and flipped it over. "What's this?"

"What's it _look_ like?"

Jimmy's focus was a touch off from him being pummeled by needles earlier and generously injected with pain meds. His hair was out of place and his little potbelly protruded to say "hello" from under the hospital sheets. He turned the magazine right-side-up and read the title out loud before it sunk in.

"Top M.I.L.F. Magazine?" The picture on the cover was of an older woman with breasts the size of beach balls and thin lips caked with pink lipstick. "Aww, gnarly, dude!" Despite his verbal rejection, he started flipping through the pages out of some estranged, delinquent curiosity. The look on his face was one of caution, as if expecting something jarringly unappealing to jump from the pages and attach itself to his jugular. "These chicks are like fifty years old!"

Terry laughed and sat down next to him. "Check out the centerfold."

He leaned in as Jimmy unveiled the center page to see a busty blond in her late forties wearing an older style, strapless corset and thong, spread out without a hint of modesty on a fluffy, leopard-print fur comforter. Terry pointed at the picture to his point of interest.

"Look, dude," he tapped the page, "...C-section."

"Aww, man!" Jimmy cringed. "That's nasty!" Then he added curiously, tilting the magazine to an angle, "And she kinda looks like my aunt..."

Terry laughed, caught off guard. "Dude, if yur aunt looks like that... I'd definitely bone her."

Jimmy smiled and responded distantly, thoughts drifting into a distant land of sensual, softcore fantasies.

"Yeah, me too..."

Terry shot him a look, his eyebrows scrunched over a glare. "Dude...you'd bone yur aunt?"

A sour snare took the place of Jimmy's fallen grin. "No, you asshole, I mean I'd bone _this_ chick." He shook the magazine for clarity.

"But you'd be thinking about yur aunt, man, that's sick!"

"No, I..." He shook his head. "Well, yeah... I mean..." He ultimately decided no amount of rationale would dig himself from the pit of this uncomfortable imbroglio. "Okay," he looked over at Terry, annoyed but amused, "you got me, dude. I'd bone my aunt. You happy now?"

Terry shook his head sarcastically. "Jimmy, my friend, you," he offered a pat on the shoulder, "are one fucked up puppy." He leaned back and shrugged. "Doesn't bother me, though. When I was fourteen, I made out with one of my cousins." Jimmy squeezed a laugh from his lips like a fart, trying to hold it in to not irritate his fractured rib. "She was cute, but she had an overbite and hairy nipples... It was the weirdest shit I ever saw." Jimmy broke out in a full-on laugh, groaning in pain at the same time. "That and she woofed like a dog when I touched her cooch." He acted out the sound by making deep, animal noises to add to the hilarity. Jimmy was still laughing, but trying not to, squinting in painful amusement, clenching his gut, hugging the M.I.L.F. magazine. "She woke her parents up with that damn sound she made. My uncle chased me out their house in his boxers. It was dark, though. I don't think he ever found out it was me." Terry saw Jimmy still trying to hold in his laugh so he woofed again, but louder, howling in exaggeration. Jimmy would've been rolling if he could've moved but instead stayed put, jiggling with glee, pudgy cheeks beat-red.

The boys didn't notice they'd gained company. Alex had been standing at the doorway for a few moments, witnessing the childlike behavior from the two grown men in front of her. She decided it was about time she let her brother's friends know she was there, so she cleared her throat.

"Ahem!" She was leaning against the door frame, dressed casually sophisticated in heels, dark jeans, a white collared shirt unbuttoned to its middle, and a cropped jacket that teased her hips. She had on a pair of black framed reading glasses with her dark hair pulled tight into a ponytail.

Terry heard her first and looked over his shoulder, smiling at Jimmy's flushed dimples. "Hi, Alex." He was laughing a little when he spoke.

Jimmy finally noticed his dream girl posted under the door's frame and clenched up, embarrassed. He let out an, _"Oh shit!"_ under his breath and slipped the Milf Mag below the sheet.

"Uhh... _hi_ , Alex."

He and Alex were close to the same age; in their early twenties. The two of them were the babies of the group. Terry was closer to Marty's age being almost thirty going on _twelve_ , Alex thought.

She smiled with a sort of cocky immodesty knowing Jimmy's embarrassment stemmed from him having a crush.

"Hey, guys. Am I interrupting?"

Terry shook his head and Jimmy answered her. "No...uh, come in. Sit down." Terry was sitting in the only seat, so Jimmy shooed him along. "Terry, get up. Let the lady sit."

Terry grew a look like, "you've gotta be shiting me," but as it turned out, didn't have to give up his seat since Alex declined Jimmy's chivalry with a forced smile.

"No, it's okay. I just stopped by to see my brother but he's not in his room. Have you guys seen him?"

"Who, Marty?" Jimmy was a little nervous. "Yeah, he, uh, came by earlier. He wanted to check you out...uh, I mean, check out err...up on me. I don't know why, you know... I mean, I'm fine. It's just a few broken ribs. No big deal." He shrugged off the mention of his pain and his friend chuckled at his bravado.

Terry leaned forward, reaching his arm toward his friend. "Yeah, he's fine. Jimmy's a tough kid." His tone hinted at mockery, smiling when he jabbed his friend in the ribs with a finger.

"Oww! Shit!" Jimmy whined like a child exaggerating his pain. "Stop, you dick!"

Terry laughed obnoxiously and Alex smiled, but lowered her head to try to hide it from Jimmy. She didn't want to embarrass him anymore than he already was. Terry, on the other hand, had exactly that in mind.

Alex disguised her smile under clearing her throat and went on. "Did he say where he was going, or why he left?"

Jimmy, still wincing, wrangled his discomfort with his dedication to machismo. "No. Sorry," his voice a half-whisper, strained from pain. "Oh, wait...yeah. He said he needed a drink. He probably went to the G-Spot...err, the _bar_....Yeah, he went to see Tara, I think. Said he needed to get laid—" He tried to quit talking before making an ass of himself but, as usual, found the effort to be hopeless. "Uhh, sorry, I mean he—"

"—said...he...needed to 'get laid...' " She finished his sentence for him, eyes oozing disbelief. "Yeah... Great... That's exactly what he needs." Her hands flew up in her unsurprised annoyance. "I mean, who wants to talk to a lawyer when your balls are blue?"

Her joke didn't mask her irritation. Terry chuckled at the remark anyway and Jimmy shot him a look. Alex sighed and just crossed her arms over her chest. She decided to move past her frustrations for now and change the subject.

"Are you guys going tomorrow?"

Terry spoke up and put on a more serious look to address her question. "To the funeral?" Alex nodded. "Yeah, we all are..." He corrected himself. "Well, Marty isn't goin'. I mean...at least not to the service. But, yeah, the rest of us are."

She looked to Jimmy, cautious but curious. "Even you?"

He nodded. "Yeah. The guy was a douche, but...Coach says we all need to go and pay our respects." A shrug lifted his shoulders under sympathetic brows. "Even me."

"That's nice, Jimmy....I mean, not the 'douche' part, but..."

He almost smiled. "Yeah, well, I'll leave the 'douche' part out when I'm paying my respects to his teammates."

She faked a smile. For a second there was a brief silence as the three of them felt a kind of sadness in the moment. Then Alex spoke up to allay the blues.

"Does he have any family?"

Terry shook his head. "Shit F—?" He stopped himself and thought better of referring to Le'Duprie as something Alex might consider disrespectful. " _Duprie_ doesn't even have any _friends_ let alone a wife or kids."

She frowned. "No parents or cousins or anything?"

"Nope," Terry answered. "Just us. And even his _teammates_ thought he was an asshole."

Jimmy swung the back of his hand into his friend's shoulder, then sighed. "That's why they're performing the service here even though he's Canadian," he explained. "They're even gonna give him the honor of being buried with our troops since he served in our Military for two years. No one will pay for him to be transported up north so they're just gonna bury him here in the Veteran's Remembrance Cemetery."

"That's..." Alex wasn't sure what word to use to describe it. "...nice, I guess." She decided on one – but wasn't convinced she meant it. "It's sort of sad, actually."

Jimmy nodded in agreement. Not that he necessarily agreed, but he would've agreed to pretty much anything that came out of those exotic, dark lips.

"Yeah, so, uh, you wanna go?...You know...to the funeral, I mean."

Terry laughed. "Yeah, great idea for a first _date_ , dumb-shit, take her to a _funeral_."

Alex tried not to look as embarrassed for him as she felt and dug up the nicest tone she could manage without sounding too condescending.

"No, I don't think that'd be a good idea."

Jimmy felt like an ass, as usual, and Terry hadn't made it any better. He tried reconciling himself with an explanation.

"No, I wasn't...I didn't mean with _me_ , I—"

"Seriously, dude... Just quit now before she thinks yur brain got damaged in the collision."

Alex looked back and forth at the two of them and awkwardly smiled.

"I'm...uhh...gonna go." She pointed out to the hall in the direction of her retreat. "If Marty comes back, can you tell him to call me? He's not answering his cell."

Jimmy nodded obediently, trying to draw attention from his bumbling tendencies.

"Yeah, sure, I'll tell him to call you. Do you wanna leave me yur number or..."

"He...has...my number."

"Right!...Right. Sorry...stupid......umm... I'll just...maybe, shut up now, before...you know, like Terry said..."

Terry had his face planted in his hands, shaking his head, shoulders jittering from restraining his laughs.

Alex then carefully backed out, retreating from the deepening hole Jimmy had dived face-first into.

"Oookaayy..." She drew the word out in sarcastic harmony. "I'm leaving now. Um...I'll have the doctor come back in and maybe take another cat scan," she shrugged. "They might've missed something the first time."

Terry still had his face in his palms when Jimmy laughed forcibly at her remark.

"Ha! Yeah...cat scan. 'Cause I'm an idiot... Good one! That's...that's funny..." She'd already stepped out into the hallway before Jimmy finished his gibbering. "...funny, funny girl."

Noticeably stunned by idiocies abound, he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, hoping he'd find an answer to why he was such a bumbling dill-weed written on the stucco above.

Terry was finally able to raise his head from his hands, his cheeks tinted with a sympathetic rouge. "Dude...you have no game."

Jimmy sighed. "Shut the hell up, Terry. You're an asshole."

He laughed at that and Jimmy finally laughed too, unleashing a breath of nervous tension and easing his discomfort with an embarrassed smile.

3

"Since when do _you_ smoke?"

Tara and Marty were sprawled over the bed in her apartment, the sheets wildly rearranged in an after-sex entanglement of twisted blankets and bodies.

He took a pull from one of her cigarettes – a giant lungful proportionate to a chest his size – and exhaled hard toward the ceiling. She reached up for the Marlboro in his hands and guided it to her lips, stealing a hit from between his fingers. He didn't answer her question. He got the impression she already knew more than she'd let on. She let his hand go and he took another drag while she curled up on his chest.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" She said it delicately, with her head down as though she expected him to react in anger and wanted to shield herself from a potential scowling.

He inhaled another cloud, almost without taking a breath in between, and exhaled somewhat more easily this time; the nicotine's calming effect appeared to be doing him a temporary service.

She played with the hair on his chest and listened to the sound of his heartbeat ease itself into a steady drumming. She wondered what it must've been like for him to face the fact his rage drove him to kill a man with his bare fists. She knew he felt remorse. He'd never been very comfortable with his temper for as long as she'd known him. He hated even raising his voice to her or his sister and would leave the room if it was even a possibility. It was like he feared the anger in his heart and thought it might take control one day and drive him to do something unforgivable. He felt as if there was a monster inside, constantly thrashing at his self-control, working to break free of its psychological impound. This monster had a face, he thought, and it was that of his father. He could see his father's crazed eyes buried beneath his own through the reflection in a mirror or pane of glass whenever he'd get too heated and lock himself in a room. It was never a sight he could stand to stomach for long.

He finally took a breath outside the cigarette stuck between his swollen knuckles and cleared his throat, preparing his voice to speak. When he did, he spoke softly, with a sincerity Tara thought she'd never heard in his tone before.

"When I was fifteen, and Alex was seven or eight, I was walkin' her home from school," he began meekly, staring at the ceiling as he shared. "I used to get so irritated that I always had to take care of her. I just wanted to do my own thing, you know? I was just gettin' into high school and instead of hangin' out with girls after class, I had to meet up with my little sister and walk her home."

He shook his head, disappointed by who he was as a teen and siphoned another pull from his smoke. Tara couldn't help but intently listen.

"She was always such a happy little girl, and I think that pissed me off even more because I was _never_ happy when I was younger – _especially_ not at her age. When I was her age, my mom was still alive, and her and my dad were constantly fighting, and yelling, and _throwing_ shit at each other. _God,_ they were fuckin' horrible together..."

He shook his head again and gave Tara a puff from his cigarette. She never looked directly at him when he spoke, not wanting her emotions to show through and become a distraction. She'd just roll her head around on his chest and listen to the steady sound of his voice, exhaling carcinogens into the warm air.

"We were walkin' home and Alex was jumpin' around and tuggin' on my arm, pullin' on my shirt – just being a fucking spazz; driving me nuts. So I was already irritated as it was... And this group of older kids was comin' towards us; all laughin' and smokin' their squares, blowin' smoke in our face when they passed." He exhaled another cloud as he spoke that rolled into the haze that hung at the top of the room. "So I run my mouth and call one of the kids an asshole, right? And the little prick flicks his cigarette at me... Except it doesn't hit me... It hit's Alex – right in her fucking eye."

Tara froze, knowing this was where the story would get out of hand.

"I fucking _flip_. Alex is screamin' bloody murder... The kid looks like he didn't mean to hit her, but I'm already way too worked up to give a shit if it was an accident or not... So, I rush this kid and swing as hard as I can, right for his nose... _Bam!_ Broke it instantly. Blood starts pourin' out of his face like a _faucet_. The kid stumbles back and I hit him again – hard as _shit_. Not until the other night have I ever felt like I hit somebody as hard as I hit him." He paused, working through the memories in his mind.

"The only thing keepin' this kid conscious was probably the adrenalin pumpin' through his veins. His brain was tryin' to give his body a fighting chance, you know? The rest of the kids were too shocked to even try and stop me, so they're just standin' there, watchin' me go to work on this guy. I mean, he was at least two grades above me, but I was tall and skinny back then and probably got into more fights in any given _month_ than any of these kids had seen in their lives. I don't even know how this guy was still on his feet, but he was...so I kept swingin', and he kept stumbling backwards and...eventually, he tripped...into the street..."

Marty's voice trembled toward the end of his sentence, so he took a breath and a soothing hit to collect his thoughts before going on. Tara got the feeling she really didn't want to hear the rest, but knew he had to finish for _his_ sake. He continued after a few seconds of wrestling his composure.

"I followed him...into the street, and before I could hit him again...he..." His voice trembled even more now despite the time he took with his words. "He... he got hit... He..."

She finally looked up, offering the support he needed. Marty took another deep breath to quell the turmoil in his chest before going on.

"He got hit...by a car. It...uh... It pretty much killed him instantly." He took a drag, exhaling sharply. "The kid driving the car was goin' _way_ too fast...and when he...when he _hit_ him..." A tear escaped his eye and Tara wiped it from his cheek. "...he flew straight up in the air – at least ten feet – before he came back down and bounced off the blacktop in front of Alex and the other kids."

It was obvious he hadn't told this to many people. She wished him opening up to her wasn't the result of such a fucked-up situation.

He was regaining control of his voice now, continuing his account of the past, calmly and sympathetically.

"It didn't even look like a person. It was like seeing a doll get hit by a freight train. His body twisted in all different directions in the air and when he finally stopped skidding across the ground – probably fifty feet away – he just looked like somethin' you'd see dead, washed up on shore. It was like every bone in his body was broken, and he was lying contorted in a way that was so fucked up I've never been able to get the image out of my head."

Tara wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault, but she wasn't even sure if she believed that. She knew she would blame herself if she was in his position – so she just stayed quiet and let him finish.

"Alex wasn't screaming anymore. She was so shocked she couldn't even move. I panicked and needed to get the hell out of there, so I grabbed her arm and practically dragged her the rest of the way home." He took his gaze away from the ceiling and finally met Tara's eyes with his. "She wouldn't even look at me for over a week. She was terrified of me. It almost hurt more to know she was scarred of me than the guilt I felt for knockin' that kid into the street."

She decided after aching, internal deliberation, that it was time she chimed in, hoping an interruption would help relieve some pressure.

"When did she start talking to you again?" Her voice was weak from her stomach being knotted up, twisted with the emotions that poured from his words.

"Her birthday was ten days later and I'd already tried everything I could think of and nothing worked. So I decided to give her the one thing I _knew_ would make her feel better."

He reached over to the nightstand that supported his whisky and picked up the amulet Alex gave him the night before. He held it by its chain and draped it over his fist in front of her eyes. She reached up and touched its ridges where cryptic writing etched unknown words into its surface. The dark green jewel in the middle caught what little daylight was left in the room and sparkled beautifully in a captivating display.

"It's pretty." She felt at ease just from the touch of its metallic form.

"It was my mother's. I was planning on waiting to give it to her until she got older, but it was my last hope to make up for what I put her through. She smiled for the first time in over a _week_ that day, and it was the most perfect thing I'd ever seen." Tara smiled tenderly at the thought. "My mother told me it'd protect us from darkness. From what I remember of her, she was real spiritual in her beliefs."

"What was her name?"

Marty just stared for a moment at the glistening stone inside the charm until his mother's name just rolled off the end of his tongue.

"Aiyana," he answered, and the light against the medallion danced across its surface to the syllables. "Her name was Aiyana."

4

Alex stepped through the gate of her apartment complex in a daze, working through a jumble of scenarios in her mind concerning her hot-headed bear of an older brother's immediate future. Worries of him being banned from the league and sent into a downward-character-tumble toward a washed up never-had-been barged in on her thoughts, and she repeatedly had to shake them from her mind literally with a shiver and a side-to-side wriggle of her head. She reached up to her chest, as she instinctively would, to fiddle with the chain on the necklace she wore but felt vulnerable the instant her fingers touched nothing but skin. She let her hand linger for a moment, taking the time to imagine the feel of the charm in its absence, and ran her index finger over her clavicle in a circular motion that would've outlined its shape. Then a voice, like a breath on a breeze, whispered her name, and another chill crept over her spine when she realized the voice she heard was that of her mother's...

" _Alex..."_

She looked around with sharp eyes. She wasn't especially freaked out by it – she had other priorities on her mind that demanded she kept her cool – but wondered whether she'd actually _heard_ it or if her mind just wandered wayward at the lack of the amulet around her neck and caused an old memory to surface. She let the whisper go for the time being, knowing that if it was significant enough it would reveal its meaning in time.

It was twilight, and the complex's adolescent residences ran aimlessly around the inside of the gated yard. She skimmed through the group of seven or eight kids with a cordial smile and continued down the cement path to the front of the building. None seemed bothered to notice her, aside from a young girl who was standing oddly still behind the group of scrambling children. She eerily watched Alex walk past with hollow and chilling eyes. Alex recognized the little Hispanic girl as a neighbor's niece, but didn't recognize her empty, listless stare.

But Alex wasn't one to be easily shaken so quickly decided not to let it get to her. Continuing toward the building's entrance, more concerned with her mission to get her brother's life back than anything else, she stopped dead in her tracks when she heard her mother's voice again, this time as a sharper, more tangible whisper that froze her in her path—

" _Alex!"_

She whipped her head around and lost her breath as all eight children stood motionless, staring back at her with vacant, inhuman eyes. The aura of dusk around her distorted, and a fiery cloud moved in to cover the city while dim sunlight bled through the muck in the sky that bathed the streets with a hellish haze.

Unsure of what she was seeing, she tried her hand at addressing her observers, attempting to regain control of her surroundings – but she couldn't be sure if her voice had actually made it from her throat and off her lips—

"What...what's wrong?"

There were no answers from what seemed like soulless husks of empty little humans, and it frightened her to hold their stare. But she squatted down near the closest little girl in a pink dress anyway, swallowed her tension, and reached deep to find the nicest tone of voice she could squeeze past her unease.

"Hey, honey...are...are you okay?"

She reached out for the girl's dirty-blond hair and delicately ran her fingers between the strands, brushing it to the side of her face. The little girl didn't speak or budge, and as Alex pulled her hand away, a handful of the girl's hair came with it...

Her eyes widened as the strands melted into a demonic sludge that oozed from her fingers—

She backed away, retreating from the child as if she was contagious, and the rest of them stepped forward in sync with her backward shuffling.

"What...what do you want?"

She back-peddled nervously for space to breathe while the children continued to gain proximity. Their collective eyes deepened and darkened until they spilled-over with thick, black tears, their hair and eyes melting from their heads and dripping down their chubby cheeks and off their chins.

Alex stopped – rooting herself and her composure – thinking rationally that this _couldn't_ be real. And she looked around at her surroundings, taking in the surreal impossibilities of the burgundy sky, realizing she was somehow caught in a dream. She'd had extremely powerful dreams before that bordered on premonitions, and the aura of _this_ one felt similar. She'd learned of her mother's murder through a series of this type of imagery but hadn't been bothered by one since she'd solved that trifling riddle in her late teens.

"What do you want?" She asked more sternly this time, less fearful and more inquisitive.

The children all still stood motionless, black sap pouring down shirts and dresses and over tubby bellies... Then, in some enigmatic moment of revelation, they lifted their right arms, pointing behind her toward the entrance to her building.

She watched them gesture in unison like puppets attached to a string and turned to see what drew their concern.

But nothing but a vacant walkway to her complex made itself known.

"I don't understand..."

She turned back to face the ghostly gaggle of little creeps and her heart jumped from her chest when the dead face of an eerily familiar stranger appeared standing just inches away.

He smiled sinisterly under his straggly goatee and hooded brow, towering over her with a disgustingly tattered scar around his neck that looked as if his head had been ripped off his shoulders and glued back together by way of some dark, esoteric magic.

Shocked and desperate for safety, she gasped and jumped back, falling over her retreat and skidding to her rear.

This man she didn't know – but felt as if she should – reached down for her with otherworldly speed. He clutched her neck in his grip and squeezed before she could even think to flinch. She couldn't scream or even breathe and gagged on her own collapsing esophagus under the strain of his coarse fingers wrapped around her throat like a snake constricting its meal.

He chuckled softly, lifting her off the ground, stretching his tongue from his mouth to lick her disgusted expression from chin to eye. His breath was an aroma of pain – and the humming of his raspy voice rattled her insides as deep as her bones.

She tried to get a grip on her fears, telling herself that he couldn't really hurt her here. But the taste of his breath and the roughness of his dry tongue against her skin was so disturbing that she couldn't focus past the sickening feeling his presence flooded her with.

Another chuckle haunted her nerves and she choked on the constricting frame of her throat. He smelled her neck and flesh with insane vigor – like a starving creature savoring the scent of its meal – then marginally bit her cheek just hard enough to break the skin and send shivers through her body before putting his dry lips to her ear to speak.

"Mmmm-mm- _mm!"_ He taunted her with his deep tone and dead breath against her lobes. "What's up, lil' cousin?" His choice of greeting froze her soul, not knowing what to make of his words. " _You_ taste like...... _family_." Her apparent fear and shock fed Smoke's ego a bellyful of triumph and he rabidly laughed. He then whispered in a rough, intimidating tone, "I want you to tell your brother somethin' for me." He paused, if only to create tension and to relish in the sound of her speeding pulse. "Tell him...his little _brother_ says.........

"... **Die..."**

He savored the flavor of fear in her eyes and opened his mouth wide, pulling her head back by her hair. Digging his teeth into her neck, he ripped her tongue from the base of her throat; it hung from his mouth like a dog tangling with bloody sock as he shook his head to splatter gore across her expression.

The tearing pain of her tendons snapping as her skin tore from her meat threatened her very sanity. Her eyes rolled upward and her vision obscured into gritty, unrecognizable after-tones of a real life, transforming her delusion into a scene from a new-age horror film.

Smoke then chewed on her soft tissue while maniacally snickering at eyes that tried to make sense of their death, his blood-red orbs reflecting her terrified confusion – the sight of herself dying in them doubling her fear...

Then the adrenaline in her blood that fueled her panic spiked her senses like a shot to the heart and she awoke gasping for life and air—

Slowly, her senses returned to her, as if she'd been in so deep she'd have to be depressurized before surfacing into the waking world.

The first thing she noticed while her ceiling came into focus was that she wasn't in her room, but in the middle of her apartment, laid out on her sofa. The second thing was that she was being cradled. Her head was in someone's lap – a _woman's_ lap – but...she lived alone...

She wanted to squirm and writhe, kick and claw, but was still too groggy for her body to move the way she told it to...

Then she realized she wasn't in any danger as the woman's fingers brushed through her hair – and her _smell_...her smell was so... _familiar_...

"... _Mom_...?"

The image of her mother gradually came into focus in front of her to paint her a picture of serenity – she was smiling but had a distraught look concealed behind her loving eyes. Her hair was wavy and dark. She looked a lot like Alex did but slightly older (she was in her late twenties when she died, and her spirit reflected that in its apparition). Bronze skin and in a hospital gown, she looked just like the woman Alex had seen as a child. It'd never occurred to her before, but she had always appeared to her this way: as she did on her last minutes on Earth.

But did that mean her spirit was immutably trapped in that moment? Unable to get past the hours after she'd given birth?

"Hi, baby."

Her voice was the sweetest thing she'd heard since she was a child. It immediately brought a tear to her eye.

Aiyana wiped at the drop with her thumb but it passed through her hand. Alex could "feel" her mother's touch, but apparently her tears could not.

"Mom..." She had so much she wanted to say but couldn't decide on a single word.

Her mother hushed her gently.

"Shhhhhh..." She smiled. "I know, baby." A tear escaped from her eye as well but vanished as soon as it fell from her chin. "I love you too."

Alex eventually found enough composure to sit up and look her mother in the eyes. Aiyana never let her hand fall away from her daughter's cheek as she repositioned herself on the sofa.

"We need to talk."

Aiyana's voice carried a sadness that Alex was fretful of. She knew whatever she wanted to talk about likely had something to do with the man in her nightmarish premonition claiming to be Marty's younger brother.

So she listened as her mother laid out some of the most shocking, unbearable, and _unbelievable_ news she'd never imagined she'd have to hear. The dreadful warnings of the coming of the end of the world, the demise of her loving and cherished older brother, and the awing insight to who her true father really was.

The days to come would be more frightening than she thought she could endure – but it seemed there was no stopping what the future would bring. And no matter how hard she might try to reject it, she'd undeniably be right at its center, fighting for the likes of the endangered souls of every person left on Earth.

# CHAPTER SIX

Blood Storm

1

The Veteran's Remembrance Cemetery; Now:

" **The murdered blood of my blood still screams in the veins beneath my skin – an entire** _lineage_ **of human lambs bred to be sacrificed for my sovereignty... With my death, the price of 100 blood-souls will be paid in full, and a spell cast five centuries passed finally made absolute."**

Imala spoke her words in a tongue unknown to man, and its ritualistic nuance upset the sky above the church where her altar set its unholy semblance. The language she spoke was jumbled, like her words were clear in her mind but warped and mangled as soon as they touched air. If the average person were to listen closely, it would be apparent she was speaking English under the misconstrued sounds her tongue had rearranged, but it sounded befuddled or backward, somehow; deranged and unnatural. But the manner of the language spoken wasn't what was important (its obscurity a side effect of her words echoing through another realm). The blood and the pledge of the woman doing the speaking is what won the attention of an audience in Hell.

Her words spoke of a plot five hundred years in the making: a tale of ancient hunger with an insatiable resolve. Imala's aged soul was that of a woman's whose quest for power extended beyond the natural limitations of time, stretching across centuries with enduring patience to be rewarded here on this plane. The lineage and "blood-souls" she spoke of were that of her own line's, all tethered to her past by way of destiny and ancient magics. Murder after murder led to coverups and well-practiced lies, leaving a trail of death and deceit twenty-five generations and a hundred bodies long, all building to an endgame finalized by the witch's tenth mortal death.

Smoke watched his newfound mother through undead eyes as she sliced open an ancient pagan symbol on her forearm. He stood by not as family, but as minion, while she drained her life's fluid into a large clay bowl sitting atop the same table his revolting existence was given its twisted grace.

The blood pouring from the cuts in her arm dribbled over older scars like scriptures on her skin. It boiled and churned in the clay caldron revealing small bone carvings resting maliciously under a ruby stew. But the blood's surface decided against reflecting its surroundings, and instead conjured a vision of a rolling, red-clouded thunderstorm; miniature lightning bolts igniting a blood tempest within.

Imala clinched her fist to pump the life from her veins, and Tessura snarled at the sounds of the storm rising outside. Smoke stood by, enticed by the power his own bloodline revealed, and basked in its mystic lunacy, inspired by the witch's premonition tainting the air.

"Your hand." Imala reached for her son's wrist and he stepped closer, eager to play his part.

She took his forearm with authority and sliced it open, releasing cursed, black syrup from his veins into the tiny storm inside the bowl. He flinched not from the pain of the cut, but from that of his flesh burning at his mother's enchanted touch.

After his oil-like flux thickened her brew, she let loose his arm and he casually – but cautiously – stepped away. His undead blood was essential to her spell and would pave a path for her sovereignty to be recognized in the coming of a new Hell.

The church where Imala and her demonic son dwelled, dabbling in amoral wizardry, sat near the entrance to one of the country's largest veterans' cemeteries, rooted just east of the inner-city of Los Angeles. On the surface, the chapel was as wholesome and pure as any: well-kept and valued by the community. But beneath the surface, beneath the cement and floorboards that sustained the "good people's" place of worship, lay an old and unkempt cellar, previously fermenting in anonymity for a century before Imala used her black sorcery to step it up to par.

This ironic posting of her place of meddle had unexpectedly brought about a devious influence over the cemetery's grounds. Unlike what one might think, assuming holy ground may hamper her authority, misguided faiths and the false worships of random visitors only served to strengthen her position of power and feed the evil already poisoning this place of discontent and ill sorrows. This place where non-believers would come and curse the ideals of the Lord under their infuriated breaths, and/or pretend to pay their respects but really only play the part to get their grievances over with and more immediately carry out the day with their empty and skeptical lives. Anyone who stepped foot here to mourn or otherwise left feeling wrong somehow, sickened by the evil secretly fermenting on the church's grounds.

Imala continued her incantation, fist clenched over the stirring cauldron, and spoke with a powerful resonance against the coming storm—

" **Hell, hear me! Demons and the damned! Pledge yourselves to my blood and be raised from the pits of Abaddon! Neglect my offer...and be eternally imprisoned, trapped in the cold shadow of a coward King..."**

Her backwards declaration insulted the atmosphere and the night outside the church erupted in a frenzy, mimicking the toy storm brewing in the soup above her altar.

She held out her other arm and carved another swath in her skin: two, sharp, S-like bolts known in pagan ritual as the Satanic "S," representing the "Destroyer" in mythology and worn selfishly to claim power over others.

Dish burgeoning with blood, it spilt over the rim of the caldron and poured from Imala's arms. There was ten times as much fluid manifesting in this pool of wickedness as to what could actually have come from her veins, and it crawled onto the cement floor with a mind of its own, encroaching on where Smoke and Tessura stood.

" **Take me as your Queen, and reign on Earth at my side in** the New Hell! Rise from Lucifer's cage and embrace the strength destiny has promised me! Help me take this planet as our own and rediscover the pleasures of life that many of you never deserved, but that I offer freely for nothing more than allegiance."

Imala lifted the caldron over her head as an offering, holding it high while it spilled onto the floor, gushing over her hands, racing down her forearms and dripping off the tips of her elbows. Barefoot in a restless gown the color of murder, a cyclone of unearthly wind twisted around her, coiling the pools at her feet in circles and rushing through her hair and dress. And as she continued, she raised the intensity of her incantation to challenge the wind roaring over her hymn.

"Breathe in the fear of man and drink of his blood and spirit! Taste the meat of his woman and child and smell the burning of his cities! Feel the wetness from his tears in the air and howl at his hopelessness and pain!"

She pulled the unholy elixir closer to her lips as Smoke and the demon wolf made room for her spell. The swell of wind spinning about her excited the blood from the floor and formed a circle encompassing Imala at its eye. It rose along with the force of the tempest with an agenda of its own. It grew sneering expressions, whispered unformed words, and even crawled with shapes of reaching hands and claws, stretching toward her, grasping at her body for her mortal soul...

But before she'd allow the eager blood-demons to have what they craved, she whispered her last words as a human, her lips teasing the edge of the bowl—

" **The blood of the dead... The sacrifice of the living... A hundred souls paid in full."** She closed her eyes in prayer. "Life is frail and trivial; murder is pivotal. Death is absolute and power eternal... Let my sacrifice tonight...prove me worthy of my destiny."

With the last of her words pledged, she tilted the caldron to fiendishly drink from its rim. Her eyes filled with a dark, crimson gleam and a black vortex that drilled into the depths of her soul.

The veins in her face and neck under her skin swelled as she swallowed, the serum's influence spreading across her body until her entire blue circulatory system shown through her flesh. She couldn't swallow more than four or five times before she lost control of her hands and dropped the cursed wine from her grasp. It fell unnaturally slow as her knees gave out and her body convulsed, buckling alongside it, both crashing against the coarse concrete without control...

Smoke stood watch through the streaks of whisking blood-creatures encircling Imala's shuddering body, but through his dead eyes, could only make out the color red and the gray tinges of shadows filling in the darker portions of the scene. He couldn't see the color of her flesh being drained of its plush signs of life as her limbs and spine contorted and thrashed where she lay. It seemed she was conscious enough to be aware of her torment...but incapable of doing anything to ease the pain.

The bones in her body then snapped and splintered as her seizure progressed. Her dark brown, almost black hair was the first, most majestic change as it lit itself ablaze and turned to a deep, foreboding shade of claret. She may've tried to scream, but her throat denied her efforts, suffocating her and robbing the life from her lungs one breath at a time.

Her fingers were the next to change, stretching outward six inches apiece, gouging at the concrete below and sharpening to a point. Her arms and legs then followed, elongating from the hems of her dress as the winds tore the cloth from her frame and left her paled skin and scarred body exposed. She had pagan symbols carved on almost every inch of her flesh that lit up with a scarlet shine when it met the air. And as her body continued to extend, reaching a length of seven feet or more, her ribs cracked out of her skin, thickening like a cage for her insides. They encompassed her torso as if they were fingers made of giant bone and gripped the sides of her body to shield her vital organs.

She looked to be instinctively clinging to her last breath, not only suffocating, but expiring in pain as she turned and clinched to a fetal cringe. Her back was exposed now to her son, and the sight of his mother's enlarged spine protruding from her frame was a humbling one. Her new form, if she would survive the change, was a marvelous vision of power and malevolence to be admired by all who'd be damned enough to see.

Next, the claret in her hair bled into her skin and every inch of her flesh became a sheathe of crimson, resembling how Smoke thought the Devil may appear but more beautiful – even the demon Tessura was impressed by her master's manifestation. She watched curiously as Imala's body trembled against the change, eventually becoming still...and ultimately giving in to the inevitable.

And in an instant, everything stopped.

Her body no longer convulsed or struggled to breathe. The circle of blood-mist that swirled around her ceased its ravaging and clawing and calmed to a tranquil breeze.

The woman once known as Imala was hardly recognizable in the now lifeless body of a she-demon. A reddened monstrosity lay where a woman once had, and Smoke and Tessura both stood by, not knowing what to expect from the corpse of their priestess next.

Mist serenely danced around her. A minute passed before anything else occurred. Then another.

Soon, tiny sparks of cardinal static crackled around the body of the devil at their feet. Electric currents like spiders' legs crawled all across her, humming and zapping and burning the hairs off her skin. Then circling blood-breeze again picked up its pace, and thick pulses of sadistic energy jolted out of the commotion and stabbed at Imala's still lifeless corpse.

Tessura growled in annoyance, uncomfortable with the growing shards of lightning threatening her own coat – but could do little else but posture and snarl while waiting for an outcome.

From the blood-mists, little electrical impulses formed a crimson web that stimulated every possible nerve-ending under Imala's skin. Her body convulsed at their charge in rabid fits before the web lifted her several feet from the floor, and the burn-off from the show shined bright enough to cause the two creatures, Smoke and Tessura, to turn their heads and shield their eyes.

Limbs stretching like some reimagining of Davinci's man, Imala's she-devilish figure played host to an ember that burned in her belly. She shook spastically while the radiant egg ascended through her torso, past her ogress heart, shocking it into a rapid rhythm and rekindling some sort of new life into her demon shell. The glow then squeezed its way through her throat like regurgitating a melon and erupted as a wail and a geyser of blood. It broke straight through the cellar's roof and made easy work of the chapel's ceiling before feeding the storm above with a damning promise of demonic disease.

The low, dark sky gladly absorbed the blood and puissance expelled from Imala's curse.

The Earth groaned.

Poisoned intentions boiled in the belly of the clouds and quickly spread its influence throughout the storm.

After falling loose from the web suspending her, the creature that was once the human witch and malevolent mother of an undead abomination opened her eyes and breathed in new life from the air. She watched as the vaporous trail of blood-energy that plowed through the ceiling slithered out of the church and into the sky.

Exhaling slowly, she took her first breath in stride, feeling out her newly powerful lungs and chest. She only had to merely think to rise and without moving a muscle, her body elevated elegantly into a dominant standing position, her arms palms-up and her sleek chin held high.

Humbled by the commanding appearance of her newborn goddess, Tessura melted her form into that of a wolf and took her place at Imala's heels. Smoke, also in awe of his mother's new frame, took one carefully measured step closer.

Imala gazed down, towering almost a foot taller than the height of her son, and smiled viciously. Her thick, burgundy hair reached past the lower curve of her back, and her crimson skin still glowed with the symbols that'd been scribed into her human flesh.

The dress she'd worn was nothing more than ash on the floor – but there was no shame in her nudity. Her body looked like a vessel of war, without a single weakness exposed or soft spot that might need coveting. Her breasts had a protective layer of thick skin at their tips that gripped their shape like a red spider's legs. If she still had any sort of genitalia between her thighs, their openings were only evident if she wished them to be, and completely sealed off if not. Legs like any woman's but unlawfully strong, they bore dark scarlet, tribal-like patterns in her flesh that coiled down her thighs and spiked her calves.

Smoke opened his mouth to speak but was halted by the sight of two bones rupturing the skin of his mother's forehead, growing from her skull like horns on a mythological beast. They harnessed the color of bone at first, then the crimson of her skin grew from their bottoms and covered them to their points that hardened into solid black. Their texture was more like cement than skeleton, and Imala appeared to enjoy the sensation of their emergence, her mouth slightly opened and black eyes fastened, fluttering under the thick skin of their lids.

When she reopened them, she seemed to have forgotten her son even existed until he spoke, and she peered down when he took a step closer; Tessura loyally standing guard beside her, growling protectively from her feet.

"Mother..." He wasn't afraid. He knew no fear. But he wasn't exactly sure where his place was in her world. "What...do you want me to do?"

Imala reached her arm out toward her son, palm up and fingers partially cupped as if holding something encaged between her vicious, blade-like nails, and a whisk of blood-mist amassed from the air around her hand into its middle. The mist compacted and grew the face of her ex – Smoke's father – and Smoke found that a savage grin peeled back his lips in reply.

When Imala spoke, her words ricocheted through his skull like the thoughts were his own, but in her voice, and her enthusiasm for the wicked things to come filled him with an eagerness that burned.

" **Say hello to your father for me."** She smiled iniquitously, proudly flashing demon-like teeth. "Bring me his eyes." Then she added, "But keep him alive."

"And, my brother?" Smoke still had a yearning inside; one that wouldn't subside until he faced his older sibling and walked away victorious.

Imala smirked before she spoke, knowing something of the future she didn't feel the need to explain.

" **Your** brother...will be joining us soon." She then looked to her demon wolf lying at her feet, and Tessura's yellow eyes met with hers. "The girl," she barked.

Tessura needed no clarification as to what her master wanted, but from what she remembered, Alex was protected by a charm. By using her telepathy, she projected that image into Imala's mind. Imala seemed to weigh it in her thoughts, as if probing the future for an answer to her wolf's unease, then saw that Alex no longer _had_ the intrepid device.

" **She doesn't have it. Go.** Find her." She smiled distantly. "...Invite my darling niece home for a bite."

2

(Twenty minutes before the storm)

"Here! Stop right fucking here! Let me out." Marty barked obnoxiously at his Uber driver, spitting as he talked, clutching a two-thirds emptied fifth of Jim Beam in his large and drunken hands.

He promised the guy he'd throw him an extra courteous tip if he let him drink while he drove. The man agreed, but probably as much for the money as to not upset this enormously bulky and boozed up monster jam-packed in his back seat. The trip out to the Veteran's Remembrance Cemetery was about a twenty-minute drive from Tara's place and he felt only half as drunk as he'd need to be to face Jean-Claude's freshly planted grave.

"Twenty-seven dollars, my man—"

"Here." Marty tossed a hundred-dollar bill crumpled up into a ball at the driver then stumbled from the car.

"Is this for the fair, or...?"

He was already on his way, gracelessly hulking from the Honda, but the guy wasn't sure what Marty expected him to do with a c-note when the fair required an app to pay...

"...fuggoff..." the drunkard answered after stepping onto the short-cut grass that chased the horizon in the dark. Not that it bothered to occur to him, but if it had, he would've been sure the driver could work out what to do with the cash.

Rows of tombstones stretched for over a hundred acres in front of him. Eighty-five thousand buried former soldiers populated the grounds making up one of the largest communities of corpses in the nation. Luckily, Marty scouted the area early in the afternoon so he knew where his most respected antagonist was buried.

It'd be a near ten-minute walk to get past the upright markers of the northern half to the more subtle, flat ledgers that covered the southern side where Le'Duprie was laid to rest. Time enough, he figured, to nearly finish the bottle he started. He'd save two drinks for when he'd reach the grave: One for himself for when he'd toast to Le'Duprie's career, and one for Jean-Claude that he'd pour into the soil blanketing his place of respite.

The night sky was ominous. The few stars bright enough to shine through the city lights were snuffed out systematically by a rolling layer of dark. The cemetery was a beautiful and peaceful place, but if Marty were in the right mind to notice, he'd realize there was something suspicious polluting the air this night.

He trudged through the memorial grounds with a purpose, like he was a soldier himself, marching in a steady but not so straight line toward his pursuit. His vision tunneled in front of him so his surroundings to either side were a blur of shadows and trees, and an echo of distant thunder growled more formidably the closer he came to Le'Duprie's grave.

He lifted the bottle in his hand in mid-step and angrily poured another drink down his throat. His stomach churned and clinched, revolted by the taste, but he forced his himself to swallow the swell of warm, stiff liquor. Bright slivers of red lightning stood out over the thunder and sparked white flashes of memories that splashed in his mind. The sound of the wind picking up mimicked that of the crowd in his head, and when the lightning would knife through the sky, his fists would bash into Jean-Claude's broken face, blood spraying the ice to the opposite side of each blow.

Marty, trying to drown the guilt-twisted images from his conscience, forcibly tilted back the whiskey and chugged down a solid, four more shots from the middle of the bottle. In his thoughts he saw through the eyes of his teammates as the refs pulled his crazed self off the fallen, former soldier, his fists still swinging in a blind rage. And over the commotion on the ice, a little girl's face stood pale and frightened behind the glass, shocked by the actions of this violent beast in a Priest's jersey. The girl looked as Alex had at that age, and the girl's lanky, older brother with dark, distinguished features, resembling a young Marty, stood beside her, cheering on the carnage in a blood-drunken craze...

The thought of the scared girl in the crowd stirred in his gut, and a tear fled his eye while he again swigged as much liquor as he could handle in a gulp. His stomach would have screamed if it could. But instead, it protested the only way it knew how, and the bile in his bowels burned, rising in protest against their grave mistreatment.

Dizziness then overwhelmed him.

He dropped to his knees and leaned forward with his hands gripping at grass, bracing himself for what was coming. His quivering guts heaved once before anything made its way out of his mouth. Again, his stomach squeezed in on itself, this time forcing a fountain of yellowish vomit up and out his insides. He gagged and spit before whatever fluid was left in his gullet squeezed its way out and onto the ground. He hadn't eaten since before he left the hospital, at least a day or so ago, so the process wasn't involved. There were no chunks of chewed up food stuck in his esophagus, just streams of stomach acid and liquor dripping off his lips and the tip of his nose. Bile singed the inside of his nostrils with a rancid taste, but it didn't take him long to wipe his mouth, regain his breath, and pick himself back up from the cemetery lawn.

"Duprie, you motherfucker!" In the angrier stages of his grieving, his afront to the dead gnarled alongside the thunder. "Why'd you have to jus' go an' die, you big bastard?! You finally get tired of me kickin' yur ass?!"

His march through the upright tombstones was nearing its end and an open plane of flat, ground-flush grave markers were only steps ahead. The wind you'd expect to carry the gathering clouds competed against his stride, screeching past his ears and face as he yelled directly into it.

"You did this on purpose, didn't you, you asshole! Fucking died on me jus' to put me off my game!" His awkward gait became more staggered and clumsy the closer he got to Le'Duprie's grave. "Yur fucking, flaming dragon breath wasn't enough anymore, huh? Had to go an' fuck with my emotions like a bitch!" He threw the bottle into his path and it bounced off the cemetery lawn, landing just short of its target. "They shoulda buried you in a skirt, you pussy!"

His drunken gaze wandered fifty yards out and found the fresh pile of flowers where his teammates had offered their condolences. Violent, cardinal lightning splintered out of the dark squall above, cracking like whips thirsty for flesh, and the hairs on his arms and neck stood at attention – but none of that mattered. Nor did the stuffy ambiance surrounding the cemetery that reeked of human sacrifice; a hot, moist air that withered branches and leaves surrounding him stiflingly.

"You fucking asshole, Duprie! You put Jimmy in the hospital! I'm fucking glad you're dead!" The hot air fueled his anger. The heat cramping his lungs only amplified his rage, and he tripped over his own feet just as he stepped close enough to nearly fall face-first into Le'Duprie's grave.

"I'd kill you again if I could, you fucker! You hear me?! You fucking hear me, Duprie?!" He pounded his fist into the ground hard enough to offend the dead, his emotions a jumble of angry fits that boiled inside him until it poured out as a distraught and helpless sob. "You fucking asshole! Why'd you do it, huh?! Why'd you make me so fucking mad?...I...I didn't..." He pleaded on his knees, the flowers surrounding him drooping under the strain of the sultry air. His tears hit the earth when he tried to finish what he started and say what he'd come to say. "...I didn't want...didn't mean for you to die..." He knew what had to be done; he just had a hell of a time doing it over misdirected anger and pride. "...I'm...I'm...jus'..." Warm rain tapped at his back, bouncing off his shoulders and into the grass around him, and heavy droplets that sunk fast into the cemetery grounds dampened the soil under his fists. "...I'm... I'm sorry, man... I'm...jus'...so...fucking...sorry..."

Forehead imprinting the mud, belligerent tears disappearing into wet earth, his amulet, heavy with the weight of his pain, hung low, steaming at the touch of the grave.

Marty rolled onto his back in exhaustion, charm flat on his chest. Temperate drops continued to beat down at him and pick at his woes, and like the soil below, when they'd hit the silver amulet and green stone adorning his neck, they'd evaporate into a vapor of thin, red mist – tiny screams releasing from each drop lost to his ears under the storm.

The night was dark, despite the big-city lights surrounding him, and with no stars in the sky, the rain was as black as the mud. Marty again began seeing images of Le'Duprie flash in his mind, but instead of reliving the fight, he'd see Jean-Claude's toothless grin, ironically remembering the good times when they may've shared a joke or traded a few childish insults. He hadn't given it much thought, but they'd shared as many jokes and laughs as they did scowls and blows. The good times never really stood out like the bad, but there were those that were in fact good just as often as not.

Eyes sealed tight, the back of their lids were drive-in theater movie screens showing The Days of His Recent Past while his clothes sopped up the balmy drizzle, and he caught the taste of it in his mouth in between scenes that slithered onto the back of his tongue. The moisture left behind the raw flavor of blood and he swallowed twice before he noticed. He spat in vein, rejecting the coppery intrusion from his pallet, but before long lost the movie's plot to the alcohol in his veins that took a turn for the worse.

Falling backward, arms flailing in his mind, the world around him then spun away, spiraling off in some 1920's dramatic Cut to Scene transition, leaving only trouble waiting for him, stewing under the earth on the other side of his eyes.

3

An hour had passed and Marty was still out cold, awkwardly sprawled out on top of Le'Duprie's muddy memorial like an old whisky-soaked rug. The blood-rain exhausted its source from the belly of the clouds but their consistency only spread further over the city – an infectious rash with pustules and boils like scabs stretching across the sky.

The only light that hung over the cemetery came from the streets. It reflected off the bottoms of the clouds and glowed eerily as a ruddy haze. Marty found himself halfway rolled over on his side with his right cheek pressed against the mud and the amulet around his neck resting beside him (a scorched circle imprinting the earth below it). He was too drunk to make out the sound, but the soil beneath him stirred with a deep, muffled groan. The groan gradually turned to a grumble, then abruptly to a thumping of what sounded like heavy fists pounding against polished oak. The earth shook unsettled under his limp, drunken body, and the sounds of wood cracking and splintering beneath heaps of soil soon followed.

Marty too began to stir uncomfortably; no doubt the commotion below him was invading his tired dreams. He mumbled inebriated slurs in his sleep as his resting place was roused from below. His heavy shoulders gave the impression of being nudged while the grunting under him neared the surface. Earthworms and beetles and spiders in scores scurried from the dirt as if fleeing the path of something much bigger and potentially more disgusting. They stampeded over Marty's frame as the mud behind his shoulders plumed into a mound, rolling him off the grave.

Then, behind the rush of pests and rising mounds of dirt, just when the stirring earth seemed ready to burst, a hand as black as Hell broke through the unsettled surface, reaching desperately upward as though it'd have to dig through the air as well to discover its freedom. With its elbow stretched above ground, it slammed onto the loose soil, quaking the cemetery with newborn strength – a fierce grunting not far from the base of the limb.

Marty, coming to after being shrugged aside, sluggishly turned the rest of the way over until he was resting on his back, eyes rolling under fluttering lids in an attempt to reestablish footing in the waking world. A rude smell poked at his nose and he whipped his head around from side-to-side, trying to elude the invading stench.

A second mud-covered hand soon exploded violently alongside the first, again reaching eagerly into the air as if the freedom it represented was its just retribution. Grunts and grumbles found their way through ground between massive biceps, followed by the top of a bald, black head with four dozen stitches sewn across its back; the three-inch gash where Le'Duprie's scalp was split open hard not to miss. Dirt and black spiders rained from his rising body while he gained footing in the world of the living, thrashing to clear his path of the dirt that was his tomb. He growled under strained attempts to stand, and when he finally made it far enough from his hole to place a foot on the ground, the entire cemetery shook under the weight of his new form.

Jean-Claude planted one giant shoe next to the other and stood up straight, more erect and proud than ever before, and took in the sight of his own body through his pitch-black eyes. He was dressed in an all-black suit, painfully-orange tie (depictive of his team's colors), and a black shirt under his jacket that was smudged with dirt and tens of insects still squirming across his body. He gazed down at his dry, flaky palms and slowly made two fists, breaking through the stiffness of rigor mortis with the cracking of his knuckles, the sound of skin stretching over bones like black leather gloves.

He looked over the area around him through the grayscale of his lifeless eyes and down toward the ledger above his grave. Snarling, he glared at his own name on the copper plaque, just now remembering who it was that'd put him in the ground in the first place.

Marty, from ten feet away, was vaguely aware of the commotion, but wasn't fully able to grasp it. The undead monster that was once Jean-Claude Le'Duprie finally noticed him stirring and aimed a deadly grimace his way. His brow was so intensely crunched over his stare that thick, wet dirt fell from the caked lines in his forehead when he recognized the greatest adversary of his former life resting so nearby. Then, that same violent glare loosened as he took his first few steps toward his prey, and his dry lips turned upward to an evil sneer.

Marty tried putting his surroundings into context through his drunken haze, his first coherent impression being of him spread out on the ground, rolling around in the mud, filthy and thoroughly over-intoxicated. He then remembered where he was and eventually looked up with a curious gaze toward the dominating silhouette above.

Le'Duprie's despicable sneer became an outright toothless smile when his eyes met the Priest's, and he chuckled softly for a moment until it grew into a deep, booming laugh that filled the night with irony.

The blackened figure in front of Marty then slowly gained detail through his blurred vision, and that familiar, booming voice put the image of Le'Duprie's face into focus. Marty forcibly blinked a few times to straighten his line of sight, and Le'Duprie finally stopped laughing long enough for the Priest to hear himself think. He propped up onto his elbows, still lying on his back, and Jean-Claude glared down anxiously, waiting for Marty to speak. But before he did, he instinctively reached for the medallion hanging off his chest and tucked it under his shirt.

When Marty's brain finally found his tongue, he spoke casually, as if the two had just happened upon each another at some random place of common interest.

"...Oh...uh...hey, Shit Face..." He greeted the monster as if he were of no consequence, widened his eyes, then squinted in an attempt to stay cohesive. "...Nice suit..."

Le'Duprie let out an amused gurgle as he leaned down, leading with his left hand, grabbing Marty by his shirt and jacket. When he pulled him to his feet, the back of his coat ripped wide with his enormous shoulders lifting Marty's equally huge self above the ground.

Marty, ironically, was still as lax as one could imagine, his toes barley able to touch the dirt below. He was almost impressed by Le'Duprie's show of strength but was childishly more distracted by the spiders and other bugs crawling over his dead opponent's skin.

Le'Duprie slowly pulled him in closer until they were only inches apart, and when Marty again found the focus to speak, his words were slurred and lazy from his still hammered swagger.

"Whu...whuss with the _bugs_ , Shit Face?...Yur team couldn't afford a lid f'yur casket?"

Jean-Claude was almost amused by Marty's remark as he glared into his lazy eyes. He couldn't wait to sink his teeth into his powerless opponent, but controlling his urges made the anticipation that much sweeter.

The towering Hound smiled sinisterly; mouth watering, Marty suspended in his grasp...their two faces still only inches apart. He slowly opened his decaying maw to intimidate his prey while wet dirt and spiders drained from his pallet.

"...Aww fuck, man, tha's gross..." Marty turned his head and winced in disgust but kept his eyes on the monster's movements. "C'n you close yur mouth, bro?...I'm not feelin' so hot and yur...*hiccup*...breath is fuckin' rancid..."

The dead creature cocked his head back and to the side then, without warning, jolted his face to let loose a cough that exploded with leggy arthropods and black tar onto Marty's disgusted frown.

The Priest kicked and squirmed his way loose from Le'Duprie's grip, ripping his shirt to pieces to get free. Frantically swatting at his face, he stumbled from the grave, breaking the chain from around his neck before falling skittishly on his seat. His amulet hit the moist dirt with a hiss and sunk an inch into the ground while he back-peddled further from where it fell.

The repulsive variety of six and eight-legged vermin swarming on his face and into his mouth were the least of his problems as the black gunk hosting them seeped into his eyes, singeing his lashes and burning his retinas. He let out a painful and panicked groan and clawed at his own face, scraping handfuls of insects and black vomit from his cheeks and eye-sockets while flinging gunk to the floor. He could hear the monster stepping closer and laughing that horrible, dark laugh of sickening glee, so he swung his arms out blindly in hopes to keep the dreaded dead-man at bay.

"Stay the fuck away from me, Duprie!" Jean-Claude was still chuckling while approaching him from what sounded like all angles, but Marty couldn't see a thing through his stinging eyes. "You're fucking dead!...I'm drunk out of my fucking skull, and you're deader than dog shit, you fuck!!"

" _If_...I am... **dead**..." The walking corpse of Jean-Claude decided to speak, and when he did, his inflection carried a power in it that Marty could feel clenching at his heart. "...then, this is _your_ dream...and... **I**......am your **nightmare**."

He let an atrocious blow rain down on Marty's unsettled chin that spun his opponent around and very likely cracked his jaw out of place. A yelp jumped from Marty's mouth with the hit, then a winded grunt as his body met the dirt.

The pain from the punch was ridiculous, but he was more concerned with not being able to see. His t-shirt was tattered and torn so he used his jacket's sleeve to wipe the burning from his eyes – all the while his protective charm sat steaming in the mud only a few feet away.

"Nos'ing more funny to say now, ass fuckar?" Even after death Le'Duprie couldn't seem to get his insults right.

Marty madly scrubbed his eyes until they teared up and washed away some pain. " _Ass_ fucker?" He figured he'd distract his opponent with his wit as he always had in the past. He was scarred _shitless_ – but would do whatever he could to make Jean-Claude think otherwise. "Are you comin' on t'me, Shit-Mouth?...'Cuz, you should know by now: we...we don't play fer the same team."

Le'Duprie worked his way behind him as Marty got as far up as his knees, hunched forward with his back toward the monster. J.C. reached out with a hand on the Priest's shoulder and spun him around as the drunkard continued to chatter, trying to distract himself from his own pain and fear.

"Whoa! Hold on, man... I like girls....You get that through yur hockey helmet, Bug-Boy? Girls!"

His jesting was cut short when Le'Duprie grabbed him by the throat and lifted him to his feet.

He could almost see clearly now, through the burn and blur... Clearly enough, as it would seem, to see that the dead beast formerly known as "Shit Face" was merely inches away, staring him ferociously eye to eye...with what looked like shit caked all over his face...

He used his last breath to squeeze out another remark, being helpless now to do much of anything else.

"...What I wouldn't give for a Handi wipe right about now..."

The monster growled angrily at his tone and cocked back his rigid fist, punching it through Marty's stomach. He reached into his body and grabbed a handful of intestines like they were the stuffing inside of a puppet and pulled them into plain sight. Marty was so shocked from the pain he couldn't even scream, but if he could, he wouldn't have been able to with Jean-Claude's other fist still clamped around his throat.

The sickening beast of a corpse smiled as he lifted Marty's insides to his face and shoveled a fistful into his mouth. Marty couldn't do anything other than gargle on the blood rising from his stomach as he helplessly watched his former friend and foe gnaw on his guts in front of him. His moist intestines made a quaint, squishing sound when they were chewed, and blood spurt from the holes in J.C.'s top row of teeth, painting Marty's face with the taste of his own bowels.

Soon, Marty could hear nothing but his heart pounding erratically inside him from the genuine fear felt for the first time since this night began, and he watched in horror as another lump in the monster's throat sunk while he swallowed a chunk of his disemboweled meat.

Le'Duprie started to laugh again after he punched his way back in and pulled out a second helping of organs. He laughed even louder when he sadistically smeared his own face with them like a three-year-old overly enthused about his spaghetti dinner.

With his merciless victory nearly complete, he let loose his grip on Marty's neck and dropped him into the freshly dug grave that previously housed the dead-man before he rose into the night as the people-eating monster he was seemingly so proud to be.

Jean-Claude then stood triumphant over his first kill, so pleased with himself that he was able to momentarily refrain from eating the rest of the intestines he still held dangling from his fists. Instead, he just stared for a few moments, invigorated by the rush that the blood and flesh filled his chest with, and when he felt he'd consumed every ounce of enjoyment from the view, he took in a deep breath and let it out as a monstrous roar.

The sound of his voice was so powerful the soil around the open grave scattered and poured itself over Marty's broken body, burying him beneath the earth in Le'Duprie's formerly vacant hole.

Jean-Claude was almost surprised by the power his breath held, but deep down knew this display was only the beginning.

He looked around the cemetery – his eyes glowing red with Marty's fresh blood swirling through his veins – and his attention was instinctively pulled in one direction. He was summoned into this living-death for a purpose. There was an even larger scheme at work here than he could truly understand, but somehow, he knew it started there, in that tiny little chapel near the front entrance of the graveyard he could now see in a new light.

It was as if it had existed in two worlds but converged here on one. Through his new eyes he could see an astonishing silhouette of an enormous citadel engulfing the humble church at its middle. The world around him was monotone – in simple shades of black and gray – but the translucent image of this fortress surrounding the church was glowing in sharp, dark tones of red, orange, and yellow, like structured flames. It reached five times the height of the single-story chapel and encircled it by fifty yards in every direction. The ground outlining this Spirit Fortress sunk into the earth as if the soil supported its weight, and a wave of death among the grass and weeds close by began spreading like fire.

J.C watched in delight as the trees withered to wiry skeletons and the lawn dried and cringed into lifeless bristles around him. The death among the turf covering the grounds carved sigils in the Earth so large you wouldn't see them unless you were looking down on the cemetery from above. The sigils were a warning to the heavens – a seal stating that from this moment on, Earth belonged to Hell, and that the demon Imala had grown to be held the lease of every living thing on its soil. It would only be a matter of time now before she'd implement her rule.

J.C. walked mightily toward the base of the fortress and stopped just outside its walls. He cocked his head when he heard the beginnings of a ruckus beneath the surface of the cemetery – it appeared he wouldn't be the only monster to rise from the grave this night.

He looked back toward the church, not sure what it was he was waiting for, but knew that here was where he would find his purpose. A hunger in him began to grow and an image in his mind took shape. A beautiful reddened-demon's black eyes cut into his thoughts and spoke to him in unheard words. Flashes of gore and chaos accompanied her call as he saw pure violence and terror run through his mind, him being the catalyst, bulldozing through the streets of L.A., ripping to ribbons anyone standing in his way.

One word echoed through his mind from the lips of the beautiful she-devil Imala. One word that brought meaning to his being, and he knew now what he was meant to do. One unspoken word that would inherently bring about furious chaos and unrestrained horror unto the world. And that one word clawed its way into his thoughts in her voice and crept from his throat as a grumble and a smile...and he growled it in a whisper with an insidious need growing inside...

" **FEEEEEEEED..."**

# CHAPTER SEVEN

The Beginning of the Dead

1

Culver City Forum; Los Angeles, CA:

"Shoot _._ The _fucking._ Puck! The puck! THE PUCK!!...Shoot! The _FUCKing!!_ " Coach Gary was using his outside voice _inside_ the Priests' locker room between periods 2 and 3 of the second game in their playoff series. "I don't see what it is about that process that doesn't _compute_ with you Facebook fucks! Do I hafta post it on _twitter_ for you kids to get the _gist_ of it?!"

You could always tell the Coach meant business when the veins in his neck would swell up like squirming, baby pythons and he was using pop-references to intercommunicate. After screaming his strategic advice at the top of his lungs, he switched gears in his tone, addressing his team in a sarcastic, and more plain and simple manner.

"That little, black, round fucker made of rubber that slides around on the cold, hard stuff in between the boards? That's the puck. Hit that with the blades of yer fucking sticks and aim it at the back of their FUCKING NET!!"

The Priests were down by 3 goals and just didn't have their hearts in the game without their star player, Marty, out on the ice. Jimmy wasn't suited up (nursing a concussion and a fractured rib) but was there for his team, more-or-less, being slightly distracted by the vintage game of Tetris he was playing on his cell while seated next to Terry. In between the Coach's roaring and ranting, little computer blips and electronic chirps escaped Jimmy's corner of the bench. Eventually the entire team zeroed in on the distracting sounds, eyeballing their teammate who didn't have a clue.

Terry, on the other hand, was so preoccupied by his own passing thoughts that he hadn't noticed the Coach had finally stopped his bickering until all eyes were on him and Jimmy. He stopped in the middle of lacing his skates and gave his friend a heads-up with a nudge from his elbow.

"Chill out, dude. I'm on level nine," Jimmy whispered back, figuring whatever he wanted could wait until after he got his shot at beating his top score.

Terry just shook his head in surrender, already knowing the consequence of his buddy's lack of focus.

"Hey......FUCK-NUTS!!"

Somehow, Jimmy knew his Coach was referring to him. He lifted his head just as the game's sound took a downward tumble in its pitch, symbolizing his failure at immortalizing a score

"Turn that FUCKING thing off, or we're gonna find out if I can fit that _phone_...into an empty _space_...in yer pasty _ASS!!"_

A few Priests reservedly chuckled at the Coach's referential scold.

"Sorry, Coach."

Jimmy promptly turned off his phone and, nearly simultaneously, Terry's cell rang inside the bag between his feet. He glanced up at his coach – who now had his eyes beaming directly into the meat of his skull – and gave him an apologetic frown.

"... _Sorry_ , Coach..."

Coach Gary just shook off his frustration and sighed. He figured he'd give Terry the benefit of the doubt since he and Jimmy were more closely involved in the tragic events of the previous game. Considering the circumstances, Terry's distracted slip-up wasn't too far from understandable.

Terry reached into his bag and grabbed his cell to switch it off but hesitated when he saw who was calling. Alex's name was starring him in the face and somehow, he knew he had to answer, but by then it was too late – the phone had stopped ringing.

He kept the cell in his hands while his coach continued clucking paternally at his squad, resembling in his bitching what a mother hen might sound like if she had a vulgar vocabulary and a croaking frog lodged in her throat. Soon after, a notice popped up on his cell's screen signifying a new message. He immediately felt on edge, certain that Alex wouldn't be calling unless it was important, his thoughts drifting throughout the remaining minutes of the intermission. When everyone was suited back up and started filing out onto the ice, he made his move to try to settle his unease by quickly checking his voice mail.

Jimmy watched his friend put the cell to his ear and instantly became jumpy.

" _Dude_...what're you doing?! You want Coach to make you eat that thing?!"

Terry just brushed him off, not worrying about the consequences, feeling that this message might be more important than the game and there was only one way to find out.

Jimmy anxiously watched as his friend's eyes widened at the content of the recording and knew something was up. Terry put the phone down afterward and started stripping away his gear, jerking at snaps and elastic straps.

"What's goin' on?" Jimmy's glazed eyes and tone made it clear he was starting to worry. Terry was tearing off his pads and moving a little too hastily for his comfort.

"It was Alex..."

"Alex?" He looked confused. "My...I mean, Marty's Alex?"

" _Terry!"_ The Coach popped his head back into the locker room to interrupt their conversation, wondering what the hell was taking him so long. "What the hell's taking you so long?!" His eyes shifted up and down when he noticed him disrobing. "What the fuck're you doin', soldier?! We have a god damn battle to win out there!"

"I gotta go, Coach. Marty's in trouble."

The Coach put on an overly sarcastic look of bewilderment. "Well, send Jimmy. He's not playing anyway!"

Terry stopped to flash his coach a raised brow. "Marty's in trouble...and you want me to send _Jimmy?"_

The Coach let that scenario marinate in the contemplative juices of higher logic for a moment, then—

"I see yer point. Jimmy's a fucking putz. You go ahead and do what you have to."

He nodded. "Thanks, Coach."

"Yeah, thanks, Coach," Jimmy repeated sarcastically after him, then turned to his friend. "Dude, what'd she say? What's goin' on?"

He shook his head. "Not sure." He took off his skates while trying to explain. "But she sounded serious. Real serious... Somethin's not right."

"You want me to call her back for you?" He was hoping he'd say yes...

"Yeah."

Yes!

"Ask her where she wants us to meet."

2

Smoke stood tall outside the cemetery – hood over his head, sleeves pushed up around his forearms – and took in the embodiment of Hell that spawned around him. Slowly, dead creatures dug their way into the world of the living (the more recently deceased being sooner to rise than those soldiers who'd been resting for decades), and the sight of the hellish fortress that surrounded the tiny church behind him reflected sharply through the peripheral of his dead eyes. But his mind only saw in one direction: forward, to his reunion with his blood-father who'd unknowingly be waiting to meet him in the Los Angeles Metropolitan Detention Center.

He'd been standing outside the citadel for nearly an hour until the stirring below the earth became loud enough to be unmistakable. Dozens of dead soldiers were clawing their way into the city of L.A., ready to make a hardy, first meal out of the wandering b-movie stars and wannabe celebrity-nobodies infesting the city. Any minute now this town was in for a shit-storm unlike any it'd ever seen, and he'd be damned if he wouldn't be the first of the undead to run savage through the blocks of his very own home.

He marched eagerly toward the busy street bordering the cemetery with an army of undead rising behind him and leapt into oncoming traffic. The tires of several cars screamed against their own weight, fighting the blacktop for a grip on their momentum, and the one less fortunate of the few stopped directly under his fist as he charged insanely for the screeching yellow cab. He drove his knuckles in and exploded its windshield under the wave of pressure crushing the hood. Traffic all around him came to a stop as confused and terrified citizens looked into the city street at this towering freak-of-nature buried elbow-deep in the painted steel of the taxi's metal frame.

The cab driver was out cold, limply draped over the airbag, and Smoke took a second in his triumph to look around at the cars surrounding him. He scanned the cluster of automobiles like a customer in a used car lot and lit up when spotting the humble carriage that would be his ride into the nearby city. A 2017 all-black Camaro with hood vents like dragon nostrils stood out among the trash that accompanied it. He flipped the broken cab out of his path with one lift from his hand, throwing it into the car beside it – not yet familiar with his own strength – and zeroed in on his soon-to-be, newly acquired trophy ride.

Brazenly, he walked toward the vehicle with a swagger imbued in newfound power and stopped at the driver side door. He cocked back then reached through the tinted window as if it wasn't even there, grabbing the driver by the top of his head and dragging his helpless body through the broken glass. With the carcass discarded into the side of a Prius, Smoke then carefully reached into his new ride and gently unlocked the door. He slid into the driver's seat with an expression of satisfaction and leered through an evil visage at the sight of the well-cared-for upholstery. He hadn't noticed at first, but there was an attractive brunette seated beside him, frozen in fear, pressed up against the inside of the passenger door, cleavage trembling, peeking at him through the corners of horrified eyes. Smoke pulled his glance away from the polished dash to look over at her and smile.

" **Hi."**

His scratchy, deep voice was so terrifying it coaxed a fully autonomic response. She suddenly screamed at the top of her lungs, opened the passenger door and took off running for a few yards before falling over her heels and skidding across the road.

Smoke let out a belly laugh that could put a drunken Norse God to shame. The silly harlot had no way of knowing she was headed right for a horde of hungrier and much less hospitable creatures than him. He put the car into gear, slammed the pedal to the floor and took off like a bat out of Idaho, his laughing a bass-line to the music of the Camaro's squealing tires burning rubber against the surface of the street.

The first wave of muddied, demonic soldiers poured out of the cemetery into the cluster of awe-struck onlookers piled bumper-to-bumper in the growing traffic, filling his rearview with tantalizing scenery. Two hundred or more bloodthirsty, zombie veterans appropriately dressed in the uniforms they fought in (their garments being re-manifested through the same magik that reformed their flesh), swarmed the streets, ripping off the roofs and doors of cars like peeling shells to get to the meat of the human nuts squirming inside. Streams of blood and flying human limbs splashed out of the mass of chaos, and Smoke groaned in a deep, wanting tone, wishing he had the leisure to join the former American heroes in their voracious feasting frenzy... But there would be plenty of tender cop-pork-chops marinating on his menu soon enough, he thought. And waiting for that moment of triumph would make the rewards to come that much more grossly satisfying.

He hit the gas and sped into the city where he'd soon come to find his father. He wondered what sort of man he'd be and if he'd be half the man he expected – which was only about a quarter of the man that Smoke was when he was just a street dwelling bag of meth, an empty gun, and a real shitty attitude. If his father measured up, he'd be about one eighth of a junkie who was only worth a third of a homeless man with herpes, and even less if the hobo could still get it up. With stakes that high, he'd hate to get too excited about meeting him for fear of disappointment.

He figured for now he'd assume his father was as impressive as a genital wart on a lesser man's penis and save the judgment call on his character until he'd get to look him in his eyes. It wouldn't be hard to tell what sort of man he was when he'd come face-to-face with the wrath of an undead son ripe with abandonment issues. Not that he actually gave a shit anymore about why his father wasn't a part of his life, but he might bring it up anyway just to put the fear of God into the old man. It might make for better sport to coax some waterworks out of him along with his groveling. And if that wasn't satisfying enough, he'd have a hell of a time scraping his eyeballs out of his skull with the splintered end of a broken Number Two pencil.

Life was good, as they say – but death was a perfect pair of tits attached to a pretty brunette in her birthday suit. Needless to say, the life of an undead bad-boy undoubtedly had its perks.

3

Le'Duprie left a path of chaos behind him like a trail of blood-soaked breadcrumbs that started at the Remembrance Cemetery and ended where he stood. The course in front of him was a one-way trek to pain and villainy leading to the Forum where his former teammates and greatest opponents were all gathered in one place, ripe for mauling like a school of fish swimming in a blender. He was the first of his kind to rise from the grave, but from the sound of things, a wave of death and chaos crawled through the streets not far behind. His hearing was acute, and from blocks away he could take in the sounds of the crowd in the arena ahead, and those of the destruction of the city growing louder to his rear.

He marched through ten blocks of urban streets, plowing through cars and buildings like cloth, making a straight line for his destination. The deeper he got into the city, the harder it was for him not to stray from his path and start picking off vagrants or liquor store clerks for snacks to fuel his stride. His black, muddied suit and loosely hanging orange tie were nearly torn to shreds, shrouded over his frame, barely clinging to his shoulders and hips while howling sirens blared in the distance. No doubt they'd follow his path to its beginning where a hellish glow burned against the night sky directly above the cemetery. He pitied the fools who'd be the first to face the battalion of undead soldiers clawing their way into this world from the undersides of muddy graves.

The Culver City Forum was another ten blocks in front of him, but he swore from where he stood he could smell the blood and meat of his former friends and league-mates teasing in the air. It was as if he could hear the racing of their hearts and those of the fans in the crowd, and just the thought of that wet meat pumping inside their chests heightened his cravings, making waiting even another moment for the taste of flesh almost intolerable.

The public was thinning out with every demolished block... But in every town there was an unconcerned laggard, too caught in his own world to be bothered by the end of the one happening right outside his door...

-Bleepbleep-

The sound of the two-way, Nextel walkie-talkie phone-bleep snapped the distant stoner out of his daze in the middle of a smoked filled grow-room.

"Al! Al! You watchin' the news right now, man?"

The man in his mid-thirties, who looked like he might've fashioned himself fresh from a Hunter S. Thompson novel, wearing a red Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts and a plastic visor, popped his head up from behind a marijuana plant with one eyebrow raised. He was admiring his fruitful hobby's latest crop with a half-smoked joint dangling from his lips, peeking over the buds of his plant at the phone sitting on a work bench in the corner of the florescent-lamp-lit garage.

"The news...?" he mumbled to himself curiously before moving cautiously toward his phone. He picked up the cell and pressed the button to activate the walkie. "The news?" he repeated into the speaker, hesitant to even ask, as if he'd be inviting a conspiracy theory weed-trip into his currently calm and deep-rooted high.

-Bleepbleep-

"The _news_ , man! The _fucking_ _news!"_

Al was confused and disorientated by the hasty urgency in his fellow drug associate's intrusive voice, but remained tranquil, not wanting to let go of his meditative trip.

"What fucking news?" he asked his sparky, overenthusiastic, hollow shell of a friend.

-Bleepbleep-

" _Dude!_ Some crazy fucking shit's goin' down outside your house right now, man! The whole block is bein' torn to pieces by some kinda rabid, wild animal—!"

Al arrogantly cut short his friend with a finger on the button while slamming his fist on the table in front of him. "What the fuck are you blathering about, you inarticulate pigeon-fucker?! You're brainless bumbling is offsetting my delicately balanced chi!!" He took in a deep breath, settling his nerves, exhaling slowly to regain composure. "I was deeply enthralled in the intricacies of my life's work and thoroughly enjoying the all-consuming silence that surrounds it—!!"

There's no way to describe the terrible noise interrupting his lecture that accompanied the ripping of his metal garage door from its frame...

The beastly, living-dead monster, Jean-Claude Le'Duprie, tore the face off the front of the room Al stood in, tossing it behind him on top of a parked jalopy at the curb. Al instinctively buckled to the floor from his paranoid nerves kicking into overdrive and wriggled across the grow-room, retreating into its corner, hiding behind double-stacks of buckets filled with fertile soil.

He could only make out a blur of black poised at the torn opening of his garage, hardly able to stay focused long enough to actually see what it was that broke into his home. Wires on the ceiling near the front of the room morbidly hung from beams, killing the internal lights and spilling sparks from their broken ends over his helplessly flaccid weed plants. J.C.'s enormous silhouette barricaded the newly exposed exit and his girth nearly completely covered the narrow garage's tattered opening.

Al bundled up into the corner, still clutching his phone in his fists, and peeked through the space between two buckets to see what smashed through his humble botanical hovel. His fuzzy stoner vision combined with a paranoid delusional mind-state warped the image in front of him into something revolting. He wasn't sure what he was seeing, but whatever it was...it was ruthlessly fucking up his high.

......

..........

.............

-Bleepbleep-

"Dude...you still there?"

FUCK!!

He hugged the phone into his midsection to muffle the sound, then turned down the volume and pinched the button, whispering franticly back at his friend.

" _Shut the fuck up, Daryl!_ It's _here!_ It's in my fucking _grow-room!"_

......

........

..........

-Bleepbleep-

"No fuckin' way, bro! What the hell is it?"

Al peeked back through the crack between buckets at this massive _thing_ and tried describing what he saw as best he could, whispering to his friend in that same frantic tone.

"It's...it's...some kind of...giant...buzz-killing...dung-covered... _gorilla_......in a _suit!"_

......

..........

-Bleepbleep-

"A buzzard in a _gorilla_ suit? What the fuck're you _sayin'_ to me, man?"

"No, god damn it!! A fucking gorilla in a suit, you jackoff! Covered in...in...shit!!"

......

.........

-Bleepbleep-

"That's fuckin' disgusting, man... What's it _want?_ "

Al was quiet for a second while pondering the question, reaching for the most optimistic explanation he could uncover while cowering for what little possibility might remain of his life.

"M-m-maybe......m-m-maybe he wants to...to b-bu-bu-buy a bag."

......

.........

............

-Bleepbleep-

"Don't give him the last of that _good_ shit, man. I still wanna come over later and pick that up."

Al watched helplessly as the buzz-shattering beast stepped further into his garage. J.C. then gave the open air a sharp sniff and examined one of the budding plants perched beside him, head cocked in curiosity.

During this fretful moment of slow, torturous suspense, Al found a series of conflicting thoughts running through his mind. The first of which being something along the lines of, "No... no... no! Not the Sour Diesel!," then followed by, "What the fuck am I thinking? ... Yes... YES... take the buds and leave, you disgusting ape!." But his subsequent actions were what eventually spoke volumes.

Jean-Claude swiped at the potted plant with the back of his fist sending it crashing into the wall, and Al jumped up from his crouched recoil and shouted, "Nooo! YOU BASTARD!!" as if a friend or loved one had caught the dismissive swing.

He immediately realized his reflexive outburst might've cost him his life, and his vengeful grimace for the honor of his fallen, budding comrade went from mulish to mortified upon establishing definitive eye-contact with that which would be his doom.

Le'Duprie couldn't help but laugh at the miserable expression of hopelessness on the face of his petrified prey.

"Stupid little stoner..." He chuckled and grinned toothlessly in mouth-bleeding anticipation of the moments to come. "Hopefully you make better Food than Foe, no?"

4

"What'd she say?" Terry grabbed his keys and wallet from his locker as Jimmy handed him back his cell.

"She wants us to find Marty and meet her back at her place." Jimmy was in a sort of stupor – all the commotion was making him queasy. The pain meds he was on made it hard for him to stay focused. He hoped they'd wear off soon so he could start thinking straight again. "She said she had to find someone. She sounded freaked out, man... She said she wanted us to be careful..."

"Careful of what?" Terry grabbed his phone from Jimmy's hands and led the way out of the locker room, jacket hanging on by one arm for the ride.

"I don't know... I think she might be nuts, dude... Maybe she just flipped under the pressure, you know?"

Terry shook his head. "I don't think so. Not the way Marty talks about her. He said she's the most levelheaded person he knows..."

"Well, shit, Terry, that's not sayin' much, is it? I mean...look at who he knows!" Jimmy was starting to freak himself out a little. "Most of us are loose cannons... I'm a nervous fucking wreck half the time... The Coach is the dictionary definition of not-fucking-normal!...Who the hell is he comparing her to here?!"

Terry stopped dead in his tracks and Jimmy, following closely behind, ran face-first into the back of him. He turned around to address his nervous friend and look him sternly in the eyes.

"Dude..."

"What?" Jimmy was a tad too "amped up" for Terry's tastes.

"Dude..." Terry put his arms on Jimmy's shoulders.

" _What?!"_ Jimmy didn't understand how he could be so calm...

"DUDE!!" He gave his friend a good shake, and Jimmy finally slowed down enough to see he was serious. "...Relax."

He was frozen for a minute, just staring at his friend who had him tight in his grips, then Terry loosened up his hold and Jimmy let out a deep breath.

"Okay..." He let his shoulders slacken as he breathed in deep.

"Okay?"

"Okay..." He nodded.

"Okay?"

"I said _okay_ , god damn it, Terry, what the _fuck?!"_

Terry laughed at his friend's angst and smacked him on the shoulder. "Okay." He smiled. "Let's go find Marty."

The boys knew Marty was planning on stopping by the cemetery after the ceremony. They figured he'd have done that by now and then made his way back to Tara's place. He'd either be at the bar, knee deep in booze, or wrapped up in his lady friend's sultry sheets, _screwing_ away his sorrows. Either way, the big-man would probably be a handful. They hoped he'd gotten through most of his binging and grieving by now, and would be as docile as a wet bag of hockey socks... But they could also be walking into something much more complicated and potentially dangerous.

Only time would tell. And by the tone in Alex's voice, it seemed the time they _did_ have was probably something they shouldn't take for granted.

5

Alex couldn't get the earlier image of the creature who claimed to be Marty's younger brother out of her mind. The insane look in his eyes as he merrily chewed on the meat of her esophagus, her severed tongue dangling from his mouth between his bleeding teeth...

Aiyana, Alex's mother, had told her where to find her _real_ father... And that he was an older man; a Shaman who lived on a reservation an hour east of the Los Angeles city limit. She said that this man, her father, _knew_ things. That he could help save her brother... That if _anyone_ could save Marty, he would be the one to see. Alex wasn't sure what was going on, or how much of all of this she even believed, but any threat to her brother's life deserved her utmost attention, and she'd go to whatever lengths were required to negate it.

A strange storm and cloud-front formed over the city she fled. The scrawny, white cab driver in his mid-fifties was fiddling with the radio as he drove, attempting to get some information from the news about the weather, but every station he turned to was chaotic and jumbled.

He cursed under his breath a series of curious ramblings, and Alex felt the anxieties in her stomach grow tighter with every channel he passed that didn't make it through the interference. A sickening hiss laced jumbled sounds that resembled distant screams and backward chants. He continued flipping through the stations, seemingly unaware of the disturbing collage of hellish music they made, all the while mumbling to himself under his breath.

The sounds behind the static rang with strange words and terrible cries in her mind, spiking her blood with a rush of adrenaline that widened her pupils until her retinas were drowning in black. She clutched the fabric of the seat cushion under her and closed her eyes, but the lack of any visual distractions only made the sounds more vivid and demonic...

She opened her eyes again to see her cabby still obtusely fiddling with the radio, so she tried to reach beyond her discomfort to speak, but her voice didn't make it very far over the sounds of anarchy that filled the car.

"Ex-excuse me...?"

It was as if the voices in the white noise reached out and smothered her, quieting her attempts to communicate; he didn't take any notice to her addressing him.

"...Excuse me... Could you please turn that off?"

She tried again, but this time his fidgeting fingers accidentally turned the volume up. Shrieks and high-pitched whines crawled over groans and snarls, muffling his own mumblings, making it sound as if his words were a deranged and twisted mantra underlining the hidden cries that crept between them...

She couldn't bear another _second_ of these sounds forcibly clawing their way into her mind. She was on the verge of ripping out her own hair in hopes the pain would distract her from the noises. She no longer had a hint of poise left to her demeanor so she just let loose and yelled—

"HEY!!"

He snapped out of his fixation with the stereo and looked back at her through his mirror, her eyes screaming for control, trembling while distraughtly staring his way.

"Jesus, lady... You okay?"

She was finally able to breathe when the words he spoke were plain English and not some demonic tongue. The man turned off the stereo and continued to glimpse her way through the mirror, unsure, not knowing what to expect.

She released the deep breath she held and let her eyes drift from his.

"No..." she finally answered. "Far from it."

He decided on minding his own business and allowing her the peace and quiet she seemed to need...

Alex's gaze drifted, peering through the backseat window at the city beside her from the elevated view of the 10 freeway, just crossing over the 405, headed east for God knows what. She was supposed to find her father, but would he really be there? Would he even care to see her or bother to help her even if he could? Or was she just chasing a ghost, or a figment of her imagination?

A strange orange glow in the distant sky pulled her away from her fretful thoughts, and as she gazed toward it, her heart jumped from where it had settled a few seconds before. A trail of red and blue police lights headed toward the center of the eerie glow while all other traffic rushed away, scattering in every direction. Her first thought, after the initial fear of the worst-case scenario, was that maybe it was just a fire...

But she knew better.

It was starting. The thing that frightened even the dead. The end of all life as she knew it and the beginning of what her mother described as Hell on Earth...

Please _let this be a terrible dream_ , she thought.

Please tell me this isn't real...

Please _don't make me live through this..._

Please...just......let me wake up...

6

J.C. cupped handfuls of half-baked brains from the severed neck-hole at the base of the ex-stoner's skull, shoveling red mush into his dead orifice, hollowing out its center one mouthful at a time, an expression of utter shock and terror still impressed in the eyes and gaping mouth of his victim. Occasionally some of Al's brains would squeeze out his own mouth as J.C.'s huge hands would retreat from his skull with overflowing grips on moist innards of cerebellum. The rest of the headless carcass rested at his feet with a hole the size of a barbarian's fist under his ribcage. His heart, it would seem, was the first to be made into a quick meal; the brain, no doubt, shortly followed.

Jean-Claude's black eyes burned red, rejuvenated from what little strength of life the dead stoner's corpse provided, and he unleashed a belch that rattled the gardening tools hanging on the walls. He set Al's head on the counter, right-side-up, and noticed a large, hand-rolled blunt resting just beside it. He hesitated a moment, thinking, "What would be the point?" but then shrugged, coming to the more popular conclusion of, "Why the hell not?"

So he liberated the blunt wrapped in tobacco-leaf from its seclusion, placing the smaller end in his mouth, and then acknowledged the head of the stoner who looked to be shocked that J.C. would have the gall to smoke his dope after savagely intruding on his home.

"Got a light?"

The head, of course, didn't answer... But if it _could_ , he figured the response would've been something along the lines of, "I hope you eternally burn in _hell_ , you homicidal, pot-thieving, _shit_ -ape!"

He chuckled devilishly, reaching down for Al's body. Lifting him by his belt, he felt for the familiar rectangular bulge in his pocket and ripped it from his thigh; cloth, lighter, and all. He threw the body crashing into the potted plants on the end of the counter then lit the open end of the giant spliff.

His first puff sucked up a third of the blunt in one pull, and the cloud he blew swirled from his lungs to envelope the entire garage in its haze along with a genuinely deranged bellow of laughter.

Just five more blocks to go before Jean-Claude would be reunited with his team, and he knew once they were made to join him, the Anaheim Hell Hounds would truly be a diabolical force to be reckoned with.

He was subtly aware that to spark the resurrection process he'd have to bury his teammates in the same blood-drenched earth that brought him back from the grave. It wouldn't be easy killing them all at once, he knew, and even less of a walk in the park getting the bodies back to the cemetery, but he was not without a plan. He'd catch them all in the locker room after the game, barricade the exits and pick them off one-by-one. He might even go easy on their bodies to make the resurrection process move along more quickly...

But not with his coach.

His coach wouldn't get the honor of joining his team among the undead. He would instead, rip him joint from socket and suck the flabby meat from his brittle bones while he was still alive – a cowardly screaming torso, crying in a pool of blood and piss. It wasn't that he disliked him so much... He just somehow felt the need to bring enormous pain and agony to the waking world; chaos and misery. And if he had to pick one man to do it to, Coach Rollins seem liked the type of man to get the short end of the stick – the shit-luck of the draw. Life's an ugly, nagging bitch, he figured... And then you die terribly at the merciless hands of a French-Canadian zombie....Sounded like poetry. His coach hated poetry. Fortunately he'd always been one to appreciate life's abundance of perverse little ironies.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

These Are the Dead of Our Lives

Smoke sped past a group of five or six cop cars rushing in the opposite direction toward the cemetery mayhem and threw out an arm, flashing the passing police force a stiff birdie with his dead left hand.

"Enjoy dying, you fuckin' morons!" He chuckled sinisterly at the thought of a dozen power-tripping pigs finding out just how powerless they really were in the face of an emerging Hell on Earth. "It's gonna be a pork salad, back there." He shook his head while down shifting in his trophy ride. "Sorry I'll miss it."

When he pulled up to the Metropolitan Detention Center, he didn't stop at the blue paint of the forward handicap parking, or even at the tall curb separating the lot from the public sidewalk. Instead, he hopped the barrier and parked the Camaro at the base of the stairs like he owned the whole goddamned building. He popped the trunk, ripped away the layer of carpeting covering the spare, and reached down for the hefty tire-iron screwed in place next to it. He didn't bother taking the time to properly remove the tool, nor was he the least bit concerned with the four approaching prison guards exiting the building soon after, their hands cautiously resting atop holstered weapons. The officers took one look at Smoke's sickly grin peeking from under the hood of his sweatshirt and the solid iron rod he'd ripped from the trunk of the illegally parked vehicle and simultaneously drew their firearms.

"Put it down, asshole!" The guard who spoke was the most seasoned of the four, holding his raised gun steady with a well-practiced aura of authority. "Drop the fucking tire-iron, douche bag, or I swear to St. Nick I'll shoot you where it don't grow back!" The wordy officer had always wanted to say something like that in a sticky situation.

Smoke wasn't real sure if bullets could hurt him. He knew pain was no longer a burden, but he didn't know how invulnerable his cursed flesh would be to the torments of mortal weapons. But he had this invigorating notion that there wasn't a damn thing any of these guards could do to stop him, and the uncertain looks in their eyes told him they may've been getting the same impression.

He figured there was only one way to know for sure, so he moved in closer, taking the first step toward the building, and not one of them wasted a breath before squeezing hot lead from the ends of their pistols.

They each fired two rounds apiece, hitting Smoke square in his chest eight times. The bullets sizzled when penetrating his skin, but the impacts had so little lasting effect that he couldn't help but laugh.

He looked down at the eight tiny holes in his tee to see a small amount of black, sap-like blood dripping from their centers. Apparently his flesh could be damaged by regular Joes, but he got the feeling it wasn't something a little bacon, brains, and tomato sandwich couldn't fix.

The guards looked back and forth at each other as if to ask, "Okay, what the hell do we do now?" And the wordiest of the four answered, "Light 'im up!"

They opened fire all at once, unloading their clips into Smoke's body until one of them finally wizened up and yelled out, "Head shots! Head shots!"

But by then, they were mostly out of ammo save for the few rounds that went whizzing by his ears, until—

"Boo'ya!"

The youngest of the four nailed Smoke dead-center in the open plane of his forehead, the impact blowing the hood from over his brow and sending him buckling to his knees. Afterward, a second handful of guards vigilantly exited the building and charged into position.

Smoke knelt with his belfry bowed and tire-iron loose in his grasp, partly rested on the cement, and the four men stood at guard, waiting for any signs of life from the lanky perp they hoped they'd put an end to.

The seasoned, more vocal guard spoke up after a few moments of suspense, shouting, "I'm empty! Anyone still loaded?"

"I'm packin'!" A young Hispanic officer yelled out and stepped forward from those who just exited the building.

"Check 'im! Is he toast?"

The young marksman who fired the shot that plugged Smoke in his brain sounded confused. "He's gotta be. We put forty-eight rounds in 'im!" He looked over to his fellow officer, obviously a little shaken. "And one in his fucking brain!"

The Hispanic officer approached the slumped body still positioned on its knees, and as he got closer, he noticed that even when kneeling this lanky outlaw was one tall drink of pale and pasty shit. He turned his head to the side with a sour look scribed into his face and groaned.

"Fuck... This guy stinks!"

Then another guard anxiously called out from behind, "Is he dead?"

Officer Daniel Herrera stepped within arm's reach of the body as his thoughts suddenly drifted to that of his pregnant fiancée, Maria, who was two weeks from her due date. He tried to shake her from his mind but, to no surprise of his, she wouldn't budge. He took another step closer, realigning his focus with the Now, and her image just shoved its way back in; even in his thoughts she seemed to get her way regardless of his better judgment...

He couldn't help but think of the first time they met. They were both underage drinkers, getting buzzed off light beer and wine coolers at a friend's house east of San Bernardino County. He was so fucking horny that night that he could hardly even talk, let alone "drop a line" but as it turned out, he didn't have to. She approached him, confident and witty, and asked if he was going to stare all night or if he was actually planning to make a move. He said he'd prefer to stare, but since the heat was on, he'd try not to disappoint. He asked her what her name was and she said, Maria – and somehow he knew right then that this girl would be the one to have his baby. He knew that they would love each other unlike anyone they'd ever loved before, and that they'd have a beautiful baby daughter together, whose name would also be Maria. Maria Sofia Herrera. The most beautiful name in all of time for the most beautiful daughter ever to bless a father's eyes...

"Herrera! Is he dead?" The other officers were getting antsy, eager for the young man to do his job.

Daniel put his gun to Smoke's bowed head and pushed, lifting it to stare into the eyes of the corpse before him. His head was heavier than he expected. He'd seen a handful of dead bodies before, but he'd never actually had to touch one. The close contact sent chills up his spine and shook him at his core, but he refrained from showing discomfort.

The hole in Smoke's head, crusted with a circle of singed, burnt flesh, dripped demon oil down his face and in between his dead, black eyes.

"Jesus..." Daniel had never seen a corpse's eyes that looked like _this_ before... He was _definitely_ dead...but something in his gut told him not to lower his guard.

"Herrera!"

"Yeah!" He finally answered his squad, looking back over his shoulder, not convinced of his own words. "He's dea—"

The blunt end of a cold tire-iron is enough to stop anyone in midsentence, and Officer Daniel Herrera found he was no exception to this truth.

He looked down at the metal pole sticking out of his gut and followed its form to the other end where Smoke twisted the tool in his hand and smiled vilely to add to the terror. Daniel considered pulling the trigger of the gun he held – but couldn't; his weapon was mysteriously missing from his hand.

Smoke saw the young man squeeze an empty trigger finger and brashly waved Daniel's own weapon back in his face, flashing a questioning smirk.

"This thing loaded?" It was an inside joke referring to the unloaded gun he'd carried in life, but his humor went unappreciated by a tough crowd. He decided to skip the pleasantries and get the show on the road, so he shoved the business end of the 9mm Glock against Herrera's forehead and paused to indulge before pulling the trigger.

"I always wan'ed to see the look on a cop's face when he was stuck on the wrong end of his barrel..."

Daniel's eyes widened as if he had something important he needed to say, stumbling over the urgency in his heart...but his words were never allowed to meet the air...

Smoke pulled the trigger slowly to coddle in the wait time before the explosion in his hand fought against his grip. The feel of the bang in his fist was the equivalent of an orgasm for the criminally insane. Herrera never stood a chance against Smoke's enthusiasm for his kill.

The impression left on Daniel's face was that of an attempt at forming the letter "M" for Maria, but if it was his wife, or his unborn daughter that last crossed his mind, only the bullet would know.

"...oh, fuck..."

The closest, most vocal of the first guards uttered his last words as Smoke stood up and backed Daniel's skewered body right into him. He pushed the tire-iron through Herrera's torso and into the protruding gut of the next guard just as a funny thought occurred to him:

"Pig-kabob!"

With a heave, he threw the two impaled bodies into two fresh ones, knocking the other officers over and pinning the younger marksman beneath the bleeding, soon-to-be-corpses of his friends. The pinned guard reached out for his fleeing partner's ankle as though, in his friend's panic, he'd unknowingly drag him to safety, but instead his grip only tripped him up while Smoke closed in.

Aiming the fully loaded pistol in his hand for the other three, Smoke opened fire just as they did, and the stumbling unarmed officer between them was the first to get caught by the cross.

"Fall back!! Fall back!!" a stocky guard yelled to the two to either side, assuming the position at the point to cover his friends' retreat.

It seemed obvious that bullets wouldn't stop this crazed thing firing straightly toward them, and if it weren't for the panicked urgency of the firefight, the three men may've been too shocked by the mere sight of him to even react at all. Smoke's presence carried a frightening air that was enough to freeze any sane man in his path. Each man experienced the chill of his stare as though he were piercing into the crux of their souls. It didn't seem possible, but somehow every one of the retreating officers were captured in his line of sight, as if his glare had their names at its point and tactfully stabbed at their individual fears.

For one man it made him feel as he did as a child when scolded by his abusive father, and he was stunned by the depravity of Smoke's blackened eyes. For another, it was equal to his first time in combat in Pakistan when he witnessed a good friend beside him bleeding-out after taking a hit to his neck. And for the stocky point-man, his brave disposition melted in an instant when he looked into the eyes of the demon who'd haunted his dreams since he was a child; the one that killed his mother in front of him when he was five for the thirteen dollars she carried in her purse and the wedding ring on her finger...

Frozen in utter disbelief, the point-man couldn't comprehend why he was so terrified, or why he suddenly couldn't even squeeze the trigger at the tip of his index. The two officers behind him were just lucky enough to have made it in through the door of the building, but only by grace of the inertia their stumbling bodies created.

Smoke stepped forward, raising a knee, then raining it down on the head of the young marksmen pinned under the corpses of Daniel and his skewered elder, crushing it like a rotted watermelon, death-jitters coursing through what was left of his convulsing body. The stompy, undead tyrant had stopped firing a moment before when he put three bullets into the stomach of the man who stood fifteen feet in front of him, paralyzed with his gun hanging to his side. The point-man hadn't yet realized, but he was already dead where he stood.

Reaching for the end of the tire-iron, Smoke enthusiastically yanked it free from the two dead men's bodies. He considered licking the slop off the side of it but thought, no, too cliché. Instead he approached the lone cowering soul that still stood between him and the path to his father and leered into his panicked, shit-brown eyes. Slowly, he stabbed through the bullet wounds in the man's guts and stirred the meat around like his torso was a hearty stew.

The officer looked down, choking on his own grueling defeat at the sight of the hole in his stomach, and Smoke then willed him to death with a grimace and a perverse growl while playing with the pulp of his food.

Eyes rolling into his skull, the would-be hero's hands clutched blindly at Smoke's tee. He tore at the tattered, oversized material that was black with demon blood until he finally collapsed in a spasm of pain, his intestines emptying onto the cement when he fell.

Death, in this case, was a small token of mercy, and of that sort of mercy, Smoke had plenty more to give.

2

"Would you just...no...dude... _seriously_...stop... Just... _stop_... _fucking_...with the radio!"

Jimmy couldn't take his hands off the button that changed the channels in Terry's truck. He was astounded by the fact that none of the stations could break through the static.

"I'm just sayin'...It's weird, right? I mean, it's not like we're in the fucking mountains or somethin'...So, what the hell's goin' on?" He gave the button another poke.

" _Stop_ , dude, _seriously_. Yur buggin' the _shit_ out of me, right now." Terry finally reached over and cut his annoyance off at its source. "You wanna _walk_ the rest of the way? 'Cause I'll drop yur ass off on the fucking corner."

Jimmy leaned back in his seat, not moved by his friend's threat, and gazed out the passenger window. A thick layer of clouds gathered over the entire city, poisoning his thoughts with a growing unease that he managed by way of gnawing at his nails.

"Maybe it's this storm..." He was just sort of thinking out loud, staring into the dark plumes that hounded his mood. "What the hell kind of storm blocks out radio signals?...An electric storm? Solar flares, maybe?"

"I don't know, man, but have you tried yur cell lately?" He looked down at his phone to check for a signal. "Mine's still not workin'..."

Jimmy had his phone already in his hand – he'd been checking it every few minutes and was close to being exhausted of the effort. He hadn't gotten reception out of the damn thing since they left the Forum close to an hour ago. He shook his head, despondently answering Terry's question with a sigh.

"Look," Terry felt the need to cheer his little buddy up. He seemed to be stressed over this whole "missing Marty" thing, and Alex probably freaked him out even more with her unsettled tone when they spoke. "We'll be at Tara's place soon, alright? Her boss said she took the day off... She's probably holed up on the couch with Marty right now. We'll pick him up, then go back to Alex's and wait for her there." Jimmy didn't look convinced by Terry's "everything's gonna be fine" speech, so he decided he'd try to sweeten the pot a little. "We'll get the five of us together – Alex will see that everything's cool – and we'll go shoot some pool at the Spot." He glanced over at his friend and let a smile creep onto his face. "I'll let you be on Alex's team. You can show her yur stroke – maybe even get'ta cop-a-feel." He reached over and pinched Jimmy on his tit.

Jimmy brushed him off and could almost be accused of a grin. "Think Marty would mind?"

"Dude, you're the most harmless kid on the fucking planet. Marty won't care. I'd be more worried about _Alex_ kickin' yur ass, you little pussy."

Jimmy chuckled and let an actual, real smile sneak through his edgy disposition, making Terry feel accomplished in his duty as a friend. He was sure not to let Jimmy see, but he was a bit perplexed himself. Jimmy was right about the storm blocking out the signals – it didn't seem normal in the slightest. And Alex's tone from the message she left him still haunted his thoughts. She was calm when she spoke, but something behind her controlled demeanor picked at his subconscious. The aura of the whole night around them felt off somehow, and he wasn't far from understanding where Jimmy was getting his perturbed mood swings. He tried to convince himself that he believed what he'd told his young friend, and after repeating the speech a few more times in his mind, he thought for now he succeeded.

It was just another Tuesday night, he thought.

Show's over, folks.

Nothin' to see here.

You can all go home now...

3

In his dream, he was plagued by endless blackness, unable to breathe. It was one of those dreams you knew you were having, but no matter how hard you tried...you couldn't wake up.

Muffled sounds of scraping and clawing bounced around in his skull, and the taste of blood...and _dirt_...filled his mouth and nose. Seconds felt like hours, and minutes dragged on like days. The trampling of heavy feet pounded above in rhythmic unison like soldiers steadily marching to the sound of foreboding war drums.

Screams...growls...sirens... _gun_ shots...

Sharp tingling, like a thousand spiders' legs, filled his stomach. Darkness asphyxiated him; uncertainty a smoldering flame in his mind.

Exhaustion...suffocation... _hunger_...

A burning flushed over his body as if acid pumped through every vein, and a barrage of violent images flashed through the infinite darkness that encompassed the world around him.

Fire...blood...pain...death... Broken bodies piled on top of severed limbs, on top of splattered insides, cartilage, and splintered bone. His father...his mother...his teammates...his sister...

His _sister_...

ALEX!!

He called out her name inside the silent vacuum that was his grave. The grave that he somehow inherited that never belonged to him, but instead, to an old friend – or enemy... He wasn't sure... But he wasn't dead, he thought... Or was he?

... _Duprie!!_

That sick, twisted fuck!!...He killed me... HE FUCKING KILLED ME!!!

Anger!

Rage piled on top of _hate_ , fueling a silent scream for vengeance... And a deepening hunger seared inside...

AAAAARRRRGGGRRRHHHHAAA!!!!

PAIN!!

Burning set fire to his soul at the first flicker of his pulse. A battle between villainy and virtue waged inside, tearing through his body with every beat his heart pumped thereafter, putting black blood against blue. He clinched a tormented fist and felt a handful of moist dirt harden in his grasp...

He... He could move his hand... His hands... He could move his hands!

Get up, god damn it! GET UP!!

He used the pain to empower him, clawing and gouging at heaps of bloodied soil. Kicking and scraping, he shifted his body through the warm mud. He wasn't even sure if he was digging up or down, but he didn't bother to hesitate when the doubt occurred. He _would_ make his way out of this grave and to see his sister again if he had to dig his way through the center of the Earth to get there.

Hunger grumbled in the pit of his stomach that intruded on his thoughts of Alex. Then the burning in his veins grew hotter still, washing away the famine with an inferno of pain, and he screamed in anger...

Wet mud fought against his lungs, muffling his roar, but his vigor and determination fought back harder, pushing his voice from his chest, exploding hundreds of pounds of soil from the cemetery grounds with a wail so powerful it left a crater in its wake...

Mud fell like rain all around him.

Afterward, unearthed and undead, Marty stood sternly in the middle of an empty grave – fists clenched, eyes black – huffing in a dominant display of will. He grimaced from the smoldering pain polluting his blood and stood braced against the torment as his mind was torn in two different directions—

A beautiful creature with a powerful voice beckoned him...and she reminded him so _much_ of his mother...

But the delicate face of his sister stood in the opposite light, slowly turning away, her face increasingly harder to see.

Hunger...

He leapt from the grave and landed on both feet with what sounded like the weight of the world on his shoulders.

In the distance: a citadel of flame – its structure illuminating against the rubescent clouds in the sky – and the beautiful demon voice calling to him reigned strong in his mind, pulling him toward the church... But in his heart...his sister pleaded...

" _Marty......please......"_

He ripped his eyes away from the burning chapel in hopes to quiet Imala's influence. He tried to think of his sister, picturing her in his thoughts, but her face kept turning further from his mind.

He growled and yelled in frustration, clenching his jaw with his head down and muddied strands of hair loose over his scowl.

The breath from his frustrated protest blew the soil from his feet; it revealed a radiance that was hidden from him before. The gleam of its beauty caught his notice, reflecting as a green shimmer in the blackness of his eyes – and just as he thought to reach for it, the temptress's voice grew even more deafening in his mind—

His sister's smiling face from when they were children rushed into his thoughts when he remembered it was his mother's charm resting just below, and he was treated to a touch of warmth that only her love could fire.

Hunger pains _pierced_ his stomach so he double over, clutching at his waist and hugging his gut...

" _Marty......_ please _..."_

Reaching for the charm, he was hardly able to move against the crushing pain. Every inch closer he came, the greater the anguish he had to struggle through to progress. It would be so _easy_ , he thought...to just let go...

Just...let...it...GO!!

" **I can be your mother now, Marty. I need you** _here_ **. With** _me_ **....** _I_ **am** **your true family."**

Her voice was powerful and beautiful, her eyes infinitely black and skin the color of blood...

" _MARTY!!!"_

Alex screamed his name in his mind and he raged against the pain to reach the amulet just inches from his hands. He clinched it, grabbing it with a handful of dirt as it ignited into green flame in his grasp... And he fell to his knees after expelling all the fight he had left in him just to once again know its touch.

Green fire burrowed into his bones and scorched through his body, glowing under his skin, washing over his entire being before bursting from his eyes and mouth. It stifled the hunger inside him with certainty and strength, and when it was over, he finally felt like he was able to breathe.

He took in a deep breath, letting his chest inflate in full, then exhaled a soothing, controlled calm. The hunger in him rescinded. The need for chaos and vengeance took a back seat to control and reason. For now, his head was finally clear.

He gazed down at the charm in his closed palm and gently opened his hand to release the low-level glow that radiated from the emerald stone. The chain had snapped from around his neck during his tussle with Le'Duprie but when he examined it, it began to mend itself before his eyes. Its reconstitution brought the slightest hint of a smile to the corner of his dry lips, and he proudly lifted it over his head to drape it in front of his heart. He tucked it behind his torn shirt and it continued to shine through the tattered material with the remnants of its strength still glowing green in his eyes—

"Well whadda we have here?" Two dead-men approached where Marty stood, dressed in muddied-up versions of early 20th century, U.S. military attire, and attached to two short leashes in their palms were an equal number of salivating war dogs that'd been buried and, consequently, resurrected alongside their handlers. "Looks like we got ourselves a gen-u-ine, renegade enjun, Ensign!" The bearded lieutenant addressed the smaller officer while both dogs snarled anxiously at the ends of their ropes. "I reckon this big feller don't quite understand the rules of the game."

Both dogs snapped their jaws and tugged against their handlers' hold, dragging the smaller ensign forward on the wet, cemetery grass.

"He looks like one of us..." The lieutenant sniffed the night air with a snicker. "...But he don't damn well smell like one of us, do he, Ensign."

The dead-men's eyes were red with freshly eaten meat; their muddied uniforms splashed with gore. The dogs – one all-white German Shepherd; one purebred, black Rottweiler – both drooled blood with human flesh still clinging to their claws. The Shepherd licked its lips and the Rottweiler barked with a ravenous bite.

Marty wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but fear wasn't in any way a part of his confusion. He looked up at the four threatening creatures through thick strands of hair, grumbling predatorily.

He took a moment to piece together what he knew so far: that Le'Duprie was somehow alive; that J.C. had killed him by ripping out his insides and leaving him to die in a muddy, vacant grave; and that now he was also somehow alive... But if he looked anything like the two men in front of him, maybe "alive" wasn't the right adjective...

He looked down at his stomach where his shirt had been ripped open but his flesh appeared stitched together and whole. His torso was mortared over with scar tissue but whole, nonetheless. There were questions that needed answering and he seemingly had two candidates for interrogation situated right in front of him.

He decided to try speaking, although he wasn't exactly sure of what would come out. He felt controlled, but on the verge of explosive, like at any moment he could be as volatile as the two, growling canine's viciously staring him down.

"... **What..."** The power in his voice gave him pause. "...what... _happened_ **...to me?"**

His voice was so strong the two dead-men's expressions tempered when hearing it. A flicker of green ignited in his eyes and it was obvious there was more to this corpse than the rest of the undead soldiers rallying around the cemetery's borders.

Both the lieutenant and ensign gave each other a quick glance, then leaned forward and simultaneously unclipped the leashes from the collars of their war dogs.

"Couldn't be as bad as what's _about_ to....Ghost! Blackout!" He declared the dogs' names with an evil sneer. **"...** _Feed_ **."**

The two beasts snapped into action, one at Marty's right, the other his left. Their barks were demonic. Their fangs unsheathed from behind their lips. Somewhere, in some rundown shithole in the pits of hell, an unsympathetic statistician's odds weren't weighing heavily in Marty's favor.

The Rottweiler Blackout made the first move. It dug its claws into the dirt and lunged forward, stretching out in midair with the strength of ten of its kind. It closed the distance between them within a second, teeth gnashing, only giving Marty enough time to react instinctively. He cocked back and threw his fist the instant the mutt telegraphed its jump, and the two opposing forces collided at the pinnacle of their attacks—

Marty's massive knuckles impacted with the dog's snout, exploding its skull into chunks of darkened meat and broken teeth, crushing its entire neck and spine, its whole torso fractured by the power of a single blow. It fell out of the air and crumbled to the cemetery ground – a ragged carcass deteriorating at his feet.

Before he could be astounded by the quick work he made of the Rottweiler, Ghost had taken advantage of his pause, viciously clamping demon teeth to Achilles Heel.

The rabid Shepherd ripped out the tendons connected to the back of Marty's foot, hindering his balance. He buckled to one knee and threw up his hands knowing the back of his neck was now vulnerable – or would be for at least a split second. Long enough, he thought, for the squirrelly bastard to sink its fangs deep.

He braced himself for the bite, clenching his fingers together behind his neck, but instead was surprised to hear the zombie mutt squealing in pain.

It was strange, he thought, that the dead creature would feel anything since he didn't seem to be plagued by nerve endings. So when he turned to investigate, he was even more surprised to witness the tongue and teeth of the Shepherd melting from its whining maw...

Marty's blood was burning through its dead flesh, singeing green as it spread further into its lips and snout. The Shepherd tucked its head in retreat, rubbing its injured face into the cemetery grass to rid itself of Marty's caustic flux. But its efforts were in vain, and its existence not far from spent as its skin continued to burn without relent, melting from its skull, boiling its poppy eyes in their sockets and sending it quivering to its second death.

The two officers looked on with a confused squint shaping their muddy foreheads when Marty began to stand. As he rose, a green mist serenaded the edges of his wound and healed it just as fast as it had torn through the pelt of the simmering German Shepherd.

Standing their ground, the two soldiers were not at all plagued by fear themselves but, instead, genuinely curious. The lieutenant couldn't help but ask,

"What'n the hell _are_ you?"

He didn't really expect an answer; he just felt the need to verbally vocalize his disarray. Until now, every creature that crawled from these graves was under one rule... But that didn't appear to be the case with this man.

Marty took several powerful strides toward the lieutenant and grabbed him by the breast of his uniform with one fist and cocked back the other. He didn't know how to answer the querying carcass...but settled on the only response he felt positive of enough to give. So he tightened his fist and addressed the soon-to-be headless corpse with undisputed certainty.

" **The highest scoring centerman in the MWG."**

With his response set in stone, he punched through the dead lieutenant's face like his bones were made of Styrofoam, its consistency generously splattering the ensign's coat.

Marty dropped the undead sack-of-crap to the ground and it disintegrated back into the bloodied, cemetery soil it previously spawned from.

The ensign didn't even flinch, standing tall with a mischievous smile on his face when Marty decided to throw him a line as well.

" **I also lead the team in** _penalty_ **minutes."**

His banter had always been a measure of control for him. It would help him stay calm and battle his demons in times of intense emotion if he'd crack a joke or two. But he was a little thrown by the smile on the ensign's face since his joke wasn't meant for him.

" **What the fuck're** you smiling about, asshole?"

Marty grabbed the rotted, walking corpse by his uniform as he did his Commanding Officer, towering nearly a foot over him with his eyes glowing jade, loosely braided hair curtaining his stare.

Then the raspy little sailor finally decided to speak, and his chosen words left Marty's insides unsettled.

"Now I know why she _wants_ you." He chuckled softly in the face of his demise, but his executioner wasn't ready to off him just yet.

" **Who?"** he boomed with a growl. "What the fuck are you talking about? Who wants me?"

The ensign's continued chuckle elevated the level of Nuts that his blood-caked lips and yellow teeth already exemplified. He lifted his hand deliberately, pointing toward the Spirit Fortress in the distance: the origin of the mysterious voice in Marty's head that nearly cost him his sanity when waking into this... _un_ -life...

" **The fuck** is that?" He shook the ensign in his grips as if rattling him around might coax a more truthful brand of answer from him. "What's waiting for me there?"

The ensign's crusted smile tarnished to his tone. "Hellllll..." he answered, drawing the word out in a whisper as if it strangled him to say it. "She calls to us... Can't you hear her?"

For an instant, Marty humored the notion – but finally decided against paying this villain any mind.

" **No** ," he responded. "I can't hear shit over the sound of yur fucking skull exploding."

Scarred knuckles plowed through the center of the ensign's twisted grin without Marty bothering to moderate the blow. In comparison, this one proved stronger than either of the two he delivered before, exploding the cretin's head into nothing but cherry mist – and the power behind it almost worried the towering Priest. He felt as if he'd lost himself a little with its delivery...

And it felt...

...invigorating...

The antiquated body turned to mud in his hands, as the one before it did, and Marty watched the black blood-laced soil fall through his fingers. He would have spat on the leftover mound of shit at his feet if he could, but his mouth was dry and stale. A coveting began to build in his pallet and his gut still seemed troubled by a faint hunger...

He glanced over his shoulder at the only other object with any color around: the yellow, orange, and red, ghost-fortress that surrounded the church an eighth of a mile away – and the charm around his neck burned in his chest. It didn't cause him any pain. It was just enough of a nudge for a moment of clarity. An urge to investigate the structure in the distance bubbled like indigestion inside, but he thought better of satiating the discomfort.

His sister was his first priority. Once he found Alex and made sure she wasn't caught up in any of this madness, then he could do some digging and maybe kick some ass and break some shit to get some answers. Whoever created this mess was going to have hell to pay if she wasn't okay; Marty was prepared to face down the devil himself if it meant protecting his sibling...

Unbeknownst to him, there was a devil eagerly awaiting his arrival – and she'd be awaiting his arrival regardless of in what condition he'd eventually discover his kin.

# (CHAPTER 8.5)

Prey

1

The scent of her prey wasn't as much a sensory perception as it was an empathic imprint. The taste of her soul was teasing on the demon's tongue, and the aroma of her fear could be _experienced_ from as far as a whole state away. Alex couldn't flee quick enough to shake the beast from her path even if she knew she was being followed. The fact that she had no clue of her immediate danger made the chances of her reaching her destination and making it back home again a very slim probability. But the demon didn't deal in probabilities, likelihoods, or eventualities. She was relentless, cunning, and unwavering in her pursuit. She didn't sleep or have need for rest or nourishment. She wasn't discouraged by weather or lengthy distances. She could slip in and out of the shadows of one void to the next like the darkness itself and rematerialize wherever she could visually perceive herself to be. She was a breath of death on the frigid wind and a pair of amber eyes in the dark. She was the taste of blood in your mouth as you lay dying, and the smell of burnt flesh in your nose as your skin starts to cook in Hell. She was what you fear most, trailing right behind you, just out of sight but never out of reach. If you knew of her existence, you would never know peace. Her name was Tessura...

...and she was coming for you.
CHAPTER NINE

### Dead Beat Friends

1

The Coach of the Los Angeles Priests would never sit during a game. He'd stand throughout the warmups, stand during play, and pace back and forth all through the intermissions regardless of his team's performance. He'd post behind his men on the bench with his arms crossed over his chest and the clock ticking down, never irresolute or dithering from his stance. He'd saunter to and fro in the locker room between the big blue hamper with the pile of sweaty towels and the entrance in the front corner of the room. After games, he'd smack all his players on the back with a firm and heavy hand whether they'd win or lose, and he'd always leave them with a coach to look _up_ to at the outcome of every competition.

Today...the Coach was sitting down.

He had his head planted in his palms and his elbows on his knees, counting the little dimples in the cement between his shoes. His team had lost the day's contest to the Anaheim Hell Hounds 8-0. A brutal and humbling defeat. Foreboding and droll. He would have guessed it'd be a cold day in Hell before his team would ever have suffered such a loss...

The Priests sluggishly removed their equipment, the decibels in the locker room at an all-time low. Mac (an abbreviation stemming from his sir name, Harold Mackenzie) stood nearest his coach where he'd slumped at the end of the bench by the towels. He removed his helmet to uncover his orange hair and wiped sweat from his brow. After deliberating the future of his career, he decided to tackle the deafening silence that hung in the air like a pungent musk, although his voice failed to confidently support such a gallant advance...

"Uhh...Coach?...D'you think—?"

"Shut!" The Coach cut him off with only half a response, head heavy in his hands.

Mac looked to his good friend Donny who occupied the locker next to his. He offered an expression that asked, "What do I say?" and Donny shot him an answer in a glance that warned, "Don't say anything if you know what's good for you." But Mac refused to leave well enough unmolested, so primed his bravado for another crack at finishing what he'd started.

"Coach...should we take—?"

"SHUT!!" This time, his half an answer said a whole mouthful in its tone, and he slightly lifted his face from his palms to emphasize the severity of his mood. "...The fuck!" While he was being communicative, he figured he'd add a few more syllables to his retort, clarifying any misunderstanding there may've been the first time. But in between words, he picked up a puzzling sound under the silence of his players that resonated from behind the wall separating their team from the Hounds. He raised his head a few inches more, cocked to the side. "Did any of you just hear that?"

Mac figured he'd be the one to respond since it may have been his persistence that finally pushed his dear coach over the edge, spiraling him into some sort of paranoid, delusional recoil.

"Uhhhh...hear what, Coach?"

The Coach stood silent, listening more closely for what he thought was a chilling, familiar bellow of a laugh...but didn't hear it again. "...Jesus, I'm fucking losing it..." He put his head back in his palms. "You assholes have finally done it..." (Mac had never noticed before, but the top of the Coach's head was like a scene from a dire, warzone massacre with hardly a surviving morsel left standing.) "You've turned me into a fucking lunatic..."

"No...wait..." Carl, rooted at the other end of the lockers, closer to the wall between rooms, spoke up with his head tilted toward the barrier and ear on full alert. "I heard it too..."

Everyone stopped.

They all paused together, and the quiet uncovered crashing sounds, thumps against the walls, screams...and...laughing...

"Jesus, you think their over doin' it a little?" Mac took the ruckus to mean the Hounds were celebrating wildly over their victory. "You'd think they won the fucking Cup..."

"No...listen..." Carl still had his ear cocked and perturbed face on query.

The Coach stood up cautiously, walking toward the wall. He passed by his still-standing team and they all fell in line behind him, trailing him to the end of the room and up next to Carl. If they really listened, the ruckus sounded more like a full-on brawl than a celebration, but Carl's more prolonged observation caught what the Coach had thought he had earlier—

"That laugh..."

He started the sentence but couldn't finish it, so the Coach took a stab at doing so knowing he and his teammate were on the same page.

"...Sounds like..."

He couldn't say it either. The words sounded too crazy; he wasn't comfortable bringing the thought out into the open.

After a few more seconds of thumps and crashes, the noises stopped, and the more practical face of Rationale poked its intruding nose in through all the speculation.

The Coach shook his head with a dismissive shiver and headed for the exit. "I gotta smoke..."

He weaved through the crowd of his teammates – an emptiness sinking into his heart as he brushed by. It was like he suddenly imagined the whole world might come to an end, and he'd never get the chance to see their befuddled or spaced-out faces ever again...but shook off the sensation and forcibly chuckled to himself before exiting the room.

All this fucking stress's turning me into an old Betty, he thought, leaning up against the hallway outside the locker room.

He reached into the pocket of his black and white, Priests windbreaker and removed a wooden container that cased his after-game cigar. Digging through his other pocket, he pulled out a cutter, clipped off its end, and placed the Cohiba in his mouth. The thought of Le'Duprie's laugh echoed through his mind and sent a chill over his skin that stood the hair on the back of his neck on end.

He shook his head and gave his box of matches a habitual shake to be sure he was equipped to light a fire. As it turned out, there was no rattling of phosphorus-headed, wooden sticks bouncing around the inside of the little cardboard box...and, in effect, he was not equipped to light a fire, therefore royally fucking peeved he'd have to walk all the way out to his truck before smothering his unsettled emotions under a blanket of hot, white smoke.

Getting some distance between him and this place and grabbing some fresh air might do him a service, anyway, he figured. So he walked down the skinny corridor to the back exit, shoulders slouched and feet heavy, every step putting him and his opponent's teams further behind and moving him one foot closer to the last bit of coincidental good fortune he may ever live to see.

"I say we go out and find some roadkill." Mac was thinking out loud again... "Hide it in one of their lockers for a Friday night, pregame surprise." It sounded like a joke, but he was completely serious when expressing the idea.

"Dude...that's fucked up. They just lost a teammate..." Donny may have found the concept amusing but felt it necessary to show some level of respect to make up for that which his friend had lacked.

"So? We dress the street-pizza up in a Hounds jersey and give it Duprie's number." Mac shrugged. "It'd be like a tribute to his career. Kinda like a float in a parade, except...you know...roadkill instead of a balloon."

None of the other guys seemed to think the idea was as reasonable as Mac did. They all just shook their heads and dispersed from the crowd that formed at the end of the room.

"Aww, c'mon!" Mac didn't bother hiding his disappoint. "Those assholes are over there partyin' like it's fucking Maudi Graw right after they just lost a man!" He wasn't sure if he should be defending his position, but the room seemed to need some liveliness inserted in a hurry and he was happy to provide the pep. "I'm just sayin' we give 'em a little reminder, that's all. Just to fuck with their heads before Friday's game."

Donny addressed his friend through a disgusted sneer. "Dude...you really _are_ one mentally deranged sonovabitch, you know that?" He paused to let his comment thoroughly fester before adding with a smile, "And I fucking love you for it... I'm in!"

Mac laughed, extending an arm to smack hands. "Yeah! Alright! That's the sort of team spirit I'm talkin' about!"

Everyone had made it back to their lockers, carrying on business as usual, removing their skates and hockey pads and wiping sweat from their tired bodies...except for Carl. He still stood motionless, facing the whiteboard on the wall at the end of the locker room, utterly perturbed by the voice he thought he'd heard a few seconds before. He would've dismissed the notion already, but it was so silent on the other side of the cement now that the lack of clatter had him anxiously waiting for any kind of sound to break his fixation.

He stepped in closer, right ear approaching the whiteboard, pressing the side of his face to it...waiting...

....

......

Thump.

Carl's inner ear suffered the vibration from the hit: a muffled impact only he could hear. It overloaded his apprehensive senses and he jerked his head back to settle his rattling brains.

He hesitated a moment before placing his face back against the whiteboard. But when he did, his open, left ear was swamped with the chatter of his teammates so he concentrated on tuning them out to filter in the sounds from the other side...

....

......

Mac noticed Carl at the end of the room and stopped stripping away his hockey pants to give Donny a nudge, pointing toward their teammate. Donny had a "What the hell is he doing?" look on his face and Mac hushed him with his hands, slyly sneaking toward his distracted friend. He slid between the lockers and the bench so he'd be out of Carl's peripheral, and he gained a few eagerly awaiting onlookers while en route. Scooting a few guys from his path before making it to the end of the bench, he crept up from behind like a ginger spider in a jockstrap. He looked back at the rest of the locker room who'd all picked up on his theatrics, chuckling under their breaths, waiting for him to unveil the punchline...

Mac tried not to laugh as he leaned in behind Carl – still out of sight – and put his mouth two inches from his friend's open ear and his erect thumb up next to the rear of Carl's boxer shorts, then—

"HOLY SHIT, IT'S IN HIS ASS!! SOMEBODY GET 'IM SOME LUBE!!"

He jammed his thumb against a tender spot under Carl's boxers and Carl jumped up and sucked in his backside like his anal-virginity was a vital organ.

The Priests all burst out in a roar that'd been a longtime coming, and Carl spun around to punch Mac in his chest.

"You fucking asshole, Mac!" He was furious at first – but breathed easier once he socked his friend with a good, hard right. "You scared the shit outta me!"

Mac chuckled while nursing his chest, and Carl eventually turned up a smile, picking at his rectum through his shorts with an awkward grimace.

"If I shit blood tomorrow, I'm gonna kick yur fuckin' ass..."

Mac laughed a little more, then found the breath after a sigh to get a few words out over his chortling.

"Sorry, man, I...I had to do it... You just looked waaaay to uptight." He smacked Carl on the shoulder. "Consider it takin' one for the team."

Carl shook his head, accepting the humility while rubbing his bottom, then turned back toward his locker, feeling somewhat rectally violated but no worse for the wear.

"Yeah, he took it, alright," one of the guys shouted.

"Took it like a whore in a Porta-Potty!" another added, and everyone laughed some more before winding down to disrobe.

The pain in Carl's ass that was so often called "Mac" became a bit more literal than figurative, but the distraction couldn't have come at a better time. Carl finally allowed himself to leave behind his downright nutty train of thought and get back to getting the hell out of Dodge so he could go see his wife and son. The guys were a few steps ahead of him, filing into the showers, joking around and in better spirits than before he'd taken that knobby, opposing digit up his frail and tender anus. And overall...so was he. Then he briefly got distracted again, saying to himself he must be going marbles thinking the way he was, and he looked up to his favorite Wayne Gretzky Bobblehead doll glued to the shelf in his locker for moral support.

"What d'you think, Wayne?...Am I finally goin' postal, or what?"

He waited for the Great One to answer, assuming that if he _did_ , he was probably fucking fruitier than a cake with three kinds of berries...

.........

THUMP!!

This time, the hit against the other side of the wall impacted so forcefully it vibrated the surrounding whiteboard and lockers.

Carl froze, locked into a stare down with the Gretzky doll who decided to answer his question with a sudden side-to-side shake of its head.

Apparently, the Great One didn't think he was nuts after all...

Still frozen, Carl stood as still as a man surrounded by a swarm of angry midgets, then slowly reached out to put his hand over the doll's jittering noggin.

"Don't fuck with me right now, Wayne..." He seemed to have fared better when manning up and taking charge of the jittery little runt. "I'll rip that wobbly fucking smile right offa your springy little neck..."

.......

.........

Yep.... _That_ , ladies and gentlemen, is how you take control of a sticky situation.

He let go of the doll's face and it appeared to have taken heed to his warning. Good thing, too. He'd hate to have to take it to the little guy. He was, after all, a valuable collector's piece....Well, maybe not so "valuable" per se, but—

THUMP!!

God damn it, Wayne!

THUMP!!

"Hey, what the _fuck_ , guys?! Quit fuckin' around over there!"

THUMP!!

The whiteboard rattled against the wall and the roof creaked with the force of each blow. Gretzky looked ready to bust a neck-spring while Carl backed away from the impacts, numbed by the terrible possibilities beating against his imagination...

THUMP!!

THUMP!!!

THUMP!!!!

Falling off its screws, the board hit the floor with a sizable crash. Then the rest of the Priests started peeking naked heads around lockers as Carl retreated in his briefs.

With the whiteboard down, the point of the blows stood out through scores of cracks like veins racing across an artery. With every solid hit, the wall grew more meager – deepening fractures stemming from a single spot of impact. Dust fell from the ceiling as a crowd formed once again, but this time at the front of the room, a reasonably safe distance from the impending threat.

THUMP!!!

THUMP!!!!

THUMP!!!!!

BOOOOM!!!!!

A huge chunk of cement burst from the center of the impacts, blowing white dust through the Priests' locker room; a giant, black fist like a dial sat at the center of the commotion.

An equally large foot smashed through next, kicking a hole in the wall big enough for a rampaging bull to trample through.

The Priests all stood petrified in disbelief, only moving to flinch when J.C.'s fist pummeled through the wall a third time, knocking a path in the cement to reveal all 6'5" of the beast, standing proud as ever, wearing his bloodied-up orange and black Hounds jersey and a solid black hockey helmet atop a colossal, grinning melon.

They all stood in terror, unable to do anything but bask in the morbid sight of the fallen, former Hell Hound and his prevailing expired form. His eyes bristling red, skin cracked and dry, the fresh blood of his teammates filled the lines in his face while his coach's head hung from his clutches.

He peered through the cloud of dust to step slowly into the Priests' locker room over the rubble at his feet. He figured they'd all be too scared pissless to speak, so he decided on breaking the ice with an evil smirk and a booming greeting after a long air of silence to build suspense.

......

.........

............

He chuckled lowly before he spoke, flashing a toothless grin—

" _Bonsoir_ , poosie fuckars!"

The rookie, Bobby Shye, who stood behind Carl, next to Mac, passed out and fell to the floor upon hearing the powerful accent of the dead villain, Jean-Claude Le'Duprie.

Carl, being the closest to him, was the only one coherent enough to breathe a word.

"...Jean-Claude...?"

He could hardly even whisper the name, but did so in hopes that in facing the monster, his delusion would deteriorate and he'd find himself waking from a preposterous nightmare...

Jean-Claude regarded him with the seriousness of a dead-man reborn. "No," he assured him. "Not Jean-Claude..." A smile infiltrated his bearing. "...Jean-Christ."

Carl's mouth gaped at the very nature of Le'Duprie's blasphemous existence.

" **Who wan's to be the firs'..."** he sneered wickedly, "...to die for my sins...?"

Comrie, the closest Priest to the door, sure as shit didn't want to be the first to die, but found he had absolutely no problem being the first to make like a leaf and tree the fuck out of there...

Jean-Claude saw the twitch in Comrie's eyes even before Comrie knew he was trying to escape, and as he turned for the door, the Hounds' captain threw his coach's head right for that of the deserter's. The spinning projectile tore through the air with a look on its face like it was screaming against the g-force of the throw, its eyes and mouth wide and flabby cheeks hard-pressed against brittle bones.

The two skulls collided at once and the crack! that came from it broke through the shock of the rest of them who all cringed at the impact.

Comrie plummeted face-first – knees losing the coherency to keep him standing – and before leaving his consciousness behind, he realized that no matter how much he'd never wanted to know what his locker room floor tasted like, he was well on his way to finding out.

" **Bingo!"**

The big brute probably meant "bull's-eye," but who the hell had the balls to tell him any different?

As soon as Comrie's body slapped against the cold cement, it was like someone punched the scatter-button in the brains of the crowd causing everyone to react at once. Twelve men rushing for one door at the same time seemed almost as asinine as a French-Canadian, hockey-zombie pitching a strike with the severed head of his ex-coach. But, nevertheless, ridiculousness, in this case, entirely trumped reasonable doubt.

Four panicking meat-heads crammed the opening to the only exit as seven more figured following in their footsteps may miraculously result in a better turnout the second time around. Carl was the only Priest who didn't move, mesmerized by the glowing ruby corneas and the booming laugh of the dead monstrosity boasting before him.

Jean-Claude ripped away a bench from its bolts – the sound the wail of an injured Dilophosaurus – and used its metal legs like a hook to reach over the crowd of funneling lemmings and yank them back into the locker room. The flailing human bowling pins fell over each other into a growing pile of naked people, and J.C. flipped the bench he held and used the flat side to bash into the mass of bare flesh. Laughing while swinging this fifteen-foot man-swatter, he joyously whacked away at the squirming heap of Priests while Carl stood by entirely stagnant, too shocked to even breathe, let alone run and hide.

Smash after smash after smash turned strong, athletic men to mush with gore seeping from the bottom of the pile, slowly approaching Carl's retreating toes. He looked down, wanting to move, terrified of the color of death crawling toward him, but found his feet weighed as much as planets and weren't about to budge. He stared into the oozing lake of human butchery – his eyes froze open – until he was finally able to move...but only enough to flinch when J.C.'s face peeked back at him through the reflection in the blood.

He looked up to see the beast had stopped tenderizing the corpses of his friends and was grinning directly at him.

" _Boo!_ **"** J.C. chuckled at his own charisma and got into a batting stance, bench cocked back and ready to swing. **"Bases loaded..."**

Carl then gasped his last gulp of air as Jean-Claude swung for the fences. He caught his victim with a swing so hard and fast it ripped his head from off his shoulders and sent it flipping over the lockers into the showers.

" **Touch Down!** HAHAHAHA!"

The crowd would have gone wild.

2

"Hi, Tara. Is, uh...Marty home?"

Terry lowered his head in embarrassment of his juvenile sidekick. "Dude, don't be such a child." He sighed. "Hey, Tara." Suddenly he felt like a child himself, going door-to-door, aimlessly looking for his best friend. "Is, uh...Marty home?"

Tara looked at the two grown men on her porch who had this lost expression in their eyes, not sure what to make of them. "Uhh...no... I haven't seen him since he left for the cemetery last night—"

"Have you talked to him today?" Terry practically sliced off the end of her sentence, revealing in his urgency his worry.

A confused squint squiggled over Tara's brow. "No, I haven't... Why? What's going on?"

He tried playing off his discomfort with a shrug. "Nothin'." She didn't buy it. "His sister was just worried about him. She hasn't heard from him either."

Taking in Terry's disposition, she thought maybe she was beginning to get the picture – but it still didn't make much sense, the two of them just showing up at her door. "Well, he's a big boy. I'm sure he's fine." A hint of fear still glazed their eyes so she decided to extend her hospitality. "You two wanna come in? You look like you can use a drink."

"Oh, thank God..." Jimmy nearly knocked Terry over to get inside. "Do you have any whiskey? I _really_ need to loosen up a bit..."

"Heh..." A forced laugh strained through Terry's half a smile to wean the attention away from Jimmy's presumptuous barging in. "Sorry. He gets like this when he doesn't get to watch his Tuesday morning cartoons..."

"It's no problem." She smiled and made way. "I know the feeling. I never miss an episode of Bob's Burgers." She closed the door behind them and watched, slightly amused, as Jimmy headed straight for the kitchen. "So...why can't you get a hold of him? Is he not answering his cell?"

"Our cells aren't workin'. Land lines are down too."

"Oh, and the radio, TV, and internet are off line..." Jimmy rummaged through random cupboards in Tara's kitchen, on the hunt for something stiff to drown away his budding anxieties. "And smoke signals are out of the question because of the storm. We're basically on our own in a city full of 4 million... But I'm sure you already knew that."

Tara was a little taken by the urgency of his mutterings. "No...I didn't... I've had my nose stuck in a book all day. In between that and six baskets of laundry I haven't touched my phone or TV."

Jimmy finally found some whiskey and a glass. "Oh, well, welcome to this week's episode of Everybody Freak-the-Fuck-Out." He poured himself a shot and threw it down his throat. "All Hell's breaking loose outside..."

The tension in both their faces slowly corrupted her cool. "What do mean?" She looked over to Terry who'd wandered in, distracted, and vacantly sat down on her couch. "What's he mean by that?"

Terry looked up; his own misgivings peeking through his shifting, brown eyes. "We don't know _what's_ goin' on exactly... But people are starting to panic. A lot of 'em are evacuating the city. This...this _storm_... It's making people crazy..."

"Storm?" She didn't understand. "It's not even _raining_. What's to freak out about?"

"Have you seen the clouds?" Jimmy didn't like being the only one overly worked up, _especially_ in a room with a woman... He'd have her on his level in no time. "They're thicker than shit, rolling endlessly without any wind...and they're _red_." _That should do it_ , he thought. "Yeah, they look black at first, but when you catch 'em after a shard of lightning you can see the color of blood in 'em." He was beaming right into her eyes, making sure she got the memo that _now_ was the time to panic. He took another shot while letting his dread marinate and the whiskey do its thing. After he wiped his mouth with his sleeve he set the glass down hard on the counter. "Yeah..." wincing at the burn, he referred to the whiskey when he spoke, "this...this isn't working fast enough..." His eyes went from the bottle to Tara. "You got anything stronger?"

"...Blood?" She was still trying to catch up but felt like her brain just hit a speedbump and wouldn't work for her at a normal pace. She picked up the TV remote and gave a few channels a flip-through. Nothing but a blue slate and colored bars filled the screen, so she quickly turned it off, trying to avoid the unease the high-pitch whine inspired.

"Look," Terry saw the tension building and decided to try his hand at keeping things in perspective. "It's probably nothing to worry about. It just has everyone on edge, is all."

She'd need a lot more than that before being comfortable with accepting everything as "perfectly fine."

"Have you heard anything? Any explanation why everything's offline? I mean, should we be leaving too?"

Terry shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea. The main streets are a mess. It took us an hour and a half to get here from the bar—"

"The bar's _fifteen_ minutes away!"

Jimmy shook his head, mumbling under his breath. "...not today it isn't..."

Terry still felt like he needed to make his point. "We stopped at a gas station on the way over here – twice..." and he added as an afterthought, "...Jimmy's got a bladder like a fucking Cocker Spaniel..." He sighed. "And both spots couldn't accept credit cards. Their electronic systems were down. They're all closing up shop, so driving anywhere without a full tank isn't a good idea right now."

She walked over to the window of her small, two-bedroom duplex and pushed the curtain aside. The sky was almost too dark to see, but moving erratically, like boiling water rolling in a pot. Scarlet lightning splintered through the haze and the cloud color loosened her jaw.

"The clerk at the station said he caught some of the news before the TV went out," Terry continued. "There was...some kind of disturbance over at the cemetery where the storm started." He kept a wary eye out as she gazed through the window. "Somethin' was..." He let the thought trail off, deciding not to finish his sentence, considering he didn't have all the facts.

"Was _what?_ " Tara wanted no part in him withholding information, regardless of how he thought it'd make her feel.

" _Something_..." Jimmy, on the other hand, could hardly contain himself and needed for someone else besides the all-and-balanced, level-headed Terry to know his distraught. "...was tearing the _shit_ out of the streets, heading towards the Forum." He grabbed the bottle from the counter and started for the couch. "Thank _fuck_ we were goin' in the opposite direction..." He plopped down on the sofa and offered Terry the bottle. He declined with a shake of his head.

She still wasn't comfortable with the vagueness of the boys' story. "Something like _what_ , exactly? A tank? A biker gang? I don't understand what you guys are telling me..."

"That's because neither do we." Terry always felt honesty with a touch of discretion was the best approach. "But—" He stopped himself again, not wanting to fill her in on he and Jimmy's wild presumptions.

"But?" She egged him on, unwilling to be shortchanged of any conspiracy theories the two had stumbled upon during the long ride over.

" _But_ ," Jimmy decided on jumping in again to get a few more things off his chest. "The cemetery just _happens_ to be the last place Marty was seen. And who else is big and badass enough to terrorize ten straight blocks if considerably boozed-up and driven into a rage-binge by guilt and anger?" Then he added, "...Well... besides J.C, I mean...but he's dea—"

"No." Tara shook her head. "No way. Not Marty. He wouldn't just...flip out and go on a block-wrecking spree." She was sure of her words and it helped set Terry's mind at ease. "When he left here he was fine – totally in control. Yeah, he was upset, but he wasn't going crazy."

"Good." He was enthralled to hear her perspective on Marty's psyche didn't include the possibility of him wreaking mayhem in the streets. He had no idea how well Marty'd been taking the whole situation because he hadn't spoken with him since the night of the incident.

"Yeah..." Jimmy agreed, then decided on getting another thing clear while he had the chance. "Oh, and the whole 'Marty goin' nuts' thing was Terry's idea, by the way."

Terry brushed off the assigned blame and continued. "Did he say if he was gonna come back here? Or do you have any idea where he might be now?"

She shook her head. "He didn't say. We were just playing it by ear... But I figure he'd probably go find Alex before he'd come back to see me again."

Terry nodded. "Yeah. You're probably right. That's where we'll go next. We're supposed to meet her back there later, anyway. Do you wanna tag along?"

The look on her face spelled out the time-honored expression of, _"duh!"_

"After you and your buddy just thoroughly scared the shit out of me? Yeah... I don't think I wanna sit here and be alone right now waiting to see what falls out of the frickin' _blood_ -clouds, thanks." She moved past them, heading for her room. "Just let me get dressed."

"No hurry," Jimmy insisted. He looked down at the bottle and empty glass in his hands, then back over his shoulder to where Tara just shuffled by. "Hey...can I use yur bathroom?"

3

The Coach had mauled the end of his cigar with his teeth like it were a rubber chew-toy and he a teething pup. He'd seen a few cigar butts more desecrated than this – but having a hint of respect for the culture of the stogie, he felt it time to allow it some dignity and gracefully put this one out of its misery.

He was poised up against the front of his truck with his ass on the hood and heel mounting the bumper. The Staff and Team Parking at the Forum were in an underground lot to the rear of the structure that opened into a large cement ramp leading topside. Eventually he'd have to take that ramp up and out to reenter the rest of the world – that dank, lonely, shithole that had little else to offer other than emptiness and dejection. The only time he really felt whole anymore was when he was a part of this team. And leaving this place after every game was a constant reminder that he really didn't have much else to look forward to.

He lobbed the butchered end of his Cohiba like a live grenade as far as he could and watched the sparks explode from the cherry in the distance. Times like these, when there was a recent death close enough to hit home, he couldn't help but think of his son...

He was a tall, wiry fourteen-year-old with chestnut hair, bright hazel eyes, and a smile that could light up the Forum. He loved the game of hockey but was as clumsy as a drunken skunk with the puck. His drive was what kept him skating at the level he had, and he was well on his way to proving that hard work and determination could turn an all-thumbs klutz to a soft-handed pro.

But he was dead now...so that was the end of that.

Jean-Claude Le'Duprie was a bastard of an opponent, but had earned his due respect, and the Coach felt honored to have played against him. But, ultimately, if his dirt-bag antics had cost him his star player, he'd have a tough time remembering him fondly, to say the least.

It was strange, he thought, that he'd be so shaken by what he heard in the locker room next to his. It was obviously Cayman's laugh – the barbaric, 240 Lbs. twenty-four-year-old 3rd-liner who was nearly as rowdy and booming as J.C. Often when a group of guys would get together who were as close as those on a semi-professional hockey team, a few would exchange traits, unintentionally resembling each other in random ways. It shouldn't surprise the Coach that the younger centerman would have a laugh like Jean-Claude's. It was...unnerving – it being so soon after he'd passed – but a sort of comfort. He hoped the young man could be at least half as much a pain in the nuts as J.C. had been over the last few years; the Hounds would need him to be if Marty was ever let back in the league...

The Coach shifted his attention to the back-exit of the Forum, about two hundred feet from where he'd parked, and realized he hadn't yet seen anyone leave the building. He glanced down at his watch and was surprised to see it'd been nearly an hour since he'd left them to get washed up and back in civilian gear. Usually it wouldn't take his boys more than thirty minutes to be out and headed for home, so...what the hell was taking so long? And unless he'd been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed, none of the Hounds had left the building either...

Next to the staff exit stood a large, metal garage door that enclosed a room where the Zamboni was kept along with any other tool or piece of machinery needed to maintain the ice. It usually went unnoticed since it was so rarely opened from this side, but the sound of the Zamboni's engine switching on behind the thin sheet of metal drew the Coach's ear. There may've been some event he was unaware of taking place after the game, requiring the bulky, box-shaped, ice-resurfacing truck to make another round. Either that or someone planned on taking the ol' Z-boat out for a joy ride in the moonlight around the city...

He chuckled at the thought, shaking his head while puffing away his troubles – but was startled by a clamor that sounded like the start of new ones—

A crashing, hollow bang rang out when the Zamboni collided with the inside of the closed garage door, and the Coach lowered his cigar to observe. It tore the metal sheet from off its rotor in liberation from its cage and pulled it under its wheels in the process. The crunching tin echoed through the underground parking garage and the Coach cringed... But nothing could've prepared him for what he heard next...

He stepped a foot closer to get a better look, cautiously curious, then stumbled back against the side of his truck to nearly drop his jaw on his shoes when witnessing what he had. The painted, white and blue Zamboni bulldozed its way from the dark garage with blood running off its every edge and bodies piled three or four high on top. Loosely hanging limbs draped from the sides as it climbed over the defeated garage door, making that terrible, metal scream ricochet off the walls. And just beneath that horrendous rumpus rang another, even more frightful tune...

J.C. stood straight and tall at the wheel of the Zamboni behind the battered pile of two dozen broken corpses covering its frame and smiled ear-to-ear under his hockey helmet, proudly singing at the top of his powerful lungs the Canadian National anthem...in French...

"Ooooo, Caaanaadaaa! Terre de nos aiieuuuux! Ton front est cieeent, de fleu-rons glor-ie-uuuuux!"

The Coach's heart nearly imploded in his chest at the terrifying spectacle of the tone-deaf monstrosity...

He stumbled against the side of his truck, flailing to the ground and getting back up all in one stride as he tried removing himself from the impossible. Retreating from plain sight, he ducked behind the bed of his pickup, never once shifting his eyes from Jean-Claude's Zamboni of Gore torpidly transporting the ruined bodies of his dearest friends.

J.C. howled his victory anthem as he guided the slow-moving vehicle past where the old man crouched. The Coach couldn't help but hide, and felt ashamed in doing so, but knew that if he hadn't he'd be a last-minute addition to the Zamboni Chariot Ride from Hockey Hell. It was times like these he wished for the authority to keep one of his semi-automatic weapons in his truck... But in all honesty, he was so terrified by what he witnessed that even if he _had_ been armed, he might not have found the balls to do a damn thing.

When the Zamboni finally made its way past him, he discovered the fortitude to steal a glance around the truck bed...but regretted it the second he did.

Staring toward the pile of fleshy carcasses, he caught the expression of terror in the dead eyes of his dear friend Mac, sandwiched in the center of the pile with only his ginger head and left arm protruding from the carnage.

He couldn't break his stare away from Mac's lifeless, bloodshot eyes, and in seeing him so defiled, found a glimmer of strength, realizing he had an obligation to track the son-of-a-bitch who'd killed his boys—

Then it hit him... Like a ton of petrified _shit_...

What the fuck was going on? Jean-Claude was _dead_. He was fucking _dead!_ This...... This couldn't be right... This _couldn't_ be real...

In his past, after losing the faith he'd kept for over thirty years, he had a painful awakening that led him to believe that there _was_ no God. And if _ever_ there was proof of that...this was it.

This was either some form of psychotic, hallucinogenic breakdown brought on by depression and stress, or was distinct evidence that if ever there were a lord in heaven watching over him and his Priests, he had long since abandoned his post. Mankind was on its own, and the demons rotting in Hell decided they wanted a piece of what was left of God's green Earth. And apparently, they'd chosen J.C. to rise up from the Pit and take it for them.

Jean-Claude – or as he preferred to be referred to as, Jean-Christ – followed the same emptied path of destruction he'd created to the Forum and headed merrily back for the cursed soil of the veteran's cemetery, singing for the long, first half of the ride.

So the Coach followed intently, several blocks behind with his truck's lights off, slipping around every corner he could to keep his vehicle out of sight. Either J.C. couldn't hear him from as far back as he was, or he didn't care to think he was being followed... But in the end, the result was the same. After twenty minutes of snooping, the Coach realized where they were headed – but had no clue as to what he would find...

A growing army of dead soldiers ripping away a circumference of destruction around the cemetery rallied in the distance, carrying the bodies of their victims back to the graveyard to be buried like swarms of ants hauling bits of food back to their colony. If this...insanity was any indication as to what was to become of the world, he suddenly felt as though he should be sure not to have to face it alone. Mankind would need its soldiers to combat this abhorrent evil, and he knew of the perfect warrior to lead the charge....He just hoped he could get to him before the abominable Jean-Claude Le'Duprie turned him into another bloodied corpse atop this Zamboni of the Dead.

# CHAPTER TEN

Decadence and a Friendly Cup of Tea

1

The center of the blood-storm boiled above the cemetery chapel with its reach expanding blocks every minute. The red rain no longer fell, but human blood would pour regardless, and Imala in her demon form gained strength with every massacre Hell's legions committed in her name.

As the dead dug themselves back to the surface, they'd refill their empty graves with the bodies of the recently living, and in turn, those corpses would be reborn to do the same. Tens of thousands of soldiers would emerge from the surrounding graves, but the process wouldn't necessarily be prompt. The longer the bodies laid deceased, the longer it'd be before they'd find the strength from Imala's cursed broth to reach the surface, but the ritual being a few hours old now had already began to bear its spoiled fruit.

Many of the veterans who were more recently laid to rest had entered the cemetery as old men but found themselves crawling from the earth as soldiers of their respective wars – young in their appearances and postures and decorated in uniforms that'd formerly filled them with well-earned pride. But their pride was no longer for that of their country. Instead, it stood for Imala and her sovereignty over those creatures of Hell that filled the corpses in place of the souls that once inhabited them. The living essence of these dead men and women had long since discovered their purpose in the afterlife, unknowingly leaving behind their empty husks on Earth as rags to be worn by tyrants of the underworld. These looming entities were wraiths in Hell (some even older than the reign of civilized man) and have now been uprooted unto Earth through Imala's strength of blood – that rightful legacy bestowed upon her lineage hundreds of years passed, dating back further than even she could fully appreciate.

Every newly resurfacing thing that now walked the Earth had Imala's decree burned into its being, owing her a debt of allegiance, and all eagerly striving for the same endgame: A Hell on Earth to call their home. They may not have had the souls or spirits of those bodies they inhabited, but they retained their host's memories, and even their distinctiveness since the bodies and brains used were an exact recreation of those that'd previously roamed the Earth. They were warriors lost in the past but found in the now, trained to follow orders and unquestionably serve a higher power.

The soldiers' duties were simple: collect the eyes of the living and bury their victims into their own empty graves, cultivating a fresh army of undead. The chaos and fear that'd spread in their wake would allow Imala the maleficent energy needed to bring forth elements of the Underworld that couldn't naturally exist on Earth. Dark creatures and powers that thrived on pain and fear would infect the world of man, and she would be their queen as her blood-rites entitled.

There was a sparkling wealth of terror for her sycophants to spread, and the further they tore into their surroundings the closer Hell would be to surfacing into L.A. Already, the dead hoarded the living from the neighborhoods nearby – or at least the pieces of them left after they were mauled, maimed and eaten to provide strength for Imala's militia. Those bodies that remained intact were buried singly, and those that were little more than chunks of marrow and tissue were thrown into one giant grave at the center of the cemetery (what would crawl from that pit of repugnance would be nothing short of unimaginable).

Few were captured alive, but those that were, were brought directly to their priestess and left to be victims of her insidious imagination. Even she wasn't sure what her fervor would gut from the depths of Hell to create on Earth with the living sacrifices from untainted, despairing human souls. She would bathe in a warm bath of liquid organs to invigorate her mind's eye while they remained imprisoned, clinging to life for no other reason than a false speck of hope, their weeps and tears proving to be a nourishing nectar added to the Queen's cocktail of sorrows.

The inside of the church had transformed into a colossal domain with walls that felt of meat and veins and smelled of freshly spilt blood. The whole chamber was like what one would imagine the arterial insides of a human's torso to be if it were hollowed out and domesticated with a throne at its end. The throne was made of bones that were carved and shaped eloquently, but black, as if charred in a pit of flame. And a dozen meaty steps down from there laid a bath of blood, infested by a variety of floating human eyes.

When the demon Imala stepped from her perch, the ground under her feet sizzled at their touch, leaving impressions in the fleshy floor leading toward the blood-pool. Twelve young men and women surrounded the lagoon of red on stone tablets tilted slightly inward so the excess from their slit wrists and hollowed sockets drained into the bath at their center. There were seven females and five males, none much older than twenty, all denied clothing, jewelry, or any charms they may've wore before being captured. The majority of them were collected from the nearby college campus, hardly a block from the cemetery. (What a disappointed the victims must have been to their schoolmates when they realized they did not, in fact, bleed Bruins blue.) Most of the young girls had rips in their ears where their piercings were stripped of their studs and rings. The salt from the tears pouring from their ducts burned their wounds as they dripped passed... Eyes, it would seem, were not a necessary requirement for hopelessly crying.

No ink stained their flesh from popular taboos, and all had natural hair color and bodies without implants or surgeries harnessing anything manmade. Most were random and unrelated – all equally victims of inevitable circumstances – except for two sets of twins: one male, and the other female. The twin men were African-American: twenty-three years old and built like track stars – it was unlikely even their mother could tell them apart. The girls were Vietnamese: nineteen years young and remarkably striking even in spite of their maimed eye-holes and exhausted faces. The strong connection between the sibling pairs allowed for a unique opportunity, and Imala envisioned a powerful tandem of abominations to come – but would save that concoction for last.

When submerging herself into her pond of excreted miseries, her eyes began to burn and the vermillion sea around her boiled and bubbled at her command; her enlarged form stretched easily from one side to the other as she settled comfortably into the gore.

She closed her eyes and leaned back her horned-head, opening her senses to the timeline surrounding her dominion. The people who were directly involved (due to their blood-relation or acquaintance thereof) were not much more than a fleeting thought. She instead concentrated more on the timeline to unfold – the small resistance to undoubtedly come from the outside world's governments.

She smiled through her demon teeth at the thought of the rules of man that had once preoccupied her existence. Within minutes her chaos and spreading ill will would empower her enough to no longer give the Government a passing thought. How well would they fare when her hell-storm covered the city, blocking out all electronic communications and any practical line-of-sight from which to mount an offense? The human rodents of the military and law enforcement would be nearly defenseless without their computers guiding them into battle. After all, what chance did the Government stand against a god? They'd undoubtedly give up their struggle very soon after discovering their weapons were useless against blood-magik and black sorcery. The human race would soon be charred remains and a whisking soot in the breeze of Hell's fire-winds. All was already lost. Only time was left uncorrupted and very soon, what was left of time would fall to the Queen as well...

" **Gregory..."**

Imala breathed the name of her youngest victim: a thirteen-year-old boy with hardly the strength left in him to weep. He rose from his tablet at the opposite end of the pool like a puppet on a string and stepped up to its edge. His toes hung over the bath in front of him, face pale and docile.

" **Are you afraid?"**

Her words echoed in his mind, rattling his organs under his skin. He didn't want to answer her but felt as if he had no choice. With his eyelids tight over the open wounds in his face, his mouth took on a life of its own to form a reply without his permission.

"Yes..."

Her eyes glistened at the pleasure of his obedience.

" **Good."** Fear was an essential element fueling all of Hell's strengths; the more potent the emotion, the greater the transformation. "Be grateful I took your eyes. If you could see me, your fear may've been beyond even my control....No telling what you could've unleashed from Hell." She smiled and lifted her dripping arm up from the gore, gesturing for the boy with a wriggle of her pointed finger. "Come."

He told himself not to. He screamed inside his mind saying, don't get any closer! But, again, he had no control over his body's motion. He stepped down into the lagoon of death despite fighting the impulse. And by the time he reached the center, positioned between Imala's propped up knees, he stood chest-deep in nerve endings and eyes, his hands at his sides submerged in the horror he stood in.

The ghastly stew around him boiled at Imala's whim. He could feel the pain of his flesh beginning to cook but couldn't control his lungs enough to scream. Steam rose from around his body while the blood slowly possessed him, slithering up from the pool, climbing over his frame.

" **Soon, the terror you feel will be your strength. It will be to you like the air in your lungs and all who stand before you will fear your every breath."**

He _wailed_ inside himself for control over his own body, bawling and pleading in a broken and unheard voice...but couldn't do anything outwardly other than wait to finally die...

The blood surrounding him slithered up his arms and shoulders and spread over his face. With his mouth slightly open, unintentionally inviting the corruption inside, it took advantage of the breach and poured down his throat to lather his insides with despair. When it filled the bottom of his stomach like lead in his belly, he finally found a moment of control, opening his eyes in horror of his last seconds of life to reveal morbid holes where the windows to his soul once were.

A gargling fled from his guts... Then a gag when the blood filled his lungs. A restrained grunt escaped before his mouth sealed over...and then he was gone.

Gregory's body and face were devoured by an encasement of hardened death, and he stood as stiff as a corpse in the center of the soup for a few, very long seconds.

The pool settled its boiling after consuming the boy entirely, and Imala patiently waited, enduring the silence in the moments before his rebirth.

Everything was quiet. His entombed carcass stood as still as stone until his corpse began to vibrate, ripples racing through the surrounding pool. A rumble spread over the church grounds and Imala watched, waiting eagerly for what would be the first of her twelve, Elite demons of the mounting apocalypse. The name of this thing to be born was as relevant as its chosen, sacrificial lamb, and she found a pleasure growing inside as its title took shape in her mind. The inside of the citadel shook against the force of the coming emergence, and Imala sadistically indulged in the intimate delight of its creation.

The building vibrations eventually cracked the surface of the blood-shell encasing the boy's body, splintering the cast covering him like shattering porcelain. An orange glow broke through the cracks around his eyes to travel swiftly over his form as the fractures spread.

Cracked pieces, like a twisted puzzle, fell from the boy's forehead and melted back into the horrid broth. The power of the Uncovering shook the surrounding walls, radiating with a low hum that tormented the other victims lying helplessly by. Blood dripped from their ears while they winced in agony as Imala indulged in the birth of her first Elite. The boy's conversion into a tool of her Armageddon was only the second step in the road to implementing her rule. His power at her command would allow fear to stretch across the globe at a rate ten times that of her army of the dead. This boy would soon walk the Earth and secrete terror into the hearts of all, preparing the planet for the Gates of Hell to be revealed. He would demoralize those that witnessed him and drown out hope in oceans of irrationally depraved fear.

The shell of cursed liquid over his body crumbled, unveiling the charred face of a child with the strength of Hell glowing behind his closed eyes. He clinched his fists under the gore to break through the rest of his casing, slowly beginning to rise, miraculously floating to the surface until he stood atop the pool of death like it was the ground beneath his feet. With his eyes still pinched shut and a masochistic smirk breaking through his grimace, he kneeled to one knee on the surface of the blood-bath, bowing gracefully with both fists down beside him.

" **Tell me,"** Imala demanded, "what is your name?"

The boy-demon raised his head from his lowered bow and slowly opened his eyes to reveal orange flames like fire sprites boiling within. When he spoke, it was like the sound of a dying man wheezing beneath a powerful hum. The eleven other surrounding victims quivered at the resonance and might've died of fear right then if Imala's power hadn't been purposely keeping them alive.

He then answered her question, and in turn, claimed his power in this world with that declaration, and his name stretched out at its end like a snake hissing at its enemy.

"... **Decccaaadenccccce......"**

Imala let out a perverse moan at the sound of his power.

" **Who do you serve?"** she asked, testing his loyalty to her dominion. And the demon Decadence held his arms out to his sides with a bow of his head.

" **Hell...on...Eaarrrthhhhh...and** _shhhheeee_ **whoo sitssss at itsss throne."**

Imala grinned sickly with black eyes pulsating red.

She lowered her head and raised her palms as she levitated from the bath's surface. Turning them downward and back, she then drifted in that direction, settling dominantly into her throne. Hand waving in front of her, as if wiping over a pane of glass, the blood on her palm left a smear across the humid air. She stared into it as it took its shape; it contrived a map of the surrounding area and then zoomed outward to show the entire country. Crimson bubbles like blisters on the skin of the continent spread over Los Angeles and nearby counties. The image depicted the spreading of the death and chaos her magik devised. With a finger tracing across the map, she drew a line from one end of the country to the other – a rufescent rash of Hell engulfing the continent along its path.

" **It'll only be** days before this country falls."

She tilted her head while the map curved to take the shape of the planet and rolled upward, panning toward South America. Imala picked a spot near the middle of the continent, somewhere in Brazil, and lifted her eyes to peer through the world-map at her demon standing upright atop the repugnant pond.

" **Go here. Drown their people in your fear. Whisper my name into their winds and turn their strengths to weakness. When their trust turns to paranoia and their hope to terror, I'll scorch their skies and rain Hell across their home."**

2

Forty minutes of vanilla bean air freshener and eighty-eight dollars later, Alex stepped out of the cab onto a sidewalk she'd never set foot on and felt oddly at home. She closed the car door behind her as the Cabby mumbled a strange farewell – strange because they'd hardly said two words to each other after the earlier incident with the radio and Alex losing her cool.

"I hope you _die_ here, you fucking whore..."

She'd already made her way from the curb but snapped her head back and topped off an appalled look with a, "What?"

His words frightened and angered her at the same time, stuttering her heart and spiking her veins with adrenaline. She didn't know what she could do about it but felt compelled to confront him. What would make him say something like that?

"I said, 'I hope you find who you're looking for.' " He looked confused by her shocked reaction and almost wished he hadn't given his best wishes. This girl obviously wasn't in her right mind but, still... He'd been nothing but polite to her the whole drive over. Why would she be looking at him like that?

He shook his head in dismissal of her nasty glare and drove off with haste. He'd had enough on his mind without having to deal with this crazy chick for another second. The cloud-cover that followed them had been working his nerves ever since they left the city. They'd passed them on the freeway but he could see in the distance they were continuing to gain ground. He'd stop to get some gas and coffee before heading back, he figured, and maybe pick up some info about the stormfront from one of the locals.

Glancing back into his rearview, he gave the young woman one last look as he drove away. She seemed so wound up and heavyhearted; he really hoped she had a better night ahead of her – but decided it better not to dwell. Strangers with sob stories were an unavoidable part of the job. He had a life back home to attend to that required more immediate concern. With the radio and cells inoperable, his loved ones could be in trouble and need him home right away and he wouldn't know it until it was too late—

"Jesus, _Mary_ and Mike!"

When his eyes again found the road, he slammed his foot on the brakes to avoid making street-pizza of someone's pet.

A snarling, black wolf stood menacingly in the middle of the street, staring him down as if he'd somehow offended its very existence. He found himself intensely gaping back at this roadblock of an animal. It had a violent grimace on its snout – a dominant show of teeth and gums – and its yellow eyes pierced through the dark of the night almost like those of a cat's, but more purposefully and sinister. It felt as if it had an insight into his soul and could read over the script of his life like a column in an open porn-mag sitting on a coffee table in his lonely apartment. It was as if it knew the thoughts of his "loved ones" were actually a facade, and that the only thing waiting for him at home was a cat he'd named Wifey and a collection of rodents whose scratches and shuffling behind walls were like his children playing in their room. He'd even slip little pieces of cheese behind the fridge and oven occasionally to make sure they knew he cared—

Honk! Honk!

The not-especially polite sound of a car horn caused the Cabby to break his stare away from the black beast that'd captured his thoughts, and he looked into his rearview to see an 18-wheeler had pulled up behind him, waiting for him to carry on. So he went to pass along the hospitality of his horn toward the animal standing in his way but, of course, when he looked ahead, the mysterious black mutt was nowhere to be found.

The empty path it left grew a stitch of doubt in his mind... Was it ever really there in the first place? For some reason, he wasn't sure. The memory of the yellow-eyed creature was more like that of a dream when he thought back on it. In fact, its presence quickly began fading from his mind, and he shook his head to rattle away the disorientation as he again started making his way for the station up ahead.

He pulled up to the pump with his thoughts already drifting to that of his supposed "family." He wondered when the day would come that Wifey would get upset enough with him (for leaving her alone) to brutally massacre one of the "kids" and leave its bleeding carcass sprawled out on the kitchen floor as a sign of her prolonged neglect. It was bad enough she'd never really done much to help out around the house... Would he have to juggle her homicidal abandonment issues as well as her complicated, special diet and winter flea allergies? The whole arrangement seemed more and more one-sided, the more he thought it through, and it might be time the two of them had a long overdue, "family talk."

Perhaps professional counseling was in order...

The Cabby parked his car and stepped out to fill her up, but before he got settled, gave the block a quick onceover. He was bothered by what he thought was an irrational itch; a case of the jitters he figured started with the approaching cloud cover but felt as if maybe there was something more to it.

He looked around the station, up and down the empty streets. If he didn't know better he'd think someone was following him but, realistically, he just wasn't that interesting of a person. Following him around would be like studying the social habits of a sea cucumber but less exhilarating. It was more likely just an overflow of apprehension rubbing off from spending the last hour with that wound-up girl, but still... He couldn't help but look over his shoulders a few more times before finding enough comfort to drop his guard.

After a few good ganders, the coast appeared clear, so he swiped his credit card and went to select a low grade of fuel. He'd openly whine about the soaring prices and ritually act out his shock and horror, but there was no one around to sympathize with him and "shoot the shit," as they say, so really there wasn't any point in playing the role of the aghast consumer. He'd save the act for a time when it might start him up a conversation with a random businesswoman or college girl who'd just happen to be pumping alongside him, eager for an ear of sympathy concerning a mutual disgust for the plummet of the U.S. economy. He'd become a pro at that sort of small talk: regurgitating philosophies and other people's opinions he'd hear on the news, talk shows, or read in magazines while waiting to pick up a fare. It was easy to fake an interest in the rest of the world to fit in. All you'd have to do was talk and act like everyone else and the public would accept you by default, openly welcoming your conversation since it was one they were already so well versed in responding to. They'd all assume he was completely normal and merely interested in polite discussion when, in fact, he'd use that sort of thing as a way to interact, solely to accumulate visual stimulation for later. It was much more effective to fantasize about a woman who you'd actually met – concentrating on how her lips moved, the texture of her skin, and the smell of her perfume – than it was to imagine someone you've never talked to—

"What the hell...?"

A moving shadow caught the corner of his eye, interrupting his thoughts, and he whipped his head around to see what was behind him. He thought he saw something scuttle passed, moving toward the gas station's store, but when he turned his head, there was nothing there.

He gave his surroundings another thorough look, growing uneasy being in unfamiliar territory. He felt as if someone was watching him, stalking him from the shadows, but couldn't put the pieces together as to who or what it might be since the memory of the yellow-eyed wolf had already dissipated from his mind. Even if he knew Tessura caught her prey's scent in his cab and was planning his interrogation, he wouldn't be aware of her if she didn't wish it. Her presence was otherworldly. If she was ever seen, the sight of her was wiped from a person's thoughts within minutes unless she sought differently.

He jumped at the clank of the gas pump topping off and shook his head, muttering, "Jesus... What the hell's gotten into me?" as he took the nozzle from his car and set it back in its place.

The little, cracked display-screen on the pump read: "Please see cashier for receipt," so he capped his tank and checked the number before walking toward the store...

If he could've seen the bloody horror scene he was strolling into, he would've run away screaming for the comfort of his calico cat, and their current domestic differences would've seemed less than trivial at best. Unknowingly so, his only hope of ever seeing his beloved Wifey again was to somehow discover himself to be of use to the demon that stalked him and, unfortunately, he just wasn't the type of person to have anything worthwhile to offer. As it turns out, his home life stood against much greater peril than he could imagine, and no amount of counseling or family therapy would dig his and Wifey's rapport out of the inevitable shithole that his future had in store.

3

When Alex had last spoke with her mother, she'd told her to come here, to this Reservation outside L.A., and to this specific restaurant around this time of night. It stayed open late and was probably the only place around besides the gas station that did. Aiyana said he owned the place – her real father – and that that's where she'd find him. She wondered if she'd know him when she did, or if he'd know her. Did he even know he had a daughter? And, if he did...

No... There wasn't time for that.

She shook off the emotions stirring in her gut and instead made way for equable thinking. Misdirected blame or remorse wasn't what was important right now.

The entryway to the restaurant stood on the corner where she left the cab. It didn't look like much from the outside, being rundown and monotonous. No friendly windows with neon signs or even a whiteboard on a stand with daily specials and a greeting... It definitely wasn't the kind of place she'd walk by and want to wander in for coffee and pie, and the bars on the windows weren't exactly an appealing décor.

The glass front entry was closed, rusted around its metal frame and not at all inviting. But she reached for its handle, pulled at its hinges and invited herself in, nonetheless. Her instinct which drove her to hesitate needed to be put aside. Regardless of how awkward she felt just strolling into this local joint near midnight and making herself at home, time was of a limited sort. Besides, she was desperately in need of a coffee.

Japanese furnishings and the smell of fried appetizers? This place...was not at _all_ what she was expecting...

The lighting was low, with short, polished wood tables and cushions on the floor where there should be chairs. Bamboo blinds with painted cherry blossoms, Buddha and elephant sculptures, temple-shaped stone lanterns, and a tall, rectangular stone wishing well sat centering the dining area. Definitely not what she was expecting. The sound of water trickling and meditative musical instruments – string and wind – danced softly through the air, almost immediately calming her nerves, but only for an instant. She very quickly became tense again, unsure of what she might find.

The place was vacant. A counter sat past the fountain in the back that looked like a good place to start, so she headed toward it, eyes wandering around the room on the way. On top of the counter stood a water-dragon sculpture about twelve inches tall. It curved gracefully into a near question mark, resting on a pile of little green stones. It had an orb in its claw, long horns, and scaly spikes coursing its snakelike body. She approached the strange, stone creature and reached out to run her fingers over its texture – but caught a glimpse of a handwritten sign next to it that read, "Please don't touch my dragon." She stopped herself before indulging in her tactile curiosities and lightly smiled at the appropriateness of the presumptuous little flashcard with the eye-catching red ink.

To the sculpture's right, another sign sat beside a hanging, iron bell that read, "Ring me for service." She zeroed in on the straw-colored string dangling from the bell's skirt and reached for it, but before she had the pleasure of giving it a pull, a man stepped out from the paper wall behind the counter and spoke up.

"That won't be necessary." He jumped out with his statement as if to catch her before she gave the little, iron noisemaker a good clang. "I already know you're here."

The older, Native-American man shuffled out with an empty porcelain cup and a towel he used to dry its inside. Alex froze where she stood with her hand still teasing the string of the bell, a lost look in her eyes.

The old man smiled.

"You look disappointed." He used his towel-hand to point at the bell. "You can give it a ring if you really want to."

Alex wasn't sure what he meant at first, being nervous and not knowing where to begin or how to ask a perfect stranger if he was her father, but then followed his gesturing toward her hand and snapped out of it to give him a response.

"Oh..." She pulled her fingers away from the string. "...No, sorry...I, uh..."

She didn't know what to say. Her stupor was apparent and a little awkward, so the old man decided to break the ice.

"Tea?" He raised the empty cup in his hand to give her a visual. She looked distracted and he thought it'd help if he wriggled it around in front of her.

She looked down at the cup and then back up at the old man.

"...Coffee?" She countered.

"Tea." He assured her.

"Oh...o-okay..."

He smiled and gestured to a spot behind her.

"Help yourself. It's hot."

She turned back to see a kettle and two cups on the table. She hadn't noticed it when she walked by which was a dead giveaway how distracted her mind had been. The aroma was strong and enticing. Despite knowing her thoughts were elsewhere, she found herself surprised she didn't smell it earlier.

She looked down at the two cups and steaming, Japanese kettle and then back to the old man making his way to join her. He was older than she thought, probably in his late sixties...which was slightly gross if she really thought about because that would have made him almost fifty when he and her mom... Ick! Either her mother had really liked her older men or there was more to this elderly fellow than what met the eye.

When he got closer, she decided to actually try stringing a whole sentence together and speak to the man for once instead of just mumbling uncertainties his way. He sat down at the table, so she followed his lead.

"So..." She sort of smiled so he'd know she wasn't trying to be rude. "Isn't there some kind of Japanese tradition when pouring tea? I always thought it was a little more complicated than 'help yourself.' "

"You're right, of course." He nodded after he slowly sat down. "But I left my Kimono at the Dry Cleaners. If you want to come back tomorrow, I can be dressed for the occasion." He shrugged. "But I can't guarantee the brew would still be hot."

She smiled at his good-natured wit and reached out to pour herself a cup. When her glass was full, she looked up and asked with her eyes if he wanted one too. He nodded, accepting her offer, so she tipped the kettle over his cup and steam rose from the glass. He watched the liquid fill with a childlike eagerness and she looked him over while she thought his attentions were occupied. He appeared chipper and full of life for a man his age... And for a man his age at this hour. He had a braid, like her brothers, but instead of dark brown it was gray and coarse, but well-kept. The lines on his face told a tale of experience, and the carefree nature gleaming in his eyes either meant he was either enlightened, or a hopeless halfwit, dumber than the cushions warming the skin of their glutes.

She hoped for the former but wouldn't be unconvinced of the latter until further investigation.

He waved his nose over the rising steam and Alex did the same. She gave it a sniff – a deeper inhale than she'd planned, but the aroma was very soothing – and lifted the cup to her lips, looking forward to experiencing the flavor firsthand.

The hot liquid hit her upper lip and trickled over her tongue. The flavor widened her eyes and drove a pleasurable groan from the back of her throat.

"Mmmm." She removed her lips from the cup but had a tough time doing so, immediately wanting to take another sip. "This is really good." She was surprised to find a genuine smile tease the corners of her lips. "What is it?" She really wanted to know. The flavor was very exotic.

The old man took a sip when she did and lowered his brow as if contemplating his vast knowledge of the many flavors of tea.

"Mmm..." He nodded and gave the brew another whiff, then tilted his head slightly to the side, examining his cup. "Couldn't say." He took another sip after offering his expertise. "I've never really been that well organized."

She almost laughed. The old man was definitely not what she was expecting. None of this was. She almost forgot about her troubles for a moment as she continued their conversation.

"Tastes like..." she gave her cup another sip and her lips a smack, "...peach...and cinnamon, maybe?"

The old man nodded and gave his serving another try.

"Mine tastes more minty..."

She let out a tiny laugh, amused he'd taste something different than she did.

"But aren't they the same flavor? They both came from the same kettle..."

He looked up at her with a look of contemplation, then: "You're probably right." He glanced back down at his cup as he started for another sip. "Maybe it's because I just brushed my teeth."

This time she couldn't restrain her laugh and let a giggle loose that brightened the room. The old man looked surprised, as if he hadn't been joking, but deep down, she knew he was sharper than he'd let on. He let a smile slip through as he took another sip, verifying her suspicions of him being more playfully sly than the part of the "clueless older fellow" he was attempting to portray.

She gave the hot liquid a blow then took a drink. The tea was delicious and the moment very relaxing, but her worries were too cumbersome to be masked for long. She glanced up at the aged man through eager eyes, deciding to screw the bush she'd been beating to death and get to gettin' the show on the road.

"So, are you my father, or what?"

He almost choked on his drink and spit up a little with her smooth delivery. Her face said, "Oh god... I just killed my dad..." Then her mouth apologized for her outburst.

"Oh...sorry... I guess that was a little sudden, wasn't it..." She genuinely felt bad. The poor guy was old. _Real_ old. Old people didn't take well to life-altering, freak surprises. "I didn't mean to upset you..."

He wiped his mouth with an oriental-style napkin to reveal a smile and a chuckle.

"I'm not upset, young lady." He put the napkin down after soaking up the spittle in front of him. "I'm amused. You're very strong to be so direct." He smiled softly. "...Just like your mother."

Okay...so...that was saying _something_ , but he hadn't exactly answered her question...

"Soooo..."

"Yes. I am." His smile told of a delicate love – one that she'd never seen in another man's eyes aside from her brother's. "And I'm also closed. It's past midnight."

He started to get up and Alex fell speechless... Then the old man offered her his hand.

"Would you like to walk me home?"

4

The Cabby shuffled into the store at the station in a disorientated fog. It was one of those waking moments where the real world felt surreal; dreamlike. Movement broke into frames and flicked past in slow motion, the quiet weighing on his bones as though he was walking underwater. An electronic ding-dong went off when he entered the store that was abnormally low-toned and askew. Inside, the lights vibrated at a frequency he could feel in his lids and he narrowed them to a slit against their obnoxious glare. A faint static buzzed in the background from a TV that was left on without a signal, and it grew louder as he neared the unmanned counter at the front of the store.

"Hello?"

He gave his standard greeting a go, hopping to get someone's attention, waiting alertly for a response. An open door was yawning with shadow behind the counter that led to the station's garage, so he leaned toward it, drawn in by its mystery, and gave his greeting another try.

"Helloooo? Anybody back there?"

A rustling sound, like someone moving behind the wall, caught his ear – but no voice answered his call.

He decided on giving them a minute. Maybe whoever lingered in back couldn't hear him while engrossed in chores, so he walked politely away from the counter to make himself a cup of coffee.

He couldn't figure why he felt so uneasy and out of touch. Maybe he was more exhausted than he'd realized. The drive out to the Reservation was longer than a normal fare, and the air of the night hung strange from the start.

A few more bumping and dragging sounds escaped the dark of the open door, and he gave it a good gander while pouring a tall serving of decaf into a Styrofoam cup. He grabbed about five packs of sugar and opened them together, spilling a fountain of white crystals into the steaming black liquid before reaching off to his right for a stirrer, eyes still examining the shaded doorway. On the opposite side of him sat a wall of refrigerated shelves behind glass doors housing rows of 16 to 40oz malt liquors. He glanced toward them, thinking maybe he'd pick up a tallboy for later, but the thought was interrupted when he jumped at the reflection of two, piercing yellow eyes—

"Jesus _fuck!_ "

A snarling, demonic beast towered behind him in the reflection and he spun around to face what he thought was the most frightening thing he'd ever seen... But when he did, only the store's clerk stood before him.

He whipped his head back to the reflection and his heart settled down a notch with just a man mirrored in the glass. He then looked back at the strange person who stood and gawked with a cold and inhuman glare, but compared to what he thought he saw, this man was probably the most pleasant human being he'd seen all day.

"Christ... You scared the crap out of me..." He released a deep breath and let loose a chuckle, relieving the immense tension that had him wound up tighter than a fish's sphincter. "I...uh...need a receipt for my gas..." He was just now noticing the guy's odd, blank slate of a face, and kept a wary eye on him when picking up his beverage. "...and a cup of Joe."

The man just stared for a moment, and the Cabby stared back. A tiny yellow flicker teased in the clerk's eyes, and the Cabby's heart jumped at the sight of it. The man then spoke up, lightening the load of fret weighing in the moment, voice eerily dull.

"What brings you out this way?"

The Cabby slumped in relief of the broken silence, finally able to loosen up a bit.

"I'll give ya one guess." He pointed toward his cab at the gas pump but the clerk didn't bother to look. He just stood there awkwardly, the distant stare in his eyes again building tension between them. After a few more seconds, the clerk spoke a second time.

"What brings you out this way?"

He said it exactly as he did before – emotionless and autonomic – and the Cabby's pulse jumped up another beat.

"I...drive a cab..." The moment was excruciatingly strange, and a terrible rotting smell slithered from behind the attendant. He winced at its taste but tried not to draw attention. "...I had a fare... A customer that needed a lift..."

The clerk waited briefly before speaking again, as if he thought the pause would be less conspicuous when, really, it only grew anxiety in the moment before he went on.

"Where did you take her?"

A jolt of adrenaline flushed through the Cabby's veins and that dreamlike state he was stuck in took a turn toward a nightmare.

"What?" His shock occupied his reason and he struggled for words. "How...?"

He wanted to say, "How the hell did you know it was a _her_?" and "It's none of your goddamn business!" – but he couldn't push more than a single syllable through his fright. Something was definitely off about this expressionless store clerk and the question made him think the girl might've had good reason to seem as paranoid as she did.

What the hell had she got him mixed up in?

He had a dozen questions all at once, and they all had answers, but were all beyond his realm of understanding. The most obvious answer being that the demon Tessura was projecting this image of the clerk she'd just brutally murdered and was trying to be cunning about getting some answers. What he also wouldn't understand, was that the beast had lost "sight" of Alex when she stepped off the street and into her father's restaurant. The place must've been warded from her perception byway of witchcraft, or it was possible it was a kind of spiritual sanctuary. All of which wouldn't do the Cabby a damn bit of good whether he knew these truths or not. He was likely better off leaning more towards the "not."

"Where did you take the girl?" Tessura's projection lacked character and harmony but was proficient at getting to the point. The clerk's eyes flickered with yellow when he spoke, bringing an even more unnatural air to his stare than just his lifeless eyes alone.

Tessura, behind the illusion of the clerk and outside the Cabby's perception, towered in front of him – a smeared trail of human blood painting a path to the garage decorated the tile behind her. She huffed in restraint against her urge to tear the man's limbs from his athletically neglected torso and perhaps inadvertently alerted his subconscious to her threats. The Cabby suddenly realized it was in his best interest to answer the dull man's question, but he didn't even need to speak since Tessura could "see" the answer when he brought it forth in his mind. He struggled to form the words with his unresponsive jaw that he thought might get him away from this nightmare, but it was too little too late – his cooperation was no longer necessary.

The projection of the plain-faced clerk melted into a blurry shimmer until Tessura proudly revealed herself in monstrous form. She stood still for a moment in all her glory, allowing his fear to run its course with the blood-splattered stains covering the floor and walls behind her adding to the barrage of horror.

His jaw hung at the sight of the beast he thought was only a figment of his tired imagination and he immediately knew she was real by the putrid stench and the warmth radiating from her enormous figure.

"Oh, god no..." He slumped to his knees from the weakness his terror filled him with and began to plead, assuming his life was in the balance. "P-please...please don't hurt me..." Tessura grumbled lowly, enjoying the groveling of the man at her feet. "I...I h-have a f-f-family... A w-w-wife...a-and k-k-k-k-kids..."

She growled in dominant protest, knowing the man was lying, and her hot breath caused him to keel over and vomit from the stink of it. After he spit a few chunks from his lips and gasped for air, he decided he'd try bargaining with the thing. Maybe he could weasel his way out of certain gruesome death by volunteering to help bestow that terrible fate onto someone else...

"I'll get you the girl! Sh-sh-she trusts me! I'll go back and get her for you... T-t-take her wherever you want!"

Tessura didn't need this insect... The thought of it was offensive. For his insolence, she'd capture his soul and use his essence to cleanse the rot from her congested colon... But even that may be too high praise for this disgusting cretin.

She raised her arm with black claws poised like talons to swipe death across the chest of a sorry excuse for a human – but stopped before inexorably delivering him.

...The girl... Tessura could see her now. But...something...wasn't right...

Imala had told her that Alex didn't have the protective charm she wore, but there was definitely something still there with her. She could sense that she was still protected...and that menacing setback infuriated her...

She howled a cry that brought the man at her feet into a fetal crunch. She barked another irritated grumble when realizing this piece of human dung that reeked of domesticated cat and stale coffee might turn out to be of use after all, and then grabbed the Cabby by his shirt, lifting him from his feet to deliver her commands directly into his thoughts—

YOU LIVE...TO SERVE ME.

Her telepathy was like a force of nature in his mind.

Her power caused him to leak his composure from the crotch of his pants and he nodded rapidly to show enthusiasm for his immediate cooperation.

"Yes...yes... _Anything_..."

He babbled his verbal compliance with tears and drool, and she dropped him into a puddle of his own piss and vomit.

If she couldn't touch the girl – if Alex was somehow still protected – then she might need this groveling pinworm to transport her to her queen. Her hunt had just become more complex than usual, but not outside her ability to adapt. In the hundreds of Earth-years she's serviced other masters, she'd never failed to collect a soul....This young girl would not be an exception to her untarnished track record.

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Dead Meets the Degenerate and Pig Shit Flies

1

The halls were decked with bowels and folly, the walls painted with the insides of fools who believed their god would never let something like _him_ exist. Those few social workers who still held a breath in their chests were more terrified by the idea that what just killed them was _real_ than the fact that they were dead or dying. Smoke tore through the lobby of the detention center in under two minutes, leaving only one with the hope for survival just to entertain the twisted humor involved since, really, in the end, there wasn't hope left for anyone.

After he broke through the metal gate that clamped down and barred the entrance, he ripped apart the remaining two correction officers and scattered their limbs to every corner of the lobby. A young man who was making his way from prison to be released would've never guessed he'd have been safer back in his cell – but wasn't alive long enough to dwell. Smoke twisted the man's head around so his ass was in front of him and kicked in both his knees until they bent backward like those of an ostrich.

Two female receptionists cowered under their desks at the front counter, ducking the continuous spray of human marinara sauce flinging over their heads as their coworkers were ripped to morbid bits. After he finished off the rest of the lobby, Smoke reached through the painted plywood the girls hid behind to grab the skinny one by her hair. She squirmed and screamed against his grip as he pulled her through the splintered counter and tossed her clear out of the building. Her shrieking flight through midair must've lasted three or four seconds until she met her end as a blood-splattered stain against the side of the Camaro illegally parked at the base of the complex.

The only remaining person left alive did her best to not make a sound. She even held her breath after her flying coworker's screams had ceased and the rest of the room descended into a deathly silence.

Smoke smiled wretchedly, coolly leaning on the counter to address the terrified woman when he spoke.

"I know you're back there, sweetheart," he gave the counter a rap and the air a deep sniff. "I can smell your rag."

She cringed behind the front desk, still holding her breath, hoping he was bluffing or that maybe he'd just go away if she pretended she didn't hear.

"You either get your chubby lil' ass up here and talk to me...or I stick one of your officer buddy's severed arms down your throat until you're shitting his fingers."

The terrified receptionist whimpered at the sound of his threat and after a few seconds, decided to do as he said. She hesitantly put her feet under her, finding it a struggle to stand through the flood of pure horror weighing her down. Cautiously, she stood, with her glasses tilted across the bridge of her nose, sniffling and sniveling in between breaths. She straightened up as much as she could and lifted her head, still slightly hunched in fear, unable to bring herself to meet the eyes of her terror personified. Her voice was weak – feeble – and she stuttered when she finally spoke.

"C-c-c-can...I...h-h-h-help you?"

Smoke just stared at first, trying his best to hold a straight face, then exploded in a deep barrel of a laugh. The portly young receptionist flinched at the sound and when he wasn't looking, found the courage to sneak a gander at her captor engulfed in laughter. She winced at the sight of the hole in his pale forehead and the black sap oozing from its center.

"W-w-what h-happened to your f-f-f-face?" The question came out unexpectedly, and she felt, after the fact, it might not have been a brilliant move on her part to ask it, so she tried remedying her blunder by wearing an expression of concern rather than revulsion.

Smoke finally caught his breath after laughing hard enough to rattle the tiles and straightened his smile to a scowl.

"...Swine Flu."

She wasn't sure if he was being serious through his stern-eyed glare.

"This pig-sty is fucking contaminated."

He reached toward her and she cringed and squealed at the motion. Her eyes pinched shut, not wanting to see what he had in mind, and hoped to God that it'd be quick and painless. A strange sucking and squishing sound perturbed her imagination, and she couldn't help but lift an eyelid just enough to take a peek.

His arm was outstretched beside her with his large hand atop a green, plastic bottle of Purell, squirting generous globs of it into his dead, bloodied palm.

"Have you washed your hands today?"

She opened the other eye to confirm she was actually seeing what she thought she was.

"Cleanliness makes for finer killing."

He smacked two palms together, thoroughly rubbing in the sterilizer, then snorted up and spit out a disgusting reddish-brown clump of sickly mucous.

The young receptionist had a melting pot of torment described by her eyes that included disgust, shock, and fear, all badly concealed behind an attempt at a cordial face.

"What?" Smoke threw her a clueless expression and a shake of his head. He didn't really expect an answer, but figured he'd screw with her some more just to see how far he could take it. "I got somethin' stuck in my teeth?"

He flashed incisors and gums that dripped human pulp, and the young woman's face turned from ghostly pale to a sour shade of chartreuse. She did her best to hold down her vomit and was able to keep it under control for the time being.

"You okay?"

She nodded.

"You need another minute?"

She shook her head.

She figured her only way out of this mess, if she had any hope at all, was to make herself as compliant as possible. For some reason, this disgusting abomination before her hadn't yet tore her into tattered, fleshy pieces of secretary pot-roast, and she didn't want to push what small measure of luck she still had going for her. Smoke noticed her amiable aura and decided on bypassing the playtime and getting down to business.

"I want you to help me find my ol' man."

The woman snapped out of her panic, eyes glowing with hope, finally believing there was something she could do to save her life.

She nodded obediently and played her part well. The computers were down, but she was able to look up his father's floor and cell number manually through file cabinets in a back office. She tried not to think about the scattered body parts she stepped over to get there, or what Smoke might do to the man when he found him, and instead stayed focused on the task.

After Smoke got the info he needed, he told the girl to get the fuck away from him before he turned her tits into a cheese soufflé. She scuttled from the building, squealing at the sight of her broken friend on the sidewalk, and shuffled into the abandoned city streets. She didn't make it much further than a block before she collapsed to her knees and cried herself into an exhausted unconsciousness under the stirring, apocalyptic clouds of the end of the civilized world.

Smoke strolled down the hall leading into the belly of the prison, jubilantly whistling with an exaggerated hop to his step. He spotted a prison guard's rouge, severed head on the floor in front of him and lined it up to kick it soccer-style down the long corridor. It bounced off the walls leaving gory splats in its path and rolled as far as the end of the hall before stopping in front of the elevator. When he caught up to it, he pushed the Up arrow on the wall and stood respectfully with his hands behind his back.

He looked down at the officer's battered noggin and gave it a polite nod. He always hated those uncomfortable moments with two perfect strangers both cramped in a single lift, so he decided to be the bigger man and break the ice.

"Hey. How's it goin'?"

The head's eyes were rolled upward and away and Smoke felt a little awkward, thinking maybe his friendly conversation was a bit premature. After all, they hardly got the chance to get to know each other before the whole "brutal massacre" thing...

"You, uh... You goin' up?"

Ding.

Saved by the bell.

He stepped inside and pushed the button for the fourth floor where his father was housed with the rest of the violent criminals and multiple offenders. He wondered how his dad would react when faced with the corrupted atrocity his abandoned son had become. Would he cower and beg for his life like a pathetic shit-stain of a man? Or would he try a more conniving approach and pretend he was pleased to see him, ready and willing to be a part of his ex-girlfriend's army of the dead and a father to his demonic offspring?

The elevator door slid shut while he contemplated the near future, then a fire-engine-red cabinet mounted on the wall outside it caught his eye and he reached out to stop the door in its path.

"Whoa..."

He guided it back open and stepped into the hall; a wooden-handled ax inside of the locked, safety cabinet coaxing a gleam from his glossy eyes. The fireman's tool had an ax blade on one side and a red pick on the other. He ripped the door from the cabinet and acquired the sharpened doom-bringer with zealous intent.

"Yeah," he nodded, eyeballing its sleek design. "This thing's got my fuckin' name written all over it."

He gave it a smack of approval against the palm of his hand and stepped back into the elevator, grinning evilly. If the look in Smoke's eyes alone didn't put the fear of Hell into his father, the threat of being sodomized by either end of this fucking thing ought to do the trick.

When he reached the fourth floor, there was a buzz among the detainees that electrified the stale, prison air. It was past curfew, so the inmates had been locked down in their cells, but none were likely asleep. Smoke had already made chopped cop-cutlets out of the fifteen prison guards who were unlucky enough to be working the nightshift, so there weren't any unexpected, potential victims patrolling the halls.

He stepped out of the elevator, black hood hovering above his brow, and gave the air a predator-like sniff. There was fresh blood nearby, teasing his senses – two different flavors, no less – and one of them smelled like...family...

He took his first step down the row of interlocked cells and held his new best friend, the firemen's ax, casually at his side. When he grazed by the first cell, he raised the tool to run the pointed end against the bars – metal clanking against metal announcing his every stride. Some of the cons lied in bed, heads lifted and eyes wide as he passed. Others were standing, pacing or leaning against the bars, and would back away at his approach. The clanking of the ax was slow and suspenseful and ultimately had them stewing in their angst. Eventually one spoke up, thinking himself braver than the rest – or perhaps was just not much brighter than a nightlight in daytime and really didn't know any better...

"Hey..." The convict was a large, heavyset Mexican with a shaved head and prison tattoos on his neck and arms. "Hey, you lookin' for somethin'?"

Smoke stopped sharply in his trek, as did the clanking of his pick against the bars while a hum still buzzed through its steel. He turned his head with intent to let the poor bastard who brought attention to himself get a good look into the eyes of his demise. The man instantly felt the fear of death upon seeing the ruby glow of blood in Smoke's retinas and cautiously leaned back but didn't want to make any sudden moves. He then spoke again with a somewhat friendlier tone, as if they were both batting for the same team.

"Maybe I c'n _help_ you, homes...if you get me the fuck _outta_ here."

Smoke didn't bother wasting his breath.

He swung his ax between the bars, aiming for the middle of the con's glaring forehead. His movement was so fast it appeared as a blur, and before the man could even flinch, he had an unforgiving chunk of cold steel lodged in his skull right between crossed eyes. Smoke could've swung hard enough to cut the ignorant douche-hole in half, but the ax would've hit the crossbar in the middle of the cell door and snapped the wooden handle. He'd hate to ruin his new toy on a worthless sack of sweat and dung before his night even got started...

A shocked choir of "oh's!" came from the prisoners in the surrounding cells, watching from behind bars that normally kept the outside world safe from them, but tonight kept them safe from the horrors that stalked outside.

He examined the horrible look in the eyes of the man he murdered, then yanked the ax back out of his skull to watch the cadaver collapse to the floor – a canyon gouged into his head like an inverted hood ornament, deep enough to reveal the fleshy brain-tissue bleeding at its center.

"Anyone else feel like makin' a deal with the Devil's heir?"

The question was rhetorical and didn't require a retort. The inmates all appeared to understand that fact and kept their conniving mouths shut in the hopes of going unnoticed.

Smoke looked around in a challenging display before confidently proceeding down the hall. His father was supposed to be housed in the seventeenth cell which would be on his left, coming up within the next few strides. Coincidentally, that was where the scent of fresh blood seemed to come from and was the only unit without someone standing at its gate. Smoke looked down to see a thick pool of burgundy seeping past the bars and kept his eyes locked on the shimmering liquid while on approach. When at the cell, he looked up from the pool at two men: one hanging dead from the ceiling – his neck wrapped in the wire from an uncoiled mattress spring – and the other seated on the floor, Indian-style, with his broad back toward the hall.

The dead man was a small, light-haired inmate, too young to be his father. His neck was clawed at where he tried to break the grip the metal wire had around his throat before dying. Blood still dripped down his body and off his bare feet, trickling into the puddle on the ground. The broad-shouldered con, with his back to Smoke, sat behind the spillage of gore, facing the opposite wall. He was breathing steadily, as if meditating, with his hands balled into two fists on either thigh.

Smoke was convinced by the sheer size and shape of the man that he was indeed his father but found himself unmoved when seeing him alive. He decided to address him as though he couldn't care less – which he couldn't...and didn't.

"You Kalon?"

Kalon was his father's name. An Irish name that may have held some cultural meaning to it – or might just stand for "Shit-Eating-Mick" for all Smoke could care.

"Who's askin'?" His father spoke calmly with his head still buried in shadow against the back of the cell, voice rough and baritone.

Smoke thought he'd throw his real name out there to see if his father bit.

"Jacen..." He paused before going on. "Your son."

Kalon's head turned the slightest bit, but not enough to reveal an expression; just enough to expose a cheekbone to the hall lighting.

"Yer mother send ya?"

Smoke reached out and pulled the cell door from its cemented roots and easily threw it aside.

"Fuckin' A," he answered.

His father still hadn't budged, even at the horrendous sound of steel-bending Armageddon right behind him. The rest of the prisoners were dead silent, shocked by what they were witnessing, and remained content to keep quiet and to themselves.

Smoke stepped into his father's cell, dead-center in the lake on the floor, and waited patiently for him to make the next move.

Kalon took a deep breath, hoisted himself up and spun around all in one controlled motion, fists still balled to his sides. It was too dark to make out his face – him still being submerged in shadows near the back of the cell. He raised both dripping fists out in front of him so the light from the hall illuminated them, palms up and still closed, then spoke again.

"Then you'll be needin' these."

He opened his hands and stepped into the light. In either palm he held an eye, and when the light from the hall hit his face, it became clear the eyes were his own. His blood had left tracks down his cheeks that now leaked from his palms, and Smoke grinned proudly. If it were possible for his father to even slightly impress him, he'd have done it with this gesture. Kalon must've known Imala would come for him and knew damn well she'd require an offering. Freely giving his own eyes would go a long way with the demon witch.

Smoke wondered how much the old man knew; if he had any clue of what was soon to come... But there would be time for a father/son chat on the ride back to see his mother, he thought. What that reunion would bring upon the world...only time would tell.

"What's with the stiff?" He figured his father had earned his respect so he should speak to him as an equal – for now.

"He said if we ever got out of here...he wanted to hang."

"Ha!" Smoke found his father's distasteful humor inappropriate enough to rival his own. "He looks a little up-tight for my taste." He reached out and gave the hanging man a playful shove, his body swinging back and forth. "Not exactly the life of the party, is he?"

Father and son. The demon and the damned. The dead and the degenerate. Nothing good could come of this despicable duo. Fate had unleashed a disease on the world of man, and these two tyrants were its dirty syringes.

2

"Hey, I don't know if it's such a great idea to go out in this shit..." Jimmy peered through the window of Tara's duplex at the empty street outside. It was a little after midnight and a settling, reddish fog weighed against his chest with worry. "Looks like something out of a fucking monster movie out there." He mumbled his observation under his breath and let the curtain fall, turning toward his two friends.

Tara flipped her hair out from the neck of the sweatshirt she threw on and Terry couldn't help but notice her body's curves in her light-colored jeans. He gave her a quick, covert inspection while she was zipping up her lilac hoodie, then reasserted his attentions to address her as platonically as possible.

"We takin' my truck?"

She reached off to the side, grabbing her keychain from the kitchen counter.

"We'll take mine." She threw him a set of keys with a pink rabbit's foot dangling from it, and he reached out to pluck it fluttering from midair. "It's a four-door. Tank's full."

Terry held up the keychain, drawing eyes to the severed animal limb hanging from its ring. She glanced up and he gave her a skeptical, raised brow. She smiled, knowing he was making fun of her taste in superstitions before Jimmy spoke up again and interrupted the moment.

"Guys...seriously... We should probably wait 'til after this fog lets up." They weren't paying much attention to his fretful words of worry. "Plus, I got asthma. This shit can't be good for my condition..."

Terry shook his head. "You don't have asthma, you little sissy. Shut the hell up and let's go." Terry grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to face the door. Jimmy was still a little hesitant, so he gave him an extra shove for moral support.

"At least let me hold the rabbit's foot..." He figured a bit of luck couldn't hurt on a night like this.

Terry shook his head and Tara smiled, bowing hers to conceal her amusement.

It was a good thing their spirits were still on the up-and-up despite the uncomfortable tensions surrounding them, but it wouldn't last. The streets outside were starting to turn. The blood-clouds and crimson mists were only the beginnings of several elements of the underworld they'd soon come face-to-face with. The three, unsuspecting companions had one hell of a ride ahead of them...

"Oh, wait..." Tara spoke up just as Terry opened the front door. "I almost forgot." She turned around, heading back to her bedroom.

Jimmy looked over at Terry, then down at the rabbit's foot in his palm, and Terry sighed. He maneuvered his hand to fiddle with the foot and removed it from the ring.

"Here." He gave his friend the pink-furred good luck charm and he eagerly accepted his graciousness. "Don't lose it....It might save yur life."

Jimmy smiled triumphantly and used his thumb to pet it.

Tara came out of her bedroom just after, confidently holding a 9mm black Beretta with a four-inch barrel. She popped in a 13-round magazine, cocked back the slide to load one in the chamber and flipped the safety on.

The boys were stunned to say the least.

"If all Hell's breaking loose out there, it can't hurt to have some firepower on our side."

Jimmy glimpsed down at his pink rabbit's foot then back up at Tara. "Yeah... I'll just...I don't know...paw somebody to death if things get outta hand. Unless, y'know...you wanna let me hold the gun?" He figured he'd throw out the bait to see if she bit.

Tara shook her head while putting the Italian made hand-cannon securely behind her back. "Sorry, sweetie. No one puts their mitts on this pretty little bitch but me."

She started heading for the door and Terry couldn't help but take a stab at an assumption:

"Army brat?"

She shook her head. "My father owns a deli..." she tightened her belt, adjusting to make sure her sweatshirt set right over the weapon, "...in Brooklyn."

Terry nodded as she passed. "Yeah, that makes sense," he agreed with a contemplative frown and followed her to the door.

Jimmy grabbed his arm before he stepped outside and put his hand over his mouth to whisper flippantly at his friend.

"She called me 'sweetie'." He gave him a goofy smile and Terry just shook his head, pushing him and his pink rabbit's foot out of the house.

"Yeah, yeah... Keep it in yur pants, Bugs Bunny. Let's go."

The night was warm. The streets were wet. The streaky, burgundy mists hovering in the air thickened as soon as they began to drive. The peculiarity of it left the three of them speechless, and they stared uneasily into the emptiness of the once busy city. Had they been so caught up in their own lives and thoughts of Marty that the rest of the world just left them behind? What about those without vehicles? And the homeless, for that matter?

Every so often they'd drive by a home with a person peering from its window, fear and uncertainty fogging up the glass they stood behind with each heavy breath. Tara began to wonder about things like whether the police were able to communicate with each other or if the same interference blocking out the radio and TV were also a problem for them. Terry started thinking about his teammates and those of the Hounds'. A sickening sensation twisted in the base of his gut and he tried shaking it by thinking rationally. There really wasn't any point in him worrying about things he couldn't control.

It'd only be minutes before they'd reach the street that would lead them to the freeway. The traffic the boys described earlier thinned out over the last hour, but a few headlights still passed by, all going in the opposite direction. The three of them were heading west, more toward downtown, whereas everyone else went east, abandoning the uncertainty of the inner-city to those stupid enough to seek answers.

When they made it to the freeway, the pattern still held true with their side being nearly deserted and the opposite road backed up with absconding citizens hoarding the shoulder lanes. Highway patrolmen stood on the busy side of the freeway trying to maintain order, and as they passed, a few glanced toward Tara and the guys. The looks on the patrolmen's faces were of scrutiny, but they were too engrossed in their pandemonium for it to linger enough to grow into concern. But their concern wasn't necessary. The accumulating layer of blood against the SUV's windshield from the fog grew enough concern between the three of them for them to think twice about the direction they were headed.

Terry hit the wipers and the soap-spray to wash away the maroon streaks from his view.

"So..." Jimmy, as usual, figured he'd have to be the one to say what no one else was willing. "Who wants to be the first to reach out and sample the red stuff dripping off the side of the truck?" The other two wished they could just laugh and assume it was all a joke, but they knew he was right. "Seriously... If that's blood...?" He didn't even know how to begin to finish that sentence.

Terry ran through his analytical thought processes, attempting to find a good enough excuse not to do as his friend suggested, but in the end, decided if he did take a taste, it would be one hell of a relief to find out it was something else entirely.

He lowered his driver-side window and reluctantly reached out to wipe at the edge of the windshield. He brought his stained hand back in, hesitated a moment, then dove tongue-first into a spastic "Is-this-the-end-of-the-world?" index-finger taste test.

Tara and Jimmy both gaped with surprise, shocked he actually had the balls to see it through. Then their surprise mutated into a fidgety impatience, nervously awaiting an analysis...

Terry's pupils widened at the mydriatic touch of the wetness against his tongue. His heart jumped at its taste like the flavor was laced with adrenaline. The suspense had the two passengers on the edge of their seats, figuratively and literally holding their breaths. They both needed to know what he tasted but were too afraid to ask....His silence inevitably spoke volumes.

"It's blood, isn't it..." Jimmy got the impression he already knew the answer but foolishly hoped to be wrong. Terry didn't bother responding. Jimmy groaned uncomfortably. "...Jesus-fucking-Christ... What the hell is going on?" His swears rolled off his tongue and he leaned against the backseat's passenger window, the strength to hold his head seeping from his neck along with his befuddled words.

Tara found herself speechless, and Terry had his hands full just trying to stay focused enough to drive.

"This...this can't be right... This can't be happening..." Jimmy continued to ramble to no end, confused and panicked dialog spilling from his lips. "It's not even possible...is it? I mean...blood-fog? Fucking death-clouds?!...It...it can't be real...... Can it?"

They heard him...but they didn't have any answers....Were there any answers? Was this really happening? Terry found himself getting lost in his own mind until he came across a piece of the puzzle that stood out over the rest:

"Alex knows something."

"What?" Tara was surprised to hear him speak and found herself hopeful at his words.

Terry glanced back at Jimmy through the mirror and then over to Tara.

"Alex. She knows...I don't know...something." The wheels in Jimmy's head turned in thought. He knew where Terry was going with this. "She...she's the one who told us Marty was in trouble. She was freaked out way before any of this shit started happening." His eyes focused intently on his listeners, shifting from one to the other, being sure they followed along. "She told us to be careful. She knew something was going on."

"How?" Tara wanted more. She needed more.

"I don't know..." He had nothing else to give. He wished to God he did...but he didn't.

He looked over at her frightened and hopeful gaze but had to end her eagerness to gain any more insight with his own air of dejection. As of now, they were all lost, and their only answers were in the hopes they'd find Alex and Marty alive. Not that having any answers would change what was happening, but the hope for a greater understanding was all they had. Terry let the slow-moving traffic to his left draw his eyes before they were sucked up into the red and black sky.

He'd never really realized how comforting the moonlight was until now that it was gone.

3

If Marty thought making his way across town to find Alex would be a simple task, he quickly realized why deductive reasoning was never considered one of his strong suits.

After he left behind the cold pile of bloodied mud that was once two officers of the United States Navy, he took a stroll through the veteran's cemetery, marching past dozens of empty graves until he inevitably ran into a handful of walking dirt-bags escorting broken bodies back to vacant holes in the ground.

Six men geared up in military attire held at least a corpse apiece – three of them carried two bodies, one in each hand. They were dragging the corpses by their hair, wrists, or feet across the dead grass of the graveyard, leaving murderous tracks behind to get lost in the patchwork of death-smudges that decorated the city. The whole scene outside the cemetery was like an urban battleground with cars torn to shrapnel, stoplights and street-signs pulled from their cement bases, blood splattered on anything with a visible surface, and broken glass and busted homes off in the distance. The sides of apartment buildings had telling signs of human thievery with gore trails leading up walls and out doorways with no doors left in them.

Marty stopped in front of the six-pack of dead-men like a sentinel with a sign above his head that read: "Fuck with me, you die." The soulless demons in their blood-crusted man-suits stopped in-kind, reading over Marty's posture, sizing-up the giant in front of them. One of the red-eyed devils from the back of the group decided to speak, unsure of what he was seeing in the aura of the man before him.

"...What battalion you with, soldier?"

Marty cocked his head, unfamiliar with the dead-man's choice of words, still not entirely understanding the situation he found the world to be in after his emergence.

" **What?"**

The Sergeant stepped forward through the center of the group, dragging the body he held by the foot alongside him. He positioned himself boldly in front of the rest and addressed Marty a second time, changing the words he used to better emphasize his question and utilizing a more demonic tone.

"Where...does your... _allegiance_...lie?" His eyes flared with an iniquitous glare.

Marty was pretty sure he now understood the question. And he was also pretty sure he had a fairly straight forward answer to give. He lifted his head high to display his chest as he spoke and his eyes glimmered with a mystic green.

" **Wherever yours** doesn't."

The evil in all six dead-men's irises burned with his rebellious response and they dropped the bodies they held. Marty clinched his fists at their approach while they spread out, confidently surrounding him from every side.

They moved with a unison that had a dark harmony to it. They seemed more in sync than your average rat-pack of military dumb-shits, almost as if they were connected on a level beneath their muddied hide. Their accord reeked of Hell, and how they convened stunk with a comparable stench.

The first of the six soldiers who caught Marty's stare smirked patronizingly, giving away that he'd be the one to make the first move – that being a punch thrown straight for Marty's eye. Marty leaned aside and used the dead-man's momentum to brush him off and easily threw him away.

At first he thought he was off to a good start, but before he could react a second time, another dead fist had already impacted his temple. The collision was fierce, knocking him back just as a third fist plowed into the corner of his chin. The force spun him in a circle like he was wearing a tutu and tights until his weight carried him into a set of knuckles that coldcocked him to one knee.

There wasn't any pain; just loss of balance and composure. He would've been frustrated with his lack of concentration but a friendly black, military boot washed away his self-loathing with a kick powerful enough to launch him through the air. His hair whipped around when his head snapped back, and his body flailed helplessly through his short-lived tangle with zero gravity. When he landed, his weight dug up the grass in its wake, wet mud chunks flinging into the air.

He grumbled in irritation then gathered himself leisurely, unhurried and unafraid. The six creeps who thought they had him made walked toward him just as nonchalantly and surrounded him like they did before.

" **Heh..."** Marty found their tactics amusing. "You fuckers are pretty organized, aren't yuh."

He took a position comfortably in the center of the pack, but this time more relaxed, knowing that whatever they hit him with wouldn't cause him any pain.

" **Let's take it from the top."** He flexed his fingers in and out of balling fists. **"Queue the punch from the skinny prick who hits like a** _bitch_ **."**

The smaller soldier who threw the first punch smirked at Marty's arrogance and again telegraphed his swing, but this time held back. When Marty reached to grab his fist, he realized too late their strategy had changed...

From behind him, a dead-man kicked in his knee, breaking bone and opening him up for the "skinny prick" to get a free shot. The impact burned with brutality, but Marty braced for it and it didn't surprise him as much as it did the first time. The dead-men all chuckled at what looked to be his ensuing defeat but quieted their snickering when Marty hardly appeared fazed.

He turned his head up from his hunched position and his green eyes glistened through thick strands of hair. A glow rushed under his skin as he began to stand despite his broken knee – his bones mending as he stood, the sound of them resetting crackling beneath his skin.

" **Round three, shit-bags."** He put his hands up this time, staying light on his toes. "I'm gonna pound you fucking soldier-boys into six little piles of pig shit."

Someone threw a kick from behind that he caught by the ankle. Someone else swung for his head and he turned, grabbing the fist as it passed.

Two more evil-eyed dung-heaps closed in next. Marty pivoted, still holding the first two by their limbs, and used their bodies to knock the approaching corpses clear of the circle. He let the two he held go, and all four soldiers enjoyed a free flight through friendly skies courtesy of Air Marty. But he didn't have much time to gloat.

He looked up to see one of the remaining two attacking in midleap from the side, crashing down on where he stood, fists cocked over his head and poised to strike like his hands were the heads of hammers. Marty reached up and grabbed both crashing fists with one of his, and the Hell's soldier growled, stare locked with his enemy.

Marty smirked at his own show of strength, but soon found the adversary he held was, once again, just the bait...

The sixth dead-man in the pack delivered a punch to the small of his back heavy enough to buckle him at his knees, so the hammering soldier now stood with the high-ground and lifted a knee for Marty's chin. Marty blocked him at his thigh before he could do any damage, then drew on his strength to throw him by his fists into the enemy to his rear. With the force he put into it, even from his knees he expected at least one dead bastard to explode into a pile of dirt like the others before, but neither lost their cohesion. These monsters were stronger than the first, likely from a greater consumption of life and a more matured existence.

The four he dismissed earlier invited themselves back into the mix, leaping through the air like flying squirrels from his front and rear. He saw the onslaught of filthy vermin on full-spread through the air and calmly voiced his annoyance under his breath.

"... **fuck."**

Still on his knees, he couldn't think of anything to do but duck, so he rolled to get clear of the leaping nitwits on course to collide; his technique was rusty, but his agility and focus heightened. And since they found themselves in midflight (and hadn't yet shown the ability to sprout wings from the centers of any clammy orifices) they crashed headfirst into one another at full, flailing force without the Priest's cadaver there to break their fall. The speed and strength of the collision exploded skulls on impact, and the aftermath left four, headless carcasses reverting to a pile of muddy waste.

Marty stood up afterward, looming over the dark, red and black heap with an accomplished grimace.

" **What'd I say...?"** He shook his head and spat into the pile at his feet. "...Pig shit."

The outcome spoke for itself.

The only two soldiers left shuffled to their feet from fifteen feet away where they'd landed after he'd thrown one into the other, and Marty turned to let them gaze into the face of wrath with shoulders square and fists clinched.

" **So..."** He took a few slow steps toward his enemy, confident and brash. "How d'you want me to honor yur remains? Under my spit?" he snorted, spewed, then cupped his package. "Or my piss?"

The Hell's soldiers stood silent, contemplating Marty's challenge, then unanimously decided on a response. They met eyes then lifted arms to join hands, palms both flat against the other's.

Marty wasn't seeing where this was going so voiced his confusion with an arrogant insult.

" **Patty Cake? Seriously? You think actin' like little** girls is gonna stop me from kickin' yur fuckin' teeth through the top of yur—"

The odd sight of both soldiers' hands melting together stopped Marty from topping off his remark. They strained to press their weight into each other until the size of their palms doubled, combining into one. Simultaneously, they then stepped together – connecting first at one foot and knee, then the other – until thighs and torsos grossly merged and they groaned against the force it took to coalesce.

Marty was dumbfounded by the rarity of what he saw. It looked like one man fighting against his mirror image to unite himself with his own reflection, and the combined size of the two grew accordingly. Their faces melted together like mud-colored candle wax, and when they finished, they – or it – was just as tall as him and probably sixty or seventy pounds heavier.

" **Uh...** shit..." He was actually, slightly impressed by the size of the thing, but shrugged it off, not more than marginally worried. "...That's not so bad."...But it wasn't finished...

The now one, large soldier before him appeared to still be gaining size as Marty cultivated an even greater look of confusion across his brow. He inspected the feet of the Goliath for answers and found a trail of cursed dirt being pulled into its form. He quickly put two-and-two together and mumbled another curse while glancing back at the lessening pile of remains behind him that leaked its mass into the trail that fed the giant.

He had to think fast, and aside from an assortment of colorful four-letter-words that came to mind, he only had one idea that might have some impact. He remembered how, when he first rose in his new form, shouting loud enough to burst pounds of dirt off him that covered his grave, that power had come from his lungs... So, he figured he'd give it a shot since he had little else going for him beyond a frightfully intimidating vocabulary.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, lungs filling to capacity, and exploded a breath that scattered the pile of remains into a jet-stream away from the Goliath. He watched the rubble disperse into the air and then somehow, as if it had a mind of its own, curve away from the path Marty had shown it and stream back toward the monster behind him.

The giant creature continued to gain size, absorbing the scattering remains in a chest-swelling display of dominance, flexing its form in a restless posture while waiting to mature.

Marty figured now would be an appropriate time for a few of those colorful, four-letter-words he'd been saving for a special occasion.

"... **fuck....shit...sshhhit.......ffffuuuuck..."**

His drawn out "f-word" followed his gaze toward the top of the growing soldier. With every curse that fluttered on the wind of his breath the creature gained in size until it stood over twelve feet tall and likely more than eight hundred pounds.

" **This...** **This is what I get for pickin' on kids smaller than me in the fourth grade..."**

The giant beast chuckled a demonic laugh and took a step closer, its one pace covering half the distance that remained between them.

" **HOW...WOULD YOU LIKE US...TO** _HONOR_ **...YOUR REMAINS?"**

Its voice was behemoth – a powerful choir of demonic harmonies – and its eyes red beams of light casting a glow in front of it.

" **How about you stick my fucking foot up your ass until you choke on my toes and die...?"** He wasn't completely satisfied with his nervous banter, so he decided on an extra insult to add the finishing touch: **"...you...giant** _dick_ **."**

A "George Carlin," he was not. Dennis Leary?...Maybe.

His first thought outside of his lack of a snappy comeback was how the hell he was going to topple this enormous pile of rat-excrement. But the creature reached for him before he could formulate a plan and Marty wasn't fast enough to escape the simple gesture of it sweeping him off his feet...

Its massive hand wrapped around his body and squeezed, constricting his every limb under it, rendering him physically helpless. He struggled at first, squirming and jerking, but gave up promptly after the Goliath didn't take notice to his lesser strength.

Then he stopped...and glared at the beast that smirked and glared back.

He figured it would either squeeze him from all sides until it popped him like a zit, or just politely bite his head off at the shoulders and swallow his skull... So he waited, mounting frustration and anger inside.

" **IF YOU DO NOT SERVE...YOU ARE AN** APOSTATE...AND YOUR EXISTENCE IS AN INSULT TO OUR QUEEN." The creature constricted its hold and pulled Marty closer to beam into his eyes. "YOUR DEMISE WILL STRENGTHEN HELL'S RESOLVE....HEROES...HAVE NO MORE MEANING HERE."

With that speech, Marty thought of Alex. Being an older brother to a young girl who didn't have a father often meant being her hero, even if he sometimes felt he wasn't worthy. And he thought of Jimmy...Terry, Carl, Mac, and the rest of the team who may never say it aloud but held Marty in a similar esteem. They all looked up to his strength of body and character, and he'd be less of a friend than they deserved if he'd give up now and accept defeat at the hands of this pusillanimous pile of pigeon shit holding him captive.

He grumbled fiercely under the pressure of the giant's fingers, and his eyes burned with the strength of the spirit in his charm. The monster's stoplight-orbs flickered in response to his growing fortitude, dimming, as if its strength was compromised, and it growled back at Marty's chiseling scowl.

The two were locked in a combat of wills, and the giant – grip drooping, grimace gritting – appeared to be losing...

Marty's vigor leaked between the fingers of the Goliath in the form of a green aura, and its shine singed against its black, mud-colored skin.

It howled in an agony it never knew, its grip loosening as Marty realized he could now move his chest and lungs enough to breathe. Although he didn't need to breathe to live, he did need to breathe to speak his piece...and his piece – not peace – he did speak.

" _You_ **..."** The ray of green emanating from his chest grew brighter with the guttural growling of his every word. **"...** will _not_ **..."** The monster's hand around his body trembled, breaking apart as Marty grew in virtue. **"...** take **...** _my_ _world_ **..."** By "my world" he meant his sister and those of his friends he held most dear. **"...** away **......from...** _ME!!"_

With his last word declared, the green power in his soul exploded the monster's grip from around his body. Marty fell through its grasp and wailed a powerful and vibrant cry that picked the beast apart one layer at a time as if he were the wind and it a sculpture made of sand. The strength within him continued to shine until disintegrating the Goliath to nothing but particles of dust floating in the haze of an emerald shade.

When the light finally simmered and returned to the charm, he stood noble and triumphant, ready to take on all the armies of Hell... But his sister's wise words echoed in his mind, calming his frothing fury long enough for him to think.

"You need to relax and start thinking with your head and not your fists," is what she'd said to him, and what he now thought it a good idea to consider.

The world around him felt different now; its substance more substantial, and his awareness of its intricacies a leaping step above the monotone of the nearly colorless place he'd existed in only moments before. In the distance beyond the graveyard, he could sense thousands of demon drones doing a new devil's bidding – that new devil a powerful echo in his mind. But he owed no allegiance to them or to her: the Demon Queen who sat gathering supremacy and creating more monsters to bring forth the coming of the New Hell.

He shook off the onset of bombarding insight crashing in his mind and gathered himself to refocus on what mattered. His sister and friends were still out there, and he knew they'd need his help... He just didn't know if they would still accept him – him being this lifeless monstrosity that death and black sorcery had forced him to become...

On every corner of the surrounding city, anywhere a Hell's demon inhabited the false skin of a human, the latest display and emergence of Marty's strength was felt in the pits of their being. They all stopped in their feasting and ceaseless pillaging of innocents and glimpsed back toward their birthplace to witness the power of the green glow that briefly lit the belly of the blood-clouds. None were sure of what they saw; not even the Demon Priestess who, in all her might and terrible glory, paused while conjuring her latest elite demon to give her trifling nephew a moment's thought:

What strength was this that he seemed to wield over her dogs of Hades, and how would it fare against true creatures of the New Hell?

She'd know soon enough. But for now, his existence didn't interfere with her plans. She would have him followed, watched, and tested in the meantime until it proved worthy of her efforts to send a more powerful marauder to finish the job her undead soldiers could not.

Marty continued on his course, away from the cemetery and toward his sister's apartment, coincidentally in the opposite direction an old friend had arrived in only minutes later. The instant Marty found a functional motorcycle with the severed hand of its previous owner still gripping the key at its ignition, J.C. crashed his way through the fence of the graveyard at its opposite end, steering his slow-moving Zamboni into the grounds that would unite the Hounds and Priests on a single side for the first time.

Their rebirth would be a tipping-scale in the ranks of the dead. They were not trained soldiers, like those that now stalked the Earth, but were whole in the sense that they didn't need magic to stitch them back together from blood and dirt. Real flesh and bone made for stronger beasts. And the fact that they had their human souls, and not those of demon wraiths, would undoubtedly make them a different breed of dead-men all together (as were the recent victims that now lay fermenting in their fresh graves).

Imala's seal of sovereignty that was burned into the cemetery's ground prevented any human soul from ascending, so those who were unfortunate enough to be reborn on Earth would likely be reborn under Imala's rule, trapped inside themselves, slaves to her accursed magics. Her blood being the catalyst of the spell that caused the dead to live gave her a hold on anyone that walked after death. But hers and Marty's blood were that of the same line, as was Smoke's and Alex's... What ambiguities or unseen effects this might allow brother and sister to exploit over mother and son would be uncovered in time. Whether it would be in time to change the tides of fate was the question that needed to be asked.

# CHAPTER TWELVE

Demons, Spirits, and Cab Drivers, Oh My!

1

"You knew it was me all along, didn't you." Alex shot her father a playfully sharp look after stepping out onto the old sidewalk alongside his restaurant.

"Of _course_."

"What gave me away?"

"Your face, for one..."

"I look that much like her?"

"No," he smiled. "You look that much like _me_."

She looked unconvinced and gave her father's face a onceover. "I don't really see it..." She was being honest, but still teasing.

"That's because I'm not wearing any makeup."

She laughed a little, then caught a chill and shivered under her coat. The storm in the distance was gaining ground but hadn't made it as far out as the Reservation. The sky was still clear for the most part. The stars glimmered above and the moonlight lit the path they perused. There was a brief silence when the two were caught in the clarity of the night and seemed to just be taking it all in, appreciating the tranquility of that which might not be around much longer.

" _Dimorphotheca Sinuata_." The old man spoke in an unfamiliar tongue and Alex wasn't sure if she was supposed to know what he was referring to.

"Is...that some sort of secret tribal-speak? Am I completely dishonoring our heritage by not knowing what that means?"

"African Daisies." He pointed off to their right where a patch of grass along the sidewalk had a handful of long stemmed, yellow/orange flowers sprouting from the center.

"Oh..." She glanced down and felt a little silly for mentioning the whole "tribal-speak" thing.

"They were your mother's favorite wildflower." He smiled distantly. "Be a dear and pick one out for me, will you? The _tallest_ one. There, in the middle of the bunch."

She reached down and plucked the orange daisy from the earth then lifted it up to study it more closely. "It's not very attractive, is it." She wasn't too impressed upon further examination.

"She always said they reminded her of me..."

"Oh, sorry..."

"I'll have you know, young lady, that twenty years ago I looked... Well, pretty much like I do now, I suppose... But twenty years before that..." He wasn't exactly sure where he was going with this... "Actually...come to think of it, I was never very much to look at." Alex giggled and her father smiled. "But I never had any trouble making the ladies laugh."

She was beginning to see what her mother might have seen in him. He had a very cool presence and seemed comfortable in his skin. A man's confidence usually made a whale of a difference, but she got the impression her mother's interest in him was more complex than just a weekend fling. She wished she had more time to talk about her, but the growing chill of the night and ominous itch over her shoulder served as a reminder that there were more pressing concerns at hand.

"So, besides for my great looks, that I apparently inherited from your side of the family...how did you know it was me?...I mean, you said we looked alike, but our resemblance could've been a coincidence, right?"

She wanted to know if he was expecting her but wasn't comfortable just coming out with information regarding her chats with deceased loved ones so early in the "getting-to-know-you" stage.

"The charm," he answered. "The one you wear around your neck... It's unmistakable."

"The charm?" She looked down at her chest and reached up for her pendant...but it wasn't there. _Marty_ still had it. How did he...?

"I'm...not _wearing_ a charm..."

Her father let an amused _hmph_ escape his throat.

"Just because you're not wearing it, doesn't mean you don't keep it with you." He looked over at his daughter and waved his hand out slowly in front of her. When his palm passed over her chest, a green glow glistened in a circular shape where her amulet would've been. The light bounced off her skin and sparkled in her eyes when she glanced down at its glow.

"How did you...?" The shine over her heart softened then slowly dissipated, leaving her feeling warmer inside, safer, and more assured. "You can see it?" He smiled to give her her answer. "What is it, anyway?"

"A soul-stone." He let the concept sink in for a moment. "It holds the strength of your mother's spirit; her essence and those of the women in your lineage that came before her. It's...very old..." He thought about telling her how old, but it entailed too much history to get into during their short walk home. "It will help you..." There was so much to say, but he knew she wasn't ready to hear it all. One can't force a person to become who they were meant to be. It would eventually just happen – any way you'd slice it. Who you are is a result of the cards dealt, and the hand fate stuck you with wouldn't change no matter how much you feel you may have gotten "the shaft."

"It will help meeee...stop the apocalypse? Save my brother's life?...What?"

She didn't mean to snap at him, but since it was out in the open, she started feeling that weight over her heart that'd been temporarily set aside for the polite benefit of getting to know one another. It was time to get some insight concerning her future role in this New World... But she didn't know if she could handle the answers she sought.

He regarded his daughter with a sadness that pained her heart to see.

"There's no stopping what's to come. It has already happened. There's never any stopping what's meant to be."

"And my brother?" She got the impression this was one of those questions she neither was prepared for nor wanted to hear the answer to.

"Your brother..." He wasn't sure how to put it. "...has a role to play, just as you do." Recognizing the desperate look in her eyes, he did his best to be comforting. "He doesn't need saving, Alex. What he will become is necessary. All he needs is you at his side."

"Could you be a little more _vague_ , please? I'd hate for you to ruin any big surprises." Her sarcasm was openly rude, but he wasn't offended.

"What's important is that you understand your role. You need to know who you really are..."

She gave him a look that said, "Spit it out, grandpa, you're not getting any younger!"

He peered over her shoulder, past her flustered expression when something temporarily derailed his train of thought, then continued where he'd left off with a puzzled squint.

"You are...being followed..."

"What?" His response caught her off guard. It wasn't what she expected to hear. But it did explain that creepy, chilling sensation she kept getting reacquainted with every other minute. "Who...?"

"No...not a who... Look. On the corner, below the streetlight."

She cautiously gazed over to where his eyes had led, deep down already knowing something was there but hoping for her instincts to be awry. She saw the streetlight...but where the light should've cast its glow, a blanket of shadows engulfed the asphalt beneath.

"I don't see—"

He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder and, as if seeing through his eyes, the shroud of dark dissipated, revealing what had concealed itself, projecting the false image of night around its form.

Tessura stood postured in her wolf body; head low, eyes screaming yellow. Alex jumped at the sight of her and the beast growled, knowing her cover had been compromised.

Ultimately, Tessura was undeterred. There wasn't anything the two of them could do to stop her from observing her prey. And besides, she had a plan of her own that would come to fruition regardless of Alex being made aware of her.

"What the hell is that?" Somehow the beast's presence felt familiar, but she was too caught in its hellish glare to give the vexing sensation much thought.

"A demon. A collector of souls." He kept his sights on the creature, but the creature only had eyes for Alex. "Hell spawned....That's good."

"That's good?" Alex wasn't following. She had a tough time doing much of anything other than wondering if and when it would attack and why it hadn't already.

"It means she doesn't yet understand what you are... Otherwise she would know it can't hurt you."

"She _who?_ " His vague answers and elusive half-speak was testing her cool. " _Spill_ it, old man, _seriously_. You're _really_ starting to freak me out..."

"She didn't tell you?"

" _Who_ didn't tell me _what?_ "

"Your mother. She didn't tell you about her sister? About Imala?"

This was all happening too fast. She was having trouble sorting everything out.

"Wait...wait... I have an aunt?"

"Try not to get too sentimental," he warned, with a tilt of his head. "She's not your aunt anymore. She's one of them now. A demon, like that beast that followed you here...but worse. She's who will unleash this New Hell on Earth with plans to sit at its throne."

Alex took his word that she'd be safe from the beast for the time being (in spite of her instinct to run and climb up a tree...) and focused back on the importance of their dialog while Tessura followed, cunningly trotting beneath the shadows, as the old man continued his illumination, figuring it was about time they got to the heart of their dilemma.

"Imala is the bearer of an ancient soul: a woman who, in the past, avoided being damned for an eternity to the underworld by discovering how to become the creator of her own immortal realm. She will employ Hell's minions here on Earth and in exchange, gain the power to rule in this purgatory she's forcing the world to become....You are her opposite. You are the Right that balances Wrong: the strength to stand against her terror. The spirit you carry with you – Aiyana's spirit – is what gives you that strength, and what will help you survive what's to be."

"You mean... Hell on Earth." She was trying to be objective about all this. "I'm supposed to survive the apocalypse so I can, what? Build a summer home and raise a family in the midst of demon-spawn and the walking dead?" Maybe she wasn't trying hard enough... "What's the point? I don't understand any of this." She aimed her confusion back over to Tessura who fell a little behind but kept a diligent pace with a sneer across her snout that could almost be mistaken for a snicker. "I mean...what am I in this great big plan of yours? Am I supposed to kill my aunt, sleep with my brother and give birth to the new baby messiah? Or is it something even less pleasant?"

The old man felt for her. He understood her frustration and thought, overall, she was handling it pretty well.

"It's not my plan, sweetheart. I wouldn't condone anything that would make you uncomfortable or put you in any danger..." He wanted her to know he was on her side, and that he would do everything he could to help her. "It isn't even God's plan or that of the Great Mother's... It's just the way things are. And, no... I'm pretty sure you don't have to sleep with anyone you don't want to... Or kill anyone you don't want to." He sighed. "I'm not sure what you're supposed to do...but I know you're supposed to do it." The confounding look chiseled across her brow called on his sympathies. "...That...wasn't...very helpful, I take it?" She blatantly shook her head to either side. "Alright...then let's start with what I do know." She nodded cynically in accord.

"When Imala creates a Hell of her own on Earth, everything will change – aside from the obvious, of course... The rules of reality will've been shattered, and what couldn't naturally exist in this world before will then be possible." He gave her a glance as they walked to be sure she was following along and, so far, she seemed to be on board. "Demon wolves, for example." He nodded toward the beast that stalked them. "The undead. Drifting spirits and creatures of the netherworld. Blood magik. Sorcery." She looked to be getting a little lost, so he slowed down, allowing it all to sink in.

"Imala is a reincarnated witch who collected sacrificial souls along her own bloodlines to gain strength over Hell. When fully realized, she can use the power she's amassed to rule over some of the more unpleasant things that the Pit has to offer. Comparably, you will have a similar ability – or at least one that in some way will balance hers out. But the real challenge will be discovering the greater imagination to wield it. Imala was born...different...like you...but twisted, unnatural. She was able to project her abilities before she even knew she had them. She infected the minds of those around her and in-turn grew strength from their corruption. Your mother was immune to her influence, just as you are, but that's only the beginning of the potential you'll discover you hold. When the rules of reality change around you, you will have to change along with them. And you'll find you have nothing to fear from what your future holds other than—"

"Fear itself. Right, I get it..."

"Actually...I was going to say nightmarish beasts that would look to infect your dreams and drive you mad while you sleep, but...now may not be the time for that, you're right..."

The lines in the corners of her eyes spelled her irritation. "Joking?...Now?...Really?"

He suddenly felt maybe she was right to be annoyed by his levity. The weight of the responsibility he has taken to lay on her shoulders shouldn't be tossed around so lightly.

"I'm sorry, dear. It's...just how I tend to cope. I didn't mean to seem like I'm not taking this seriously..."

"No...It's okay." She let the death-grip her lids had over her eyes loosen. "Actually, your jokes remind me of my brother." She smiled the slightest bit at the thought. "I think the two of you should get along great..."

He smiled, secretly saddened by what he knew that she didn't. "I would have liked that..."

"Would have?" She wasn't sure why he was being so bleak. "You still might, old man. Don't give up on us so easily."

He forced a smile for the benefit of encouraging her optimism.

"Yes...I suppose I might." He looked down at his feet when he lied so she couldn't see it in his eyes, then lifted his chin. "I hope he likes my tea."

She accepted his polite optimism with a grin before fully realizing that, for the most part, her spirit was at peace. The level of complete mind-fuckery that fate had slapped her in the face with was appallingly detrimental...but somehow she seemed able to manage. She should be urinating in her lavender-laced undies and crying puddles of hopelessly woeful tears – but she wasn't.

Again, she felt a warmth in her heart and an overall collected sense of composure flow through her chest with her every controlled breath. She had always kept a level head before, but there was more to her strength at this moment than simple acceptance or maturity beyond her years. For the first time in her life, she truly felt as if she wasn't alone. The soothing company of her father by her side and the ever-present essence of her lineage's better halves kindling within gave her a confidence that allowed her to deal with what she now knows. The path in front of her was to be one of a thousand roads she would've never have chosen, but one she was prepared to face.

Her father silently stood witness to her calm change in demeanor and smiled as he watched a girl become a woman in front of him.

They were nearing the end of the street where a grassy hill replaced the road up ahead. Under the dark, she couldn't make out much other than the silhouette of a Sycamore tree at the top and the moon low in the sky directly beside it.

Alex rolled the stem of the daisy around in between her thumb and fingers and assumed they must be getting close to her father's home. She figured she should be sure she squeezed all the relevant info out of him she could while she had the chance. Even though she ridiculed his earlier pessimism, he might've been right to assume they might never see each other again. She wouldn't say it out loud...but wasn't so naïve to not take the possibility seriously.

There were so many questions... Which ones to ask was a trifling riddle in itself. She knew he didn't have all the answers, but he certainly had more than she did, she was sure.

When they reached the end of the street, her father continued on a path into the grass ahead. Alex followed him up the hill, a little curious to where they might be going. She presumed he would've lived in one of the houses they passed, but they apparently hadn't reached their destination. She decided a little dirt on her boots wasn't going to kill her, so she followed his lead and settled on a question to ask in the meantime.

"There was a man...a dead man...in one of my dreams, right before I last saw my mother... He claimed to be me and Marty's family. He called me 'cousin' and said he was Marty's little brother..."

The old man nodded, knowing something of whom she spoke.

"Imala had two children of her own, both through Marty's father. I don't know much about them other than she gave them up for adoption, and that the daughter was killed in her teens. It's possible the son has been brought under Imala's wing and turned into an underling....In fact, that would make sense. She gains strength with every family member murdered in her name. If she killed – or had her son killed – that may've been what completed her spell and gave her the power to become what she has and bring him back from beyond."

"So, he really _is_ Marty's brother..." The thought of him made her skin crawl, especially knowing they were actually related. She shivered in between sentences and not because of the cold. "What a _creep_... Reminds me of Marty's dad..."

He hesitated at her mentioning Marty's father, as if he had something to say but was reluctant to do so.

"I hate to keep throwing terrible news on top of a horrible circumstance, but I think you should know: you haven't seen the last of Marty's father. He has a part to play in this as well. And I want you to be prepared when the time comes he reenters your life."

It was official. Fate sucked bull's balls and spat the gooey excrement all over her deranged existence...

She sighed a breath of accession in figuring the future couldn't get much worse. After all, it wouldn't really be Hell on Earth without him back in her life. She decided to take it all in stride and add it to the list of obstacles she'd eventually overcome. But in the meantime, a thought occurred that she wanted to run by the old man.

"So...if this demon witch chick can open up the gates of Hell and raise an army of the undead, does that mean I can get God on the horn and call on some roadside, angel assistance?"

She was halfway hopeful when asking it. It made perfect sense to her. She thought she might already have this whole thing figured out; ready to save the Earth, dust her hands off, and call it a strong night's work.

He smiled at her question but wasn't so happy to deliver the cold, hard facts it required.

"That...isn't very likely, I'm afraid." A sympathetic frown replaced his smile. "For one: Imala's spell that allows Hell to exist here also prevents any creature of an angelic nature from setting foot on Earth..."

"But...this is _God_ we're talking about... Can't he just...I don't know... _snap_ his fingers and wipe her off the planet? Send them all back down to Hell?"

"Which...brings me to the _second_ reason it isn't very likely..."

"He won't interfere..." It was a question in the form of a statement that he really didn't need to give an answer to. She threw her hands up to vent her frustration, accepting the finality of her own words. "Of _course_ not..." She took a breath and sighed. "Stupid of me to even _think_ it..."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. You're starting from scratch, and that was a... _rational_ assumption. The thing is, as far as I can tell... God doesn't _live_ here." She didn't like the sound of that but allowed him to continue. "This world we live in isn't something that he's a part of. It would be a little like you or I crawling through the dirt with bits of food on our backs to help feed an army of ants. Or maybe more like one of us saving the little ants from the big-bad spider that's pillaging their community. What happens here on Earth isn't the responsibility of those who were created in heaven; it's our own." She listened intently, reluctantly taking in everything she could, knowing she shouldn't miss out on a single word.

"Haven't you ever wondered why there aren't any _newer_ versus in the Christian bible? Why there are suddenly no more stories to be told?" He paused, letting her contemplate his question. "It's because the human race is on its own and _has_ been for a very long time. There are no new versus in the bible because God's lessons have been taught – there is nothing more for him to say... At least, not while we're here on Earth. Some people who have a strong connection here after they ascend can visit this plane, but only in the presence of the ones who they're connected to. And through _them_ they can connect our two worlds, but only for a short time."

"Like with my mother."

He nodded. "And, like your mother, they have a different perspective of the world and time and can offer keen insight beyond what the living have the ability to realize. They can guide you, and give you strength, but they can't interfere, no matter how much they may want to."

"So, is that how you know so much about all this? Do you have a connection with someone too?"

He smiled and nodded. "I do."

They were nearing the top of the hill. As they rounded its peak, a small valley came into view with a mountain range in the distance and a lake in between. Alex looked over the grounds at the bottom and the moonlight bounced off the still water and lit up a graveyard below. There wasn't more than a hundred or so tombstones and wooden crosses that made up the majority of the cemetery, and a few small totem poles next to graves with piles of rocks marking others. Alex wasn't sure where her father was going with this and felt a little awkward when he started making his way down toward a specific grave.

"Eight generations of my... _our_ family," he corrected himself, "are buried here; my wife being the most recent."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I wish I could have met her..."

"She died this past year and was laid to rest at the base of that rock." There was a small boulder in the distance that was cut in half so the flat center of the three-foot formation was made into the headstone of the grave. "We never had any children together, so she'll be the last to lay to rest here." He smiled. "I told her about you... She wished she could have met you too..."

Alex had been opting to avoid the topic but the moment seemed to leave her with no other choice. She gathered herself and tried not to sound too emotional...but it was nearly impossible for her to cover up the rush of remorse and pain from the feeling of abandonment she felt inside.

"Why?" She said it in a way that he knew _exactly_ what she meant, but he stayed silent long enough for her to get it all out. "Why didn't you come _find_ me? Did you even know the man who I _thought_ was my father has been in prison since I was four?"

"I knew."

" _And_...?" Her voice shook under the tension of her twisting sentiments. She didn't mean to, but she allowed herself to feel angry with him, aching for an explanation that would help her to cope.

"And...if I would have taken you and your brother in, you would never have been in that place in your life that opened your mind and heart to let you speak with your mother. You wouldn't know the truth about Marty's father, and you wouldn't be the person who you are today." He looked into her eyes, moonlight glistening off the moisture that covered them, and hoped she could understand. "Everything is the way it is because that is how it needed to be. I would have done anything to have been there with you, to watch you grow, to be a part of your life... But it wasn't possible. The fates could only allow us this time together...and for that I'm grateful."

Alex hadn't realized, but they'd stopped walking and were now standing in front of the half-boulder with the tombstone engravings on its face. Her eyes gave in to her feelings and allowed a few tears to run free, so her father raised his hand to wipe them from her cheek. In spite of her emotions wanting her not to, she understood what he was trying to tell her and her expression and silent gaze reflected that.

"You are so...beautiful..." He smiled caringly. "And so strong....I wish I could take credit for the woman you've become...but you've done it all on your own." He lowered his hand from her cheek to her shoulder and she came in closer for an embrace that'd been twenty-two years in the making. "Tell your brother thank you for me." She squeezed even harder with his mention of Marty and couldn't help but let another drop fall from her eye. "I couldn't have handpicked a better man to watch over my daughter."

She smiled with her face pressed against his shoulder. It was strange, but even though they'd just met, she felt as if he'd always been there. Being in his arms seemed right, somehow, and she felt more at home now than she ever had before. She indulged in the moment for a few seconds more until she finally let the poor ol' guy go before squeezing what was left of the life out of him.

"You know..." She let her hold around him slide off and lifted her hands to wipe her eyes. " _I_ was more a mother to Marty than he a father to me." She sort of chuckled at the thought. She was eight years younger but had been more mature than him since she was _seven_. "The big lug would've never made it on his own without—"

She suddenly realized she was talking to herself.

Her father was gone.

Her heart jumped at his absence and she fearfully looked around, jerking her head for answers.

"Old man?"

What the hell just happened?

"Old man?"

She raised her voice out of fright but did her best to keep her cool. Where the hell did he go? He was in her arms one second...then just gone the next...

Her first thought was that maybe that demon wolf-thing was somehow responsible...but that didn't make any sense... She would have heard, felt, or saw something. But she didn't...

She looked over to the large boulder beside her and walked around it as if maybe he was crouched where she couldn't see, but...he wasn't. She turned her attention toward the moonlit lake reflecting the starry sky and the water was still as still as it was when she'd first laid eyes on it. She peered back up at the hill behind her...but there was nothing there to see other than lifeless shadows and a sycamore tree. Her father was just...gone... And she somehow found herself in a quiet cemetery in the middle of nowhere entirely alone...

...Then it hit her...

She looked down at the grave at her feet as his words to her echoed in her mind...

" _I would have done anything to have been there with you, to watch you grow up, but it_ wasn't possible _. The_ fates _could only allow us this time together..."_

Etched into the boulder in front of her were _two_ names...

" _We never had any children together, so she will be the_ last _to lay to rest here."_

There were _two_ people buried in the grave in front of her...

Wife...

"No..."

...and husband...

Alex let her jaw hang in shock and despair and fell to her knees.

The engraving proclaimed her father had been buried there for more than nineteen years...

This whole night she'd been conversing with a spirit...but one unlike any she'd ever seen before.

She again found her cheeks wet with tears, but this time...tears of sorrow. She'd only known him for an hour but felt as close to him as she was to _anyone_ in her life.

Her heart _ached_ with pain...but the sight of the little, not-so-pretty, orange daisy still in her hand infused her chest with warmth and certainty.

She smiled softly through her frown and trembling lips and lifted the daisy to her heart. A green aura shone from her chest, basking over the wildflower, saturating it with her love's glow.

"Thank you," she whispered over her father's grave, kissing the daisy's pedals and then placing the glowing flower at the foot of the headstone. "I promise I'll be strong for you." She reached back up to her chest and clenched her hand over where her amulet would have been. "For _all_ of you."

The flower kept its glimmer about it even after she stood up and took a step away. Its luminance made her feel strong and virtuous, and she took in a breath to settle her cascading emotions.

Her father was right when he said she wouldn't be the woman she was today if things had happened differently, and that undoubtedly included the outcome of what happened on this night. He also said he was grateful for the time fate had allowed them to have...and so was she. Their time here would stay with her always, and nothing could ever take that away from her.

She took another step back from her father's grave and, almost as if it were scripted to fit the moment, a dark cloud-cover rolled in from above and cast its rolling shadow over the cemetery, snuffing out the reflection of the stars in the lake, replacing its shimmer with a suffocating blackness. The full moon was next on the list to go, and just as quick as she could gaze up, darkness swallowed the surrounding valley with the only light remaining that of the glowing daisy a few feet away. She suddenly felt claustrophobic as a tightness griped her chest, but quickly remembered the promise she'd whispered over her father's grave.

She took another breath, inhaling a deep, concentrated composure and exhaling a calm that steadied her beating pulse...

Then there was this smell...of breath...and death...and blood...

She sensed the demon behind her even before she turned to face it. Its deep huffing perturbed her thoughts, sounding as if it came from several feet above her. As far as she knew, the wolf that trailed her stood as tall as a large dog, no taller... But the feel of its breath left the impression of its warm stench as high as the top of her head...

She again remembered her father's words: that it couldn't hurt her... And she believed him. Otherwise she felt she very likely wouldn't still be around to contemplate them.

She took another second to gather her courage before turning to face the eight-foot-tall beast standing five feet away. Its eyes were the very same piercing yellow she'd seen following behind her in the street, but its entire shape reconfigured to constitute that of a nightmare.

Tessura growled and drooled and barked where she stood, but Alex held her ground. The beast took a step closer and growled again, testing Alex's bravery...but couldn't break her spirit. It raised its monstrous right hand, unsheathing its horrible claws to strike...

Alex felt her heart jump, flinching at its threat, clinching her head to a tilt, but dug up the courage to slowly look back at the beast until she could hold her head high. She stared into the eyes of the malicious figure with a rebellious green glow stirring in her own. It was only a spark, but enough to enrage the demon beast to a snarling roar.

Alex found the courage in its frustration to let a smirk climb over her lips just before Tessura – stewing with vehemence – finally swung her impending claws for Alex's bare throat—

For an instant, her newfound confidence wavered against the peril of the beast's razor-sharp hooks, her heart leaping at their approach. She cringed with her head pressed up against her shoulder and pinched an eye shut. Through her other one, she caught the sight of two, distant, yellow irises behind the beast before her, immersed in the shadows adorning the hilltop. When she realized the eyes were those of the demon-wolf, she could see straight through the giant brute for the projection it really was...and as its claws swiped across her throat, they dissipated into nothing but a waning, empty illusion.

Tessura couldn't even come close to Alex now that she'd found her strength, so she instead used her wit to project the image of her demon form. She'd hoped to have the girl on the run – to keep her distracted, if anything, and on her toes. But Alex was cunning enough in her own right to see through Tessura's deceptions. The wolf paced back and forth at the hilltop and gave her one last vicious glare before turning to disappear in the shadows. Alex got the impression this wouldn't be the last she'd see of the beast, and when next they'd meet, it was sure to have a new set of guiles to attempt to deceive her with.

Her rising pulse settled once the demon was out of sight, and the green flicker in her eyes rescinded into the black of her pupils. Crimson clouds rolled over her head and red lightning crackled above. There was a strange sensation that invaded her body as the clouds passed, and a wave of heat sparked the adrenaline in her veins. She found the new atmosphere surrounding her hard to breathe in – like the air was thicker and required more effort to push through her lungs. She wondered if everyone felt what she had as the storm infiltrated the skies or if she was just more sensitive to those changes taking place around her.

There was a feel to her surroundings now, almost as if it they weren't real, like they were a dream or one of her ghastly visions. It was a dizzying sensation that made her lightheaded and nauseous, and she tried to regain her stability by taking in, then releasing, a controlled breath. She wasn't looking forward to hiking her ass back up the grassy hill that lay ahead. It wasn't more than fifty feet high but was looking to her like one of the Himalayas.

Nevertheless, the hill wasn't about to climb itself. And even if it did, that wouldn't really get her anywhere, now would it?

"Ok... Chin up, girl." She gave herself a brief pep-talk before making her way. "Get your ass in gear....Your family's _counting_ on you."

Still, she dreaded the idea of making it to the top. It was as if once she got there, there would be no turning back. All Hell was waiting for her over the rise of that grassy knoll and, apparently, she was supposed to stare it square in its face and give it the finger. She'd never really been the badass type – that was more her brother's department – but it seemed she'd better get her fashionably practical shit-kickers laced up and ready to rock because Marty couldn't take on an army of Hell's militia entirely on his own. According to her father, he'd need her by his side, and what else was family for if not to be there when they needed you most?

Family...

The word running through her mind felt odd to think it. She'd never really had a family to speak of before today. It was always just her and her brother... Still was. But with her father making his presence known and her mother recently coming back into her life – despite the fact they were both as dead as doornails – she finally felt like she actually had a family to think of. It was a beautiful feeling... But it brought to mind a few questions concerning her recent chat with her old man.

The restaurant, for starters. What the hell really happened there? When she thought back on it, her first impression of the place from the outside was that it was rundown and possibly abandoned. Did she really just waltz into an old building, make herself at home and have an imaginary tea party with the ghost of her father? And speaking of tea... What the hell? She poured it herself! She experienced the weight of the kettle in her hand and smelled its aroma in the air. It felt hot against her lips... And the taste... The taste was so real... But if it wasn't, that might explain why her father tasted a different flavor than she did. Maybe she tasted what she expected or imagined she would...and so did he...

The whole concept was confusing and unclear. This night had been such a surreal experience for her that her brain was beginning to feel like regurgitated Jell-O

When she made it back to the street, the sound of her bootheels clopping against the sidewalk was an antagonizing rhythm that reminded her of how alone she really was. The street was so silent she could hear her own breathing and it suddenly occurred to her she didn't have a way home.

She knew the phones were down because of the storm, so what the hell was she supposed to do?

Maybe she'd get lucky and find a ride at the gas station, she thought. Either that or she'd have to steal a car...

She almost laughed at the idea. She had no clue how to go about stealing a ride which, until today, was typically thought of as a good thing... But the way the world would soon turn out after her aunt got through with it, the rules regarding social conduct and civil law would be dramatically reprioritized. Survival would soon be the only real rule of man, and everything else would very likely get scattered to the winds.

She wondered how the human race would prevail. How many would survive the wrath of the Demon _Bitch_ -Queen after she'd unlock the gates of perdition and set fire to the hopes of mankind? What the hell was she supposed to do against that, anyway? Was she meant to save people? Build a boat, collect survivors, and sail off to the farthest reaches of the Earth where _hopefully_ the weather was too cold for the comfort-zone of Hell's natives?

" _The_ _comfort-zone of Hell's natives?"...Seriously?_

No... That would be about as likely as her growing feathery wings and giving birth to two eggs over easy...

Newsflash! This just in: Ghouls and demons are afraid of the snow! So, pack up your bags, campers! We're all moving to Canada, where it's as cold as shit and the folks are mighty neighborly!

_Ugghhh_... These were _demons_ we were talking about, not _Nazis_. A vigilant army of pudgy snowmen and bitter-cold winds wasn't going to stop these things. Maybe _nothing_ could stop these things. Maybe _stopping_ them wasn't the answer at all...

She looked around at the quiet little town she'd been too preoccupied before to notice. All the houses were so quaint and peaceful... Then her imagination ran off on its own and she pictured scores of dead-men, like Marty's brother, tearing through the homes around her and ripping the residents in them to ribbons. She had to look away and close her eyes to shake the images from her mind. The last thing she needed right now was to lose her focus. What she _did_ need was to find her brother. And to do that, she had to get her ass back to L.A.

She was making good time back toward her father's restaurant. After a brisk walk, it was now only a half a block ahead. She could hardly resist the urge to take another peek inside, just to see if _any_ of what she experienced earlier was real. Strangely enough, a woman was exiting the building just as she approached, her keys in the door while locking up.

" _Excuse_ me?" Alex shouted out from thirty feet away.

The woman, in her forties, bundled up in a knit sweater with her purse tucked under her arm, turned to see who called out. When she saw Alex, a look of disappointment bubbled to the surface.

"Oh...it's _you_..."

Alex was confused. She must have been mistaking her for someone else.

"It's _me_...?"

The woman shook her head dismissively. "Look, I'm closed. You'll have to come back some _other_ time to finish your 'tea'..."

_Ooookaaayyy_......

"Sorry... I'm a little out of it tonight... Were you the one who served me earlier?"

"Served you? Honey, this isn't a restaurant. It's an antique shop." She saw the confusion in Alex's eyes and realized she had no idea who she was or what she was talking about. "Wow...you really are out of it, aren't you." She shook her head thinking, These damn kids and their designer drugs. Then she sighed and decided the "lost puppy" look in Alex's eyes was convincing enough to at least fill her in on some of her blanks.

"You came in about an hour ago and sat down at one of my dinning sets. I was in the back cleaning up, and when I walked out, there you were, 'drinking' out of an empty _teacup_. I said it was past midnight and we were closed... You looked at me like I just told you your _grandmother_ had died, then you smiled, got up and _left_."

"Oh..." Wow... "right... I was just...taking your dining set out for a test drive... Seeing how it suits me..." That probably wasn't a very convincing recovery. The lady very likely thought she was utterly nuts. "So...umm...is this place yours?" Maybe a little polite conversation would remedy her predicament. Who knows? Maybe the old bird would give her a lift back into the city...

"Yes." The woman didn't seem too eager to make friends. Who could blame her? "Listen, it's late. I have to get going. I don't know if you're sober enough to notice, but there's something very strange about the storm that just rolled in, and I'm not going to get caught outside in it having a 'chat'."

"Yeah, hey, I understand..." Okay, plan B, then. Out with it, already. "...It's just that...well... I'm kind of stuck out here... Do you think you could give me a ride?"

She frowned, walking passed Alex as she spoke. "Sorry, young lady. But I don't make a habit of picking up strangers. _Especially_ those on drugs."

Alex watched her walk by and tried to explain herself.

"No...but I'm not..." The lady didn't even hesitate in her scuttle. "...on drugs..." Alex threw her hands up then let them fall with a sigh. "Great. _Now_ what the hell am I gonna do?"

Destiny was a strange thing, and despite how grim her situation seemed, she wasn't too surprised to see a cab round the corner just when she needed one. It appeared the fates had a ride in store for her regardless of her brief lack of faith in them. She was surprised, however, to see that the cab driver was the same man who'd dropped her off an hour-and-a-half earlier. Odd that he'd still be around... Especially considering the awkward ride up and the strange parting the two shared earlier in the evening.

The Cabby rolled down his window and flashed her something of a forced smile. "Need a lift?"

Alex smiled too, but not completely ignorant of the strange feeling that rolled over her when seeing him again. Of course, it could've just been the awkwardness that still lingered between them making her feel uneasy... But after a short hesitation, she decided on a course of action.

"...Yeah. Thanks."

What choice was there? She could walk to the gas station and hope to find a ride, or trust this ungainly little man to do his job.

She reached for the handle of the door then slid into the back.

"Great timing." She closed it behind her, then caught the man's glance in the rearview. "I'm surprised you're still around."

He shrugged. "I got as far as the gas station and had a nagging feeling." He tried another smile on for size. "Thought I'd swing back around to see if you were still here. Wouldn't wanna strand a nice young lady out here without a ride."

Alex genuinely felt warmed by his words and allowed her defenses to drop for a moment. Then she caught the glinting bead of sweat that dribbled down the side of his skull just as they began to drive. Something definitely seemed odd...but...she figured it was probably just her wound-up nerves.

"That's nice. Thank you." Leaning back in the seat, she decided to put the rest of the night in the hands of providence.

"Headed back to the city?"

"Yeah. Same place you picked me up."

He nodded. "Can do."

She smiled softly. "Thanks."

She leaned her head back and rolled it toward the window to peek across the street at her father's restaurant as they made a U-turn. She wondered what had really gone on in there, and if the poor lady who owned the place had at any point caught her conversing with that empty cup of tea. Gazing into the dirty old windows, she imagined she might see her father poke his head out to give her a smile as she drove off. She caught herself really looking closely, hoping to see...something... But instead of what she wished she'd seen, two yellow eyes beamed back at her from the reflection off the cab's window, coming from the opposite side of the road. Her head whipped around, trying to catch the demon wolf in its delusive stalking...but, of course...it was nowhere to be seen.

Alex gave the block another stern look, then realized she'd been holding her breath. She took in a lungful of air as she gathered her cool and adjusted in her seat. Her deep exhale was a soothing relief. She had to keep reminding herself that _she_ was in control now. Her father said she'd have similar or even equal abilities to her Hell's-slut of an aunt... She just had to _believe_ it.

But it was hard to stay focused on the future when things in the now were falling apart all around her. When they got back on the freeway, it suddenly became very clear that everything she'd been told would happen was happening. The other side of the highway was packed with the city's deserters, and a red mist hung heavy in the distance. There was hardly any light coming from the city, but the road was illuminated with the headlights of thousands of slow-moving vehicles.

"...Jesus Christ... What the hell's going on?" The Cabby was still numb from his earlier run in with Tessura, but coherent enough to understand what he was seeing was definitely out of the ordinary.

Alex suddenly realized it wouldn't be right for her to let the driver take her back into the city knowing what was waiting for them. She decided to try to give him the option of turning around, but without putting what she knew out in the open.

"I...uh... I don't think it's safe...back in the city..." She was just making it up as she went along, trying to warn him without sounding like a complete head-case. "I heard something about an evacuation? You...you don't have to take me back if you don't want to..."

" _No_." He practically barked at her then tried to play it off like he was totally cool with going against the grain. "I, uh... Actually...I have _family_ back in the city." He'd _feed_ his so called "family" to the demon who hounded him if it would get him out of the mess he was in. "I'm headed back that way anyway."

She wished she could tell him more; _convince_ him it wasn't safe... But he'd probably just think she was crazy if she tried and wouldn't believe a word of it anyway... So she just nodded and chose to let fate run its course.

"Well... if you're going that way _anyway_..."

He nodded and tried to smile, but it was a pathetic attempt at one. He had absolutely no clue as to what the hell was going on but figured whatever everyone else was running from couldn't possibly be as completely fucking terrifying as what he'd seen only an hour before. He'd felt the power behind the eyes of that thing that spared his life and knew for sure it wasn't something to be trifled with. His only hope for survival was to do what it told him to, so that's what he was going to do. The rest of the world be damned. He'd willingly trade his stuck-up brat of a cat, the young girl in the back seat, and his own sick mother to never be on the opposing end of those demon eyes again. Dropping this girl off at some cemetery would be a cakewalk. He just hoped that when he'd get there, the demon would take the girl and let him be. If it didn't...then he'd just given up on the only possibility of him having a shred of decency left in his life for absolutely nothing. If this night was a test of his character, he would've scored somewhere in the range of an earthworm and an earwig....The only hope left for him now was to try to sink to the rank of "cockroach" in time to survive the coming apocalypse.

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Bon Apatite!

1

"What...the...fuck...?" Terry strained to see past the haze of blood-mist that thickened as they neared downtown, trying to decide what it was he was looking at up ahead. "Did you guys just see that?" On the opposite side of the freeway, about a quarter-mile up, headlights of cars jostled and shook erratically.

Tara and Jimmy both dragged themselves away from their menacing thoughts to lend him an extra pair of eyes. They trained their sights on the commotion that forced Terry to barge in on their gloom.

"What the hell's goin' on up there?" Jimmy leaned forward from the back, poking his head between the driver and passenger seats.

They all looked on as fifty or more vehicles abruptly hit the gas and sped away from each other, crashing into the median and other cars around them.

"Looks like somethin's got 'em all spooked..." Terry peered sharply into the havoc of scurrying lights to uncover some level of detail through haunting red mists. "...Holy shit!"

A car near the median somehow flipped over the center divider and tumbled on its side. It rolled several times, as if the victim of some angry demolition ball, and settled in the middle of the westbound freeway.

"What the fuck just happened?!" Jimmy's voice strained with panic, struggling to make sense of the chaos.

Another car buried in the bunch suddenly flipped up trunk-first, landing upside-down on the Altima in front of it while others were pushed sideways across the breadth of the road. All three were fixed on this upheaval they couldn't make heads or tails of, cautiously reducing speed while closing in. Horns blared in panic, glass shattered, and the sounds of the cars' metal frames crashing into one another were the first real details they could gather from a distance.

Distracted by the mayhem, Tara barely glimpsed the mob of men rushing from the right side of the road, smearing their path with streaking bodies and heading directly into the traffic beside them—

"Look out!" She screamed at the silhouette of a soldier jumping onto the freeway and Terry turned his head just in time to watch a dirtied, military uniform collide with the front of their truck.

Tara cringed at the sound and Terry stomped on the brakes, catapulting Jimmy forward, his head smashing into the center console.

"Fuck!" Terry had tried turning the truck out of the soldier's path but reacted too slow. The body burst into chunks of reddish muck with its pieces splattered against the windshield and stuck between the grill. "What the fuck was—?!!" But before he could spew his surprise, dozens more blitzing dead-men crossed the interstate in front of them, charging into the panicking mass of cars to their left.

The three of them watched helplessly as these creatures resembling men poured onto the street, splashing into the crowd. They flipped cars end-over-end with deranged strength and tore doors and roofs from frames. The victims of the raid barely had time to scream before they were made into mulch to feed the swarming militia.

For a moment they just gaped in shock, paralyzed by the insanity of what they saw – until Tara realized a red-eyed soldier had stopped short of the others and turned to meet her gaze. He gave her an evil, bloodied sneer that convinced her to grab at Terry's shoulder. "Go! Go! Go! Get us the hell out of here!"

He turned his head from the carnage toward her shouting and didn't need to think twice before hammering his foot on the gas. Jimmy had just pulled himself up from where he'd crashed and was hurled into the backseat for his troubles. Terry pulled right hard, avoiding the soldier in front of him, captured in the sights of his hideous eyes, and swerved just enough to clip the dead-man's reaching arm. The soldier spun from the weight of the SUV impacting his limb and when he regained his footing, stood squarely in the middle of the road, avidly glaring at the cowardly caboose of the fleeing caravan.

Beginning to escape his grogginess from the blow to his head, Jimmy couldn't help but wonder, "What...what the fuck just happened?"

Terry's foot never felt so heavy, laying all his weight into the pedal, driving frantically forward but focused on the threat behind. Jimmy noticed him beaming into the rearview, so he glanced back at what his friend was so closely keeping an eye on and caught the lour of the enemy's glowing irises, the soldier indulging in the glaze of fear coating his stare.

" _Jesus_... What the...?"

The dead infantryman took off running toward the escaping trio from half a block away, and after a few seconds, appeared to be gaining...

"No fuckin' way..." Jimmy couldn't believe his eyes. Looking to the front of the car at the speedometer that just hit 40 mph, he yelped, "Fuck man, step on it! That thing's still comin'!"

He looked back again at the now only hundred-feet-away, sprinting villain clearing thirty feet or more with every inhuman lunge. The speedometer read 50, then 60, then 70...and the soldier leapt through the air with supernatural brawn to close the gap between them until his outstretched hand came so close that Jimmy could see the caked blood underneath his blackened nails. His clawing fist grazed the steel bumper but couldn't quite latch on. He hit the ground and tumbled a dozen times over until he faded into the vortex of swirling fog behind them.

"Okay..." Taking a breath, Jimmy tried pulling himself together and being rational about what he just witnessed. It was no easy task (considering that the proposed dynamics of the dilemma were so blatantly absurd...). "...That shit...was not normal."

Tara's palms pressed against her forehead, eyes closed, while Terry continued examining the street behind him.

"He's gone," he offered – an optimistic assessment sent her way to be sure she knew they were safe...for the time being.

Jimmy straightened back out and sunk exhausted into the cushion. He let loose a heavy breath to calm his nerves, distraughtly staring out at nothing. "I...I think I mighta just shit myself..." No one was really paying attention to him. They were both still trying to settle back down to Earth after being shot into orbit with adrenaline. "...Don't worry...it was only a squirt..."

He looked back again, just to be sure they were in the clear, and nothing but displaced mist hung in their trail.

Terry turned off the freeway a few moments later when they reached an exit for downtown. Alex's apartment was only about twenty minutes away, but they'd have to drive cautiously through the thick blood-fog that gathered this deep in the city.

"Anyone wanna fill me in on what the hell they think just flew at us like a fucking, Spotted Lemur Monkey?" Jimmy was open for conjecture. Also, it helped his nerves to talk. It was a nervous tick. One that may end up driving his closest friends to the brink of lunacy by the end of all this.

"Looked like a fucking _zombie_ to me." Terry figured that estimation was as good as any.

Tara just stayed silent, not wanting to come out of her shell to partake in their debate.

"Zombies don't have glowing red eyes..."

"Dude...have you ever seen a zombie?"

"Well, no, but..." How should he put this? "...Fucking _Lemur_ Monkey, dude!"

Terry sympathized, but still felt his point was just as valid. "Yeah, well...looks like real zombies – or whatever the hell they are – have glowing, red eyes and can leap tall distances like fucking Lemur Monkeys."

Jimmy felt satisfied by that surmise and allowed the conclusion to sink in. It appeared they had reached a consensual medium: They were being pursued by undead, zombie soldiers with laser-lights for eyes, incredible speed and strength, and the proportional jumping capabilities of tree-swinging Lemurs.

"What..." His gaze out the front of the SUV accompanied a nauseous frown, focusing in on the dark, heinous chunks slopped against the windshield. "What's all that... _shit_...all over the window?" Terry didn't look to be in the mood to humor him. "Are those _people_ chunks? Did we just _kill_ somebody?"

Tara responded from behind her palms, eyes still closed. "Those things were _not_ people..."

"But we _killed_ someone. Is that what you're telling me?"

"It was an _accident_." Terry answered distantly, but quickly regained his composure. "But I don't think it was the type of accident I need to feel sorry for. Those things were ripping people _apart_ back there. It was either him or us." He hit the wipers and watched clumps fling to either side.

Jimmy sat in a daze, basking in contemplation – then spoke up when his brain caught up to their predicament. "In that case: they're chunks of _victory_.... _Fuck_ it. Leave 'em there. Maybe it'll ward off any other red-eyed, military assholes up ahead."

Terry shook his head. "I doubt they scare that easy. The one in the middle of the road tried to grab the truck with his bare hands. And the others were tossing around smaller cars like they were made of tinfoil."

"So, not only were they ravenous, man-eating, military assholes, but they were _super_ ravenous, man-eating, military assholes?...That's like, five different kinds of all-types-of-fucked-up."

"It'd explain what was tearing the blocks up around the cemetery earlier." Terry was just thinking out loud, putting together whatever pieces fit.

Jimmy grimaced hard against the pain in his head. Thinking made his brain hurt but, regardless, he couldn't help but let his mind dwell. "You think Marty made it out of the cemetery before those...assholes started goin' ape-shit?"

Terry didn't want to speculate. He preferred to be as optimistic as possible but didn't need to get his or his friends' hopes up. He needed everyone to be ready for whatever the future would throw their way. They might have to change their tune on a whim, so if finding Marty became too much of a liability, he'd have to do what he'd have to to keep his friends alive... So, he stayed silent, which didn't sit too well with Tara.

"...This is not happening..." She peeked her head up then lowered it back into her hands, not wanting to accept the reality of her world. "...This is not fucking happening..."

Jimmy looked over at her, then back to Terry, as if weighing his options. "I'm with her on this one. I refuse to believe any of this shit is real. I'm at home, snoozing safely right now. I've watched one too many horror movies, and...I don't know...ate some bad shrimp or somethin'... I'm actually passed out on my bathroom floor, twitchin' like a friggen fish outta water, havin' a really fucked up nightmare."

Terry shook his head. "Not likely." He wasn't going to allow him the easy way out but didn't want to be too much of a drag. He figured he'd try lightening the mood.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because if this was your nightmare, you wouldn't be buggin' the shit out of me." Jimmy seemed to think he might be on to something. "And those wouldn't be zombies that were after us...they'd be salesmen." He glimpsed back at his friend through the mirror. "You fuckin' love zombies, dude..."

"And I hate salesmen... Fuck...yur right..."

Tara finally opened her eyes to paint Terry in disbelief. "Are you two fucking _kidding_ me right now?"

"Hey..." Jimmy's words carried a distant stare. "You know what I just realized? I had like...five double-shots of whiskey before we left...and I think I might hafta puke..."

" _Fuck_ , man." Terry gripped the steering wheel. "Can't it wait?"

He thought about it for a moment, then: "No. Definitely not....Pull over. Quick... Or don't come bitchin' to me about the smell."

2

J.C. dumped the last body from his pile of dead teammates into the grave at his feet. There were twenty-nine of them total. All still uncovered, lying in wait for a blanket of dirt to fill their graves. He'd buried them along with their team's jerseys and placed an upright hockey stick in the ground next to each grave, thinking that when they emerged, it would help to have a symbol to unite them all as a squad. It was one of the most thoughtful gestures he'd actually ever carried out on his own accord. It would appear that in death, he'd become somewhat less of a complete asshole than most would suspect.

He stood beside the twenty-ninth grave and peered down the line, tall piles of dirt resting on the opposite side of each hockey stick. When he buried Marty, all it took was a single roar from his reborn lungs to force the scattered mud back into its hole. The same strategy should apply here, he figured. It just might take a bit more vigor to bury all twenty-nine at the same time.

He stood poised in his preparation with his fists clenched, building pressure within. His eyes swirled with glowing strength and the ground vibrated against his conviction. He sucked in a deep, swirling breath from the warm mists and chiseled a grimace over his brow that could send a platoon of trained soldiers running for the safety of their mother's arms. He held fast at the last second – pushing out but keeping it pent-up to build force – then exploded with a roar that not only pushed all twenty-nine piles of earth over their graves, but nearly uprooted the hockey sticks next to them in the process, vibrating the cemetery grounds so that the bodies settled deeper in the earth with his continued howl. His scream was powerful enough to be heard from blocks away, and if there was anyone still alive near enough to hear, they knew now that a violent end to their suffering would soon be upon them.

The grounds of the cemetery had changed since last he'd seen them. The Spirit Fortress in the center had solidified when before it seemed only an illusion; half here and half somewhere else. What looked like ten, giant, beastlike claws protruded from the ground on either side of the citadel as if belonging to two monstrous hands, sprouting from the mud, reaching into his reality from the stomach of the Hell below. They stood as pillars bordering the church and acted as a hedge of terror to ward off anyone dumb enough to approach.

Imala's minions swarmed over the graveyard – antiquated corpses in muddied military boots – burying the bodies of men who were promising recruits for her army, and tossing the rest in pieces into the giant pit behind the fortress. J.C. had no problem doing his part in raising Hell and wreaking havoc in her name. After all, she gave him this life and the strength that he now enjoyed. But he was not one of her slaves. He would do his part in a way of his choosing. He knew he was too infinitesimal for her to give a shit how he went about spreading fear and misery, just as long as he did so in her honor. If she needed him, she would call to him. But until then, he had his own grotesque plans he intended to carve into fruition.

He'd killed Marty with the first act of his new strength and buried him here to rot without fully appreciating that he would soon rise just as he did. He knew now that he was out there somewhere – a rouge dead-man refusing to serve their queen. He planned to use Marty's own friends and teammates against him to tear him down to size, forcing him to humbly serve Hell as he was raised from the grave to do. Marty would learn his place in the new world, and that place would be as a soldier in J.C.'s regiment. Together they would bring the society of man to its knees and cause enough strife that the stench of it would reach up and choke God in Heaven on his throne. The world would be theirs to rule, and Imala in all her demon beauty would thank him personally for his service, and refurbish his flesh in her image so the two of them could reign as King and Queen.

It would appear that in death, Jean-Claude had also become something of a sappy romantic.

He figured it'd be a few hours before his undead sports guild would all rise in unison. He wasn't in any rush. The meat he'd picked from his coach's bones had sated his hunger enough to hold him off while he waited for his future to unfold. He wanted to be there when they rose so he could take them all under his wing and unite two, formerly opposing squads as a single, unbeatable throng.

There would be great strength in their numbers. Maybe even strength beyond what his queen had originally intended. They would earn her pride in them by bringing Marty to his knees before her and force him to comply, even if it meant shackling the big bastard up and keeping him on a leash like a pet boar. And if that didn't work, they'd rip him limb from limb and scatter his body across the States dipped in honey to attract ants. They might even keep his head on ice and serve his undead brain to demons in bite-size bits like a chilled, Jell-O mold. Who knows...he might even still be awake for it – half braindead, but aware enough to know he was being devoured little by little, like overpriced snacks at a concession stand. What a way for a sports enthusiast to go... Who'd have thought that Hell on Earth could ever be so satisfying? J.C. never really considered himself much of a good guy...but would've never guessed how great a bad guy he'd make if he'd only put his mind to it.

When he was a Marine, it didn't take an astute eye to see that his morality wasn't in line with the rest. There were jar heads from all over the continent serving in the Corps, with all types of cultural backgrounds and spiritual beliefs. They all had a similar, basic code of conduct that he didn't necessarily concede as his own, but most were unwilling to approach him about it. And besides, he was usually smart enough to know where to draw the line to avoid any profound consequences – aside for one incident in particular which came to mind as he sat waiting for his company to join him in a new undeath—

"Hey, Swiener...you're Jewish, right?" The stocky American Marine with the Scottish background gave his squad member a cocky grin.

"If I say 'no' will you shut the fuck up about it?" Swiener had a feeling he knew where this was going.

"I got a good one for ya: How many Jews can you fit in a sedan?"

"Same amount you could of sheep-fucking Scotts?"

"Wrong. Five in the seats, and about a million in the ashtray."

"Ohhhh... That's fucked up, man." Robinson shook his head and tried not to laugh.

"You're an asshole, McMillan."

J.C. took a few extra seconds to process the joke then let loose his patented, barrel of a guffaw and shouted, "Hahahaha! Say another one!"

"Okay, okay... How can you tell when your sister's on her period?"

"How?!"

"Your dad's dick tastes funny."

Swiener chuckled, shaking his head and J.C. laughed again.

"Hahahaha! Again! Again!" He couldn't get enough of his brother-in-arms' twisted sense of humor.

"How 'bout this one: What's the benefit of fucking twenty-eight-year-olds?"

"What?!"

McMillan took a drag off his Camel cigarette before answering, squinting with his pull, then exhaled to build suspense.

"There's twenty of 'em."

"...Jesus, man..." Aaron Wei, the Asian-American munitions specialist was trying not to pay attention, cleaning up the grenade launcher on his HK MP5, but couldn't help but breathe the Lord's name in vain.

The other three Marines cringed at the punchline while J.C. wrestled with its meaning.

"I don' get this 'twenty' of them..."

"Twenty-eight-year-olds? Twenty...eight-year-olds? Get it?"

"Man...would you quit repeatin' that shit? You make my stomach turn every time you say it..." Robinson had a strong gut and a foul sense of humor, but even he couldn't match tastes with Le'Duprie and McMillan.

J.C. was still trying to tackle the punchline while the rest of his unit was hoping they could forget it. There were six of them total: all experienced in the field, having been in Iraq for over six months. They'd just secured a small town and weren't expecting any more resistance after already exterminating the Al-Qaeda insurgents they came for:

They'd caught them off guard, sneaking into their town in the dead-of-night with their high-tech night vision and infra-red surveillance. Two of the four they came for were asleep when they found them. Easy pickings. All they had to do was secure the perimeter, slip into their homes, and give the bad guys a nudge to wake them. As soon as the extremists saw US military in their homes, they mistakenly reached for their weapons resting beside their beds, and J.C. and McMillan had no qualms about putting a few fresh holes in the fronts of their cotton p.j.'s. They were so quiet and efficient at what they did they didn't even wake the kids.

Their third target was enjoying a toe-curling blowjob from a girl who looked young enough to be illegal in 48 states, and the bastard tried to hold her hostage as soon as the Marines appeared. He grabbed a ten-inch butcher knife that made his erect penis look like a pathetic excuse for an eggroll and put the blade to the poor girl's throat. McMillan and Le'Duprie both lowered their weapons in response. As soon as the stubby-dick bastard tried to move, Wei made the kill-shot from his position twenty yards outside the bedroom window. Blood and gray-matter splattered the man's sheets, and the teen girl collapsed to the floor in terror. McMillan headed out while J.C. took a few extra seconds to appreciate the sight of the young, naked woman covered in his enemy's insides. If he hadn't been so enthusiastic about tracking down the next man, he may've stayed to get to know her a little better. He wouldn't have hurt her, he thought... Or at least, he told himself he wouldn't have... The lusty triage of blood, death and sex had stirred primal cravings inside him that he never got the opportunity to explore.

The fourth target was awake in his kitchen and eating a goat-cheese pizza. Mushrooms, onions, bell peppers, raw chunks of garlic; quite possibly the world's most potent combination of ingredients for cultivating foul smelling breath. The stench of it was like a homing beacon, luring Jean-Claude in by the curling hairs of his flaring nostrils. If the Al-Qaeda had played his cards right and threatened to destroy the pizza instead of his youngest son (eating beside him), they might've struck a deal. But when he heard his enemy open the front door, he grabbed the gun he kept in the kitchen drawer instead and put it to his kid's head. He told his son in his language he wouldn't hurt him; that the Americans were too arrogant to not see themselves as heroes and wouldn't risk the boy's life. He promised him he'd be okay, and that the bad men who were after him would be their prisoners soon; he just had to play along.

The leaders of their unit, J.C. and McMillan, crept into the man's home with their guns raised, laser targeting-lights cutting through dry air. The house was mostly quiet. It being 0240 hours, they weren't expecting to find the insurgent in his kitchen with a Desert Eagle to an eleven-year-old's temple.

The man turned off the lights as soon as he heard them enter his home and backed into a corner beside his refrigerator – his kitchen might as well have been a sturdy pine box. The only way out was forward, toward the living room where the Marines had come in, and he wouldn't be exiting that way without a flashy new hole in his turban.

He stood silent, hiding in the darkness while listening to them discreetly check the other two rooms in the house. His wife was asleep, as was his four other children, all piled into one bed. A few seconds later, the rebel almost didn't see the little round lens that peeked around the kitchen wall, but caught the glimmer from its reflective surface as it panned the room he stood in. McMillan was on the other end of the device wearing his night-vision goggles, watching his target in the corner staring directly at him through the video feed.

He glanced over at J.C. who was positioned beside him and flashed two fingers, signaling that there were two people. He put his hand out flat around waist-high to convey it was a kid who was with their target, then put up one finger and pointed at his own forehead. J.C. nodded, knowing his comrade was suggesting he could get a clear shot at the man's head because the boy was so small.

The terrorist was getting antsy, knowing the soldiers were planning an attack, so he gave up on waiting and called out. His English was spotty, but clear enough to state his demands.

"No guns! No guns! I kill boy! No guns!"

McMillan shook his head dismissively at his partner. "Okay! Don't hurt the kid!...I'm coming out with my hands up!"

He gave J.C. a nod. J.C. nodded back and got down on his stomach on the floor. He inched himself to the corner and turned off his laser site as McMillan put his gun up in the air. The brave Marine playing the decoy stepped into plain view with his hands high as a distraction – it being too dark for the man to see the black barrel of Jean-Claude's M16 peek out from eight inches off the ground.

"No guns! No guns! I kill—!"

It didn't take more than four seconds for J.C. to pick the spot through his scope on his target's head and pull the trigger. The sound, even with the suppressor, was loud enough that the boy flinched when he heard it, but it happened so fast it took a few seconds for his father to lower the gun from the side of his head before falling forward and taking the boy with him. The poor kid was pinned under his dad's corpse for what probably felt like an eternity while McMillan leisurely approached. He dragged the body over the kid's frame and lifted the gun from its grip. He secured the weapon, shined a flash light on the boy's head to check for injuries, then left them both where they lay.

J.C. got up from the floor and stepped into the kitchen to gloat for a moment over his kill. He beamed down at the body, then over at the boy who was too scared or shocked to even make a sound. The boy looked up, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, and stared right into the face of his new American enemy. J.C. smiled, casually taking a step back, then grabbed a slice of pizza off the table in the center of the kitchen to take a bite.

"Merci, garcon..." He winked at the child while he chewed. "Bon apatite!"

He gave the kid an obnoxious farewell with a mouth full of his father's last meal, and the boy's blank expression turned from helpless to fierce. Jean-Claude didn't know it then, but it wouldn't be the last he'd see of the young rebel in the making.

"Eight-year-olds! AAAHAHAHAHA!!"

Jean-Claude exploded in a burst of baritone howls after his squad members had already put the joke well behind them. McMillan grinned behind his cigarette and Gomez shook his head.

"It was a bad joke, man... No way it was that funny..."

McMillan decided to step in and put his two cents up against Gomez's remark.

"Man, our whole unit is a bad joke. Seriously. Think about it." He looked around at the five men surrounding him, their faces all trying to string together what he was implying. "Two white guys, two black guys, an Asian, and a wetback walk into Iraq."

This time, Wei was the one to crack a laugh, but Robinson wasn't about to let that one slide without adding to its inappropriateness.

"White boy, please..." he shook his head. "J.C. ain't black... Nigga's French-Canadian." The men chuckled. "The combination of the two renders the idea of him being a 'brotha' obsolete." He scoffed. "Dude don't even watch football... Nigga likes Ice Hockey..."

They all laughed out loud, releasing the tension McMillan's jokes had built between them.

It was the morning after their raid. A platoon of US troops who'd been stationed outside the town rolled in and handed out food-rations to the locals. Families were lined up to receive the American's charity and to thank them for their consideration. There were close to five-hundred people living in the town, but a good fifty percent of them weren't interested in anything the US soldiers had to give.

"Yeah, man..." Swiener decided to join the conversation with a curious squint. "What the hell you doin' in the US military, anyway? We the only country dumb enough to put a gun in your hands?"

Robinson laughed before J.C. spoke up to answer the question.

"Look aroun' you. Do you see many French-Canadians fighting this war?" The men weren't exactly sure what he meant. "I sign with you cowboys so I can be here. I am big hero now, no?"

They all knew what he was really saying: that he wanted to be in the middle of the fight, getting his hands dirty. It was a little disturbing to hear since most of them were only there out of a sense of obligation to their country. J.C. just seemed to like to shoot people. McMillan knew how he felt, but even he was slightly intimidated by J.C.'s bloodlust. He decided on breaking the uncomfortable silence between them with another remark.

"You ask me? I think he's just gotta thing for boys in uniform."

They all laughed. Not that they thought it was that funny, but they needed the out to get around the awkwardness they felt knowing they were teamed up with a cold-blooded heathen.

"I'm jus' glad the Canadian bastard's on our side," Robinson shrugged. "Long as we got his ass pointin' that gun at the enemy an' not us...he can laugh at all the stupid shit he wants."

The men nodded and smiled, forcibly trying to see past the fact they were on the same side as a man who wanted to be at war. All of them would happily take a ride out of there if they could get it without being dishonorably discharged or losing a limb. Even McMillan, who had caught a bloodlust fever during his first two tours, was ready to go home and was just about running on empty – this being his third trip back to the Middle East.

It was J.C. and Robinson's second tour of the dessert, and it was nearing its end. Robinson had plans to start a business back in Florida. J.C. wasn't the type to plan that far into the future. He usually acted spontaneously and went wherever his vices would lead. The only time he ever really had a plan in life was when he decided to become an American citizen so he could join the military. As far as he saw it, he'd made it to where he wanted to be. This dessert was his utopia. He would serve in this war for as long as this war would have him. There wasn't anything else. There was a time in his life, recently, that if he could, he would've taken back the shot that got him court marshaled just so he could've spent more time out among the ranks.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the hell is this?"

Swiener stood up abruptly when he saw a large knife in the hands of a young boy heading toward them. The rest of the guys looked over in the kid's direction and Wei raised his gun at the threat. Gomez noticed Wei's weapon and gently put his hand on top of it to suggest he lower his aim.

"Easy, man. He's just a kid."

The boy was walking sluggishly through the dirt, harboring a vicious scowl and bloodshot eyes, no doubt from a whole morning of crying.

"A kid with a big ass fucking knife in his hands..."

He wasn't completely comfortable not having his gun trained on the boy but knew Gomez was right. There was no way he could hurt any of them. They were all trained in hand-to-hand combat. An eleven-year-old with a knife wasn't a threat.

"That's a bad little man, right there." Swiener was impressed with the guts of the kid. The look in the boy's eyes exhibited a fearlessness he hadn't seen in his enemies often. Then he noticed that that fearlessness was being fueled by anger...and it appeared to be directed at two specific members of his squad.

McMillan and J.C. both didn't bother to budge at the sight of him, even after realizing he was the son of the fourth extremist they killed the night before. McMillan just sat there and smoked his Camel cigarette, J.C. growing an obnoxious grin.

"Holly shit, he looks pissed." Swiener laughed at the heat coming from the boy's stare. "You two owe this kid's mom money?"

Neither of them answered. It wasn't hard for the rest of the guys to figure out what this was about. Robinson decided to step up to the young man before he came too close. Mostly he was hoping to stop the kid before he did anything that would get him hurt. When he stood in the boy's way, the young man stopped in his path, never taking his eyes off McMillan. He knew J.C. was just as responsible for his father's murder, but the huge, scary, black-man was too intimidating to stare at for long; McMillan – six o'clock shadow and squinty eyes – made a more reasonable target. The boy was old enough, and smart enough to know he probably couldn't hurt either of them, but he wanted them to know he sure as hell would if he could.

"Now, what the hell you plan on doin' with that dull ass butter knife, lil' man?" Robinson figured he'd try to talk some sense into the boy. He was sure the kid couldn't understand English, but inflections in speech patterns were generally pretty universal. The kid might not understand the words he spoke, but he very likely understood his tone. "You think you gonna walk right in here and take out the baddest dudes in Iraq with that lil' piece of silverware?"

The boy didn't even acknowledge Robinson when he spoke. He only had eyes for McMillan, and McMillan respected the kid enough to pay him mind. He returned the boy's stare for the next few seconds it took him to finish his cigarette, then flicked the butt aside. Robinson glanced back at McMillan and smiled.

"Oooo this kid wants a piece'a that ass, white boy!" He laughed. "What should we do wit 'im?"

By this time, the other Marines and Iraqi citizens were catching on to the commotion, casting eyes toward the stare down. It was an Old West flick minus the cowboy hats and short one gun. McMillan had always been a fan of a fair fight, so he stood up, pulled out the boy's father's Desert Eagle he'd kept as a trophy and threw it on the ground in between Robinson and the kid.

"Man, what the fuck?!" Robinson started for the gun but McMillan's tone suggested he do otherwise.

"Leave it!" His voice was serious enough that everyone watching thought he might shoot his own man if he didn't do as he was told. "Get the fuck out of the way."

The whole time, Jean-Claude just sat and watched, flashing his full, young armament of bright teeth; quietly analyzing.

McMillan stepped within teen feet of the boy and gestured for him to pick up the gun. "Go ahead, kid. Make daddy proud."

The boy's anger was intoxicating. He glared down at his father's gun and grew furious at the sight of it. Everyone was now fixed on the standoff and McMillan waited leisurely for the boy to make his move. He raised his arms to his side to show he didn't have a weapon of his own and nodded toward the gun.

"Pick it up, boy. No one's gonna stop you."

His voice was calm and steady. The kid was so angry he probably couldn't see straight, but he knew enough to not make any sudden moves. He slowly stepped forward, never taking his eyes off his nemesis, bent down and hoisted it up. Swiener was impressed by the boy's courage and Gomez shook his head, disturbed that the soldiers he thought of as friends would put the kid through something like this. They all knew the gun wasn't loaded, but it was still a cruel game to play.

"That'a boy." McMillan smirked.

"Like I said; badass little man." Swiener offered his praise in the heat of the moment, but it wasn't over yet. It still remained to be seen if the young man had the balls to pull the trigger.

McMillan gestured for the boy to raise the gun and point it at him so, slowly, he did. He watched as the boy's index finger crept toward the trigger, anger intensifying his penetrating stare.

"Oh, shit... Lil' brotha's about to pop a cap in that ass, white boy!" Robinson had played his part well, acting like the gun was really a threat, but now decided to join in on the fun as a spectator. "Twenty bones say he don't got the balls t'pull it."

Swiener took another deep swim into the boy's eyes and decided to take that bet. "Fifty says he does."

McMillan started closing in on his junior aggressor, his hands still up at his sides.

"C'mon, kid....Pull it. Put me out of my fucking misery." He took another step, and the kid's hands started shaking so bad that if there were any bullets in it, he probably couldn't have hit his mark. "...All it takes is one squeeze."

"Do it, kid! Shoot the bastard!" Swiener had a vested interest in the boy's courage.

"He ain't gonna do it..." Robinson wasn't convinced.

McMillan took another step closer and stopped three feet in front of him. He put his palms up as if to say, "Well...you gonna shoot or not?" then decided on taking one more step, getting within reach of the weapon. In midstride, he started for the gun while he strategically surveyed the kid's hate-filled eyes. He stretched his arm out with Swiener and Robinson both eagerly watching for the outcome as if in Vegas betting on a ballgame. Gomez had seen enough and turned away, but Wei was drawn in with the rest of the crowd, entranced by the captivating drama, the edge of the stair he sat on hosting his excitable rear.

Everyone was too preoccupied to notice, but J.C. had drawn his weapon – and that the smile he wore before had been perverted into a soul-piercing stare. In the midst of the commotion, he'd analyzed the situation and reached the conclusion that although the boy wasn't an immediate threat, he was still the enemy. He had a gun, and it was pointed at the closest thing he had to a friend – and would very soon be proving he was ready to become a soldier for his country's cause. He went through the whole scenario in his mind and reached a decision that would soon change his entire life:

If that boy pulled the trigger – bullets or no bullets – he was going to put him down.

The boy couldn't think straight enough to weigh the circumstances. The only thing he could think was that he'd never see his father again, and this American spot of camel spit in front of him was the reason.

He remembered the weight of his father's dead body falling on top of him, and the force of the floor smashing into the side of his face when he fell. He remembered the white-man getting closer – torturously slow – then stealing his father's gun from his dead hands. And he remembered the huge, black-man walking into his kitchen and taking a slice of his family's pizza as if it were a joke to him. He took a bite in front of him, smiled, and even winked when he spoke. What was it he had said? What were his exact words?

He abruptly shifted his aim, pointing the weapon at Jean-Claude – who had his weapon trained right back – and whispered,

"Bon...apatite..."

—then pulled the trigger.

His words and actions surprised everyone and McMillan turned to look back at J.C. right after the kid let the hammer go. He heard the click of the empty chamber and followed its aim to see Le'Duprie pointing a loaded weapon directly back at the boy. He knew immediately that his partner was going to shoot – he could see it in his eyes – and he yelled out "NO!!" with hands raised, hoping to stop him from firing.

The look in J.C.'s stare was one of pinnacle intent. He'd already reached his decision even before he pulled the trigger. And when he did, the child smirked at the spark of his enemy's conviction.

In that instant, a thought went through Jean-Claude's mind as he looked into the eyes of the brave little boy and saw no fear:

Was this the boy's plan from the beginning? Did he know J.C. would shoot him all along, purposely coaxing him into doing so to make the Americans look bad? The boy's father told him they were all too arrogant to not see themselves as heroes...

After today, none of them would think themselves heroic ever again.

Jean-Claude grinned at the thought of the eleven-year-old rebel as he sat waiting in the cemetery for his companions to be reborn. The kid was all-balls and pure spirit – he reminded him of himself. There was a time when he'd retained anger toward the little soldier for making him fire the shot that got him discharged from the military – but not anymore.

In life, J.C. had been bitter and livid, frustrated with the outcome of his existence and was only ever happy when he was smashing the crap out of an opposing team against the boards on the ice. In life...he'd felt cheated; born into a society that wouldn't allow him to indulge in his potential. There were so many rules, and standards, and political ideals that did nothing for his true calling as a man of pure passion and brute strength. The world had turned away from him, frightened by his confidence and ashamed of his unbridled audacity. In life, he was never truly allowed to live...

In death...he had been set free.

The scenery around him was becoming more and more like something from the depths of a depraved and twisted imagination. Every tree throughout the cemetery was set ablaze, burning endlessly without decay, fueled by the dark magik transforming the city. The faces of their trunks were melted as though they were made of wax, and they sat mangled and decrepit with their roots like old, withered fingers grasping at the ground, trying to find a grip on what was left of their existence in the world of the living. Every dead and dried-up blade of grass around him had taken on a mind of its own and squirmed restlessly like thousands of overgrown insect-legs crawling from the dirt. Soldiers with red eyes, dragging the limp bodies of dead Los Angelinos through the mud, marched throughout the graveyard, systematically diminishing the population of the living and increasing that of the deceased. The orange glow of the city in flames reflected against the burgundy clouds as far as the eye could see. The air was hot and humid, and the smell of this New Hell reeked of burning flesh and boiling blood.

Jean-Claude looked up into the thick stormfront when the familiar sound of a jet engine tore through the sky, unable to see the enemy buried behind the clouds. It sounded like they'd passed overhead, probably attempting to visually pinpoint the cemetery for an aerial assault, but likely couldn't get a weapons-lock. They'd have to aim manually if they were to fire on the graveyard or had any hopes of dropping a bomb through the skies.

He smiled at the sounds of war being carried on the winds and laughed jubilantly when he was able to make out the roar of the National Guard's air assets coming in for their second pass. He wasn't the slightest bit concerned. Something in his gut told him their efforts would be futile. His goddess didn't bring about Hell on Earth only to be spoiled by a few American cowboys in fancy jet-planes. They could reduce this whole city to smoldering flames and it wouldn't stop what'd already begun. He looked forward to appreciating the event of their eminent failure and basking in the air of their defeat.

Thin jet-streams that trailed four tomahawk missiles broke through the rose plumes above, and J.C. threw his arms up in the air and laughed as they overshot their targets by several blocks. They exploded behind him, in the heart of Beverly Hills, to either side, and ahead, in the neighboring communities surrounding the graveyard. Even their most sophisticated technology wasn't much of a threat against the spell cast by his queen's blood-sorcery. The electrical interference from the scarlet lightning dancing through the storm inhibited any efforts to get the upper hand byway of satellite surveillance or computer-targeting.

Another barrage of missiles followed the first, but this time fell on its mark. They probably had to shut off the guidance systems on board and fire by line-of-sight – God only knows how they were able to hit their projected range being blinded by the mists. The American cowboys were apparently more skilled than J.C. would've given them credit for...

But their skills were for naught.

The bombs exploded over the cemetery before they reached the citadel as though colliding with an invisible roof in the sky. The shockwave and fire from the explosion dispersed throughout the air and spread over the top of the graveyard like water spilling on a glass dome. Not only were their computers ineffective, but it would appear their missiles, or any other electronically operated munitions, would also be useless. If the government planned on bombing the Demon Fortress they'd very likely have to deliver and detonate the package by hand.

Jean-Claude was still laughing like a giddy child in a ball-pit as the fire in the sky simmered into the faint smell of smoke and failure. The roar of the jet engines became more distant by the second, and the horde of nearby demon soldiers briefly joined in J.C.'s enthusiasm as they all howled and barked at the sounds of the government's first retreat. But they would be back – of this he was sure. And next time, they may even be desperate, or stupid enough to send in ground forces as a last effort to mount an offense.

This wasn't going to be a war... It was going to be a mutilation.

Just the thought of it made his mouth water in anticipation of America's defeat. Unless they could conjure up a sorceress of their own, the whole country would end up belonging to the dead within the week; the entire world would fall within the month.

His only regret, beyond ever letting Marty walk away from his grave, was that the weather in the New Hell would suck ass for ice hockey.

# CHAPTER FORTEEN

Still Warm Leftovers

1

Terry kept his eyes peeled like onions in a paranoid stew.

The streets were empty, buzzing eerily with an electric hum. Every light in the city reflected off the crimson clouds to illuminate the blocks with a deep, rustic aura, and the deafening quiet that suffocated the neighborhood amplified the hiss of the city's manmade power. Tara climbed into the backseat to grab three bottles of water as Terry pulled to the curb, giving Jimmy a supportive pat on the back when she passed. He'd scooted to the backdoor's edge when they parked – half in, half out – heaving throat-loads of chunky vomit onto the asphalt.

"I...... I......... _bllaaauuughaarrrrrgggguhh_..."

"That's it, sweetie. Get it all out."

Tara set a water bottle next to him before crawling back into the front seat. When she settled in, she handed the other bottle to Terry, having to bump him on his arm with it for him to notice. He was intent on keeping a sharp eye patrolling the blocks. Knowing he was so focused made her feel marginally more comfortable. Jimmy on the other hand, figured the horrendous sounds coming from his larynx would be enough to kill the appetite of even the hungriest of man-eating zombie Lemurs.

"I... I...just... _reuuahh_... _blluuuaaaghhh...ulllaghhh_...*cough*..."

"Say again, Jimbo?" Terry grabbed the bottle from Tara's hands and cracked it open. He almost took a sip but then thought twice as he looked back at his buddy who was, quite possibly, up-chucking the last bit of civilized meal he'd ever have the pleasure of regurgitating. "... Didn't quite catch that last part."

"I said...*cough*... _uughaakk_ *cough*......uuhhhggg..." He took a breath between yacks and wiped his mouth. "I said...I just...*cough*... I just...realized something terrible..."

"That it's the end of the world?" Tara was just taking a shot in the dark.

"That you got the alcohol-tolerance of a fourteen-year-old girl?" Terry figured he might as well take a stab at it too.

Jimmy hacked again and gazed down at the vomit-street-pie that made a surprisingly symmetrical circle off to the side of the truck. He shook his head and sighed.

"...I may never have another deep-dish, sausage and artichoke pizza at Sal's Italian Subs & Stuff again..."

Terry almost laughed but thought better of it, thinking that, knowing Jimmy, he was probably genuinely depressed over it. So he shrugged and tried to cheer him up instead. "That's not so bad..."

Jimmy shook his head. "That's not the _worst_ of it." He still had more on his mind.

"Then, what is?"... _Because it couldn't_ possibly _get any worse than never having Sal's deep-dish sausage pizza again,_ Tara thought.

Jimmy opened up the bottled water next to him, swished out his mouth and spit before he answered.

"The fact that I'll miss the pizza more than I'll miss my parents." He took in another mouthful, rinsed and spewed.

Terry shook his head. "Come on, man... Don't be so grim." He looked back at his friend gargling the lukewarm water. "They live in Utah, right? They'll be _fine_. This whole, red-eyed zombie-thing won't get past L.A. The ex-Governator will show up any minute now with a minigun and a squad of ass-kicking US troops to blast the _piss_ outta the filthy bastards."

"Yeah? Well where the hell are they? This shit's been goin' on for at least four hours now. How long's it take for our great, sovereign state to dispatch a little help out here? Those things are killing the shit out of people and turnin' their leftovers into man-sandwiches... You'd think Schwarzenegger would've had all sorts of contingency plans set in place for this type of shit... He was a goddamn action hero, for fuck's sake."

"No one has a contingency plan for this type of shit." Tara was surprised he'd even think someone could expect something like this to happen. "...Who the hell prepares for a zombie apocalypse?"

Jimmy and Terry both answered at the same time:

"The Coach."

She looked over at Terry who still had a sharp eye roving outside. "You're not serious..."

He didn't answer so Jimmy spoke up.

"Hell yeah, we're serious....Well, not about the 'zombie' part... But he's always goin' on about the end of the world. Said he's got food and weapons stashed. Gas masks, shortwave radios. He's probably got bulletproof vests and grenades an' shit too."

"Which brings up a good point." Terry thought of something significant enough to let his concentration sway. "We're definitely gonna need some stronger weaponry than that cute little 9mm you got," he assured her with a nod toward her waistline. "And we're gonna need it soon. If we keep heading into the city, we're all gonna have to be armed."

"You think guns can hurt those things?" She had her doubts.

"I don't know... But I'm pretty sure they'll do more damage than Jimmy's pink rabbit's foot..."

"You never know... Maybe if I swing it real fast by one of their faces, it might make 'em sneeze..."

"It's my rabbit's foot." Tara wanted to make that clear. She peeked back at Jimmy who was just now climbing back inside the truck. "I'm gonna want that back at some point."

He settled in and closed the door behind him. "Just keepin' it safe for you."

She sighed. "So, what'd you have in mind?" She figured Terry had a plan to arm them and she had a pretty good idea of what it might entail.

He met her stare and the look in his eyes confirmed what she had already figured: There'd likely be Breaking & Entering in their near future, burglary, unlicensed weaponry, and possibly chips and a diet beverage.

Three blocks west of them was an All-Mart. God bless the money-grubbing, corporate snake who thought to put together one superstore that had everything a trio of apocalyptic revolutionaries could possibly need for their first day on the job. But who among them knew the best way to break into a secured building? The front entrances would be barricaded with metal doors behind glass, and the garage doors at the receiving docks would likely be electronically operated. It wouldn't be as simple as shooting the locks off and just strolling in...

Or would it?

When they got there, the glass doors at the front of the building had already been broken into, probably by vagrants looking to score a meal in the midst of all the chaos. But just as she'd thought, hefty metal security doors covered the entrances from top to bottom. They'd been beaten at and rammed into by shopping carts and broken-down street signs, but apparently never budged. The poor souls trying to catch some grub probably ended up as grub themselves when stirring up the racket it caused to try to break in. Blood sprayed like street-art over the face of the building, but no leftover bodies littered the ground.

The entire neighborhood was in similar shape: all the signs of violence and murder without as much as a single victim or human limb to show for it. The whole scene was surreal and unsettling, especially since it all happened so recently. It almost smelled of fate the way the boys ended up heading out to Tara's place in the middle of all this, then back again when the chaos was stampeding the opposite way. It was either fate, or just plain dumb luck – possibly the result of the power behind some sort of superstitious charm having the dyed severed foot of a small, furry mammal attached to a metal ring for safe keeping...

But why they were still alive wasn't what was important. Staying that way, however, was. And the best strategy for remaining amongst the living would be to arm themselves to the teeth. And to do that, they'd have to get inside.

The idea of driving the truck straight through the entrance had crossed their minds, but their vehicle was too valuable. They'd need her in good working order if they were to get around the city safely. It wouldn't be worth using the truck to break into the place if it'd cause them to have to leave on foot afterward.

They scouted the perimeter until they found a door in the back next to the loading docks. It only had one locking mechanism and shouldn't take more than two shots to render it "open for business." They discussed the noise of the gunfire but decided its echo would probably make pinpointing their location unlikely. Once they'd shot the locks off, they'd only need a few seconds to get in the store and out of sight. It seemed to them a risk worthy of the prize.

Tara looked to her two companions for their go-ahead and they both nodded to give her a "let's do this shit" gesture of approval. She aimed her gun from ten feet away, both hands securely around her weapon, and fired. The first shot veered to the right of the lock to blast through the deadbolt, and the second hit lower, where the handle controlled the latch before it was run-through by a speeding, 9mm bullet. They scurried to pull open the door and had to put some force into it to break away the busted pieces but got it open within a few seconds. Jimmy kept an eye out behind them until they snuck safely inside. So far, things appeared to be moving along as well as they could've hoped.

When inside, they decided only a small amount of food and drink was important. For all they knew they wouldn't live to see tomorrow, and Alex probably had enough food at her house to cover them for the night. If not, they could always raid the neighbor's apartments for dinner if it came down to it...if they even made it that far...

But what was important now was attaining the means of finding their friends, and to do that they'd need to be able to protect themselves. Jimmy grabbed a shopping cart and Tara had the bright idea of picking up some first aid supplies on their way to the sporting goods section. Terry suggested that "gauze and aspirin wouldn't be much help against creatures that could rip our spines out from our throats," but Tara insisted. They also picked up a few empty gas cans, figuring they might need to fill them at some point; large flashlights and batteries, since Jimmy was afraid of the dark; rope, because you never know when you need to tie something; Funyuns, roasted peanuts, beef jerky, and a twelve-pack of diet Mountain Dew.

"Alright; I know we only have six hands between us, but I don't see any reason we shouldn't grab as many guns as we have fingers." He glanced over at Jimmy who looked to be doing the math in his head. "...That's _thirty_."

"Twenty- _four_." Jimmy gave him a smartassed glare. "Thumbs aren't fingers."

Terry figured he'd let the little guy have that one. "All I'm sayin' is, the more the merrier. I say we grab at least six shotguns, a couple rifles with scopes, and the biggest goddamn handguns they carry. Tara, you know more about guns than we do, so you'll be in charge of getting us the right ammo. _Shit_ loads of it. Big-ass bullets that'll blow zombie heads to chunky _pieces_."

"All-Mart doesn't exactly carry warmongering weaponry – most this stuff's for hunting _quail_..." Terry's face told her that _that_ wasn't what he wanted to hear. "...But I'm sure there're a few guns in these cases that'd take out something with a little more girth." She sighed, looking around.

"How 'bout this one?" Jimmy picked up a sleek looking air-pressured rifle and Tara lifted a brow.

"It'd be perfect if you were planning on decorating their uniforms with splotches of pink and yellow. That's a paint gun. Not gonna be as much use to us as this will." She hoisted a 12-gauge Mossberg with an oak stock and a black scope. "It won't blow their heads to pieces, but it'll give them a new hole to breathe out of."

"Nice." Terry liked. "How many of them are there?"

"This one's a display, but they probably have at least three or four more in stock. We just have to find them."

"We probably shouldn't spend too much time here. Maybe we should just grab the ones on display and load up on ammo—"

"H-hello...?"

A young woman's voice came from around the corner of an aisle behind them and they all stopped and snapped their heads around with looks like they just got caught dipping their cookies in someone else's wife's milk. When they saw the delicate expression of a young Chinese girl in an All-Mart shirt and kakis, they were able to breathe easy.

Terry looked back to Tara with a judgmental glare. "Yeah, okay, see, this is something we need to work on." Confusion hung over her eyes, so he explained. "When you hear someone sneak up behind us and peek their head around a corner, you pull the gun and aim it at their face... You don't just stand there looking like a deer caught in a strobe light."

She dropped her jaw in exaggerated shock of him assigning blame.

"Sorrrrry! God... It's not like I'm a fricking commando or something..." He caught her a little off guard – on two fronts, apparently. "I've never done this whole 'it's the end of the world, shoot first, ask questions later' thing, okay?...And it's headlights, not 'strobe-light'..." She sighed. "...You still want me to point the gun at her?"

Terry lowered his head and shook it dismissively.

"Uh... Hi..." Jimmy was enthralled to see another person alive besides them. Never mind that that person just happened to be a cute, helpless Asian girl who was right around his age. "Are...are you okay?"

"I... I think so... I'm not sure..." Her big, round eyes were glazed over with fear and confusion. She seemed distant and was probably in shock.

"Is there anyone else here?" Terry was all business and more concerned with the wellbeing of his friends than that of the girl's.

"I...no...no...just...just me..."

"What're you still doing here?"

"Dude... What's with the cop-talk, Lieutenant Insensitive? Quit interrogating the poor girl. Can't you see she's scared?" Jimmy wasn't too happy with his friend's tone. She looked so innocent and frightened, and her bangs were adorable. Her jet-black hair complimented her pale skin and dark eyes. After a full, thirty seconds of looking her over, Jimmy was certain they could have a beautiful and bright future together amidst all this horror and darkness. Things suddenly seemed to be looking up.

She too was shaken by his tone but answered as best she could. Her memory was clouded and spotty from the constant flow of adrenaline pumping through her veins. After being stuck alone with all hell breaking loose around her, she was running on pure instinct.

"I... I'm...waiting...f-for my dad. He...he said he was coming to get me after work..." They all fell silent. Everyone knew her father wasn't coming, but she seemed to still be holding on to the hope. "We...we closed at ten... Jake... Jake said he'd wait with me... The s-security guard... He...he said he'd wait..."

"Where is he now?" Jimmy didn't want to ask, but the suspense was killing him.

"He...he left... He ran away..." Puppy-dog eyes and trembling lips: a very potent mixture that'd get nearly anyone to lower their guard. "I was... I was going with him..." She was going over what happened in her mind, retracing their steps, but wasn't able to put it all together. "We were leaving together...I think...but—"

She suddenly flinched at a flash of violent memory – a piece of the puzzle that still wasn't completely clear. Her pupils dilated and her heart jumped when she looked down and her hands were covered in blood. She saw the body of her friend Jake, the security guard, mauled at her feet, her shirt and kakis splattered with red. The look of fear in her eyes startled them all, but when the blood disappeared from her clothes and hands, she calmed down and just looked lost again. She didn't know what it was she was seeing. If they were her memories, why weren't her clothes still stained with them?

"I don't... I don't know what happened... I can't remember..."

Tara had heard enough. Her heart bled for the girl. She walked around the gun-counter and moved gently toward her.

"It's okay. You don't have to remember. You can just come with us, okay?" She held out her hand. "You don't have to be alone anymore." The girl sniveled a bit and could hardly bring herself to move into plain sight. "What's your name?"

"K-k-kitty..."

"Yur name's Kitty?" Jimmy was in love.

She reached out for Tara's hand and Tara put her arm round her.

"You're gonna be okay, okay?" She hugged her, rubbing her back. "You can help us. Do you know your way around the stockroom?" She nodded. "Good. Then show me where they keep the keys for the gun-lockers. As soon as we get what we need, we're gonna get you out of here."

2

Marty's newly acquired "hog" growled through its exhaust pipe with the same vigor and ferocity that fueled his own drive – he and the Harley went together like Tabasco Sauce and tequila. He'd made it a little over two miles from the graveyard when the only sound that could've gotten his attention over that of his bike's exploded behind him. Four large plumes of fire and smoke rocked the city streets when the United States government attempted to make themselves a part of this new world by way of force. But Marty knew their efforts would be in vain. They might've gotten lucky and taken out a few random soldiers, but their attempt to hit the cemetery – the heart of the dark anarchy – undoubtedly would fail.

He slowed down and stopped the bike to look back at his City of Angels being enveloped in flames. He couldn't help but be impressed with the sight of it. Its chaos was awe inspiring....One frightfully despotic woman brought about all of this...

He sat and stared for a moment when he realized the changes in the city were feeding off the fresh destruction. He could feel Hell getting stronger with the burning of the missiles, and the city almost sounded as if it groaned sadistically in tune with the change. Something big was going to happen soon, something this world would never fully recover from. If someone didn't do something to stop it, Hell was coming to Earth to claim its prize, and that prize would be all of humanity.

Out of the corner of his eye a blurred figure interrupted his thoughts, and he turned his head to see what caught his attention. Someone had ran across the street behind him and ducked behind a bush on the sidewalk before he could make them out. It looked too small to be a man. It was either a kid or a woman, he wasn't sure. He looked into the foliage with his monotone vision and spotted a white t-shirt behind gray leaves. He couldn't distinguish the color of flesh but heard the sound of breathing as easily as he would wind in a hurricane. When he focused his attention he realized he could hear a heart beating as well and could practically taste the aroma of her skin on his tongue. It was a woman. And by the smell of her, an attractive one.

He turned off the engine and slowly dismounted, turning toward the pounding heartbeat behind him. He realized he was probably scaring the crap out of the poor thing as he approached, so he tried defusing her fright by speaking up.

" **You can come out. I'm not gonna hurt you....I'm not..."** He wanted to say, "I'm not one of them," but wasn't sure if he'd be telling the truth. He decided to skip that part until he figured out what the hell he actually was. "I know you're scared. I can hear yur heartbeat. And if I can hear it...so can they." He stepped closer, then stopped, not wanting to spook her into running. He wasn't sure how to go about this. He didn't want to just leave her out here alone but didn't have time to babysit a random stranger. If she didn't want his help, he'd have to move on.

" **Look...** I'm kind of in a hurry... I'm, uh..." he glanced back toward his bike, "...parked in the red. I'd hate to get a ticket on our first date. Wouldn't want you thinkin' I'm some kind of troublemaker." He waited for her to pick up on the joke but realized right away his humor would likely go unappreciated. "So if you wanna get out of here, then let's take a ride. I have to find my sister, and you can come if you want. But I can't wait around for you to make up yur mind." She didn't respond, so he decided on trying something a little less threatening than towering over her in the middle of the street. "I'm gonna head back to my bike and wait for you. If you decide you don't wanna walk over there on yur own, I'll leave."

He turned, heading back leisurely. When he got there, he straddled the hog and sat quietly before he spoke again. He gave her a few seconds, then figured he'd ease her mind with polite conversation.

" **What's yur name?"**

The girl stayed behind the bush like it harnessed steel bars protecting her from a lion, peering nervously through the spaces between branches. Him not ripping the plant from the ground and tearing her arms off was a good sign as far as her judgment of his character was concerned. But even without him being a kill-crazed, red-eyed monster, he was still an alarming sight to see. His skin was dry and smeared with dirt and his hair and tattered clothes soiled with blood. She was pretty sure he wasn't one of those things tearing through the city since his eyes weren't glowing red, but she wasn't sure if she could trust him. When she decided to speak, her voice didn't fully cooperate, so she had to repeat herself to answer.

"Des... Desi." She pronounced it like it was short for Desiree, with the "s" sounding more like a "z."

" **Hey, Desi. I'm Marty."** He tried spotting her face through the branches. "How old are you?" Her voice was so soft he couldn't tell if she was a kid or not.

"...Nine...nineteen..."

" **Good... Then I won't have to tell yur folks you were out this late."** He realized after he said it that it might've been a bad joke; for all he knew, she may've just barely escaped watching her parents getting murdered to death. He decided it was a bright idea to change the subject. "You're just a few years younger than my sister. Her name's Alex. She's out there somewhere too. Alone, like you." He could hear that the steady sound of his voice was easing her heartrate. By the sound of it, she may've been coming around. He figured now would be as good a time as any to seal the deal, so he asked her, "Will you help me find her?"

Desi peeked her head from the side of the bush and started to stand. She was wearing just a t-shirt and underwear; she must've been in bed when everything started happening. She stepped around the bush off the curb to reveal long legs and canary-yellow toenails, standing pigeon-toed and shy.

"You're...you're not gonna try'n _eat_ me, are you?"

Marty looked the poor girl up and down and suddenly realized something: Something inside him was different. Even in spite of their situation, a girl as attractive as this one, half naked and asking if he was going to eat her would normally stir up some kind of hormonal tingling in his undercarriage... But this time...it didn't. He didn't feel...anything...

" **Oddly enough, the thought never crossed my mind."** He gave her another quick onceover, examining her lips, the subtle curves of her breasts and hips teasing from under her shirt, the texture of the skin on her thighs, and still he felt nothing. He hadn't had the time to think about it before, but standing there, looking at this girl, it finally occurred to him: he was dead. So dead, that for the first time in his life he was starring right at an attractive girl's thighs and not imagining them wrapped tightly around his nether regions. The feeling – or lack thereof – was almost liberating. He could actually think clearly and stay goal-oriented without some sort of subconscious, underlying effort toward building a foundation for a possible future "lay."

" **C'mon."** He gave her a little heads-up nod, inviting her to join him on the bike. "Let's get you out of here."

She hesitated another second, then cautiously shuffled toward him.

"Are...are you...dead?"

A perfectly reasonable question, he figured. He now knew for sure he was...but found he had a hell of a time actually coming out and saying it.

He paused before answering, feeling-out the concept in the speech centers of his brain, then: "I think so...yeah... But..." He hesitated to even bother claiming he was different. He knew he wouldn't be likely to believe him if he were in her...uh...panties. "Do you think I want to hurt you?"

She weighed his tone and the demeanor of his large form and shook her head. He smiled lightly then gave her another tilted heads-up toward the back of his bike so she continued on her approach.

"I... I don't have any pants on..."

He almost laughed.

" **I noticed."**

She stopped beside him before hopping on the back of the bike.

" **I'm headed to my sister's place. It's about twenty minutes away. We'll get you some pants when we get there, I swear."**

She decided she believed him – or that he was at least her best option for now – so she straddled the bike and latched her arms around his waist. She held on tight as he revved his ride, its roar vibrating her whole body so she squeezed for stability.

"Do you think your sister's okay?!" She had to yell over the sound of the Harley.

He hadn't had time to think about it before. He only just assumed he'd find her. But beyond that, he'd never allowed himself a moment to dwell.

He didn't answer her. He kicked up the stand, released his grip on the brake and tore down the block with a renewed sense of urgency. He'd spent precious minutes of the few he felt he had on picking this girl up and wondered if the effort would make any difference in the end. There was a good chance she was better off dead – a rotting corpse dragging behind him, stuck to the tracks in the bottom of his shoe. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea for him to keep a stranger so close, he thought. In the end, it may prove to be just him and Alex against the world. Everyone else would be unexceptional risks that weren't worth taking the time to try to save...

But then again, now might be a more important time than any to hold on to what made him human. And no healthy human being would leave a defenseless girl to die in the streets if he could help it. He was doing the right thing. He was sure.

Alex was strong. Maybe even stronger than him. And she was still alive – he could feel her in his heart if he concentrated hard enough. He'd find her soon, and they'd both get the hell out of L.A. and head for some secluded, tropical island, far away from the overwhelming curses of their family's bloodline. Once she was safe, he could concentrate on how to become whole again. Maybe there was more to the strength of his mother's spirit that he kept around his neck than he knew. Maybe it could heal him; restore his life to something like what it was... Or at least allow him to find some peace in the midst of all this death. A nice, cool, hole in the ground for the rest of eternity didn't sound so bad right about now. Anything would be better than the Hell he could see in Earth's fateful future. If he couldn't stop that crazy bitch with the demon teeth and devil-horns before she turned the States into a pan-fried, evil paradise, then he hoped to at least be able to put it all behind him someday.

But he was getting ahead of himself. As far as he knew, the future was not yet set. He knew he and his sister were somehow a bigger part of all this than maybe even the Demon Queen herself knew. And if that were the case, then they had the sharpened edge of surprise dangling over her wrists to exploit. Maybe the element of "she-has-no-idea-of-what-we-are-capable" would be enough to tip the scales. Maybe the Hell that he could see in the future was only there because he hadn't fully discovered himself yet....Maybe he could stop all of this before it ever got too far out of hand.

Or maybe that was just what was left of the little bit of human being still inside, straggling along, trying to cling to this world by way of blind passion and false hopes...

The sounds of four more explosions behind them shook the ground as the fire from the second barrage of tomahawks lit the sky. The dark clouds over the city came alive with the violent eruption, and what looked like dozens of titanic worms ruptured into existence, forming bulges where they entangled and slithering in clumps of disgusting masses throughout the clouds. The fierce explosions over the center of the graveyard gave birth to an element of Hell than no one had ever imagined: gigantic larvae that defied the Earth's very gravity and all of reality itself. These things – whatever they were – were not supposed to exist in this world... And the fact that they did opened up doorways for possibilities that disturbed even Marty, and he, by design, felt no fear.

Desi never lifted her head from where it pressed against his back, his massive body a shield from the reality around her. He looked up into the serpent-clouds and his eyes flickered green in revolt of their swimming evil. Things weren't looking so promising as far as him having hopes of stopping this madness before it spiraled into inevitability...

The sounds of jet-planes getting further and further away, retreating in their apparent failure caught his hear. If they were lucky, they made it far enough from the cemetery before the sky turned into something that looked like a goddamn Klingon delicacy, but he didn't hold out much hope for that being the case. He imagined the look on the fighter pilots' faces when the clouds in front of them turned into giant, jet-eating tapeworms with rows of teeth that went as far back as their sphincters. What a repulsive way to die: mauled into mulch then made into the droppings of colossal, man-eating maggots...

But he got the feeling the sky-worms weren't the worst thing stirring about in the city. Everything looked alive under the blood-red glow of the clouds. Even the street they drove on had a different texture, like the scales of a piranha or some other disagreeable sea creature. The walls of the structures they passed were wet with perspiration, and their reflective surfaces devoured the surrounding images only to spit them back out mangled and disfigured...

But the shadows were the worst of all.

Anywhere devoid of light, the blackness stood so profound that if anyone got caught inside they'd never find their way back. The black shawls of emptiness were frighteningly quiet. They watched as Marty and Desi passed and then closed in on the path behind them as if to not allow them the option to look back.

The dark had a presence – an insidious consciousness that was more than just a creepy feeling. Something...or someone was seeing through them, controlling their movements and consuming the lifeforce of any poor creature unfortunate enough to fall to them as prey. Rats and insects, possums and strays would slip into the black and disappear in the gut of it, feeding the nothingness that was Imala's second demon Elite. This demon...was named Desolate, and his obscurity was relentless and without empathy.

He was once a young, Japanese-American with hopeful eyes and a friendly smile. But now, where his eyes once gleamed, a void hollowed into his skull, and all that was once the young civilian – his name, thoughts, hopes, voice, and even his soul – was consumed by dark. As silent and deadly as the vacuum of space, it was his – or it's – duty to stand guard around the new city of the dead. His power could subsume nearly ten square-miles around him at a time, and would prove instrumental in defeating the army of men who undoubtedly closed in.

The government of man would be no match for Imala's Elite. All would fall to Desolate and Decadence, and the two of them weren't a fourth of what the devil-queen had in store.

Another of her demons already moved to infiltrate her enemies and could be so deceiving that it carried out its work in plain sight. Deceit indeed marched among them...and in the end, it wouldn't be a stretch to assume she might be their downfall.

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Good and Buttered

1

"So, you're married, I take it?"

Alex felt awkward enough as it was from her and the Cabby's earlier misunderstanding. Sitting quietly in the backseat for twenty-five minutes without a word between either of them was as uncomfortable a silence she'd ever wanted to be a part of. And to top it off, the rolling beads of sweat along with his occasional jumping at passing shadows continued to rouse suspicion, adding to the air of unease. She was hoping she could set her worries aside if she just talked to the guy and get a good measure of his character. After all, they had another twenty minutes left of their drive back to the city before she was rid of him and he could very well be driving her straight into the heart of Hell on Earth – this shot at conversation could be the last one he ever has...

He didn't respond to her attempt at small-talk at first which just made the awkward silence between them that much more miserable.

"Umm..." She leaned forward and looked to the dash where his driver's license was displayed. "...Todd, is it?"

"Huh? What?"

He jumped at the sound of his own name, even more uncomfortable than before she'd said a word. She watched his eyes bounce around in the mirror, never meeting hers for more than a fraction of a second.

"Todd? Is that your name?"

"How... Who-who _told_ you?"

Was this guy serious? Granted, the strange storm and red lightning was enough to put anyone on edge, but it just seemed like more than that with him. He was definitely freaked out about something... He must've been worried about that family he'd mentioned earlier, she thought. But she wasn't entirely convinced that that was it. There was a stink to his fear. She got the faint impression he'd been tainted somehow...but couldn't put her finger on why it smelled so familiar.

"Your license... It says your name's Todd."

"Oh...yeah...no... I, uh... I go by my middle name: Steven."

She wasn't sure if she bought that line from him, but really had no reason to think otherwise other than a _seven_ -year-old could tell this guy was just making this stuff up as he went along.

"So, you're married then, Steven?"

"I'm married?...Yeah...yeah. Married with kids... Three kids..."

His left hand rested atop the steering wheel where she could see he wasn't wearing a ring; virgin knuckles sat gripping nervously without even a hint of a tan line. Under any other circumstance she'd get the hell out of there as soon as possible. Something was definitely unsettling about this guy – she could feel it in her chest like heartburn after eating leftover Mexican – but she sure as hell couldn't walk the rest of the way back to her house from here. And it wasn't like she could just call for another cab...

She decided not to interrogate him further to avoid putting them at odds. She thought it'd be best if he didn't know she had her doubts about him.

"What part of the city do you live in?" She figured a little chitchat couldn't hurt and might help to conceal her suspicions.

This is it! the Cabby thought excitedly. He could pretend he lived near the cemetery and tell her he needed to stop by his house before he dropped her off!

"Right...right off Sepulveda. Just west of Beverly Hills?"

"Culver City?"

"No...no... Uhh, well, yeah...north...north of there, I guess... You know the area?"

"Yeah, my brother plays hockey at the Forum."

"The Priests?"

"Uh-huh. You ever watch them play?"

"Aww, no... Not...not really a hockey fan... I've heard they're a good team, though." She seemed just about buttered up enough for his tastes. Now would be a good time to slide the main course in the oven to cook. "Hey, do you mind if we stop by my house on the way back? I'm just...you know...worried about the fam. Wanna make sure they're ok..."

"I, uh... I'm meeting my brother back at my place. He's expecting me any minute..."

"I'll tell you what," he leaned up and pressed the meter off, "this ride's on me. I just need to check up on 'em real quick. I won't even turn off the engine."

Alex nodded, figuring he wouldn't take no for an answer. If worst came to worst she could make a run for it when they got inside the city.

The Cabby nodded back and put on a fake smile. He impressed himself with his own improvisation under pressure. He was well aware of his uncanny ability to feed his patrons fresh piles of steaming bullshit, but how he handled this fare was exceptionally notable. He was on the edge of his seat, his psyche threatening to crack into a thousand little pieces...but proved he could keep it together well enough to get the job done. Little did he know, Alex was on to him way before he ever even thought to spin his not-so-silky web of lies. But there wasn't much else she could do at this point other than sit tight and ride this thing out. She could feel inside her that this whole thing happening was bigger than what she could even think to take into consideration. Her destiny would reveal itself one way or another... All she had to do was hang in there and try to make sense of it as it all unfolded.

Traffic finally thinned out on the other side of the freeway. They must've been nearing the end of the line – the point of no return. Strange that it died down so abruptly. It was solid bumper to bumper for at least 10 miles, then suddenly there was nothing. It was almost like something bit the traffic off at its tail-end and just gobbled up whoever was left straggling behind.

The emptiness of the surrounding highway was a cold hand gripping at her throat, squeezing just tight enough to make it difficult to breathe. She reached up for the charm around her neck but only grasped at air. A flash of nausea fluttered in her gut, uncomfortable without the heirloom close by, but she then remembered how her father could "see" the charm lying on her chest even when it wasn't really there...

She shut her eyes with her fist closed next to her heart and imagined the charm in her hand. She remembered how its metallic surface always carried a warmth when she wore it, and how fluent and flawless the surface of the green stone felt against her palm. The thought of it in her grasp steadied her breathing and strengthened the beating of her heart. She took in a breath then exhaled calm and controlled. She repeated the pattern two more times until the imagined shape of the pendant in her mind felt like the real thing in her hand, and a green luminance bathed the outside of her eyelids in a warm aura.

The glow brought a smile to her lips and a surprising flicker of excitement to her heart when she opened her eyes to see the necklace in its light-form resting in her palm. She opened her grip and her jaw fell loose as the projection glistened against the dark of the cab.

The Cabby caught the glare in his rearview and tried to see what she was holding but couldn't spot it from his angle. He figured it was probably just her cell phone and tried ignoring it but, for some reason, felt strangely at ease every time he glanced its way.

Her palm cupped the light-charm with its green chain draped over her hand until she moved it away from her chest and it slowly dissipated back toward her, sinking into the skin of her breasts. The sensation rushed through her veins, calming her nerves before ending as a glint in her eyes that the Cabby caught with his glance.

"Interesting color... Is that your phone?" He couldn't help but bring it up. The warmth the light brought to him was so benevolent he almost forgot for a second he was most likely driving this girl to her doom.

Alex was still a little lost in the moment and took a second to register his remark. She took another deep breath, indulging in the euphoria of the strength within, then looked into the mirror to challenge his eyes with a piercing gaze. He seemed to feel like less of a threat to her now, like she could see him so much more clearly for the scared and confused little scoundrel he was...

"I know you're not really married."

"What...?" He was shocked by her suddenly being brave enough to confront his lies.

"You probably don't even have any kids." She stared deep into his eyes with a knowing smirk on her lips, and he turned a new color of pale at the sound of her voice. "What is it you want with me?"

"I... I don't... I don't want anything... I'm just the driver..."

"You waited for me back at the Reservation... Why?"

"No... I didn't... I mean, I did... I just thought you...thought you might need a ride... I..."

His falsehoods were so transparent she felt like she could see right through his skull and out the front windshield.

"You don't really live in Culver City, do you."

"Look... I can't... I'm sorry... I have to do this... It's..."

"Do what?"

"The...the c-cemetery... I have to take you to the cemetery... But that's it, I promise..."

"The cemetery? Is that where she's waiting for me?"

"W-who?"

"My Aunt."

"Your...? Look... I don't know what's waiting for you, okay? I... I just know I have to do this....If I don't, I'm dead, you understand? I'm fucking dead."

"Says who? Who told you that?"

"That thing... That fucking thing...god... I don't know what the hell it is... Just... I just gotta do this, then I'm done...and it's over. I'm... I'm sorry..."

Alex mulled over her dilemma, ruminating the unveiling of her future, then decided on doing what she thought to from the beginning: just go with the flow of fate and see where the current would take her.

"...Alright. We'll go to the cemetery." She'd have to face her Aunt sooner or later. There was no sense in putting off the inevitable. She knew Marty would find her. It wasn't even a question in her heart. At least this way she could get some answers. And in the meantime, "I want you to tell me everything you know about the thing that's forcing you to do this."

The Cabby laid it out for her, pathetically spilling his guts along with a touch of waterworks for sympathy. He told her about how Tessura appeared at first as a store clerk to get information from him, then dropped its façade just before it was about to put an end to him. He described the blood-splattered convenient store and the size and smell of the beast that looked to be beyond any sort of reason, and how it found a use for him and spared his life in exchange for him doing its bidding. He told her how it spoke to him through his mind and its voice was like how you'd imagine a beast's sounding, only more powerful and cunning. It hadn't said who it was or what it wanted her for, it only promised to let him live if he drove her to the graveyard.

"And you believed it?"

"It's not like I had a choice..." He let out a choppy breath, wiping the wetness from his eyes. "D-do you think it was lying? You think it's gonna kill me anyway?"

She sighed. "I don't know... I have no idea what it's capable of... If it cares at all for integrity or if it even has a mind of its own..."

"It does. I'm sure of it. I've looked in its eyes... It's not some savage beast. It's smarter than you'd think."

"You might be right..."

"I am. I know it." He boasted certainty, then tried to explain. "I don't know how... But it was like I could feel its presence when it spoke to me... It's ancient...centuries old... Maybe older..."

"What else?"

"I-I'm not sure... But it seemed aggravated... Trapped, I think...against its will. It was bitter... It doesn't like being here."

"Hm." She was surprised to hear that. She thought for sure it wasn't much more than a cunning pet. She stayed wound up in thought for a moment, then dug up a genuine stare. "Thank you, Steven... And... I forgive you. I know you don't have a choice."

"...It's, uhh... It's, Todd, actually... I lied about the 'Steven' thing too..."

Alex smiled. "Well, I hope you make it out of this alive, Todd. Maybe one day you really will have a wife and three kids."

"Th-thanks..." He was saddened by her selflessness. "...I am really sorry about this... I wish... I wish there was something I could do..."

"There isn't. Don't let it get to you. This isn't something you have any say in. I'm supposed to go to the cemetery with you. I'm sure of it."

"What about your brother? Do you...do you want me to go by your place after I drop you off? Let him know where you are?" He was hoping she'd say—

"No."

Oh, thank god.

"If that thing is half as smart as you think it is, it'd know what you were doing. You'd never make it. The only thing I want you to do is get as far away from L.A. as you can....I want you to live."

"...Why?" He was having a hard time with her being so nice to him. He didn't feel he deserved her thoughtfulness – and he was right, he didn't.

"Because pretty soon the 'living' will be our only allies. The more people who survive this, the better chance we have of taking back the planet..."

"The planet? I-I-I don't understand..."

"And...I hope you'll never have to. But just in case..." She let out a deep breath and decided to fill him in on what little she knew. "The world might not be the same after today. Hell's coming...and I don't know how to stop it... But I think that, in time, maybe we can learn to fight back. And I think it starts with me coming face-to-face with the royal Bitch-Queen in all her glory and seeing for myself what we're up against."

"And that doesn't scare the shit out of you?"

"Yeah... It does. But it's supposed to. It's what separates us from them."

He was taken by her maturity and strength. He'd never met anyone like her.

"What...what's your name?"

"Alex..."

"Alex what?"

She never knew her real father's name until tonight, but somehow it felt so much more real than the one she'd been carrying around for years like a disfigured hump on her back...

"Alexzandra...Cohotehe."

The named rolled off her tongue like it'd always belonged. She wasn't even sure how to pronounce it when she saw it on her father's tombstone, but knew she'd spoken it correctly when it left her lips to greet the air. Co-HO-teh-heh. It invigorated her to speak it....Somewhere, safely tucked behind a cloud in heaven, her father was smiling.

"You're...you're an incredible person, Alexzandra." He didn't know why, but her presence gave him a growing courage. Her aura was like a counterweight, balancing out the affliction bubbling in his heart. "Besides this enormous cluster-fuck I got stuck in the middle of by picking you up, talking to you tonight's made me realize the world might have some hope left for it after all." She smiled the slightest bit at his compliment. "You know...'Alexander' is originally a Greek name. It means 'defender of humankind'."

How embarrassingly pretentious... "I didn't know that..."

"Well, maybe someone did when they named you. I gotta say, I don't know what the hell is going on right now, but for some reason...you've made a believer out of me."

She lowered her head and shifted her eyes. "Thanks..." His faith was appreciated but not very inspiring. It just made her feel the pressure she carried on her shoulders that much more. "But I have a long way to go before I feel the same way about myself..."

The Cabby finally let a real smile find his lips. It was subtle, but genuine. "Be patient. You'll see it soon enough."

He didn't know where his words were coming from. It was almost like someone else was speaking through him, telling him exactly what to say. He'd never been one for words of encouragement. He was usually too pissed off at the rest of the planet to think to say anything genuinely nice to anyone... But there was something about this girl... She made him feel like he could be so much more than just a pervy little cabdriver who specialized in terrible pickup lines and shirking respon—

"Jesus, Mike and Mustafa! Are you seein' this?!"

Alex was letting her mind wander when the Cabby recaptured her attention. She looked out the front window and gawked at the wall of reddish fog encircling the city in front of them. There was a blockade of police cars, low-flying helicopters, and well armored military vehicles what looked like a quarter-mile away. Choppers patrolled the area on the sides of the freeway with roaming searchlights while the cops had the road blocked behind the military's posting.

"Shit...shit, shit, shit... Whatdowedo, whatdowedo?!"

"Turn off here... We'll go around."

"Fuck...goddamn...shit, shit...what the fuck am I doing...?"

The Cabby found time in between his swears to actually drive the car and pull off onto the exit before they reached the blockade. They were still fifteen miles away from the cemetery. Taking the back streets, even without traffic, would take a lot longer than they were expecting to share a cab together – especially with how dense the fog had settled up ahead.

"D-d-did you see that?"

"Yeah... Looks like the military's trying to make a move into the city..."

"No... I mean the fog...the red fog! Shit... I thought the clouds were fucking creepy... I had no idea I'd have to drive through that shit..."

"You can always stop now, let me out – take your chances..."

"No fucking way." His head shook rapidly to animate his response. "I can still feel that thing watching us... I don't know how, but it's been with us this whole time, I know it."

"Yeah... Stupid suggestion...sorry..."

Knuckles like snowcaps gripped the wheel while wide eyes gazed. "You think they got military stationed around the whole city?"

"I'd think so... I would if I were them."

"How the hell are we gonna do this?"

"Just...just drive slow. You know these streets better than they do. We'll find a way through."

A thought occurred to him he wasn't completely comfortable with but had to address before it became a downright delusion of paranoia.

"You're...you're not gonna try an' run on me, are you?... With us drivin' so slow through the city?"

"It never crossed my mind..." He almost smiled knowing she was being facetious. "I said I wanted you to live, remember? If I run, and you lose me, that beast will kill you for screwing things up." She looked steadily into his worrying eyes. "I promise... I won't let that happen."

"Okay..." He nodded thankfully, able to breathe easier having her word. "Let's just take this one backstreet at a time, then." A nervous sigh eased his tensions. "...Fuck, I hope this works..."

"Don't worry...we'll make it through, somehow. We have to."

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Her Own Little Corner of Hell

1

"So, is it just me or is Kitty _super_ fucking hot?"

Jimmy and Terry loaded their guns with the ammo Tara found while the girls rummaged through weapons-accessories, picking out gun-belts and slings for their rifles.

"She's cute." Terry figured he'd give him that much at least. "But it's mostly just you." He looked over at the two girls and couldn't help but stare at Tara's hips and ass when she bent over to cut through a sealed cardboard box. "I like my girls with a little more shape to 'em."

Jimmy noticed his salivating gaze and gave his buddy an earful.

"Oh, I _know_ yur not checking out Marty's girl..."

Terry didn't bother to stop even when he knew his friend was on to him.

"I know you know I am." He laughed a little then traded in his grin for grim. "You tell Marty and I'll sock you in yur fractured ribs, you little bitch."

Jimmy laughed with a painful wince, then smirked slyly, thinking he might have some dirt on his friend to exploit at a later time. "Better start treatin' me right, dickhole, or I will narc on yur ass."

"Yeah? Then I'll fill him in on how you Insta-stock his sister, you fuckin' creep."

"Dude...you were checkin' her picks out with me!"

"Yeah, but I'm not the one who saved 'em so he could Photoshop a collage for his desktop background."

Jimmy shrugged. He really didn't see the big deal. "I was gonna use the image to screen-print pillow cases for my room. You know, so I could wake up every morning next to her."

"Ha!" Terry couldn't help but let out a bark of a laugh. He pictured Jimmy rolling over in bed with an infatuate grin, whispering "good morning" to Alex's picture on his pillow and giving it a peck on the cheek. "That's fuckin' genius, man. You should try applying that amount of creativity to something that might actually get you somewhere."

Jimmy thought now might be a good time to share one of his more ambitious ideas with his companion.

"I thought about putting the faces of celebrities on toilet paper. You know, like some of the more infamous? I bet people would pay extra to wipe their ass with Charlie Sheen's shit-eating grin or with the president of the United States."

Terry thought his friend might be on to something. "Put me down for an eight-pack of Steven Tyler. That guy's lips bug the shit outta me."

Jimmy chuckled at his pun. "Eighties, nineties, or now?"

"Surprise me."

"Have you ever fired a gun before?" Tara wanted to keep Kitty's mind from wandering. She was worried if she remembered what she saw, she might freak out and become a liability.

Kitty shook her head. She'd never even _held_ a gun before, let alone fired one.

"It's not as easy as it looks on TV. It's heavy and loud, and the kick packs a punch." Kitty didn't look too comfortable with the idea of handling one. "But don't worry. You won't have to use one yet. We'll watch out for you until we can get some distance between us and the city."

"What about my parents?"

Tara felt terrible for the girl but knew she couldn't say for sure if they were alive or dead...so she said what she thought she'd want to hear if she were in her place.

"There's no way to get a hold of them right now, with the phone lines and internet down, but as soon as all this blows over, I promise, I'll help you find them. After we meet up with Alex and Marty, we'll get the hell out of here and figure out what to do next."

"How...how do you even know your friends are still here?"

It was a good question. Tara realized she hadn't given it much thought now that she brought it up. Originally it seemed like such a casual task to go with the boys to meet up with Marty and Alex...but things had gotten hectic. It wasn't so simple a thing any longer. Now it was a quest to find their friends, and they were about to drag this innocent bystander along with them. She hoped they knew what they were doing...

"It's...kind of a long story... But we know Marty will wanna find his sister, and Alex told us to meet her at her house....If...if they're...alive...then they'll be there. And for some reason we're not sure of, they know more about what's going on than anyone, so it's important we find them."

Kitty nodded obediently. Her personality was pretty docile in general, but with her feeling so helplessly out-of-place, she was almost agreeable to a fault. She just didn't want to be alone anymore.

A distant boom caught Tara's ear and the ground shook beneath them, the vibrations amplified by the sound of shelves rattling in the store, and Tara looked up at Kitty, then over at the boys when another explosion shook the ground. The guys stopped their childlike chattering and everyone stood motionless as two more quakes threatened the permanence of their shelter.

"What the fuck was that?" Jimmy, staying true to his vocally expressive anxieties, was the first to speak after the quaking settled.

"Sounds like the military finally decided to join the party." He looked over to his fretful gang of do-gooders. "Either that or God's using the planet as a speedbag."

"Oh fuck... Are they bombing us? They're fucking bombing us, aren't they! They're gonna fuckin' nuke us, dude, we need to get the hell outta here!"

"They're not gonna nuke L.A., man..." he sighed. "At least not this soon they won't. So, relax." Terry was always impressed with how quickly his friend's imagination flew awry.

"Kitty, are there any windows close by?" Tara wanted to see what fresh turmoil was hounding them now.

"The front's blocked off... Th-the only ones you can see out of are up-upstairs in the breakroom."

"Show us."

They ran in single-file, darting up the stairs in the back. It took two tall flights to get to the top and a few more seconds to make it through the halls. When they got there, they ran past the lunch tables and up to a long, glass window where they all froze in awe of plumes of fire and smoke in the distance. The force of the explosions cleared out the crimson mists, opening their view to the distant skyline saturated in red.

Fire lit the skies again when they stood witness to a second hail of explosions five miles from where they were. They watched as the fiery chaos gave birth to giant, wormlike creatures coiling in the clouds, and all felt their stomachs turn and hearts sink at the sight of the slithering evil in the sky.

Hulking serpents swam effortlessly through the blood-skies, spreading in every direction, snaking through the clouds over the city. It wouldn't be long before they covered the entire county, making it entirely impossible for the military to execute an aerial assault.

"Ho-ly-fuck..." Jimmy let the curse fall from his mouth along with his utter shock and ail. "Am I seein' what I think I'm seein'?" He tried to swallow his fear as he stared into the abomination that'd become the sky. He was pretty sure that if his last meal hadn't already vacated the premises he would've had another vomit-pizza-pie between his knees to hopelessly loom over.

"...Jesus Christ...this...this can't be happening..." Tara turned away from the window and slid to the ground with her back against the wall. "...I...I don't know if we can do this..." Her stomach felt so knotted up it was hard for her to breathe. She put her elbows on her knees, head sinking into her palms. "Maybe we should just leave... I don't think we should be here... We shouldn't be here..."

Terry snapped out of his daze when he heard Tara's repeated mumblings. His first thought was that maybe she was right... Maybe they needed to get the hell out of there as fast as they could and never look back. But then he remembered the condition the freeways were in on their way into downtown.

Where would they go? The blood-storm and wave of zombie insanity had already gotten a head start on them and would undoubtedly continue spreading outward to engulf the rest of L.A. They were in the eye of the storm for the time being and should probably take advantage of it while they still had the chance. The only strength he could think to find was that of their strength in numbers, and the single most badass beast of a compadre on the planet was still M.I.A. As long as there was hope of finding Alex and Marty, he felt they really had no other option – other than cowering in the frozen food section of All-Mart with the rest of the poultry and spineless slabs of meat, hoping not to be noticed...

He squatted next to her and put his hand on her shoulder, speaking in a calm and sympathetic tone. He wasn't sure if what they were doing was real high on the list of intelligent things he's done in his life but it felt right at least... He hoped it was logic and reason guiding him and not some subconscious drive to follow in the footsteps of popular heroes playing in dramatic movie roles. Everyone wants to be the brave guy playing the leading part in the zombie apocalypse movie, but does anyone ever really think those roles through? Is it really in their best interest to be smack-ass in the middle of a shit-storm that could quite possibly be the end of the world as they knew it? He wasn't sure... But he figured they had already come this far...

"We can't exactly just hop back on the freeway and go for a road trip right now." He let out a breath to release his tension. "There's still a chance we can find Marty at Alex's place, and if we _can_ , we'll be better off with him on our side. If he's not there...we leave..."

"Dude..." Jimmy sounded like wasn't sure Terry should give up on Marty so easily.

"We _leave_." He made it clear that what he was saying was what they were doing. "If he's not there, we have no idea where to look for him. And it's not like we can just stroll through the usual hangouts and hope to stumble across him..."

Jimmy appreciated his friend's speech but thought Terry might've gotten the wrong impression when he interrupted him before.

"That's...not the type of 'dude' I was gonna say..." Terry stopped to listen but wasn't sure he wanted to. "...I was gonna say, even if we find them, how the hell is that gonna help us get out of here? Marty's a badass motherfucker...but against those things?" He pointed out the window into the worm-infested billows. "Let's be honest; it's not like he's fuckin' Conan the Barbarian or some shit. He's just a man."

Terry was irked by his friend's words. He understood his point, but Jimmy seemed to be missing his.

"He's our friend." It couldn't get any clearer than that. "And Alex knows something." He paused to see if he was getting through, and Jimmy's silence told him he was. "Do you understand how important that is?...She knows something....Something really backwards and fucked up is happening to the world and she might have an idea of what that is. She might be the only one who has an idea of what that is... So, we find her. We go to her house like we said we would and we wait for as long as we can."

He waited to see if Jimmy's allegiances strengthened or continued to waver, but he seemed to be on board. Jimmy never wanted to suggest they leave Marty or Alex behind, he just thought it wise to clear the air and bring everything to the table. He could tell Terry knew that and didn't think any less of him despite his brief detour in personal ethics.

Tara took heed to his words and used them as a tool to steady her breathing, quieting her mind. His hand on her shoulder comforted her, and she used his strength to fuel her own. She raised her head from her palms to look Terry in his eyes. His stare told her he would do whatever was in the best interest of them all, and she nodded to let him know she was with him.

The others had been too caught in their own dissension to realize Kitty was frozen solid behind them; pupils black saucers, mouth caught in a gasp. The sight of the world outside flipped a switch in her brain that caused her to recoil into her own delusions and relive some of the hazier moments in her recent past—

It was three hours earlier. The store had just closed and the first news of evacuation was making its way around the city. Jake, the thirty-two-year-old security guard, had waited with Kitty for over an hour and was thinking it wasn't a bright idea to stick around.

They were playing rummy in the breakroom, watching the clouds over downtown incessantly consume the night sky. He'd suggested leaving a half-hour earlier and waited until now to convince her it was time to make their move. They had no way of reaching her parents – or anyone else for that matter – and he told her he'd give her a ride outside the city beyond the storm so they could find their bearings and regain contact with the rest of the world. He had a friend living along the edge of the county and figured once they escaped L.A. they could wait the crisis out and reunite with friends and family later. She agreed, since it'd already been close to two hours after her father was supposed to show. She thought that maybe her parents were forced to leave without her and were hoping she'd make it out of downtown on her own. It was up to her now to find a way out of the city, and her friend Jake, who she trusted, was willing to take her with him, but he wasn't going to wait forever. He'd grown restless and was eager to leave the confusion and uncertainty of the chaos outside behind. If she didn't leave with him now, she'd end up stuck there alone.

Kitty hated to be alone.

They started down the stairs for the ground-floor when the sound of glass breaking in front of the store put them both on alert. More glass shattering, along with the clanking of metal against metal, ricocheted through the vacant aisles. Someone was pounding on the security doors at the entrance, trying to break through, but Jake was off the clock and not feeling too enthusiastic about putting in any overtime on a night like this. He decided he was only a company security guard for as long as he was getting paid, and he and his friend's safety meant more to him than the store's fully insured surplus of shoddy merchandise.

They headed for the back through the employee access doors, weaving through the storeroom's heavily packed aisles. They figured they could slip out and away from what sounded like a drunken circus of hungry hobos pounding on the front if they hurried and were quiet about it. All they needed was a bit of luck to go their way...

Jake grabbed Kitty's hand, leading her toward the exit. When they got there, he checked the peephole on the back door before opening it to be sure their escape-way was a clear path.

"Alright, Kay, stay close." The noise from the vagrants pounding on the front carried to the backdoors, picking at his rising anxieties. He pulled his keys from his belt and nervously fingered through them until he found the right one. "They're too busy trying to break through the front to catch us back here. As soon as I lock the door behind us, were gonna sneak up to the alley and take off running towards the lot. I'm parked pretty close so we'll make it with no problems, OK?"

She nodded and Jake looked her over to be sure she was ready to go before he turned back around to unlock the deadbolt.

"Wait! Wait!" she whispered loudly, and he stopped in his haste and locked the door. He looked back to see her kneel and fidget with her shoelace as she retied a bow and pulled it tight, then tightened her opposite lace just to be sure. She stood up afterward and gave Jake a nod.

He reopened the door slowly, peeking his head out to be sure the loading dock was clear, then pulled Kitty out behind him and locked the door.

The short alley in the back of the store extended one hundred feet before intersecting another alley that led toward the back lot to the left. If all went well, they'd be around the corner, in his car, and hauling ass down the block in under a minute.

"Let's go."

He kept Kitty's hand tight in his palm as they walked on eggshells toward the main alley. The keys on his belt jingled when he stepped so he used his free hand to stifle their chime. Adrenaline swelled his heart and his vision tunneled. The night outside spawned a strange air; it tasted different than the usual back-alley stench he was used to trying to avoid. He thought he may've just been imagining it, being so worked up from the calamity taking place outside the building, but he couldn't shake the notion that the air tasted of blood, its humidity only making the horrid tang more tangible on his tongue.

They snuck down the empty driveway where the company trucks would unload shipments and slid by two industrial-sized dumpsters to their left. There was ten feet of space in between the trash bins and the main alley and Jake slowed his approach to be sure it was safe to go on. He put his hand up to instruct Kitty to stay as he inched closer to the edge of the building, cautiously creeping along the wall.

Kitty's heart was beating so loudly she thought that if anyone was close by it'd give them away...

Jake turned to face the wall and slowly tilted his head to look around the corner, squeezing Kitty's hand as if leaning over a bottomless precipice, clutching for dear life. The only thing Kitty could make out before Jake was dragged by his head around the back of the building was a disgusting, clenching hand with black fingernails and dry skin gripping the top of his unwarned scalp.

Such force yanked him around the corner that his hold on her pulled her with him and she skidded out into the open alley. At first she was too shaken to see what grabbed them, only able to make out her friend's brief attempt at a scream before it was muffled by him choking. She frantically tried scampering away, but when she caught sight of the dead soldier in front of her, eyes glowing, evil orbs, she froze to bear witness to the most terrifying sight she'd never imagined—

The six-foot, blackened figure stood square, holding her friend suspended in the air by the top of his head with one hand, and his torn-out esophagus bleeding in the other. Jake's feet kicked while blood spurt from his throat as he choked on his own fluids, drowning right in front her amidst a city full of air. When his feet stopped twitching, the soldier trained his sights on Kitty as she found the courage to climb up from the asphalt. By the time she realized what had happened next, the soldier was only inches away, his fist plunged into her stomach and an evil smile etched into his soiled face.

She opened her mouth to breathe but couldn't – the pain was too intense. She stumbled back in fear and shock, and the soldier held his ground with her intestines in his grip that stretched out of her like a thread unraveling from a sweater while she backed away.

"Where d'ya think yer goin'?"

The creature addressed her with a tilted head and a sick, teasing tone, then reached out and grabbed her by her face with the same hand that held her guts. He pulled her toward him and turned her around so the back of her head pressed against his chest, then savagely dragged her and her friend deeper into the alley. The last thing she remembered was the taste of her own intestines smashed against her mouth and the sound of her friend's body being dragged alongside her as everything around her went black...

"Kitty!" Tara had the girl's hands in her grasp, squeezing, trying to break her from her paralysis. "Kitty, wake up! Snap out of it, girl, we gotta go!"

Kitty's pupils finally showed signs of focus, her eyelids fluttering as she came to. Terry waited at the breakroom's exit while Jimmy stood next to Tara, hoping they wouldn't have to leave his potential new girlfriend behind. When Kitty realized she was back inside the store, she looked down to see if her guts were still inside her. She saw Tara in front of her and followed her outstretched arms to waist-level and choked on her fear when the sight of her intestines dangling out of her stomach, slipping through Tara's fingers, pushed her into panic...

She started backing away, gasping for air to scream, too stunned by her blood covering the floor to vent. She looked up at her friends' face as if to plead for mercy with her eyes, but when she met their stare...no mercy waited...

Tara's eyes glowed blood-red, her sneer violent and cruel. The nice boy, Jimmy, grinned disdainfully while reaching with crooked fingers to clutch her neck, his vile lenses burning with brutality. She couldn't bring herself to do anything but pinch her eyes shut and hope it would all just go away...

"Kitty! Kitty, you're okay, sweetie, you're with us! Everything's okay....Kitty!!" Tara tried getting through to her, griping her hands tightly while speaking in a stern voice. "Kitty, open your eyes, honey, you're okay. Open your eyes."

Kitty didn't know what to think. Tara's voice didn't sound like the evil menace she'd seen toying with her guts in her hands; she sounded worried, and afraid... But she almost didn't want to take the risk of seeing what she had all over again.

"You were daydreaming, Kitty, it wasn't real. You're okay... _look_."

She wanted to believe her. She hoped to _God_ it was all just a dream. She didn't know if she could handle it if it wasn't. She felt like she might just lose herself completely and flat out die of terror...

"Open your eyes, sweetie, you're okay. You're okay, but you have to open your eyes."

She just wanted it all to go away. She didn't want to be there anymore.

She decided she had to at least try, so she loosened her clamped brow and opened a teary right eye. Tara's face in front of her was the caring, gentle face she remembered, her eyes a delicate shade of brown...

"See? You're okay, just like I said."

She opened her other eye to see Jimmy's worried expression weighing on his face as he stood beside her. That vile smile she thought she saw replaced with a fragile gaze, and the strength in the big hearts of the two of them gave her the courage to look down...

Her stomach was in one piece and her shirt and kakis without a drop of blood. Tara let go of one of her hands and Kitty touched her stomach to make sure what she was seeing was real.

"You're okay, right? You're with us now?"

She looked up slowly. She had to take an extra second to process Tara's question, then nodded uncertainly.

"Okay, good...because it's time to go. We're gonna get you out of here, okay?"

Her stare shifted to Jimmy who still wore his worry on his brow, but his eyes were full of hope. He seemed so nice – she wanted to go with them. She didn't want to be alone again... She nodded to respond when she felt she was focused enough to move, and Tara nodded back.

Terry stood teetering at the top of the stairs, not willing to wait for Kitty if she didn't get it together but was glad she was responding to Tara's efforts. "Are we all on the same page?"

Tara nodded. "Yeah, we're good. Let's get the hell out of here."

2

The sight of the giant, wormlike creatures infesting the sky had driven Terry and his friends into a euphoric state of angst, but they held fast to their objectives. They ran downstairs from the breakroom when Kitty was coherent enough to join them and collected their supplies. Terry and Tara held only their weapons so they could cover their friends' escape. Jimmy grabbed a large box full of the five extra handguns they found, three rifles, and two shotguns. Kitty grabbed the smaller box that housed the first aid supplies and a handful of other things they decided on taking with them.

They scurried back the way they came, slowing before reaching the back exit – eerily, the scene rang bells in Kitty's mind, resembling her prior delusion's setting too closely. She tried not to dwell, but their "backdoor escape route" nauseated her after what she'd envisioned moments before.

Terry checked the peephole of the busted door to be sure they weren't running headfirst into an alley filled with giant man-eating cockroaches or some other revolting atrocity. Their car was parked in the loading dock with its trunk toward them and front-end where the main alley began. The blood-fog was thick behind the building, but he could see clearly enough to be pretty sure it was safe to leave the store.

Terry glanced back at his friends and nodded. "Okay, let's go."

He started opening the door when Kitty's voice called out in a loud whisper, "Wait! Wait!"

They all stopped and looked back as she lowered the box and bent down to tie her shoe. She tightened the first bow without even a thought, but going through the motions raised the hairs on the back of her neck...

This was how it all started going wrong in her delusion... But...that was just a dream...

Terry noticed she'd froze in the middle of tightening her second lace so he called to her.

" _Kitty_... Are you with us?"

She heard him...but couldn't respond right away. She took a second to consider what she was going through, then reached the conclusion that this was a very different situation than what she thought she remembered. Jake wasn't with them, and she had new friends now, armed and ready for anything.

She responded finally with a nod and Terry nodded back.

"Okay, let's do it."

She wearily picked up the supply box and Terry pushed open the door.

He and Tara were the first to step out, shotguns loaded and raised. Tara's eyes wandered toward him and noticed something she thought she should mention while they still had the chance.

"Safety."

Terry responded with a befuddled gaze and she directed his confusion down to his weapon. Glancing down at it, he spotted the little switch on the left side of the gun.

"Right." He switched it off before getting his eyes back on their surroundings.

Watching her back, he covered her while she opened the hatchback on the SUV, then she turned back to Jimmy and Kitty waiting at the store's exit. When Jimmy received Tara's go-ahead, he looked to his new friend for confirmation.

"You okay?" She nodded unconvincingly, and he blew out a deep breath. "That makes _one_ of us..." She forced a tiny smile to break through her unease.

He gestured for her to go first so she scurried out into the mists.

Terry patrolled the front of the truck, venturing ahead to survey the main alley, and Kitty froze when seeing him near the corner. When he stepped out into the backstreet, looking both ways, she waited, as if expecting things to go all-to-hell at any minute...but let out the breath she hadn't realize she'd been holding when he wasn't pulled from his feet to meet his doom. She eventually shifted her eyes back to Tara who was signaling her to keep moving.

Jimmy trailed only a few steps behind. He glanced into the clouds above although he really didn't want to and knew he probably shouldn't. Lucky for him, the fog was too dense to see whatever morbid evil was swimming above. The phrase "out of sight, out of mind" rattled around in his head, and he realized how entirely inaccurate it was. He knew those things were up there and not being able to see them made him feel even more vulnerable. He felt like if he relaxed even for a second, that was when some giant, slithering serpent from an upside-down Hell would reach down and suckle the skin from off his tender bones.

"Jimmy, keep it movin'!" Terry called out when he saw his buddy getting distracted.

Tara took the box from Kitty, efficiently progressing their line, then focused on Jimmy getting his shit in gear, as did Terry, so neither noticed Kitty wandering toward the front of the car. It was as if she had to see the alley for herself to know what she envisioned before was just in her imagination. She wouldn't feel safe until she knew there wasn't some detestable thing lurking around that corner.

Jimmy finally stayed focused long enough to give Tara the box of guns before realizing Kitty wasn't beside him. He looked through the open trunk and out the inside of the car at their troubled friend tiptoeing toward the corner of the building. Tara caught his glance while adjusting the cargo and looked back to him with insistent eyes. He knew she meant for him to go after her so he gathered his courage and peeked around the truck.

"Kitty," he whispered in a strenuous tone, quietly wondering why the hell he felt the need to keep his voice down. Terry had his eyes up front and they appeared to be in the clear. He convinced himself it was safe to walk around the car and go after her. "Kitty! Wait up!"

His brave march skidded to a stop at the sight of her violently flying off the ground and into the alley. It was as if some invisible force tore her from off her feet and dragged her into the open. She tumbled into the alleyway then rolled to her backside, staring up at something that no one else could see. Something horrifying. Something abhorrent...

Terry caught the blurred image of her lunge and spun around to spot what grabbed her... But nothing was there but fog and an empty alley.

"What the fuck?" He watched as Kitty rolled onto her seat, crab-crawling back in a panic.

Jimmy, absorbing the fear in her eyes, froze where he stood...

He couldn't bring himself to do anything but watch.

"What the fuck just happened?!" Terry's concern turned to confusion and urgency, approaching while she looked ready to get up and run. "Kitty, what—?"

When she got to her feet, her body jolted as if harpooned, her jaw dropping in her stunned agony.

Jimmy, from where he stood, watched as Kitty's All-Mart shirt soaked with blood while a wetness coursed the inside of her leg. He wanted to run to her...but was too confused and frightened to budge.

A blood-colored handprint suddenly stamped Kitty's face, spinning her around so quickly that Terry jumped when she was abruptly turned to face him. The look of fear and terror in her eyes was the most demoralizing thing he'd ever seen, but it paled in comparison to the sight of her being dragged backward through the alley, kicking and clawing with nothing behind her to blame but air...

Jimmy finally found the strength to run after her while she was dragged from his line-of-sight. He turned the corner just in time to watch her disappear into nothing but a memory at the opposite edge of the building.

The two of them stood sullen, in shock as Tara finally caught up. Terry was the first to snap out of his surprise and yelled out in desperate confusion.

"What the FUCK just happened?!"

"Where is she?" Tara didn't know what was going on. She saw Kitty being dragged away by nothing but didn't see her disappear. "What...what happened? Where'd she go?" Her voice was soft – so lost she couldn't find it in herself to speak at full volume.

Terry still stood gaping at the empty alley – an angry and confused glare burning across his face – but _Jimmy's_ stare just seemed completely emptied of hope. He spoke up to answer Tara's question and could only manage half a whisper.

"She's gone..."

Tara didn't understand. "What...?" She couldn't find the words...

But Terry had seen enough.

It was time to leave.

"Let's go."

Tara looked over at him, dead in his eyes, but he refused to return her stare. Jimmy followed his friend's retreat and Tara eventually fell in line. Terry decided not to think about what it was they just saw, but Jimmy was still trying to make sense of it. He backtracked in his mind, going over all their steps...searching for the missing piece to a puzzle that may never be whole...then suddenly realized they'd left something in the store.

"Shit...the _ammo_..."

Terry's eyes carried the weight of Jimmy's words. With all the commotion, he completely forgot they'd left the bullets behind. Without the ammo, their guns wouldn't be worth their weight in shit.

"Fuck..." He almost didn't want to bother but decided "not bothering" would've made their little side trip a complete waste. "...I'll get it..."

"No." Jimmy spoke up with a certainty Terry hadn't heard in his voice before. "Stay here. Watch Tara. I'll go."

Terry nodded, a little taken by Jimmy's tone. It would seem that after the heaping puss-storm of recent turmoil, there just might be hope for his piss-scared little buddy after all.

He looked over at the lady in his group and gave her the go-ahead to get in the truck. She slipped reservedly into the front seat while Jimmy headed back into the store.

Jimmy couldn't help but relive the moment over and over in his mind. He saw Kitty violently lunge into the alley all on her own, look terrified toward something as if scared for her life, then get punctured at the stomach and ripped from reality like a page torn from a book right in front of his eyes...

Were these zombie-super-soldiers able to blend into their surroundings like chameleons _along_ with their ability to leap in tall bounds? He figured he shouldn't put it past them. If it were possible for giant, leviathan larvae to swim through the clouds, it might not be such a stretch to think zombies could have the same powers as the Invisible _Woman_...

But he let the thought go to be sure he stayed focused.

Navigating through the store, he aimed his haste for the Sporting Goods department. The whole place felt so empty without his friends or Kitty, and the thought of her sent a chill up his spine. He reached into his waistline where he'd stashed a handgun, pulled it out and switched off the safety. He'd hate to have to use the damn thing and be in too much of a panic to figure out how to fire.

The gun counter was a few yards in front of him and he zeroed in on the cardboard box resting on the glass display. He put the loaded weapon back in his pants and reached out with both arms to hug the big box of bullets like it was a small child in need of rescue. He made sure he had a firm grip on the goods but dropped the box and spun around startled when he heard a soft voice behind him—

"...H-Hello...?"

What the fuck...?

"Kitty?"

There she was...as plain as day, wide-eyed and peeking around the aisle just as she had before.

She looked confused when he spoke her name and stepped out to face him. There wasn't a drop of blood on her shirt or her kakis... She appeared just as she had an hour earlier...

"How...how do you know my name?"

Jimmy's heart pounded in his chest, gaining speed with the oddness of the moment...

"Kitty...it's...it's _me_.... _Jimmy_."

She inspected him with her adorable sad eyes and didn't appear to have a clue who he was.

"... I...don't know you... Do... Do you know me?"

This didn't make any sense... What was she doing back inside the store? How did she get there, why wasn't she hurt, and what the fuck was going on?!

He couldn't find any more words to use to even make an attempt at figuring out what was happening so just stood there, staring, trying to decide if what he was seeing was real. He looked to be caught in the moment, struggling to string together a single sentence, so she spoke up in his silence.

"I'm... I'm waiting...for my dad... He... He said he was coming to get me..."

Was this really happening? Was she really there or ever even there in the first place? Did he just imagine her this whole time or was there something else going on he couldn't begin to understand?

He didn't know what to do...or what to say, but figured he'd better play it as naturally as he could and try not to give away how frightened or confused he was. Expressing his fear and disorientation might only make a mixed-up situation even more confounding.

"We – me and my friends – we have a truck." He tried washing away his emotional uproar and speaking as casually as he could. "It's... It's out back....We're gonna get out of here... You can come too...if you want."

Kitty looked like she was considering his offer but wasn't sure if she could trust this strange young man who popped out of nowhere claiming to know her.

"N-no... It's... It's okay....I'm waiting for my dad... He said he'd come get me after work."

Jimmy tried nodding casually as if he didn't already know what she was going to say, then walked slowly past.

"Okay... I'm...gonna go then..."

All of this was too much... At this point he just wanted to leave All-Mart behind for good...with or without her.

She watched him walk by and almost felt as though she'd miss him even though she had no memory of who he was.

He peeked at her through the corner of his eyes as he passed, reluctantly heading for the exit. He could feel her watching him as he got further away and deep inside felt a kind of remorse, or guilt for leaving her behind... But he didn't understand what he was dealing with. She must have been trapped in the store somehow...reliving her own death... Caught in the hope of her father coming to rescue her... But he didn't even know if that made any sense. After all, she was more than just an apparition. She helped them load the weapons. He felt the warmth of her body when he brushed by her on the way out of the building. He could smell her shampoo for God's sake. She wasn't a ghost or a spirit... Or at least not like any spirit he's ever heard of, so...what the hell was she?

He turned back to take in the sight of her one last time before decidedly letting her go – her eyes so helplessly delicate... He was ready to melt at the sight of her, but she had no idea of who he was and that left a gaping hole hollowing out his chest.

He wound up the corner of his lips in the slightest attempt at a farewell smile and thought he almost saw a gleam of recognition in her eyes. Then he walked into the back hallway heading for the exit and didn't look back.

The backdoor was still open, and he gazed out at Terry standing next to the truck.

"Let's go, man, I'm gettin' real tired of breathin' this air..."

He hurried to the trunk, set the box inside and closed the hatch. Terry noticed him freeze for an instant when he closed the door so he walked back toward him to check in.

"You okay?" He caringly looked over his friend who seemed in even _worse_ shape than he was before.

Jimmy had no idea how to tell him what he'd just been through so he didn't bother. He nodded to let his friend know he was good enough to respond, at least, and Terry put his hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah..." Jimmy finally found it in him to answer. He took in a deep breath then let it go. "...Let's just get out of here."

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Hell's Beasts Hunger

1

"So, how'd you do it?"

Smoke was dying to get all the gritty little details concerning his father's act of personal self-sacrifice. The streets were spacious an uneventful, without so much as a lowly vagrant to gawk at. A little conversation, he figured, might go a long way toward him not being entirely bored to demon tears.

"What? Get yer mom in the sack?"

"Nah, man... Your eyes? How'd you get 'em outta the sockets?"

He pushed out a hmph and shook his head. "Wasn't easy... Had to pin my eyelids to my eyebrows to start. Then I used a razorblade to cut the soft tissue around 'em that attached 'em to the sockets..." He made a back and forth cutting motion with his hand to add visual stimuli to his storytelling. "After that, I used a spoon, popped 'em out far enough to grab, then stretched the fuckers 'til I had room to cut whatever the hell it was holdin' 'em in place."

"That's some hardcore shit, old man. You think it's gonna save your ass from gettin' merked when we get back?"

Kalon tore at the bottom of his prison shirt and ripped off a long, rectangular strip of orange cloth. He felt for each end and tied them around his head like a blindfold.

"Don't think so. I figure yer mom'll wanna do me like she did you. In fact, I'm countin' on it. Planin' on makin' a stand by 'er side. Not gonna be able to do that if I'm still breathin'. Wouldn't be much of an asset as a blind ol' man, now would I?"

He nodded. His father was more hip to the scene than he would've guessed. He wondered if he and his mom already had this whole thing mapped out years before but got the impression his dear ol' dad didn't have the brain capacity to strategize that far ahead. He was more than likely just along for the ride. He didn't bother asking. He was more interested in getting back to the cemetery and getting this whole "Hell on Earth" thing moving along... And maybe coining a spot of chaos in the city streets in the meantime.

"Hey..." He eyeballed his father with a grin. "You wanna drive?"

Kalon turned his bleeding face toward him, manifesting as serious a look as he could muster.

"I don't got no eyeballs, son...and I've been in prison for the past sixteen years of my life....You bet yer sweet ass I wanna drive!"

"Good, cuz I'm starvin' and I brought a snack. I'd hate to eat while operating the vehicle. Wouldn't wanna fuck up the upholstery."

Smoke stomped on the brakes, catching his father off guard who reached out and braced himself against the dash. The Camaro came to a stop in the middle of the street and he and his father both got out to switch places. Kalon walked around the front of the car with his hand trailing its contours like reading braille along its hood. Smoke took the opposite route with a pitstop at the trunk for brunch. He lifted the lid and took his pick of four severed heads that'd been rolling around inside, softening up the meat between their ears with the bumpy ride.

"This dude looks like he had a good head on his shoulders." He palmed a black man's noggin who had on a pair of prescription glasses with a strapped attached that kept them tight around his face. He shut the trunk and walked around the side of the car with the head hanging at arm's length, a stream of blood from its neck trailing Smoke to his seat.

"Alright, old man... Show me what you got."

Kalon revved the engine and shook the stick around in neutral to get a feel for her.

"Buckle up, boy!...This is bound to get ugly."

He punched the gas and dropped the clutch—

The Camaro took off screaming along the asphalt with a cloud of white smoke twirling in its wake and the smell of fuel burning through the vents. Kalon let out some sort of cowboylike yowl, and Smoke just chuckled and dug his hand into the neck of the head resting on his lap like a bucket of popcorn. The g-force from second gear pushed the two men back in their seats when it tried breaking free of Earth's hold, and Kalon laughed at the sensation like a drunken bull rider at a rodeo.

"How'm I doin'?"

"Driftin' a little to the right. Try not to scratch—" Sparks flew passed the passenger window when the side of the Camaro scraped along a row of parked cars. The sideview mirror snapped off and flipped over the roof, and the passenger window eventually shattered under the pressure. "...the paint."

Smoke finished his sentence about three seconds too late and looked over to his father who'd adjusted his path enough to be more centered in the road as he pushed into third. The smile on Kalon's face was so juvenile that Smoke couldn't help but laugh while he dusted the broken glass off his chest. They tore down the empty city street doing seventy-five and the roar of the engine echoed through the vacant blocks.

"So how much you know about what's goin' on?" Smoke figured now would be a good time for that "father/son" chat he'd been anticipating.

"Only as much as I seen in my dreams." With both windows down, they raised their voices to talk over the wind and howling engine. "Yer mother's influence is burnt into my head like a brand on a steer's ass. It started when she was young. There's somethin' about that woman's eyes... Fuckin' frightenin' as all fuck, but damn near irresistible. Had no idea what it was when we were kids. Just thought it was 'er curves and 'er lips. Turns out it was those eyes." He seemed to indulge in the visual, appreciating the beauty and detail of his memories. "Takin' a swim in 'er stare is like puttin' a cold needle in yer arm....You ever chase the dragon?"

"Fuckin' A."

"Then you know what it is I'm sayin'."

The car jerked around and a thump rolled under it when something bounced against its frame and was spit out the backside.

"What the fuck was that?"

"Nothin'... Don't trip. It was already dead... Down shift. You gotta right turn comin' up."

Kalon dropped it into third and let the transmission slow them down.

"Again."

He followed his son's lead and bumped it down to second.

"Hard right, right...now..."

He pulled the Camaro against its own inertia, the tires squealing alongside his 30mph, 90-degree turn. The tail-end got away from him a little and crunched up against a car that was flipped over on the other side of the street. The back tires fishtailed off the impact and he let up on the gas.

"Straighten her out."

He let the feel of centrifugal force pull him back into a straight line. "Am I good?"

"You're fuckin' Dale Earnhardt, man. You sure you can't see outta them holes in your face?"

Kalon smiled perversely. "So, where were we?"

"Her eyes."

"...Her fuckin' eyes..." He sneered at the thought. "They've been showin' me this day for the past two decades. Ever since I offed 'er sister for 'er. They come to me in my dreams. Haunt me when I'm awake, even....I can see them right now...beckonin' me..."

"What d'you think she wants with you?"

"No fuckin' clue... Don't give a shit, neither. All I know is, in the beginning, she needed children. Somethin' about 'er bloodline... After I killed yer aunt, havin' yer sister was the priority. She only needed two more lives to complete 'er spell – or whatever the fuck you wanna call it – but havin' a few extra rug rats around couldn't hurt....You never know when one's gonna up an' die by accident or some shit..."

"So, I was born to die?" He wasn't offended; he just wanted to say it out loud, fiddle with the thought of it out in the open.

"We're all born to die, son. Difference is, yer death was meant for somethin'."

Smoke liked the sound of that. He'd never thought of his life as important or in any way meaningful. To think he had a purpose, and saw it through, filled him with a sense of pride he'd never known.

"Left turn comin' up."

"How soon?"

"Hard t'say... The fog's real thick this close to the graveya—"

His sentence was interrupted by a holler and heavy thud smashing against the front of the car. It sounded like a man's voice yelling something like "hey" or "hell" but it was hard to make out over the engine. It turns out, the car cut a wandering dead soldier right in half, exploding the bottom of him into chunks of bloodied cemetery soil and flipping the top of him over the roof.

"What I hit this time?...And don't tell me it was dead already, 'cause I heard 'im screamin'..."

"Ah, technically he was dead," Smoke answered in mid-mouthful of spongy brain meat, "but you didn't get all of 'im. He'll be cool."

Behind them, the upper torso of the severed dead-man rolled to a stop on the black asphalt and dragged himself off the street using his arms like oars in a kayak. Eventually, he'd either hitch a ride with one of his demon kin or find his own way twenty-five blocks back to the cursed soil that could replace his missing half after five or six hours of chillaxing in a closed grave. He didn't need to worry about bugs or animals finishing him off in the meantime; his undead flesh was poison, even to those things on Earth that fed on the dead.

"Drop it down to third. I think that turn's comin' up on the next block."

"What's the city look like right now? I mean, I know it's empty...but how much of Hell is here?"

"From what I can feel, it's like this whole place is alive... The dead own the streets; the sky's swimming with giant, Hell spawned worms; the dark has a mind of its own; the air tastes like human blood and misery... It's fuckin' beautiful, man..."

"I'll hafta take yer word for it. Smells like shit to me..."

"That's probably me... I think my balls are growin' some kinda fungus....Hard left right here."

The tires squealed and Kalon tore through the corner, manipulating the gears in accordance.

"Think I'm gettin' a feel for 'er!" He straightened out the Camaro's path and accelerated back into third. "So, what's it like?"

"What? Being dead?"

He nodded.

Smoke took a second to think about it before settling on an answer.

"S'like...droppin' ten hits of acid, smokin' a blunt laced with PCP, and snortin' a rail of coke that's longer than your fuckin' arm." Yeah, that about summed it up. "Pure fuckin' insanity. With just enough control to let you actually think in a straight line....It's fuckin' amazing, man. Kicks the shit out of any drug I've ever snorted, shot, or inhaled."

"Huh... Sounds promisin'."

"And the power... It's not just some drug-trip illusion. It's real. I threw a fuckin' car outta my way like it was made of paper. I got shot full of more holes than a fuckin' whiffle ball and it didn't even faze me....Yeah, I played like I was out for a few minutes, but that was just to see the look on the pig's face when I skewered him with a tire iron after he thought I was toast."

"Tire Iron? That yer weapon of choice?" He scoffed at his son's approach to murder. "...Kids these days got no imagination..."

"I've been draggin' around this giant fucking ax I got from the prison since then. This shit's pretty badass... But I prefer guns." He pulled out the pistol he took from one of the prison guards and cocked the slide. "Police issue. Still loaded."

"Zombies with fuckin' guns, huh?...Just don't seem right..."

"Fuck 'right'. I wanna shoot people. Like a fuckin' cowboy. Thought you'd appreciate that. Fuckin' John Wayne type shit."

"A gun's what got me locked up. They make too much noise... Cause a big fuckin' scene. Did some readin' in the joint; studied up on swordplay. Been itchin' to put the knowledge to use."

"You're gonna bring a fuckin' sword to a gunfight? You think you're Jackie Chan or some shit?"

"If I'm already dead, I can kill you however the fuck I want, alright? Like you said: bullets didn't faze you. So how d'ya think yer guns would do against my swords if you don't got no fuckin' arms an' legs?"

"You gotta point... But that's assumin' moms is gonna turn you. What if she decides to feed you to her pet wolf?...You think I smell bad... Wait 'til you meet this fuckin' thing."

He shook his head. "If there's one thing yer mother's not, it's scorned. She never gave a shit about me enough to be mad or wanna punish me. I've always only done what she's asked. She was my Queen years before she ever actually was one. I'll serve 'er in death ten times as loyal as I did in life....A smart ruler wouldn't throw away a subject like me." He nodded to himself, confident in his words. "I'll be one of you soon enough....And when I am, I'm gonna happily slice my way through whatever resistance that fuckin' halfwit in the Whitehouse sends our way."

Smoke shrugged. "Whatever soaps your stroke, old man. I still wanna shoot people. But when the bullets run out, don't think I won't hack me the fuck outta some soldier boys with my fireman's ax. I'll be Paul fuckin' Bunyan in a forest full of US military stick-figures. I'll turn a whole battalion of government puppets into chopped up piles of human toothpicks."

Kalon chuckled. "I take it back... Turns out you kids got an imagination after all."

Smoked grinned with a mouth full of cerebellum and gazed onto the street beside them. "Whoa, whoa, whoa...hold up." He spotted something out of the corner of his dead eyes that sparked malicious intrigue.

"What? What's the problem?"

"Stop the car for a minute."

"What is it?"

"A kid..."

"So? Who gives a shit?...You still hungry or somethin'?"

"Nah... But what the fuck is he doin' out here? I'm gonna go grab him. Moms'll like 'im. The purer the soul, the more beastly the demon she can stuff it with." He set his severed head down on the floor of the car, got out and walked toward the little African-American boy strolling down the adjacent block.

"Ayo, kid! Why the fuck aren't you dead?! Shouldn't you be somebody's shit stain by now?"

The boy stopped and turned around at the sound of his voice. He looked to be about four years old, dirty with smudges of blood on his clothes, but seemed fine. He had a stuffed Elmo under his arm, his two middle fingers in his mouth, and big bronze eyes.

Smoke walked up to him, towering above, and picked him up to raise him eye to eye.

"Can you talk?"

The boy nodded.

"Then fuckin' say somethin', you little freak."

He took his fingers out of his mouth and made a face. "You smell bad."

Smoke scowled. "If people keep tellin' me that shit I might actually start to believe it... Let's go, bite-size. You're comin' with me."

"Why?"

"Because you're ugly and ugly people hafta do what I say."

The boy didn't seem convinced. "Why?"

"Cuz I'm the king of fucking ugly. Now shut the fuck up and quit askin' stupid questions. Get in the car."

He put the boy down next to the Camaro and the little guy climbed into the backseat. He reached for the seatbelt, clicked it around his waist, then put his fingers back in his mouth. Smoke watched him secure himself in the back, impressed with his obedience. He then flopped back into the front seat and settled in.

"You ready, Mother Teresa?" Kalon figured he'd poke fun at his son while he had the chance.

"Blow me, old man. This kid is fuckin' gold."

"If you say so."

He put the car back in gear and started back down the block.

Smoke sat there for a minute, still surprised how well behaved the boy was, then decided on continuing where he'd left off with the snack-food between his feet. He grabbed the head, took a piece of brain from the bottom of its skull, mouthed it, then reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. He figured his dad wasn't using it so he could aim it at whatever the hell he wanted. He tilted it to inspect the specimen in the backseat and the kid just sat there quietly, sucking on his dirty middle fingers, staring back at smoke with big eyes. Smoke took another bite out of his skull-bowl while he watched the boy like he was expecting him to do tricks, then he got bored and nudged his father on the arm.

"Watch this..." He extended the head he ate from back toward the boy. "Hey, kid...you hungry?" Kalon chuckled and Smoke flashed a bloody-toothed grin the boy's way.

The boy looked at him innocently, then reached out and put his hand in through the bottom of the severed neck. He pinched off a piece of neck-meat with veins dangling from his grip, took his fingers out of his mouth and replaced them with the dead flesh.

"Holy shit... He's eating it!" Smoke laughed out loud. "He's actually fucking eating it! Haha!"

"No shit?"

"Yeah, man, I think he likes it!"

Smoke held the head steady and the boy reached for another helping.

"He's hungry too... Probably hasn't ate since yesterday..."

Kalon was both surprised and a little suspicious. He decided on asking the boy a couple questions to see what sort of stuff he was made of.

"You gotta name, kid?"

"Mmmm... Messalum." He declared his name through a mouthful of soft tissue and veins and Smoke got a strange sensation at the sound of it. He immediately knew something was different about him but didn't know what.

"Messalum?...That's a pretty fucked up name..." Kalon's feelings toward the boy's name, on the other hand, were obvious. "Where's the sick fuckers who named yer sorry little ass that, huh? Where's yer parents?"

The kid reached up for another bite of meat and answered right before he put it in his mouth. "In Hell," he offered casually.

Smoke looked over to his father, wondering if he'd heard what he thought he had. Kalon squinted under his bloody rag at the boy's answer, not yet sure of what to make of him.

"In Hell? You mean somebody killed 'em, right?" Smoke thought the kid might've overheard someone say it when they butchered his parents in front of him, but had a gut feeling leaning toward taking him more literally.

"No... That's where we live. I was the only one smallest enough to fit through the cracks. But more will come."

Smoke somehow knew the boy was speaking true. He could smell it on him now and see it in his eyes. Before, he thought the scent was coming from their surroundings, or the stench of trauma marinated into the boy's flesh. But once he heard him pronounce his name, his gut told him he wasn't of this world. He just wasn't sure of it until now.

"You mean you were born in Hell? There're people born in Hell?" Kalon never thought of Hell as a place with actual people living in it...

"I'm not a people... I'm a gorrorgorde."

"What the fuck is a gorrorgorde?"

Smoke was intrigued by this tiny, little creature of Hell and wanted to know more, but the kid just shrugged and hummed an "I don't know" sound over his mouthful of dead meat. He was too young to answer his questions directly.

"Are they all like you? Ugly, little, and stupid?"

"Uh-uh," he shook his head. "We grow up."

"To be big like me?"

"Uh-uh... Big like those."

The boy-creature Messalum pointed out Smoke's passenger window at a two-story building they passed.

"What, like the fuckin' building?"

He nodded.

"Holy shit." Smoke's interest was piqued to say the least... "I like this kid. I think I wanna keep 'im. What d'you think, kid? You wanna be my pet gorrgo-whatever-the-fuck?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically.

"Nice. Let's stop by a pet store and get 'im a spiked collar."

Kalon wanted a little more information before deciding to treat the little demon like a pet gerbil.

"So, what do you 'gorrorgordes' do?"

"We guard the King," he chimed.

"The King? What, you mean Lucifer?"

"Nooo..." he shook his head. "Not the God King. Our King....The Gate King."

"What gate? The Gates of Hell?"

He nodded and reached for more of the head Smoke was still holding.

"...Here, just take the whole thing, you greedy little leach." He let the head go, so the creature eagerly accepted it and tucked it under his arm to dig in.

"Maybe we shouldn't be fuckin' with this kid. Sounds like he might have friends in high places..." Kalon was still thinking like a living, human being and Smoke just dismissed him with a shake of his head.

"Fuck that. What're they gunna do, kill us?" He had a point. "His king will bow to our queen. She's probably already got him by the nuts, anyway. How else could she raise Hell on Earth if not through the Gate King?...No. I'm keepin' the little fucker. His folks abandoned him just like you assholes abandoned me. I'll raise him as my own. Teach him to be a man... Or a giant, two-story fucking monster or whatever... At least until he pisses me off or starts talkin' too much." He noticed a curve in the road up ahead so he spoke up. "Turn the wheel to 2 o'clock for about five seconds then straighten her back out." His copiloting skills were practically second nature by this point and his father absorbed the input with hardly a thought. Every once in a while, Smoke would have to grab the wheel and swerve around an impenetrable obstacle, but for the most part he just let the speed and solid build of the car push all the little things out of their way. "One thing I don't get, though..."

"What's that?"

"What's with the kid's clothes and the stuffed Elmo under his arm? They gotta Old Navy in Hades? A fuckin' Baby Gap for demons?" He looked back at the boy who was scraping the insides of the skull clean. "Where'd you get the gear, kid?"

"What's 'gear'?"

"The clothes and the stuffed monkey? Where'd you get 'em from?"

"From a dead boy."

That would've been his second guess...

"I'm hungry..." Messalum dropped the hollowed-out head on the floor and proclaimed his unappeased apatite with a whine.

"Fuck...he's startin' to bug me already... You just ate, you little bastard, how much food you need?"

"...I want him." He pointed his pudgy, bloody finger at Kalon, and Kalon smiled knowing exactly what the little demon was asking for.

"I got plans for him; he's not on the menu." He sighed. "...Maybe pickin' the little shit up wasn't a good idea after all..." He gazed out the window in thought but snapped his head back when he heard his father scream in pain.

" _AAAHHhhhrrrffFFFUUuuck!!!"_

Messalum had unlatched his seatbelt and clamped his jaws around Kalon's trapezoid, biting into his flesh with a snarl.

"FUUUCK!! GET HIM OFF!!" He pulled against the wheel and slammed on the brakes, spinning the Camaro in the middle of the street, whipping the boy's body around with his teeth still dug into his upper shoulder. "SONOVABITCH!! LET GO OF ME!!"

"I got 'im, I got 'im... Relax!"

Smoke grabbed the boy by his scalp and yanked him off his father, large chunk of muscle tissue and all. He threw the boy against the backseat and the g-force from their spin kept him pinned while he swallowed the fresh meat with an invigorated quiver. The car finally came to a stop and Smoke kept his eye on the boy, sensing something was changing in him. Messalum's eyes flared in an icy blue and he clenched every muscle in his body with the swell of vitality surging through him from the consumption of living, human tissue. He shook with his jaws fastened shut and groaned against the strain of growing new bone and muscle fibers.

"Shit..." Smoke had a pretty fair idea of where this was going. "...I think Popeye just found his spinach."

Messalum sprung forward uncontrollably, lashing with his teeth for another taste but Smoke was fast enough to grab him by his neck that'd swelled up to twice its size.

"Get outta the car, old man... Little dude's not gunna be so little for long."

Kalon snapped out of the shock from the pain to hear the miniature sub-creature snarl behind him. He blindly felt around for the door handle then stumbled from the car, crawling to the curb.

Smoke looked the exploding specimen in its ravenous eyes as it clawed at his forearms with growing hands and long, boney fingers bigger than his own. Messalum growled against the metamorphosis, getting larger with his every breath, filling up the entire backseat of the car, head crunched against the bulging roof...

Smoke realized he wouldn't be able to hold him for long, so he released his grip from his throat and backed out, retreating through the passenger door. He stumbled clear with the force of the creature's booming maturity. The Camaro's frame whimpered under the stress of the weight and its sheer size, and eventually its roof gave-way and was torn from the car's body.

"GRRRRRAAAAAAHHHHH!!!"

A dominant grumble forced Smoke back further from the wreck of the car – it nearly flattened under Messalum's gaining mass. It seemed that living human meat was all it took for the child-demon to become the full-grown gorrorgorde that darkened the street in front of him.

It huffed in a show of dominance as its slate-gray, nearly transparent skin rippled with veins and sprouted coarse, black hairs like those on a spider. Its face was skeleton-like with a thin layer of skin stretched over its relatively small head until it reached its practically lipless mouth. Its gums were the blue color of blood and its teeth jagged and numerous, nine to twelve inches apiece. It had no eyebrows or nose but pointed bat-like ears reaching the top of its slightly elongated skull. When it finished growing, it stood hunched at thirty-five feet tall, with long arms and fingers whose knuckles nearly touched the ground. Its feet were like a vulture's talons, with three claws spread out to the front and one in back; their nails giant, charcoal ice picks cutting into the surface of the road.

Messalum took in a deep breath at his full size and unleashed it as a roar at the red sky. His call was an announcement to Hell that he had made it to Earth and could exist where he naturally shouldn't. Those observing in the underworld would be pleased with the test results made apparent from the maturation of the first of their Hell's scouts.

Smoke stared up at the creature knowing it'd be a challenge as soon as it remembered that living, human meat was close by. He wondered how his strength would compare against a beast this size. Would it squash him like dog shit under a bootheel, or would he prove a formidable challenge for the Hell's guardian? He figured he'd find out soon enough since it didn't take it long before the smell of Kalon's blood enticed its senses.

It sniffed the air twice then effortlessly found the source of the pungent aroma, glaring down at the little human with a growl and a river of drool flowing from its pallet.

"YO!!"

Smoked gave it a holler as soon as its attentions found his father, but it didn't seem to care enough to respond. The gorrorgorde turned to face its soon-to-be evening snack, and Smoke rapidly scanned his surroundings for something to help grab its attention. He surveyed the flattened wreck of his once proud trophy-ride and saw the wooden handle of his ax sticking from what was left of the passenger's door frame. He used his speed and strength to slide it quickly from the heap, then hopped over the car's remains and swung for what would pass as the gorrorgorde's ten-foot-long pinky toe. He didn't want to damage the beast permanently – after all, they were like family; he'd practically raised the little tyke – so he didn't swing with unrelenting force. He got the feeling he could've taken the thing's claw clean off but just dug into it as deep as the ax-blade above its middle knuckle.

"I said, YO!!" His second holler was with a force and tone the creature recognized. It growled against the pain of the blade in its foot, but before it lost its cool, tilted its head to gnarl back at its aggressor. "I told you: he ain't on the fucking menu!"

Smoke's eyes swirled in layers of magenta as he removed the ax from its foot and the beast finally paid him mind. It turned away from Kalon to stand squarely in front of its challenger, and Smoke figured he was in for a fight, but Messalum just stood there as if waiting for something important to happen.

"Why aren't you tryin' to kill me?" He was confused by its lack of action.

" **YOU...ARE...SOVEREIGNTY."** His snarling voice boomed with extradimensional vehemence.

"...The fuck you talkin' about?"

"You're yer mother's son, ya fuckin' retard!" Kalon yelled though his pain from his place of collapse on the curb, figuring he'd help his kid get up to speed.

" **MESSALUM......SERVES."**

Smoke was still a little stunned by the changing tides but tried to play it off. "Damn fuckin' right you serve, you ugly fuck." He quickly took to the way this whole 'bloodline thing' was turning out for him. "You smashed the shit outta my Camaro, Messalum. You've made daddy very fuckin' irritated..." The creature just stood at attention, awaiting orders. "Pick me and the old man up. You're gunna take us to the cemetery." Messalum reached down and swooped them both into his hands, and Kalon groaned against his own weight being jerked around. "Remember, the geezer's fragile... We need him alive for the Queen." It cupped them both with its long fingers so it wasn't squeezing the piss out of the lowly, bleeding human. "And hurry the fuck up... The Camaro could've got us there in another five min—"

His words were lost to surprise when the creature turned and jumped into the sky. It leaped hundreds of feet through the air, tearing past the red mist that filled the city. With one hurdle, it soared five blocks. Three or four more bounds like that and Smoke might actually get his father back to his mother in one piece... He just hoped Kalon wouldn't die of blood loss or shock in the meantime.

The last thing he wanted was to fail his mother on his first assignment. He was royalty now and suddenly felt the responsibility of taking the end of the world as a burden on his own shoulders. Everyone has to grow up sometime. It seemed time for Smoke to start taking his undeath a little more seriously. Who knows? Maybe his mother would make his father the Court Jester and decide to honor him as King. They could rule the planet together while his father juggled his swords for their amusement.

Mother and son... King and Queen... Husband and wife?

Fuck it! It was the new Hell! A little pinch of Twisted couldn't hurt to kick this thing off. Worst case scenario, he could marry his cousin Alex and rule on the other side of the hemisphere. They'd serve Marty up as pot-roast for the wedding banquet and consummate their perverted, joined lineage over emptied plates of his devoured carcass. Dear ol' dad could do the honors of performing the ceremony, and mom could impregnate his sultry new bride with the first demon spawn ever to be born of a human mother on Earth.

The joyous possibilities were endless and his mouth watered at the thought of their ultimate family reunion. Soon, he and his mother would have their victory over his brother and that little human slut of a cousin, and he'd finally have a real family to call his own. He was so proud and eager he could almost cry anxious tears of his own thick, black blood – but was way too macho to display that kind of sentiment. Instead he'd try his hand at patience and maybe invade another of Alex's dreams in the meantime. She felt so close now he could savor her flesh on his dry tongue, his stomach rumbling in anticipation of her skin's sweet perfume...

Miles away, Alex shuddered in the backseat of the cab when a perverse chill climbed up her spine...

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dead Bedfellows

1

From hundreds of feet above the cemetery, if giant sky-worms had eyes or even cared for taking in a view, below they'd look upon colossal red, yellow, and orange towers reaching upward, stabbing at the bottoms of their worming bellies. Blood-magik sigils sat branded into the earth like crop circles that laid claim to every human soul under the crimson sky and demanded allegiance from any undead who rose from cursed soil. The fifth or even sixth wave of dead soldiers now reached from their decades-old graves and dug through blood and dirt to taste the despoiled air, while those more recently laid to rest were nearly ready to join their ranks.

Imala's soldiers had been selective when choosing those they buried and only planted the victims who seemed individually intimidating enough to join their hordes, whereas the rest were completely eaten or cast into the giant cocktail of corpses at the center of the graveyard. A rivulet of arterial fluids flushed through the heart of the cemetery, overflowing the cement canal built to divert water from storms and intersecting this massive grave at its middle, feeding it fresh death and human sacrifice intravenously.

Tens of thousands of dead-men now walked among the living while just as many were buried in their place, soon to be ripe for resurrection.

The new Hell was closer than most would care to know.

A growing pile of stolen weapons bulged behind the citadel, hundreds of guns deep, confiscated from those they killed who bore arms. But no dead-man felt the need to fill his grips with manmade metal just yet... But because they didn't, didn't mean they wouldn't. The military wouldn't be expecting a firefight when they arrived to confront Imala's armies and, for that reason, would be caught off guard when black bullets tore through the flesh of their comrades. These demons may be demons indeed, but were conceived from the bodies and minds of human soldiers and would fall in line like armed forces when the time came for combat.

Treetops in the cemetery still burned endlessly in roaring flames, and Jean-Claude stood at the roots of the brightest and hottest, his piercing gaze fixed on the gleaming structure his queen fashioned her cathedral from. He wondered what miraculous magics and meticulous mayhems she'd prepared for the world while her New Hell grew hotter around them. What sort of monsters would crawl from the fiery pits of Lucifer's cage and call his queen their master? What was is it she was doing inside her castle at this very minute and how would it favor her becoming a goddess? He only wished he could peer through her fortress of flame to see, even if only to lie his undead eyes on her powerful figure just once... Her demon elegance was awe inspiring, and even his black heart wasn't immune to the thrills her wiles invoked in men.

But there would be time for her worship later. The hour approached when the US government and their forces would be hopelessly moving to invade, and Jean-Claude planned to be somewhere else entirely, marching alongside forces of his own. While Imala's servant-demons fought for the land they'd taken, J.C. would be out hunting for something that meant so much more than victory: an immortal vendetta. His competition with the mere man, Marty Grimson, didn't end with their deaths but, instead, grew a fresh, undying passion, and would be a battle ten times that of those who would fight for survival alone. Their fight would not be for honor, freedom, or integrity. Their fight would be for the pure sport and pleasure of battle – two undead warriors whose rivalry outlasted their own mortality.

Their fight...was ordained.

He stood watch over the graves of his friends beside him, waiting...knowing his new and improved hockey team from Hell was nearly ready to surface. And like burnt bread popping out of a toaster, 29 fists burst from the bloodied soil at J.C.'s feet, one after the other; the closest to him first (being the first of them buried) straight down the line of graves to the last. Hound, then Priest then Hound; alternating from one great team to the other, unifying them both in death through the twisted power of their demon monarch—

There was Staimos and Carl, Boner and Donny, clawing at the air above, ravaging through the dirt that covered their corpses.

Reed, Mac, Tobin and Bryan, clenching their fists over ground, grabbing for the throat of the world beyond.

Carson and Newhart, Suiter and Brooks; and J.C. stood boasting over the emergence of his undead family, his chest swelled with pride as stiff fists continued breaking through the Earth's cage, Hound and then Priest.

Zeus, Shye, Garcia, and O'Bryan, the ground rumbling at the simultaneous commotion of such great powers all erupting at once.

Thomas Hops and Jack Barley: two regular opposites who might prove to be a mixed brew worthy of the foul creatures spawned in this New Hell.

Jay Clayton and Trevor Lord: both "stay-at-home" defensemen who would find little use for prudence in their new roles, despite their professional instincts as men.

The first in the line of the New Dead – the 6'4" Spanish/Italian called Roman Staimos – thrashed about as his friends beside him followed in his lead, tearing through dirt tombs to lift their heads to greet the world...

Donovan, Orell, Cayman, and Comrie; their hands flexing in the night air, grasping at this curse obtruded upon them called existence while those before them grunted and spit at the unsatisfactory taste of the wind.

Connelly, Mason, Bradley, and Cameron: Hound and then Priest and then Hound and Hound again (the unequivocal numbers botched without Jimmy and Terry as part of the lineup). These had been some of the county's most unruly athletes in life, and in death, were likely to be the most uninhibited and brash.

And in the final grave, the last to be buried and certainly most savage, raised the Hell Hounds' infamous goaltender; the barbarian of net minders; the brute of all goalkeeps; the scourge of the Mild Weather Goons Hockey League...

Sally. J. Thompson.

Also known as Sally the Terrible... Sally the Despised...

Yes...his name was Sally. And yes, he was aware he was named after a woman – his great grandmother, in fact. And if he ever got his powerful hands on her decrepit little corpse, he'd kiss her decomposing cheeks for bestowing upon him the toughest name a growing boy could ever have been bequeathed. For it was his namesake which drove him to be the most beastly goaltender in the history of the MWGHL. The most penalized, the most hotheaded, and the most recognized of his position by way of records set, trophies won, and fan-driven hate mail received. Sally...was the manliest of men on a team full of boys...and the only one still brave enough in this day and age to rock a multilayered mullet and a massive handlebar mustache.

All...hail...Sally the Terrible.

Each new creature found their own way from their holes and stood at the foot of their graves, looking at their dead bodies through dead eyes, sniffing the air with heightened senses, and eventually glancing over at one another, wondering who among them would be first to speak.

Roman Staimos, being the earliest to rise, had the benefit of the most time to take in his surroundings so was the one to notice Jean-Claude standing beside him, grinning sadistically at his own grotesque accomplishments. Roman took a second to recall his former life – and his last memory of his teammate tearing through his locker room and breaking the necks of his closest friends was what stood out most. Flashes of J.C. ripping their coach in half in front of them and eating his meat sparked mixed emotions upon seeing the bastard beside him. But out of all the twisted feelings rousing within, none were rooted in fear.

Anger began boiling in his veins as he glared into Jean-Claude's burgundy eyes.

" **You..."** The power in Roman's voice stemmed from his rage and the need for chaos rising within. "You did this! You killed us... Killed all of us!"

J.C. shook his head calmly. He understood his teammate's rage and addressed it directly.

"No..." His voice was almost a whisper, but it was apparent his strength was greater than most. Before Staimos could even flinch, Jean-Claude had his giant, black hand wrapped around his throat. He stared into the eyes of his former teammate and showed him the power he now wielded in his glare. "...I set you free." He squeezed his teammate's neck until he saw the recognition in his eyes, then slowly let loose his grip and turned his head to address the others. "I set all of you free." He looked down at the line of undead monsters before him and let them witness the power in his stare. "This new world... It is not somesing you would have survived, yes?" He gave them a moment to think about it. "Look aroun' you... This city is dead. There is nos'ing left here but the Hell that we make. We are this world's future... We are this world's kings."

They all listened closely – it was already in their unearthly nature to be obedient to those who showed power over them – and felt a kinship with his meaning that caught their interest. Regardless of their wishes, Imala's corruption fueled the black blood that pumped through their veins and they grew hungrier by the second for mouthfuls of chaos and anarchy. J.C. knew they'd be feeling the urge for death, and he used that knowledge to help guide them to a position at his side.

"Can you hear her?" He walked down the line of his troops to be sure they all got a whiff of his strength while he spoke to the hunger in their bellies. "...Can you see her eyes?...Can you taste her power? She gives you this Hell that is our world... And gives me the strength to lead you." He looked them all in the lenses to give them a type of controlling calm with his behavior as their alpha. "Mes amis!...My friends... My...brothers... I was your Capitaine in life...and will be your Capitaine dans la mort." He always enjoyed throwing in a pinch of Canadienne-Francaise when speaking in front of a crowd. It made him sound so much more sophisticated. "Together...we will—"

"What about Marty?"

Jean-Claude snapped his head back at the sound of his adversary's name to see who may've had the gall to speak it aloud. He glared down the line of dead-men behind him and skipped over his Hounds to single out the Priests who might've possessed the balls to talk out of turn. Inside his chest, his bones rumbled from the resonance of his restrained growl as he started back the other way, looking for the rebel culprit who he may need to make an example of.

"Marty?" The taste of the name in his mouth was like cold shit on an onion bagel, and he spit the first time he let it escape his lips. "Marty?" The second time was like forcefully regurgitating a solid ball of razor-wire with a shit and onion bagel aftertaste. His stare was so intense it was actually giving off heat as he beamed at the L.A. Priests amidst his row of Hounds. He continued down the line until he stopped directly in front of the only Priest of the bunch who wouldn't look him in the eye – the young, eighteen-year-old rookie, Bobby Shye – and he towered over him like a drill sergeant looking to break in a recruit. "Marty...is......DEAD!!" His roar in the young man's face was so forceful it nearly pushed him back into his grave, but being an undead monstrosity himself, Shye's own fortitude allowed him to keep his footing. "Marty turned his back on his own blood! His blood is what made us possible...and he has betrayed us!...We will hunt him down, break him branch to branch, an—!"

"Limb from limb."

" **What?!"**

It came as a shock to everyone that the boy even spoke, let alone tried correcting one of the resident idiot's idioms....And J.C. had been doing so well with his controlled and confident little speech...

"You... you said, 'break him branch to branch'... It's, 'rip him limb from—' "

"YOU FUCK THE SHUT UP, you...you PRIEST!!" He screamed his bassakwards retort and growled the word "Priest" like it was sacrilege to speak it, trembling in anger with its pronunciation. "I would feed your balls to petite pigs before I would let you speak that name to me again!" He spit when he spoke and the undead Bobby Shye grumbled back at Jean-Claude's threatening tone... But he knew his place. It was engraved in his very being to obey, and obey he would. "Mon frère... Marty...will be brought to our queen... She demands it." He put his arm around the young winger and guided his body to turn toward the Spirit Fortress in the distance. "Open your mind to her will and you will hear it too... You know why we are here now, yes?"

Shye let his anger go and listened to the call in his mind. He saw the glistening black eyes of the Demon Goddess and the human misery he'd swim through in her name. His gut rumbled with a hunger he'd never known, and he smiled when he realized what it increasingly hungered for...

"... **Blood**." He spoke with a growl that's wickedness was matched only by the next of his kind to speak.

" **Death**..." Staimos spoke up when realizing what was calling to him was what drove them all, uniting them on a single side.

"Chaos..." Carl, the Priest with the collector's edition Wayne Gretzky Bobblehead, growled in accordance with his zombie-hockey brethren, taking a step forward to propound allegiance.

" **Insanity!** " Zeus, the 6'8", thin Greek with a full beard and giant lightning bolt tattoo inside his left arm shouted his piece with a cheer and his bolted-fist in the air.

" **Hysteria!"** Cayman, the second largest Hound, comparable to only the captain of the Hell squad himself, barked enthusiastically.

" **Destruction!"** Obie (short for Kacey O'Brian) joined in on the cheer.

" **Pandemonium!"** Mac: the curly-haired ginger with the flare for close-to-tasteless humor.

" **Brutalidad!"** Garcia: possibly the only Guatemalan ever to play the sport of ice hockey.

" **Chaos!"** Boner: nearly as sharp as a balloon smothered in Vaseline, only, _not_.

"I fuckin' _said_ that already, man!" Carl whacked the Hound next to him with the back of his hand and Boner whacked him back.

But the rumbling of Sally's voice preparing to speak got both their attentions along with those of the rest of the men in line. Everyone turned their heads when sensing the small tremor that was Sally's strength disturbing the soil. And when he spoke, his voice lingered in the air like a bad smell with his deep, powerful whisper of the word,

"... **Terror......"**

His enthusiasm was intimidating even among those who the word 'timid' could no longer apply, and Jean-Claude approached his goaltender, teammate, and friend with an inspired grin and a surprise for his old chum held behind his back.

"Sally la Terrible..." He put his free hand on Sally's shoulder to experience his strength firsthand. "Sally la Sauvage..."

Sally's body vibrated with power even without having ever taken a life to feed his own. The rule of this warped reality that now spilled over the city of L.A. was like an exaggerated example of "survival of the fittest," where those with a unique and outstanding strength of character were met with a dark power to match. Jean-Claude was an example of this phenomenon in the sense that he was more powerful than the puppet-demons inhabiting the bodies of U.S. soldiers. As for someone like Sally...there was no telling where his strength would end. He shifted his eyes up without moving his head to meet Jean-Claude's, who was four or five inches taller, and spoke one word at a time, struggling to keep some level of control over the explosive might he felt broiling inside.

" **I...** want...my...mask."

He was referring to the goalie's mask he'd become so accustomed to and that helped fuel his intimidation among even the boldest of players in the league.

Jean-Claude's grin widened to reveal the gaps in his grill and he chuckled knowingly with a nod.

"Of course, mon amis..." He brought his hand from around his back and the infamous crimson-caged helmet with the snarling face of a black Rottweiler painted around it caught the eye of every dead-man that stood before them. "...I would no' have it any other way."

He handed the vicious goalie's mask to his undead teammate and Sally looked it dead in its eyes. The black Rot's blood-crazed stare sparked with a gleam of magik in Sally's hands, and the crimson cage covering its front transformed in his grips to long, sharp teeth as if the mask had a mouth of its own. The rest of the men were surprised to see magik transpire before their eyes, but Sally looked as though he'd willed it to happen and expected nothing less. He slid the teethed mask over his heavily-haired cranium and slowly lifted his stare to beam at the world through his new veneer. All of his freshly undead teammates were impressed with Sally's showmanship and display of mind-over-mater, but Comrie, the closest to him, was getting impatient and eager to get some feasting done.

"Yeah...the whole 'monster mask' thing is a great trick, Sal, but don'tcha think it's time we find somethin' around here to ki—"

Comrie's final word was cut off by the act of his head being cut off by the blade of Sally's goalie stick. He swung it so fast the rest of them wouldn't have had a clue as to what happened if not for Sally still holding it to the side, blade parallel to the ground right over the Priest's headless carcass which hadn't yet hit the floor.

" **My** name..." Sally spoke while still holding his powerful decapitation pose, being sure everyone knew what his wrath incurred. "...is Sally. Not...Sal."

All the Hounds' players chuckled knowing what those of the Priests didn't: Sally hated being called Sal.

"Go easy on the new kids, Sally. We're all part of the same squad now." Dev (short for Devon Donavan) spoke up impartially as he always had. He was the oldest Hound on the team, being 36 years old, and usually the most mature, as goes with the territory.

The enlarged, third-line centerman, Cayman, noticed Comrie's corpse still hadn't lost its posture, and he voiced his observation in the form of a question.

"Why am I still looking down this dude's neck-hole? Is he gonna fall over sometime soon, or what?"

The Priests' backup goaltender, the young Ian Orell, glanced back behind the erect body of his fellow teammate and caught a glimpse of his head set in the grave behind them. "Found his head!... And he's...lookin' at me..."

Dev looked around the Priest at his side to peer into the grave. "Holy shit... He's _alive_."

"Bullshit..." It wasn't that Obie didn't believe him; he was just surprised decapitation wouldn't have finished him off.

"No bullshit. _Look_. He's lookin' right _at_ me." Orell pointed down at the head of his friend resting on his right ear, redirecting his eyes to see out of the ditch he'd fallen in.

Dev, Cayman, Orell and Obie all poked their noses over the grave to gawk at the living head before a few others showed up to partake in the spectacle – even Comrie's own headless body turned around to pry. In the meantime, Sally had finally broken his pose and was wiping Comrie's black slop from the edge of his stick on his jersey's sleeve, showing little interest in the aftermath of his hack-attack.

"Oh shit..." Boner noticed Comrie's lips moving and bent down further to listen. "...I think he's tryin' to _tell_ us somethin'..." It looked like he was mouthing the words "a little help here" or something similar, but Boner couldn't be sure.

Carl shook his head. "You're not gonna be able to hear shit, dumbass, he doesn't have any fucking lungs."

"Yeah. Yeah...that's right..." Boner decided he agreed with that deduction and voiced his support for its validity toward Comrie's dome. "We can't hear you, dumbass, you don't got any fucking lungs!" He chuckled at the Priests' predicament and looked over to the headless corpse standing beside him as if wanting it to share in his amusement. "Hey, do you think he can hear us?"

Carl thought it was a somewhat dimwitted question but decided to sarcastically play along. "I don't know..." He put his hand up by his mouth. "Hey, dickless! Can you hear us?!...Blink twice."

They all looked down to wait for Comrie's reaction, and the head crunched up its brow in irritated disbelief and rolled its eyes.

"Did he just roll his eyes at me?"

"So what do we do with him now?" Donny was curious to what came next and, as usual, Mac had a close to ludicrous idea to share in the name of foul humor.

"I say we find some roadkill, like a dog or somethin', and sew its head on his body..."

"Dude..." Obie was getting a touch of déjà vu from Mac's last great idea in the Priests' locker room before they were all beaten to death by their newly self-appointed fearless leader. "What is it with you and roadkill?"

"Alright, fine... How 'bout we find a _fat_ chick to decapitate and sew the roadkill's head on _her_ body instead?"

"What the fuck?"

"Yeah, it'd be great. Listen: that way we can put her head on his body, and his head on the dead dog's, and they'd all have to hang out together since they'd still be in control of their own bones." He was growing increasingly excited about this idea and displayed his enthusiasm with a wide-eyed grin.

"Actually...that's not bad." Obie was beginning to see the brilliance in his friend's inspired sense of humor. "But where the hell are we gonna find a fat chick?"

"Or a dead dog?" Donny, as usual, wanted in on his partner-in-pranks' latest scheme.

"I'd be willing to put in the time and effort it'll take to make this work." Mac sounded so serious it was comical, and Carl just shook his head and chuckled while turning away from the fiasco.

Comrie's headless corpse finally decided to do something about its own woes and reached into the shallow grave. It got down on both knees and instinctively clutched its head with one hand, a fistful of cemetery soil in the other. It patted its own neck-hole with the dirt then rubbed the bottom of his severed head in the ground to soil-up its underside. By this time the joke was slowly losing its appeal and everyone lost interest except for Boner, who still hadn't quite caught on and was wondering what the fallen Priest was planning to do. He watched while Comrie's body hoisted his head over its shoulders and put it back in place, holding it steady as the cursed mud weaved together the veins, ligaments, and flesh of his neck to make him whole. Eventually he let go of his head, turned it side to side, then hawked up a few ounces of muddy phlegm from his throat and spit it on top of his own grave.

"You guys fucking blow. I hate you assholes." He coughed up another dirt loogie then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

" **HOUNDS!!"** J.C. let out a roar to call his troops to attention. "...Priests..." He still wasn't quite used to addressing the L.A. team as his own but knew they'd all come together in the end. "Today is the first day of the end of the world....We have work to do."

"Hey," Comrie spoke up when he noticed something he thought might be worth mentioning. "Where's Sally goin'?" his voice hoarse from the damage his throat had reaped.

The dreaded Sally the Terrible had broken apart from the rest and started off on his own, marching away from his teammates toward the Spirit Fortress. He'd heard his calling in the elegant voice of their goddess and knew his path would lead him away from the rest for the time being. They would likely be united again, but for now he was needed elsewhere.

Cayman turned toward Jean-Claude for directions. "Should I go after 'im?"

J.C. gazed over the top of the rest and searched his instincts for a course of action. Inside, he knew Sally had his own path to follow.

"No..." He looked over to Cayman with a confident glare. "Our queen calls to him. We will see him again." He glimpsed down the line at his undead forces. "For now, we set a trap. The Queen shows me our future...and it is here Marty will be... And when he is...we will be ready to fuck him."

They all knew what he meant.

"Can't set a trap without bait." Carl seemed to be on board and had an idea of his own. "A few of us should spread out, look for hostages. Specifically, that fine-ass, little sister of his. Or his girlfriend..." He looked around to make sure he had everyone's ear. "...I know where they both live."

There was a quiet rumble of chuckles and sounds of the whole faction voicing their approval, and J.C. smiled with vicious intent.

"Then we split. Priests will find Marty's friends and bring them to me alive. Hounds; we set a perimeter aroun' the cemetery..." then he added, "...after we eat."

"What the hell is there to grub on around here, anyway?" Zeus may be as thin as a twig, but his apatite was as mighty as his namesake. "The whole city looks like it's been cleaned out for miles..." His voice boomed through the cavernous depths of his lengthy lungs, finding its way through the black forest of his beard.

"There is life here for the taking closer than you think." Jean-Claude knew about the demons herding human survivors on the other side of the cemetery. There wasn't enough walking dead to eat or carry all the people they've rounded up from the city, so they found marching them in single-file lines to meet their own demise was more efficient than dragging corpses by the handfuls. "We will take what we want and eat like kings... But we may have to fight to get our prize."

They all grumbled lowly in anticipation of a little chaos and anarchy and, as if they had a single mind, half of them yelled out,

" **HOUNDS!!"**

And the other half followed with,

" **PRIESTS!!"**

Jean-Claude looked proudly over his men and firmly added his own catchphrase, announcing him as their top dog.

"...Woof."

2

Sally the Terribly Dreaded charged across the cemetery toward his calling with intentions hellbent on discovering his place in this world; goalie stick in hand, hockey helmet on full bluster. There wasn't a thing in this graveyard that could stop him from meeting his queen, yet the smalltime demon cohorts assigned to stand guard around her fortress would try, nonetheless.

A platoon of WWI soldiers in military uniforms stood fifty yards away, taking notice to Sally's march. Where he was headed was evident, and other than their queen's son and his father who would be arriving soon, they had orders to allow none to pass. Little did they know, Imala had purposely set them where they stood for Sally to maul his way through as a test his of strength. He would undoubtedly make short work of this demon pop quiz and be moving right along...contemptuously.

"Just where'n the hell d'ya think _yer_ goin', hockey-man?" The first of the dozen zombie soldiers approached with an arrogantly lax disposition. His mud-incrusted wool service cap matched the time period of his olive colored shirt and trousers. "Queen said no vis—"

His arrogance was short lived, however, and easily chopped down to size – about half his size, to be exact – when the blade of Sally's stick sliced the soldier's body clean through its middle.

The soldier tried turning at his hips as Sally stormed passed but only assisted his torso in sliding off his pelvis to meet the ground. Afterward, his bottom half turned to clumps of black mud, but his top remained intact with his head still screwed on tight.

From his spot in the dirt he called out to the men behind him: "Troops!" then utilized his demonic self to deepen his tone when adding with a sneer, "...Demoralize."

The remaining eleven lined up in a flash to begin their charge: two from the middle of the line first, the rest following a few steps behind in a triangular ambush. They were fast on their feet, but Sally was a young Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon.

Swinging his stick upward and across his body, he sliced through the first two with one swipe and a blur of motion. He rushed to his right, stick-knob punching a softball-size hole through the next grimacing face, then swung his tool shoulder-high to decapitate the dead-man charging from his left; the flying noggin hit the grass and turned to fertilizer before Sally could even poise himself for his next slay. The remaining seven infantrymen were close enough now to form a circle around their opponent, and Sally smiled enthusiastically under his snarling mask, dusting off his jersey for fun.

A moment passed before anyone thought to make a move.

The first demon that reached out lost both his arms in the blink of an eye. The next threw a punch that Sally caught and twisted in his grip before delivering a kick that ripped the soldier's arm from his body and ejected him twenty feet from the crowd.

No one bothered to see where he landed.

" **You boys sure you wanna do this?"** Sally figured he'd throw a lifeline out just in the name of good sportsmanship, the limb he'd torn from the socket easily reverting to soil in his hands.

The six soldiers that remained – one without any arms – all exchanged glances until someone spoke up.

"What's the worst he can do?...Kill us?"

They all chuckled at the thought of a death that wouldn't last. Even if their bodies turned to dust, they could always be reborn in another.

While getting situated for a final hail, the seventh member of the Remaining rejoined his platoon, his right shoulder a gooey stump missing its limb.

Tactfully, three of them came at him at a time, but Sally was too fast to be threatened. He slashed his goalie stick around him like cutting through foliage in a forest, and dead severed limbs flew up with every swipe. His stick was undoubtedly infused with a nether influence since any other composite shaft would've splintered to pieces after the second or third swing – and a ruby, mystic trail followed the path of his blade while chunks of tainted mud flew in all vectors. By the time the first of the severed limbs hit the ground they did so as dirt, and the leftovers who still stood tried their hand next, if they still had one left to offer.

Soon, the whole crowd of dead-men was nearly limbless – some missing both arms and a leg, others both legs and an arm. One soldier still stood on two feet but wouldn't stay that way for long. Sally spun around and came down fast with his stick on the top of the grunt's head and sliced him vertically down his middle. The moment after the blade hit the ground between the soldier's feet his body's two halves crumbled into dirt from top to bottom like water pouring over a sand sculpture.

One of the lingering, squirming torsos with a feisty mouth, cursed Sally for his disobedience, but was interrupted by his head being severed from his shoulders; the head escaped the body and disintegrated to muck before it got far. Sally noticed that when he severed Comrie's head, his parts remained intact...but these things just turned to shit when decapitated. He figured it was because Comrie was made of flesh and bone, while these creatures were pure, tainted blood and earth.

He was right. The humans not only still had their bones and meat under their skin, but their corrupted souls as well. These demon puppets were only shells of beings and not much more. They were stronger and more powerful than any human alive but were no match for a person resurrected one-on-one.

The rest of the limbless rejects stayed quiet after Sally finished off the last one to speak. They figured they couldn't do anything to stop him so may as well shut their face-holes and wait around until more of their kind showed up to rebury what was left of them. In the meantime, Sally's attention focused back on the fortress and he continued his march toward the moat of blood, body parts, and eyes surrounding the structure.

Bordering the outside of the moat, a translucent wall hung in the air with a mystic, ruby tint – nearly blending in with the blood-mists – and when Sally approached it, he understood it was a type of sorcerous blockade. It reacted like soupy liquid to his touch and, instinctively, he knew it wouldn't stop his kind from entering, so he stepped forward to pass through it, succumbing to whatever effects it might have...

It rippled with energetic charges against his corpse. The sensation was like strolling into a wall of electrified slime, and he could hear the crackling, kilowatts of energy snapping against his helmet. It took him fifteen strides to push through to the other side, and when he emerged, staring down at the edge of the blood-moat, he realized his strength and speed seemed diminished somehow, magically drained into the barrier he'd left behind.

He looked in both directions, a few hundred feet either way, seeing no sign of a convenient passage to the other side. If he had still carried his gusto he could've easily leapt over the river of death in a single bound. But without it he'd have to brave the moat one step at a time and get passed whatever obstacles might be fermenting within.

Without even a second thought, he stepped out into the mire of gore. He didn't have a clue how deep it would get – the breadth of it being close to a hundred feet – but after a few steps he was already in it up to his hips. Swimming in his chest-pads and hockey-pants wouldn't be easy, he thought. Lucky for him, J.C. decided not to bury him with his leg-pads and gloves on.

His journey continued through the liquid cruor, submerged to his neck in death, when an enormous boom that sounded like God stepping down from the heavens shook the surface of the swamp. Sally looked back, investigating the formidable sound only to witness the giant gorrorgorde, Messalum, touching down outside the energy blockade. He watched as the massive Hell's creature opened its hands to allow Smoke to strut down from one palm while Kalon's near-dead carcass rolled out of another.

Smoke then picked his father up and swung his body over his shoulder like a sack of bloodied jerseys

" **Stay."**

Gorrorgorde heeding his command, he strolled easily toward the barrier. The mysterious energy opened a path when it recognized his bloodline and he waltzed through with his father over his shoulder dripping a trail of still-human hemoglobin behind.

As he approached the moat, broken torsos and severed body parts all surfaced from the gore-depths and came together to form a crossway under Smoke's every step. The parts held well beneath his heavy feet, fitting together near seamlessly. When he reached the halfway point where Sally was still making his way across, he looked over to him and offered a sarcastic nod.

"Nice night for a _swim_."

Sally scowled at Smoke's pomposity when he laughed and passed him by, the body parts bridge disassembling behind him as he made his way to the opposite shore. Seconds later, the fortress doors parted and allowed the haughty young prince of the cemetery to enter, then brutishly sealed shut behind.

But Sally soldiered on through the sludge like a man on a mission, rejuvenated by Smoke's insulting dismissal, and noticed a handful of floating eyes around him all gawking his way, watching him progress slow but steady. He wondered if his queen could see through them, tracking his battle with mortal frailty. But it wouldn't be long before he realized not all the eyes were actually floating... Some were connected to the tips of tendrils he hadn't figured out yet to what they belonged. And after staring long enough, intrusively inquiring as to why he was being spied, whatever creature they'd spawned from decided its position had been made and gave up its sly, predacious stalking for a prompt, offensive posture.

Twelve floating eyes to his left, all with a similar purplish gleam, lifted from the surface to reveal the thin, octopus-like arms attached.

Sally raised his stick from beneath the thick, putrid broth in response and cocked back to swing...but, apparently, the twelve staring eyes were just a diversion.

Abruptly, something under the loch clasped at his thigh. He reached down to counter it but was still too weak to put up a fight. Slimy tentacle claiming his leg – a coarse, leather-like tongue from the mouth of who-knew-what – it yanked him from his feet and dragged him under the swamp to (presumably) meet an end.

Through the sludge and coagulated blood and insides that made up the swamp, he couldn't see what he was up against, and without his strength, he could do little else but wait to be swallowed by whatever it was that decided to make a late-night binge of his bones...

Only a fleeting moment passed before he was slurped into the mouth of the monster – which he could only guess to what it might've looked like – and his first impression was that the soft tissue of its throat engulfing his body felt like being swallowed alive by an enormous vagina with razor sharp thorns protruding from the middles of hundreds of herpes sores. It might have disgusted him if he still had any human need for revulsion but, since he didn't, he only wondered how long it would take him to hack his way out of its enormous uterus and be merrily on his way.

He didn't need to wait long.

The tendrilled vagina-monster discovered quickly that what it tried to consume wasn't actually an edible source of nourishment. It spit him back out the same way he came, and the slime-covered Sally then vowed he'd have the beast's ovaries wrapped around his neck on a string before he reentered the world outside Hell's castle.

But for now, he had bigger vagina-monsters to fry – or at least to attend to – so he turned his back on the beast's twelve eyes and serpent tongue and continued on his way, hair heavy under his mask from the blood and mucus it drank but no worse for the wear.

It'd only be a few more yards before he'd conquer the nuisance of the moat and move on to the castle's entrance. He could sense her strength the closer he got and could smell the chemical scent of her magik – like chlorine with a copper twist. He wasn't sure what it was she wanted from him, but he knew it would be a task worthy of his malfeasance.

In the distance, Jean-Claude marched his undead league-mates past the fortress toward the northern-end of the cemetery. He looked over with sharp, hawk-like vision and spotted Sally climbing out of the blood-marsh, erect at the foot of the citadel, the number 67 a barbaric beacon on the back of his orange and black Hounds jersey.

Underneath Jean-Claude's bravado and pride, a flicker of jealously sparked a strange sensation in his chest... But then he thought of his future reunion with the Priests' wily captain and remembered his true calling.

Sally had his part to play, and so had he. Whose journey was more significant wasn't important. Only the results would matter in the end, and the end was only the start of something he couldn't yet fully fathom. Hell was coming, and both men were dead-set on being a part of it. Before the parts they played were finished, every man on Earth and creature screaming in the underworld would know the names Sally J. Thompson and Jean-Claude Le'Duprie. Of this he was sure... But perhaps, he thought, his certainty was a virtue he shouldn't take for granted.

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

B-Movie Horror Flick 101

1

"We'll see how well you deadbeat, _douche_ -stains hold up against superior fucking _fire-_ power."

The Coach had seen enough, trailing the former Jean-Claude Le'Duprie to the cemetery an hour before, and went home with an inspired sense of obligation flaring like a rash. He may be next to useless outside the rink, but military zombie apocalypses could quite possibly be his unannounced calling in life. If it were possible for anyone to be ready for such a thing, (if such a thing were even possible and he hadn't just finally fallen completely off the nut-tree, preparing for war against innocent civilians he may've only thought were people eating shit-bags from the depths of damnation...) then the Coach would be one of the few men in L.A. who stood a decent shot at mounting a defense against the bastards and putting up something of a fight. He'd made his way through the abandoned streets back to his place not far from the Forum and shacked up in his garage, taking power tools to his truck to turn a 2007 Chevy Dually into a handcrafted machine of war.

Before the Coach had gone the way of the Lord's spunk-rag, used up and tossed aside after the divine swine had had his way with his life, he did some time as a US Marine and discovered a powerful lust for metal-spitting machinery. They used to call him "Father Firearms" as an affectionate way of describing his voracious infatuation with accumulating armaments. He'd spent the past twenty-two years collecting weaponry in his garage, stockpiling kickass artillery, originally with the hopes of never having to put them to use. More recently, however, after losing his son nearly five years earlier, his contempt for the world around him and general bitterness toward life itself had spawned an eagerness inside that could only be described as a "need to unleash." Needless to say, he'd already mapped out the militant accessorizing of his vehicle and was more than prepared to supply the elbow grease required to get the job done.

His first priority was to replace the windows with metal bars and reinforce the frame of the vehicle with extended steel bumpers and a vigilant roll-cage. Sparks flew when he bolted steel plates to the sides of his ride and along the inside of the bed to extend it upward, so someone who was standing in back, operating the machine guns, would be protected from any crossfire coming from either side. He didn't know how well the plates would hold against things such as those he saw burring bodies in the Remembrance Cemetery, but at the very least it'd shield the shooter from the scattering of zombie body parts flying about as a result of low-yield explosions.

Not only was the Coach able to get his hands on two gas-operated, 1958 FN MAG machineguns and a standalone AGS-17 Soviet grenade launcher during his exploits of illegal, underground military auctions, but he also owned several man-portable antitank weapons, such as his 1942 M1A1 Bazooka and S18-1000 antitank rifle. Some of the classics may've been obsolete in real wartime, but for a civilian, they seemed a bit simpler to get his hands on and no doubt still packed a formidable wallop. He might not be able to go toe-to-toe with a Russian T-90 but taking the lid off a zombie-soldier from fifty yards out shouldn't be much of an issue. Little did he know he'd be allowed to test that assumption sooner than he may've hoped.

Two and a half hours into it and he'd already laid the foundation for his very own Hell-on-wheels mobile, and it didn't take much more than another thirty minutes to mount all three of his big guns in the bed of the truck. The two machineguns were situated to fire over the top of the steel plates attached to the sides or be aimed directly out the tail to plow bullets through enemies at his six. The antitank rifle was positioned closer to the cab and on a higher mount so it could aim 20mm rounds a full 360 degrees at any target within a few hundred yards. And the standalone grenade launcher he bolted down into the center of a flatbed trailer attached to his truck but had to take a few extra minutes to oil up the moving parts of the tripod and connect the optical sight that helped validate the weapon's range of up to a mile. He had a full drum of 29, 30mm grenades and had been dreaming of blowing up random shit ever since the massive bastard came into his possession. This thing was his dearly beloved, and he looked forward to spending some quality time alongside it, but even he was a little shaky when it came to placing his bazooka in the back of the cab with a case full of 3 ½ lb. rockets he'd traded his mother's antique, grand piano for.

Was it a sense of neurotic paranoia that drove him to acquire two Kevlar vests and a crate full of hand grenades, or meticulous provisioning and well thought out preparation? He wasn't sure... But regardless of the uncertainties concerning his motives, and in spite of him being an ex-man-of-the-cloth, he felt fairly comfortable leaving this universe the very same way everything else had come into it: with a big bang. He only hoped he'd get the chance to save a few lives before he died and maybe drag a handful of demon scum-suckers back down to the pits of Abaddon alongside him.

After almost four hours into it, his once halfway presentable Silverado was covered in steel patchwork and metal bars and looked like something Frankenstein's Monster would drive if he were in a Mad Max movie, chasing Mel Gibson across some apocalyptic, desert plane. He never once stopped for a break to fill his lungs with the stench of a cigar, or even to use the toilet. Anytime he found a spare second to think he'd see the mangled bodies of his closest friends piled atop one another like prime ribs on a plate at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Their freshly limp corpses jiggled against the rough ride of the Zamboni in his mind, and he couldn't shake from his thoughts the look of terror he could still see so clearly, frozen at the moment of death in their eyes.

He began forcing ammo down the gullets of every magazine he could make room for and might've forgot to leave room for _himself_ if he hadn't been distracted by a familiar tune coming from the street outside.

"What'n fuck's name...?"

He cocked his head to listen closely. The friendly jingle of the neighborhood ice-cream man perturbed his ear, tangling his brows in confusion. For a moment he thought he might've been imagining it – but stayed fixed on the tune long enough to realize it was getting louder, clear enough now for him to be about eighty percent sure it was real. (There was still that twenty percent chance he was as crazy as a cat in heat on a leash and just imagining this whole "zombie apocalypse" thing.)

He set down the magazine he'd stuffed full of shells and picked up the shotgun to his right, but then thought better of leaving his garage with anything less than an automatic weapon and a belt full of hand grenades. Grabbing his RPK74 automatic assault-rifle instead, he figured 75 rounds per minute ought to be a good start, so popped in a 30-round magazine. That should give him a solid thirty seconds of rapid-fire to turn the ice-cream man's head into pudding if he was selling anything other than push-pops and big-sticks. And if the obnoxious bastard didn't shut that God forsaking, joyful music off, they'd just have to see how well his fudgesicles would hold up against exploding, hot shrapnel tearing through their frosty packaging.

He grabbed a grenade-belt that carried six, stuffed his favorite .357 Magnum in the two-gun holster draped over his vest, slipped a ten-inch hunting knife into a sheath on his hip, and headed out his garage through his kitchen for the front door, automatic rifle in hand. He had enough firepower on his person to blow up a country club full of rednecks, so unless this ice-cream man was packing some kind of serious heat, he figured he could handle him if the situation got hairy.

The classic tune was loud and piercing, but with a slower tempo than usual, turning a carefree melody into a deeper, ominous chime. His slow approach toward his front window through his living room was a nerve-racking crawl to the music reminding him of something like the opening scene of a b-movie action/horror flick. Not a good sign, he thought, considering the opening scene was never without its human sacrifice...

Queue deranged melody; display staring-cast credits; enter robust, aging hero who looks to be all-balls and ready for anything; pan over happy family pictures of hero and deceased teenage son enjoying a fishing trip or rural carnival ride; accidentally step on sleeping cat's tail unleashing a shriek that nearly causes the old man to shat his shorts; then cut to deranged, undead monster driving slow-approaching ice-cream truck just outside the door...

This next part is where everyone knows some horrific shit's about to go down...

So what does our geriatric hero do? Storm out of his house, guns blazing with murder burning in his eyes? Or keep quiet with his back to the door and hope who or what-ever is driving through the empty streets on a night like this, looking to draw attention to themselves, will pass him by, taking their evil, frozen mud-pies and double fudge-bars along with them?

He couldn't see past the headlights of the truck through its windshield to know who was driving the damn thing, but...did he really have to? It was obviously not a friendly civilian working his part-time, looking to sell cold desserts to eager kiddies. Whoever was in that truck was bad news, and the Coach wasn't dumb enough to think otherwise. And since the above Option B didn't exactly coincide with the b-movie horror trend – with its outcome being him making it out of the scene alive by dodging the proverbial bullet – Option A, ironically enough, seemed more like the reasonable course of action. He just wasn't sure if this would be one of those movies where the aging hero stuck around until the end or if budget restrictions would force the director to kill him off just after his first dynamic blaze of glory.

He figured he'd just have to wait to see if his character in the story was important enough to keep around. He hoped he'd make it to the part in the flick where any of this shit started to make sense so he'd at least know why his friends had to die. If there was some point to the plot of this atrocious storyline then maybe it would help him find peace when the time came that his old ass finally keeled over and kicked the bedpan.

He waited a few more seconds to make his move until the ice-cream truck was only a house-and-a-half away. Peeking through the window one last time, he moved the curtain aside with the tip of his gun and peered into the oncoming lights with his other hand on the doorknob. He wasn't sure if what he was about to do was anything close to "a bright idea..." In fact, he was pretty damn sure it was more along the lines of one of the less intelligent moves he's made in his life... But he had this other dreadful feeling suggesting it probably wasn't a coincidence this truck was creeping down the street outside his home. He couldn't fathom why these bastard-creatures of Hell would want him, but it stood to reason they either heard the racket he caused in his garage and then headed his way, or just ran out of anyone else to terrorize, making him next on their list. Either way his best option, the way he figured it, was to hit them first and see what kind of punishment they could take. If he didn't make it out of this alive, at least he'd get to wage some righteous warfare.

So he let the curtain fall, tightened his grip on the doorknob, and bowed his head for a quick prayer to the memory of his son. He saw young Garret in his thoughts geared up in his hockey uniform and smiling behind the full-cage of his helmet. He remembered what he'd always tell him before a game: Keep yer head up; watch the play, not the puck; always keep those skates movin'; and for Pete's sake, put the puck on net!

"...You can't score if you don't shoot," he recited softly to himself; a mantra that regularly put him at ease.

It was sound counsel.

He switched the safety off on his assault-rifle, took in a breath, held it until his lungs felt ready to explode, then—

" _RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!"_

Throwing open the door, he stomped onto his porch and unleashed his breath with a barbaric wail while squeezing the trigger of his rifle, aiming his rounds for the truck's windshield, hoping to grease the driver before he'd ever get the chance to peddle his pops. His cheeks shook with the tremors of the rifle's recoil, explosions at the end of the barrel carving holes through the surrounding red mist. He heard the shattering of the truck's windshield shriek under his assault cry; bullets punctured the hood and eventually busted both headlights, draping the street in front of him in dark.

After about ten seconds, he stopped firing to let his eyes adjust to the change while the truck continued its slow coast toward him, now less than a house away.

Finding it in him to breathe, he expected some undead monstrosity to jump from the driver-side door, growling and snarling, rushing at him in a riled-up frenzy... But nothing but smoke lifted from the holes in the hood – that demented, friendly ice-cream jingle taunting his ears.

He stepped down from his porch and approached the curb before he decided not to wait for trouble to come to him. Squeezing the trigger once again, he marched toward the enemy, stepping out into the street around a parked car and dumping every bullet in his mag into the front cab...but the truck kept coming...

He unclipped the empty mag and popped in a fresh one, but instead of firing blind, decided on a more wide-angled approach. So he grabbed a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, lobbed it through the broken front windshield, and turned to take cover.

Squatting behind a parked sedan, he pressed hands over ears, jaw clenching teeth, lids cinching eyes. The explosion shook against his back and sent a wave of heat to warm his ass like a steaming hot load in his shorts. Afterward, when he lowered his palms, his ears rang too loud for the effort to be of any use...but still he waited alertly for any sign of victory or otherwise.

After about five ear-ringing seconds later he realized his hearing wouldn't do him a damn bit of good, so he mustered his composure and stood up strong to empty another clip into the side of the burning vehicle rolling past him.

He screamed with the kick of the rifle stuttering his howl and walked out from the cover of the parked car to follow alongside the flambé on wheels, decorating its internal refrigerators with fashionably cindering holes...

Then the technical specifics of an ice-cream truck suddenly occurred to him:

Liquefied petroleum gas...

As the truck continued to pass, and he continued filling it with sizzling puncture wounds, he wondered why the grenade he threw hadn't already ignited the tanks that...were...probably...in the back...of the...

"Fuck..."

By the time he found the composure to release the trigger the damage had been done. He watched, just as the end of the truck passed in front of him, the last bullet he let escape obtusely plow through the tail of it... But all the pesky little details were erased with a boom and a flash of light.

The force of the explosion tossed him like trash into his neighbor's front yard. A plume of fire escaped the rear of the truck and blew the giant waffle-cone up from off its roof like a volcanic eruption. The back axle inevitably gave out and the box of fiery desserts then came upon a comfortable spot to settle as a final place of resting.

Numb to the world, the Coach took his place of collapse as a chance to momentarily let down his guard until the Flaming Ice-cream Cone from Hell crashed to the ground beside him, spitting chunks of fire over his battered body. He repeatedly rolled over the hot spots pinching at his flesh until he put some distance between him and the roaring slab of debris and eventually came to a stop at the mercy of a deadweight at his back. He found himself pressed up against something...but didn't care to know what as long as whatever it was wasn't exploding or on fire. Then he remembered his b-movie, horror-flick etiquette and thought better of dismissing the two lumps he'd so "coincidently" stumbled upon...

Pain generously splintered through every joint in his body. He figured he very likely cracked a rib or two when landing, and his wooziness proved he jarred his melon nice and hard. His ears felt like they were bleeding internally – or probably should be after such proximity to 62 separate, consecutive explosions...but his instincts warned him that this rodeo wasn't over. He knew he'd have to hang in there until the job was good and done, and he got the pressing feeling that this show was just getting started.

Crunching forward with an embellished groan, his hand crept toward his holstered weapon. Tactfully, he rolled forward until his face kissed the moist grass, his torso hiding the motion of his hand slipping his gun from its roost. He figured he may only get one shot so took a second to focus the commotion of his mind—

He pictured himself rolling forward until he faced back up, aiming his weapon for the sickening, dead face of whatever eyesore would lie in wait. Cheesy zombie-horror-flick criterion suggested one shot to the center of the forehead ought to do it. He just had to make sure he'd have his aim steady when the moment arrived. Now was not the time to choke-up and lose one's nerve. Everyone knows – you can't score if you don't shoot...

Anxiously he squeezed at the Magnum's handle clutched over his stomach, letting one last exaggerated groan go before making his move. Pain stabbed into his chest when he rolled but he wouldn't let it slow him down. As soon as he made it over the hump of his left shoulder, the rest was all downhill, and he fell back on his rear to lift his gun-arm straight and true.

He hadn't realized before, but his vision was blurred to the point he was seeing triple. There were three guns in three of his own hands stretched in front of him, aiming over the buzzing of his ears up at nothing but air. He scanned the area as best he could, dragging the gun with his gaze, but his arms were slow and weak and his weapon felt as heavy as if there actually were three of them.

He didn't understand what was happening... If there was nothing there, then what the hell did he roll into just a few seconds before?

He regained his breath while contemplating his predicament, with every exhale, his gun sinking lower in its aim. Eventually he let his head fall to the ground as he teetered onto his back, trying to calm his rapidly firing heartbeat down to a tempo reasonable for a man his age.

His hands broke their grip from the gun and he lowered them to either side, taking in steady mouthfuls of charred oxygen. What the hell just happened, he wondered. Did he get the slimy sonovabitch with his first hail of bullets and not realize it? Was he so worked up that he just wasted a whole 30-round magazine, a grenade, and almost get himself killed in the process for a lack of keeping his cool? If so, then, number one: his old ass needed to slow his Captain Kill-A-Bitch role and take these dead bastards in stride. And number two: they were a lot easier to contend with than he'd expected. It was in his pessimistic, bitter ol' bastard nature to assume the worst rather than keep an open mind, but really, was it his fault these things couldn't take the heat? He thought they'd at least be more of a challenge...

He let a chuckle escape his throat at the idea of his uncontested triumph. It would seem he was indeed the star of this movie after all....He thought as much. There weren't enough older, ass-kickin', Clint Eastwood-type badasses in Hollywood entertainment nowadays. All these little pill-popping, techno fuck-holes needed a strong role model like the Coach in their lives. Especially in times such as these.

He laughed to himself a little more at the thought of his self-appointed heroism and groaned against the pain in his chest, unconcerned. Instead he mumbled his victory rant over the pain and added an exhausted laugh.

"Who's yer daddy, ya fuckin' snot-nosed pu—?"

Ultimately, he wasn't surprised when his victory slogan was undermined...

"Who the fuck you talkin' to, old man?"

The familiar, hoarse voice of his presumed dead d-man, Comrie, startled the old-timer, and he lifted his gun toward the blurred image hanging above.

"Commie?...That you?"

"Yur not gonna shoot me, are ya, Coach?"

"What... How'd you...?"

He was trying his damnedest to put the face above into focus. He needed to be sure who he was about to penetrate before he put a fresh hole in the bottom of their trachea. He went over the pile of dead bodies in his mind – the ones he saw J.C. hauling out of the Forum on the Zamboni of Gore – and tried to remember if Comrie's face had been among them...but he couldn't be sure. Regretfully he didn't get the chance to take a headcount before Le'Duprie gave him the slip...

Then the image above slowly became recognizable, melting into a single face and familiar grin crusted with dark blood and black dirt. The Coach may've dismissed Comrie's unruly appearance as a coincidental tangle with a cherry pie and a bucket of mud, but nothing could've convinced him those glowing, red peepers were a side effect of a lack of bathing and assorted fruit pies.

As his vision cleared, the look in the Coach's eyes gave away his next move, and even quicker than he could think to pull the trigger, Comrie tore the pistol from his brittle grasp, breaking his left index with the torque of it twisting from his palm.

It crackled like biting into a pringle.

"You are gonna shoot me, aren't ya, you miserable bastard."

"Fuuuuck...yoouuuu...arrrggghhh..." He rolled over in pain, babying a broken digit. When he found it in him to take a breath, he spewed out the first thing that came to mind. "You... You skate like a donkey, you clumsy fuck...arrrggghhh..."

Comrie was befuddled.

"Wow. That was priceless. Can we do it again?" His sarcasm wasn't well disguised. "I'd love to see what other snappy one-liners you could come up with if I break another finger."

"What...what the fuck do you want, Comrie?"

"Honestly?" He seemed to mull over the question, contemplating a forthright response. "I wanna feed you yur own cock...but I don't wanna touch the fucking thing and I haven't figured out how to convince you to eat it yet..."

"What's...what's wrong, son?" He chuckled in between winces. "You still mad about me takin' yer mommy out for a test-drive?"

It was like the thought never occurred. "Are you fucking kidding? You did us both a favor, man! That woman needed to get laid as bad as anybody I've ever known. Matter of fact, if I still gave a shit about either of you, you might say I owe you one." He smiled and cocked his head to the side. "Buuuut..."

"But...yer an undead fuck-stick and couldn't care less about anything other than what whoever rose you and programmed yer ass to."

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right." He falsely grinned. "That's why yur the coach, Coach! You understand how the game is played!"

"Which—fuck..." He groaned. "...Which brings us all the way back to: what'n holy fuck do you want with me, fuck-stick?"

Comrie considered lying – but figured it wouldn't make a difference either way so decided on being candid about his intentions.

"...Marty."

The Coach was almost surprised, but too busy trying to come up with a plan of escape to be distracted by his curiosity.

"The fuck makes you think I can get him for you?"

"I don't think... I'm just following orders. You're bait, asshole. Fitting, I figure, since yur old ass is practically worm-food already..."

"Wait-a-minute... Whose... whose 'orders' are you followin'?"

Comrie's hesitance told him exactly what he'd suspected.

"No..." The Coach chuckled in disbelief. "You've gotta be shittin' me..." He full-on laughed at the look on Comrie's face, knowing the look was because he knew exactly what his coach would say. "Yer followin' Shit-Fer-Brains' orders, aren't ya? Hahahaha! I knew you were gullible, son, but I didn't think you were dumb enough to follow a Hound..."

Comrie reached down, grabbing his ex-coach by his sweatshirt to pull him to his feet in a flash. He brought him eye-to-eye and showed the old man what sort of power he now carried behind his voice and stare.

"We're all Hounds of Hell now, old man." He grumbled under his annoyance, but let his grip loosen a bit, remembering he needed the Coach alive. "...But I ain't wearin' this jersey to keep my tits warm, you hear me? I'm still a Priest. And when we find Marty, we'll make him a part of this team again too. And when we do...'Shit-Fer-Brains' will be takin' his orders from me."

"If you say so, son."

"Yeah... I fuckin' say so. Now come on, you old goat, we gotta schedule to keep."

"I'm... I'm sure you do. There's just one thing I gotta tell ya first before we go."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"I hate to be the one to say it...but..." his eyes feigned hesitance, "yer mommy's got a 70's bush." Comrie took a second to absorb the remark, then let out a bark of a laugh at the thought, just as much from being caught by surprise as from being amused. "I was gonna ask her to trim the fucking thing until I saw that slab of meatloaf she was packin' between her thighs..." Comrie laughed even louder, not at all realizing the Coach had just slyly plucked a grenade from his belt while he was distracted. "I mean, shit...I'd wanna hide that thing too if my snatch looked like a strip of cat puke." He pulled the pin from under the lever while his captor howled. "Smelled like cat puke too..." He didn't know if his plan would work, but he figured it was either try or die. "...Tasted even worse..."

"AHHHAHAHAHA!!"

With Comrie's head back and eyes closed, the Coach tossed the grenade behind the laughing lunatic into the street. It exploded a second and a half later, blasting bits of shrapnel into his ex d-man's derriere. The Coach found shelter from the explosion behind his opponent's body, but the grenade wasn't meant to do anything other than distract. Comrie spun toward the sound behind him and when he did, the Coach unhooked his grenade-belt, pulled out his hunting knife, and stabbed Comrie dead-center in his back with the knife pinning the belt between his shoulder blades.

He grabbed a pin from a frag-grenade in the belt and took off running for cover. Comrie hadn't realized there was more than just a knife stuck in his back, but even if he did, he couldn't reach the blade with his hands to remove it.

"What the fuck you think yur gonna accomplish with a knife against me, dumbass? And where the fuck're you runnin—"

BOOOOOOOM!!!

The explosion scattered the Priest's body into eight different pieces and blew them clear past the front yard, his intestines – not making it quite as far – splat over the grass like tie-dye on a hippie's tee.

The Coach had nearly made it around the side of the house but was pushed flat by the explosive force, hoping that if he did take any shrapnel, his vest would've absorbed the brunt of it.

He wasn't going to take any chances. He was dead-tired and bruised in places he didn't know could hurt, but he got his old ass up as soon as he could and headed for the rifle he dropped in the lawn. He was pretty sure he'd nearly emptied the mag, but there was a good chance a few rounds remained, and at least he knew where it was. His Magnum, on the other hand, that Comrie held when he went to pieces, would be a bit more of a bitch to track down in his disoriented state, most likely being morbidly camouflaged under pounds of scattered insides.

He alertly surveyed his surroundings while going for his weapon to see if any other ex-teammates loomed in the immediate vicinity that he'd need to explode into chunks in a hurry. He couldn't see much through the ringing in his head and the smoke in the air, but from what he could see, he appeared safe for the time being.

He made it to his rifle on the lawn, popped out the magazine to check for ammo, then popped it back in when he saw it still held rounds. He tried not to think about the stringy pieces of meat dangling from the barrel, or the fact that the treads of his boots were likely filled with what was left of a good friend. Instead he decided he'd walk around the perimeter of the yard in an attempt to account for all the parts that went flying in the explosion. He wasn't sure how this whole "demon-zombie, hockey player from Hell" thing worked, and he'd hate to leave a random, animated limb the luxury of making its way into his house and shrewdly awaiting him inside his toilet. Because his toilet would in fact be his next stop after he was sure he'd secured his home. But before he made his rounds, he grabbed the blue recycle-bin from the side of his house and escorted it through the crime scene, figuring he'd need an appropriate place to put the pieces he'd recover.

Limply, he scuttled to the street where a lump on the asphalt sat that might've been the head of his exploding comrade; it was hard to tell what the hell it was through his fuzzy vision of the hazy aftermath. He got the impression he was very likely nursing a concussion along with his broken finger and bruised ribs. He also had an upset stomach and a hint of a scratchy throat....When it rains, it pours warm piss from the clouds, and here he was in the middle of the storm, caught without an umbrella...

He came close enough to the mound of flesh in the street to see that it was in fact what was left of Comrie's head. Poking at it with his rifle, he rolled it over so he could look his young friend in his dead eyes. At first, he thought it was some form of post, guilt-ridden insanity that caused him to see the head staring back. But after a few soul-chilling moments, the eyes blinked, and he realized the broken bastard was still alive.

"I hate to do it to you, son," checking his rifle to make sure the safety was off, he aimed it between Comrie's eyes, "but I gotta put you down....No hard feelings, huh?" He stretched his arm out to push the barrel up to his forehead – but hesitated.

"You know what?" He couldn't believe he was thinking what he was, but... "On second thought, I think I'll keep you." He lowered his aim in confidence. "This here is what we call a 'golden opportunity'... And I might actually learn somethin' if I pay it some mind." He gingerly leaned over to grab the head by its hair. "Don't mind stickin' around a while, do you?" He stuck the barrel of his rifle into the bottom of the neck to carry the head around like he was bearing a torch. Shaking his head, he sighed. "This could be the beginning of a very disturbing relationship."

He wondered why he felt the need to talk to the head of his undead ex-teammate. It seemed a little morbid for his tastes. But then he realized if he treated it like a person instead of a lump of undead, Hell-spawned grotesquery, it was less gut-wrenching and not quite as hard to stomach. He'd try looking at him as though he were a pet of some kind, he thought. He may even feed his cat to it, just to see what would happen. There were so many questions rolling around his head about these things that he hardly knew where to begin...but finding out if it was contagious or able to regrow limbs, he figured, was a good place to start.

So he limped over to the next chunk of Priest he could find and put the butt-end of the rifle on the ground for support, his hand gripping the barrel under Comrie's neck. Leaning down to pick up the severed arm that still held his gun, he tried prying the weapon from his grasp.

"Do me a favor and let it go, huh? It ain't gonna do you much good."

From his spot atop the rifle, Comrie proved willing to cooperate when his estranged hand let loose its hold.

"There's a good lad."

The hand then straightened its middle digit and rudely flipped his coach the bird.

He acknowledged the gesture with a rightful nod.

"I suppose I deserved that."

Gun retrieved and placed securely back in its holster, he then lobed the flustered arm in the recycle bin with a thud.

# CHAPTER TWENTY

A Moonstruck Detour

1

Jimmy's head was still in a fog.

Terry was all business, driving cautiously through the red mist, dodging uprooted street signs and abandoned vehicles.

Tara felt like she should say something, do her part in keeping their spirits up...but was at a loss for any comforting or propitious words to offer.

Jimmy's heart pumped sluggishly, hindered by a hole it hadn't earned.

Terry's head resonated with pain like someone held a drill bit to the base of it.

Tara's stomach hated her almost as much as she hated it...

They weren't more than fifteen minutes away from Alex's house and only a block from the utter confusion and mind-fuckery they'd left behind along with their spirits. Terry decided it wasn't important to dwell on the past, and Tara just accepted it as the first of many unanswerable questions that would litter their path like rocks in the bed of a river challenging their feet. Jimmy hadn't bothered mentioning his second run-in with Kitty since he wasn't sure what to say. It just seemed like questions piled on top of questions and almost pointless to get into. If it became necessary he'd say something. Otherwise, for once, he just didn't feel like talking.

His head rested up against the car window, halfway gazing and halfway spacing out, thinking how much more bearable things might've been if they could've brought Kitty with them... But that just wasn't in the cards. She was stuck there, in her own personal little Hell and, for now, there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe when this was all over and everything went back to normal she'd be able to escape that store for good and find some peace in oblivion. But somehow that thought seemed like a memory from a distant dream: hardly tangible enough to embrace.

"Shit!" Terry barked his swear and abruptly slammed on the brakes, jolting his friends in their seats.

"What?! What is it?!" Tara was quick to be alert, but it was all Jimmy could do to just lift his head and stare, barely assembling a hint of inquiry.

"Someone needs help." His eyes stayed steady on his mirror as he stopped the truck, pivoting in his seat to peer back.

Spilling out from around the corner they'd just passed, a man with more bellies than sense came charging their way. He had the fear of death glossed over his eyes and ran like none of them had seen a man of his circumference run before.

"Shit! Shit! What do we do?!" Tara pulled the pistol from her jeans and Terry picked up the shotgun he had resting beside him.

"We _wait_ – see if he can make it this far."

"I don't see anything chasing him." Jimmy finally snapped out of his gloom enough to speak up.

"Hopefully it stays that way... Jimmy, open the door."

He did as asked and slid over to make room, hoping the stranger would make it to the truck before whatever he was running from rounded the corner and spoke to the contrary.

"He's gonna make it..." Terry drew on his false optimism.

"He's gonna make it?" Tara wasn't so sure.

They watched as the man's breasts beat himself in the chins while sprinting for what he thought would be his salvation, then Jimmy's eyes randomly wandered ahead, noticing the already blood-stained concrete waiting in his path.

"He's gonna make it..." Terry's wishful thinking became his mantra, hoping a positive outlook could fool the fates into believing his optimism held water.

But...

The fleeing man's stride looked to have found a rhythm until he stumbled over his own haste, skidding against the concrete and landing atop the stain of blood. The proximity of it was enough to pick at Jimmy's suspicions and he squinted in thought – a theory stirring. He noticed a large depression in the building directly beside the man as if a blunderous object was forcefully thrust into it... So, after the man made his way back to his feet, Jimmy wasn't as surprised as the others when he suddenly threw himself into the building right where the depression was already tailored to fit.

Terry coughed another curse in startlement and Tara nearly jumped out of her skin, covering her mouth with her hands—

The man was hardly conscious but somehow stumbled from the collision point – mouth and forehead leaking a variety of human fluids – only to be reacquainted with the wall a second later. His limp body fell to the ground like a puppet without strings and splashed against the red-stained concrete, bleeding a puddle that traced over the tinge to fit perfectly between the lines. After a few liters lost, a single leg was lifted at the ankle by what Jimmy imagined was an unseen hand, and it dragged the plump figure back toward the misty obscurity that spewed it. A trail of blood and torn flesh from his cheek grazing the concrete highlighted his trek back to oblivion, but he vanished before ever making it as far east as the alley he'd escaped from.

"Okay...what that _fuck_ is going on?!"

Terry's frustration strangled his cool and Tara was still stiff with shock.

Jimmy knew he should say something, but the words continued to elude him. When he finally decided to speak, his attempt was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass from above and a woman's plummeting scream—

Their heads whipped toward the shriek, pupils glaring black saucers. They were parked next to a fifteen-story, downtown hotel and, by the sound of it, someone from around the eleventh floor decided to bypass the elevator and make their own way to street-level.

The sky rained glass and the thump of the body hitting the sidewalk ten feet away delivered a sickening punch to their nerves. Covering her head, Tara bundled into the passenger seat as if she could shield her psyche from having witnessed the horror by hiding under her forearms. But Terry just stared – the broken body contorted on the ground. The hope occurred that maybe she was still alive and needed help – so he decided he'd better find out before it was too late. But when he went for the handle to open the door, Jimmy's hand on his shoulder held him back.

"Don't." Jimmy wasn't sure how to put it, other than, "She's dead, man....They're all dead..."

Terry wasn't so willing to accept Jimmy's bleak assessment. "You don't _know_ that, man..."

"No. You're not getting me." The steady, seriousness of his tone caught Terry's notice. "Look." He gestured with his head for him to look back at the girl's body.

Terry froze for a moment, examining the truth in his friend's stare, trying to decide if he was just being his usual, paranoid and pessimistic self...but could tell by his expression he wasn't. He looked through the passenger window at the broken corpse and watched as it, like the last, disappeared in front of them, shattered glass and all. His confusion still mounted, but his frustration was slipping away, being replaced by something more like helplessness. It was strange, but somehow his scared, nervous little buddy was more in control than he was. He desperately looked his friend in the eyes, pleading for an explanation.

"I...uh..." Jimmy still wasn't sure how to go about it, so he decided on starting from the beginning. "I saw Kitty...when I went back in the store..."

"What?" Terry was even more confused now than before, and Tara peeked her head out from her defensive huddle to listen to what Jimmy had to say.

"She...she didn't know who I was... It was like we never _met_." He realized by the blank expressions on their faces he still wasn't giving them any answers. "I think... I think she was dead already... And her... _spirit_ , or something, was trapped in that store, reliving how she died..."

"Wait...wait... What do you mean dead _already?_ You mean like a ghost?" Tara was willing to listen but needed it spelled out for her, and Terry was just as eager for him to explain.

"Yeah... I guess... I just know what I saw. And she was back in the store, right where we first found her, and she didn't remember anything..."

"Fuck..." Quicker to accept Jimmy's words than Tara, Terry put his hand on his head and tried to take it all in while she still had to get a few things straight.

"So...so that man... The one who was running towards us...?"

"Yeah. And the girl who we just saw fall out of the building." Jimmy had a few extra minutes to adjust to the idea so it was a little easier for him to put it together for her. "They were all already dead. They're just... _stuck_ , I guess... Reliving their deaths here in the streets..."

"Then where're all the rest of the ghosts? There was obviously a lot more people killed here than just these three."

"I don't know... Maybe it's only the ones who can't accept they're gone."

Terry shook his head and put the truck back in drive.

"We need to get the hell out of here. Jimmy, close the door. No more stops." Jimmy shut the door and Tara straightened out in her seat. "We go to Alex's. We wait there 'til she shows up or 'til morning – whichever comes first. Then we all find a way out of this fucking city."

God himself couldn't have been more absolute in his decree. It was becoming more and more apparent that Los Angeles, California was the last place on Earth anyone should be right now. A simple drive across town to a friend's house was turning out to be a moonstruck detour through insanity and dementia. The longer they spent drifting through the blood-mists of this New Hell, the more they could see what was really out there:

Spirits of dead victims trapped in stores, offices and cars, unable to escape the horrors of their repeating fates, beating on panes of glass like padded walls in an asylum – it was death that haunted them, not the other way around. The alleys were so black it felt like their souls were in danger of being consumed by the void as they passed – and they were. A deep groaning hummed above from slithering leviathans infecting the sky, blocking out Heaven's view of the foul disease of evil spreading below. There were eyes in every reflection, every shadow, every crack they passed, watching them drive deeper into the city. Every stoplight was blinking red. Every streetlight would flicker as they drove under, threatening to leave them blanketed in dark. Every wall perspired with crimson droplets leaving a metallic stink waiting to taint their lungs. And their every breath was a reminder of the surrounding death they had to maneuver through to find their friends.

Tara reached up and closed the vents so to not have to taste the blood in the air.

What the hell are we doing, she asked herself. I don't want to be here... I want to be anywhere else but here...

Terry looked over at her nervous and uncomfortable eyes. Her hands were shaking. He reached out to put his hand on top of hers and squeezed.

2

"Shit...d'you think they saw us?" The Cabby ducked from the view of the National Guard in the distance, not realizing his efforts were in vain: even if the military couldn't see him, they could still see his cab.

They were driving at a drunken snail's pace through back alleys and side streets five blocks north of a military checkpoint.

"It's hard to tell from here...but I don't think they noticed." Alex was fairly certain they'd slipped by undetected. It was just as she figured: if she just sat back and left her future to the whims of fate, everything should fall into place.

"Oh-crap-oh-crap-oh-crap-oh-crap..."

But what place the patrolling policeman behind them who'd just flipped on his lights played was yet to be unveiled.

"Don't...don't panic...just—"

"What do I do?! Do I pull over?!"

She didn't have a clue. "Maybe if you keep going they won't follow us in."

"Yeah...o-okay..."

After a few seconds, the officer's sirens chirped at their lack of cooperation, and he undoubtedly alerted every vehicle within range of their radios to their location.

"Shit! Now what?! He's still _tailing_ me... Should I gas it?"

She was at a loss. There was no way this cop would let them continue into a quarantined zone if they pulled over for him, and if they took off too quickly they might be seen as some kind of threat to government security. Or, worse, crash the cab from a lack of being able to see where they were going beyond the wall of red mist. But they had to make it in to find Marty – she just knew it. It was her fate. She was sure.

"No." She slipped into her confident shoes to give him his answer. "Just pull over."

"But—"

"Trust me. We'll get through this somehow." She sounded convincing enough – but really was terrified that this was where her journey would end.

"Shit..." Todd the Cabby was not okay with her suggestion, but too much of a coward to make a decision on his own. Plus he instinctively knew to trust this young woman he kept imprisoned in his backseat. Beyond his fear and even his instinct for survival, there was that. "Okay... Okay, we'll do it your way."

They came to a stop in the alley and the cop pulled up behind them, lumbering in their rear for a good twenty seconds that felt like thirty _millennia_.

"What the hell is he waitin' for?" He wasn't thinking clearly. The answer was obvious.

"Backup."

"What... _now?_ I'd run right _into_ him..."

"No... he's _waiting_ for backup."

"Oh, yeah..." He knew that... " _Shit_...that's not good..."

"Just... don't act natural..."

" _Don't_ act natural?"

"You're naturally a _spaz_... Just... I don't know... Pretend you're _me_ , or something."

"Yeah, okay..." He let loose a deep breath, calming his nerves. "...I'm a hot chick who's ready to singlehandedly face down a demon from Hell to save the universe. I can do this."

"Maybe I should do the talking..."

"Yeah. You... you just let me know if you need me to chime in."

For a hostage taker, he was pretty easy to get along with.

Lingering authoritatively, the policeman leered at the cab through his windshield. His backup was less than a block away and should be rounding the corner behind him at any moment. He decided to get a head start on his fellow law enforcers and get this whole interrogation process rolling. What the hell this cabby and his fare thought they were doing was beyond him. Who'd be dumb enough to stroll into that wall of eerie, red fog in the middle of an obvious evacuation and quarantine protocol?

Whoever the hell they were, they'd earned themselves a stern talking to—

"Whoa..."

The Caucasian officer in his mid-thirties was caught off-guard when Alex turned her head to look his way. The attractive silhouette of a sexy, young woman was a welcomed sight on a night like this.

Before he stepped out of his squad car he decided a few refreshing squirts of Binaca to the back of his tongue was in order – and also a small mercy considering his coffee breath was infamous for growing tendrils and reaching out and choking unsuspecting folks this late in the evening.

He removed the cap and gave the top of the tiny spray-bottle a pinch but to no avail. He tried again after rattling it up and down but the outcome being the same. The little gingivitis-battling soldier was all out of ammunition. With no means of defense in the war against halitosis, there were likely to be civilian casualties.

"Shit-balls..."

He looked down between his seat and the center console for any leftover peppermints or Altoids and spied a speck of white at the farthest reaches of the crevasse beside him that often housed his loose change. There were no nickels or dimes to speak of, but a hint of a rogue Mentos was calling out to him from beneath some old pocket lint and granola crumbs. He reached his fingers as far as he could and had to expend considerable focus on clutching the little breath-freshener between his digits but eventually prevailed. He hoisted the mint candy out of its premature grave and gave it a good blow to dust off the muck.

"Bonus!" he exclaimed when his victory was complete and triumphantly popped the Mentos into his mouth, eyes shifting to the street in front of him. "Shit!"

He jumped out of his car as if he might get a better view of the blank canvas outside where there was supposed to be a rogue, Yellow Cab with his dream girl waiting inside. But the empty street looked just as empty from outside as it did in. And, as if the whole police force was in on the prank, three squad cars pulled up beside him just in time to see he'd somehow lost his detainees.

"Double shit!"

"What happened?" A large black man exited the first cop car to come to a stop, wanting to be filled in on the fuck-up.

"I... I don't know... I lost 'em..."

"Huh?" The bulky, shaved-headed policeman reacted as if his fellow officer's words didn't even deserve a respectable response.

"Look... I don't know what happened, okay? I turned my head away for a second and they were gone. It doesn't even make any sense! They didn't have enough time to make it around the corner!"

"Unless you had your head turned for a little more than a second, you mean."

"Um, yeah, uh, officer 'Blow Me,' is it?"

"Bowman, dick..."

"Well, Officer Dick Bowman, they couldn't have gotten far now, could they? You wanna stand here all night and talk about how long I had my fucking head turned or you wanna help me find this disappearing cab?"

"Whatever, man... Let's just clean this shit up before the rest of the National Guard gets here. Because if we don't, were gonna have one more civilian out there we don't need in the middle of a fucking warzone..."

" _Two_ more. There was the driver and a girl in the backseat. Possibly Hispanic with black hair. Looked like a younger, hotter version of Catharine Zeta Jones."

"Ah. Right. So, what? You were lookin' for a napkin to wipe yourself off with when they saw you were distracted with your _johnson_ and made a run for it?"

He gave his fellow officer a scowl and a rigid, middle finger as he got back in his car. He had no clue how they could've driven off without him noticing but was determined to track them down and ask. Nobody slips away from Officer Grant B. Buterhanz and makes it home to brag about it.

"What the hell are they talking about?" The Cabby and Alex were right where they were supposed to be, starring back at four police cars and their officers who were acting as if suddenly they couldn't see them parked right under their noses. "Holy shit... I think they're leaving." He could hardly believe his eyes. "What the hell's goin' on?"

Alex kept her gaze on the first officer to pull them over as he got back in his car, cursing to himself under his breath. She wasn't sure, but she thought she had a pretty good idea of what might be happening.

"They can't see us."

"What? Why the hell not?"

A familiar tightness in her chest shortened her breaths as her attention was pulled back to the front of the cab. She quickly scanned over the street ahead, hoping she wouldn't find what she suspected was out there...but her hopes were only optimistic and naive.

Two yellow eyes pierced through the night air and red fog, standing watch over them from less than a block away. Tessura, it would seem, was never too far from their path. She must've used her mind tricks on the officers behind them to make them believe they were staring at an empty street. Her abilities were cunning and powerful and made Alex feel unprepared. If she was awed by her aunt's pet, how would she feel when faced with the Queen herself?

"I don't know." She outright lied so to spare him the discomfort of knowing Tessura kept such a close eye. "But we should probably take advantage of it while we can."

He'd seemed to be getting a little more comfortable with their situation up to this point and she thought it a good idea to keep him at least halfway sane. She meant what she said about wanting him to make it out of this alive. She really felt that saving him was something she had to do. The good guys desperately needed a victory, no matter how small. If she could save this man from that thing out there, then she would be on her way to becoming this savior, or saint, or whatever the hell it was she was supposed to be. At least, that's how she figured it...

Truth be told, she wasn't sure if she was supposed to save anybody. From the way her father was talking, it seemed she was just supposed to survive this more than anything else. For all she knew, the part she was intended to play might not be for years to come. She might be destined to live out her life in hiding and fear until the time came when she could actually make a difference. And when that might be was a total mystery wrapped in an unknown and buried under doubt.

Don't get ahead of yourself, girl... She knew enough to know worrying about the future was a waste of energy. One problem at a time, she thought. Get this guy out of this mess...then we'll deal with whatever the future might hold.

"Let's just get out of here before one of them accidentally drives into us on their way out."

"Good idea."

He decided to oblige her advice and put his cab into gear. The thick wall of red in front of them was less than a block away now and looking more and more like the point of no return. The Cabby wasn't looking forward to driving Alex into the city any more than Alex was, but he knew he didn't have a choice. That demon who held the lease on his life still haunted his every thought. The warmth of its foul breath still turned his stomach, and the memory of its eyes poked searing holes straight through his soul. He felt like he was bleeding-out internally, slowly dying a torturous death of fear and anxiety. If it weren't for the strength of the young woman in his backseat he may've already lost it completely and failed in his chance to win its favor. Not gaining its favor would've undoubtedly been the death of him since he was sure the beast was close by, waiting for the moment he'd try to escape or grow a conscience and decide to let the girl go.

More and more he questioned his own motives for staying alive. Trading one life for another was something he may've been okay with if he hadn't gotten to know the girl. But talking to her, seeing the goodness in her eyes and hearing the strength in her words, was making him wonder if what he was doing was something he'd be able to live with. Then the thought of being food for a giant drooling monster bulldozed its way back into his mind and he realized that that was also something he wouldn't be able to live with – but at least it'd be over quickly...

"I, uh..." He couldn't believe the words that were about to come out of his mouth. "I don't know if I can do this..." She looked him in the eyes as he spoke – them meeting each other's stare through the mirror above. "...Keep you prisoner, I mean."

She was almost so shocked by the sentence that she thought she may have heard him wrong – but could tell by his tone what he'd said he meant.

Her first thought was that maybe they could figure something out together. Come up with a plan of escape that'd get them both out of this mess... But she knew better. Neither of them had a choice. But she appreciated him trying to give her one anyway. She smiled softly and reached up to put her hand on his shoulder.

"You're not keeping me prisoner." She squeezed to let him know she wasn't going anywhere. "You're just giving me a ride to where I need to go."

He let out the breath he was trying not to let her know he was holding and sighed in relief. He really _was_ willing to let her go...but knew it would've been the death of him and wasn't sure if he was ready for that yet.

He nodded back to her and tried to smile, his heart so wound up at the thought of having to face that beast he couldn't get his lips to move the way he wanted them to.

He took another breath and shifted his eyes back onto the road ahead. Their little discussion took up just enough time for them to reach the wall of fog, and when they entered, they both had a renewed sense of purpose. He was no longer holding her captive, and she was no longer his prisoner. Now they were both in it together, and that unity brought a feeling of strength to their cause....Suddenly he felt they both just might make it out of this mess alive.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Beauty and the Buterhanz

1

Time in Hell doesn't pass as concisely as it does on Earth. A creature birthed in the pits, such as the demon Tessura, may've come into existence only a few centuries passed, but Hell's equivalent would be closer to several thousand. When she's not bound to this reality collecting souls for a human summoner, she's scouring the Black Shadow Mountains where wandering spirits who've escaped their cages find themselves adrift, tirelessly lost in a hell between hells. Her actual age is impossible to guess since no entity could be held accountable for her existence. She was simply conjured into being through a type of demented, evolutionary process like any creature with a symbiotic relationship to its natural habitat. It's possible her primordial consciousness was the darkness itself, finding that it could feed on the essence of the human soul and use its sustenance to develop a shape – one beneficial to traveling up and down the steep terrain of her homeland. There are no trees or plants on these mountains in Hell. Only tall, sharp, crystalline, black rocks and thin paths forming a dark labyrinth stretching for hundreds of miles, with red, molten lava running in rivers between.

Tessura is the only one of her kind. There's never been a need for another like her since she's existed. But her days on Earth are months passed in Hell, and her Shadow Mountains left unattended for too long may give rise to something that might not want to share in its spoiled fruits when she returns. The expediency of her mission on this plane grew more pressing with each passing hour.

This little girl she hunts has a strength about her she's never known in a human before, and it vexes her to see it in her eyes as she drives by. She and Alex lock stares like two opposite forces that attract, and for once she sees very little fear in her prey – the green shimmer in Alex's retinas coaxing a low grumble from the demon's throat. The more-than-worthless scrap of foreskin wrapped around human bones taking the shape of the cab driver was a simple creature, like most humans. But even his aura has changed since being so close to the other for a time. The watery, yellow glow describing his souls worth had deepened in color, almost discovering a hint of orange, revealing an increase in strength and courage. It wouldn't be long before he might even develop a conscience and try something heroic...but he'd always lack the will to succeed. He will die in his attempt to save the girl and prove his worth and will have taken too long to work up the courage to do so. By the time a significant amount of her strength rubs off on him, they'll already be close enough to the Queen that she'll be able to will Alex into submission. This girl may be stronger than most, but she was still a human. And a human is no match for the demon that Imala has become.

Although most that walk the Earth were relatively insignificant, they could pose as a nuisance by adding unforeseen elements to a well-thought-out scheme, such as the involvement of the LAPD, who would no doubt be combing the area in search of the escort that Tessura provided her prey. As if a bright yellow cab didn't stand out enough on its own, it being sought after by a squad of black-and-whites wouldn't make things any easier for her. Her projections could only work if she knew who was watching and when, so if a cop were to randomly pull around a corner, that officer might catch a glimpse of the vehicle before Tessura could cover it with the illusion of empty space. But...if she were to lessen the chance of that happening by eliminating those who were hot on Alex's trail...

After Alex passed, and her stare finally uncoupled from the demon's eyes, Tessura melted back into the darkness where she lurked. She reemerged in a shadow on a rooftop and used the strength of the dark to prepare her for her task to come. She stepped out of the almost pitch-blackness cast by a taller building and trotted to the opposite side, leaning over the edge to watch two of the four cop cars go their separate ways. One of them went north, the other, south, just outside the fog-line that stood unnaturally fixed in its position. The blood-clouds above stretched their corruption further than the eye could see, but the crimson mists remained within ten miles of the cemetery, almost as if awaiting orders to march forth when their ranks' numbers were great enough to spread.

The third and fourth cop cars headed straight for the sanguine fog-wall, entirely unaware they were right behind Alex and her cabby. These two, Tessura decided, were more of an immediate threat to her cause. The others would no doubt make their way into the city soon and would just as quickly wish they hadn't, but until then, they'd find themselves safe from the consequences their future would hold.

The two cars followed closely until a block in, just past the fog, when the rear car broke away to the right to patrol the next street over. It would be easy enough to fool the lead car, Tessura figured, trailing from the building tops. Her illusion was simple: She made it appear to the car in front that the officer behind them never broke off, but that he instead flipped on his lights and chirped his sirens, requesting his fellow patrolmen pull aside.

The portly white man, Officer Gibbons, and his Latina partner were both caught by surprise when the car behind them tried getting their attention.

"What the hell?" Gibbons wondered why he didn't just use the radio, but he pulled over anyway to humor the trailing young go-getter.

"He probably wants to take the lead... That asshole's way too eager to make the rest of us look bad."

"No shit, right?" He sighed. "Let's see what our future Super Sergeant wants."

He waved his hand out his window, signaling for the rear car to pull up beside him, but Tessura left the illusion where it was, oddly brooding behind with its red and blue lights swirling.

"What the hell's he doing?"

Officer Delgado sighed forcefully and pulled her radio handset from her shoulder. "Parkman, what the hell are you doing?...Pull up to the goddamn car."

Parkman responded to her question, but not how she expected since he was actually a block away, doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing.

"What car? What the hell are you talking about, Delgado?"

Gibbons quickly grew frustrated, grabbing his partner's radio from her hands.

"This car, you pretentious prick! What the hell car do you think?"

"Gibbs, you fat bastard, is that you? Your voice sounds strange – like you got a fucking ham stuck in your throat or somethin'... What the hell are you two idiots goin' on about?"

Delgado snapped the radio back from her partner's paws and gave him an annoyed glare.

"This isn't a good time for games, asshole. Why the hell'd you pull us over?"

"Pull you over? You two get into the evidence lockers again? What the fuck're you talking about? I'm at least a block and a half away from you right now..."

Gibbons tried grabbing his partner's radio again but this time she was ready, alertly jerking it from his reach, forcing him to use his to respond. He snatched it off his shoulder and hollered into it.

"Then who the fuck—?!" He looked into his mirror when he spoke as if yelling directly in Parkman's face, but when he did, found nothing there. No squad car. No Parkman... Just an empty, hazy city block.

He whipped his head around to pry with his own two eyes and Delgado followed his stare.

"What the hell?" She quickly felt her throat closing in, a lump of nervous tension rising from her chest. "Where the hell'd he go?"

"Parkman!" Gibbons yelled back into his radio, ready to tear the overachiever a new one. "Parkman, goddamn it, what game are you playing?!"

It didn't occur to him right away, but if Parkman was telling the truth, then he'd be just about out of radio-range by now.

"Parkman!"

No response.

"Shit... I don't like this, Gibbs..."

He reattached the handset to his shoulder and reached for the door's handle.

"What're you doing?" Delgado wasn't comfortable with the way things were unfolding. Something didn't feel right.

"I'm just gonna take a look." Door cracked and foot poised to exit, Delgado's hand stopped him before he could.

"Wait... Don't... don't go out there." She wanted to say she had a bad feeling...but knew he wouldn't take her seriously. When did a man ever trust a woman's feelings?

He looked back at the shifting unease in her eyes. If she hadn't been with him he probably would have ignored his own gut-feeling entirely and taken a look around. But seeing his subconscious fears illuminated by hers made him think twice.

"Yeah..." he nodded, "maybe you're right..." Foot back in the car, he quickly closed the door behind it.

She let loose her breath then almost smiled. "Smartest words ever to come out of your mouth."

He cocked his head. "Did you just call me smart?"

"God...I hope not..." She gave him a friendly whack with the back of her hand. "Let's get back on the job. Sooner we find this cab 'Butter-Nuts' lost, the sooner we can get the hell out of this mess."

"...I'm...pretty sure you just called me smart..."

She finally let what could pass as a smile sneak over her lips as Gibbons buckled his seatbelt, reaching for the parking brake. She might've gone as far as to laugh if she would've known that that smile would be her last. But as it has it, half a smile was all her time left alive would allow...

From a three-story rooftop of an industrial building, Tessura watched as the hefty officer nearly exited his car before he thought twice. As he closed the door, assuming he'd be safer inside, she leapt from the ledge and began transforming in midair—

Canine legs stretched downward to form horrific trunks of demonic muscle, excited hairs standing erect on her thighs. Her feet sprouted claws like the talons of a dragon, and her hips and spine straightened until she could stand dominantly on two feet. When she crashed on the hood, Gibbons' hand had nearly taken the car out of park but was a split-second shy. The sound of the impact was almost more terrifying than the beast herself until her still-growing arm broke through the windshield and grabbed the corpulent policeman by his soggy neck. Her paws molded into the claws of a creature that looked like it could choke the life out of a god, tenaciously lifting Gibbons from his seat, her snout and head reconstructing into that of a monster's face to match.

It took three or four seconds for Delgado to snap out of her utter shock and think to pull her weapon, but when she did, Tessura's demon eyes and piercing stare alone was enough to petrify her. That second of hesitation was all the demon needed to conjure an illusion in Delgado's mind. She made her think that instead of holding her weapon, she was holding her own severed head with maggots and worms squirming from the holes in its face, mouth drooling demonic ooze.

She was too frightened to even scream until the feel of the insects writhing out of the ears and onto her hands sharpened the illusion – the smell like old meat in a hot dumpster – and she let loose a murderous shriek that tore through the air for blocks. Dropping her gun to the floor, she curled in terror while Tessura turned her attention back to the first of her police victims.

Gibbons' eyes rolled into his skull – his face being blue from a lack of oxygen the least of his problems. If he was lucky he'd pass out before having to feel every bone in his neck splinter down to the marrow...

Grip unyielding, eyes shrieking yellow, Tessura focused her stare and opened her jaws to dawn a gaping entrance for the consummation of a new soul. She pierced deep into his subconscious and inhaled his life's worth, sucking out all of who he was through his reddening eyes and throat. The flesh in his face then sunk inward, and his large body withered into half of what it had been, deflated of the very essence that made him whole.

While Tessura indulged in the flavor of her prey, she was distracted just long enough for Delgado to regain her courage and reach down for the gun which no longer held the illusion of her own head.

Clumsily went it for it – hands numb and breaths short – and lifted her sites on the creature who stood murdering her partner and friend. Her first squeeze only reminded her that the safety was still on, but the second was a continuous volley of pulls that unleashed an entire clip. She watched as the bullets flew through the demon's body without it even flinching at the hot metal's touch. She thought, at first, she wasn't aiming steady. But when she concentrated harder on her target, she realized the monster's body was not of a flesh that could be affected by bullets.

Tessura was an extradimensional being. Those beasts who could walk in two worlds weren't made of a substance that was easily compromised. Her flesh to the threats of a gun was like those of a sword's to a mountain. The only significant thing Officer Delgado accomplished was making a heap of noise that caught the ear of her patrolling comrades in the distance as well as sixty some-odd California Guardsmen holed up at the nearby, military checkpoint.

2

"Captain!...Gun shots." The young California Guardsmen looked back at his CO as if to suggest they should do something about it.

"We hold here, Corporal. We already lost two squads in that demented hell-soup..." The captain shook his head, disappointed by his own command. "Let the Black an' Whites do their job. We wait for the Calvary: Twenty thousand US ground troops, a hundred or more M1 tanks, and a multitude of ass-kicking, low-flying, attack choppers are just under two hours away....The Hell that awaits us has no idea how bad we want a piece..."

"Yes, sir, Captain. Just a little eager to wage some righteous warfare, is all."

A cloud of white smoke rudely barged in on the conversation, insisting on both their attentions.

"You two assholes have seen ten too many war movies." The older gentleman seated at the map table behind the standing captain took a puff of his cigarette and blew another plume of smoke into the air. Half the man's face was scared by war – a terrifying tapestry of mauled tissue culminating at the point of his one dead, white eye. "There's nothing heroic about the death that awaits us inside that fog-line."

"You don't sound too optimistic about our chances, Colonel..."

"There isn't any place for optimism in war, Captain... And there's never been a war like this fought in the history of civilized man." He inhaled another drag that burnt his Marlborough Red down to the filter, then snuffed it out in the ashtray in front of him. "This sort of predicament is only supposed to exist in the imaginations of the socially recluse, Trekkies, and H.P. Lovecraft....Yet, here we all are, in the real fucking world, staring into a city covered by blood-mists that're infected with the walking dead... And you two dipshits think you're going to be 'heroes'..." He scoffed under his breath then looked up at his XO and the rest of the nearby men who he'd caught the ears of.

"Hear this now: We are all going to die in that hellhole you call Los Angles, and it isn't going to be pretty. So wipe those smug expressions off your ignorant faces and get your craniums in the game. Tonight's the night we give our lives for our country.

"...Cherish these last few hours on Earth you have left."

3

"Parkman, you hear those shots?" Officer Bowman had made his way into the city behind the fog-line a block north of Parkman and, if they were both on track, should still be within radio-range. "Sounded like they were coming from your direction."

"Affirmed, Bowman. And I just lost radio contact with Gibbs an' Delgado about two minutes ago..."

"Why the fuck didn't you say somethin', man? You know the protocol."

"I don't know... I thought they were fuckin' with me. It's...a long story... Let's just head their way; try an' reestablish contact."

"No shit, Obi Wan. I thought the force was supposed to be strong with you."

"Yeah, yeah... Blow me from the back, dickhead, and tell me how my ass tastes..."

"You're real fuckin' tough over the radio, aren't you, Putz-man."

"Boys!" Bowman's partner, Officer Carlyle, felt it necessary to play the part of Schoolyard Regulator. "Neither of you two children are gonna get in my panties with this obnoxious male posturing, so save it for a girl who isn't a total lesbian, capisce?"

"I didn't—"

" _Capisce?!"_

Bowman nodded obediently. "Alright, alright... Don't get your bull-horns in a bluster..." He sighed. "Parkman, just wait for us at the next block. We'll be over there in three."

"Will do. Hey, Carlyle..."

"What, Parkman?"

"Wanna trade naked pictures of our girlfriends?"

"Your girlfriend is a cow, Parkman. I know about your weekends at your dad's farm."

"Ha, ha. Yeah, laugh it up, Carlyle... Wait till you actually meet her. You'll be creaming in your little granny-panties at the sight of her."

"You sure that's a good idea?" She gave her partner a glance to be sure he was ready for her punchline. "...She'll take one look at me and realize you were never man enough."

"Not if you do us all a favor and wax that clit-tickler off your upper lip."

Bowman laughed under his breath but tried to hold it in.

Carlyle shot him a look. She thought about adding a retort but was interrupted when Parkman spoke up and beat her to it.

"Whoa...hold on... I got something up ahead..." Bowman and his partner both fell silent, waiting for him to go on. "...What the hell?"

"Talk to me, Putz-man. What's goin' on?"

"There's someone – looks like a woman – walking down the middle of the street..."

Bowman and Carlyle exchanged unsettled glances and Carlyle asked, "Can you see her eyes?...I heard these things that're eating people have glowing, red eyes."

"I can't... I can't tell from here... Looks like she's walking away from me... Yeah. Her back's towards me... I'm gonna pull her over and see what's goin' on."

Bowman fought a bad feeling clawing up his spine to say, "Don't get out of your car, Parkman. We'll be there in three minutes. Just hold tight till we show up."

"Trust me, man...there ain't no way I'm getting out of this car without backup. I'm gonna hit her with the P.A. – see if I can figure out what's what until you get here."

"Copy that. We'll be there as soon as we can."

Parkman chirped his sirens when he got a hundred feet from the woman in heels strolling down the empty block, her image hazy through the mists. There was something about her walk – or her hair, maybe – that seemed familiar... He squinted to peer through the haze but couldn't make out any details. So he grabbed the walkie in his car that was attached to the loud-speaker and addressed her accordingly.

"Lady...what the hell do you think you're doing walking around out here on a night like this?" As he approached, she continued her nonchalant meander in the opposite direction, seemingly paying his authority no mind. "Lady! Stop where you are. I know you know you're creeping me out right now, so let's just talk about this before things get out of hand." He unsnapped the strap on his gun holster and pulled within fifty feet of her. She had an attractive figure that was visible through her tight jeans and short, waist-high jacket, both her hands in the pockets. "Look, lady, the longer you play this game, the more on edge I get... If you don't stop where you are and turn around to face me I'm gonna shoot those sexy heels right out from under your feet."

She finally stopped where she stood and the attitude oozing from her stance sparked another flame of familiarity in his mind. Her wavy, light brown hair and profile reminded him of the girlfriend he'd just spoken so fondly of. He tried not to let it get to him, considering it couldn't possibly be her, and again addressed the mystery woman who finally seemed to be playing by the rules.

"Okay...that's a start... Now, Simon says, take your hands out of your pockets and put 'em on top of your head. Slowly." The woman did as he asked and his heart jumped when the sparkle of the ring on her finger resembled the one he gave his girl this past Christmas. He lowered the walkie from his mouth to stare – gut twisting with unease – then shook his head to reestablish his focus. "Alright, now turn..." He almost didn't want to say it. "...Turn around – but keep your hands on your head."

She didn't budge.

He hesitated, taking an extra moment to study her figure, and the more he did, the more she resembled exactly who she couldn't be. He looked closely at the light brown, suede jacket she wore and the heels that matched, remembering the other night when she asked what shoes he preferred with that jacket and he picked a similar pair. Her jeans even had the same brand name on their rear as the ones she wore that night, and the seven, thin, gold bracelets around her wrist were identical... "Why seven?" he'd teased. "Why not five...or eight?"

The mystery woman in front of him turned around to show the striking eyes and lips of his girlfriend and answered the question he was asking in his thoughts out loud with a smile—

"...Because seven's my lucky number."

When he saw her lips form the words dancing in his mind he froze – jaw gaping. He again lowered the walkie, staring at this girl who couldn't possibly be in front of him because she was supposed to be in another state, and he whispered her name as a question and a plea for his sanity...

"...Danni?"

He was so distracted by the sight of her that he didn't see the giant, salivating beast standing beside him until its fist had already broken through the glass and settled into a fatal grip below his chin.

4

Bowman and Carlyle rounded the first street corner cautiously, expecting to run into Parkman in another minute or so, Carlyle resting her hand atop her loaded weapon. She didn't want to be a Negative Nancy but figured they should get the likelihood of the situation out in the open.

"What's the chances Parkman just stumbled across a random transient we missed on the first sweep of the area?"

Bowman distraughtly shook his head. "Slim-to-shit....S'more likely the cab driver dropped off his fare, and she's just some nutcase who thinks being food for zombies is a hip way to go."

"Hope you're right... I'd hate to come face to face with one of those things if you're not. I hear they aren't like anything Hollywood's ever put on film... Cullen said he saw one take pointblank shots to the head. He could see straight through its skull and it was still coming. They're supposedly unkillable."

"Bullshit. Nothin's unkillable. If it exists, it can un-exist... Just gotta know what pieces of 'em to hack off to get the job done."

She glanced over with an eyebrow raised. "Channeling your inner Ashley Williams?"

"Ashley who?"

"You're kidding... You've never seen Evil Dead?" The title didn't seem to ring any bells. "Army of Darkness? Ash vs Evil Dead?...'Gimme some sugar baby'?"

"You know I'm black, right? Black people don't watch lesbian horror movies..."

"Lesbian horror...? No... Ashley's a man, man! And Army of Darkness is more like a comedy than a horror movie..."

"Which would explain the dude with the chick's name... Black people also don't watch horror/comedies with male heroes who're named after lesbians..."

"Dude...you lost me..."

"Good. Because you and me being on the same page goes against the natural laws of the jungle. Black men whose best friends are pasty, white, bull-dykes don't go over too well in the hood."

"Your secret's safe with me, my brotha."

She smiled forcefully and he smiled too, both attempting to carry on with business as usual, but neither feeling completely up for the task. A moment of silence between them was the last thing they needed. Too much time to absorb their estranged surroundings would only serve to increase anxieties, so she decided to try her hand at continuing their dialog.

"So we still on for the strip club on your birthday?"

"You goddamn right, we are." He welcomed her continued exchange. "Somethin' about havin' a lesbian with you at a strip joint that gets the girls to drop their guard... 'Member last year?"

"That Middle-Eastern goddess who couldn't keep her hands off you?"

"Yeah, man, she was all about me, huh?"

"I gave her a c-note to keep you company."

"Shut your filthy mouth!"

"I swear, man. I slipped it to her when I went to 'the bathroom.' " She air-quoted her words to animate her confession.

"What about that little senorita you had all over you?"

"Didn't give her a dime."

"Bullshit!"

"I speak the truth, my man. I was broke after hooking you up, I swear. Between the money I gave Jasmine and buying us drinks, I didn't even have money for a single lap dance."

"That bitch was dancing on your lap all night!"

"I know... _Wild_ , right?"

"An' how the hell you remember that stripper's name, anyway?"

"Who, Jasmine?"

"Yeah. _Jasmine_."

"We went out for drinks the next weekend. Nice girl. She's got kids, though. Kids aren't my thing."

"So, what...she was gay?"

"She had kids, dude."

"Oh, right... So, she was a freak then, huh? Down for both sides?"

She considered the question for a moment, digging around in her experiences for an accurate answer. "I don't think she knew _what_ she was down for... I think she just thought I had money 'cause I slipped her that bill. Strippers will do just about anything for a free ride. Probably would've let me go down on her too, but come time to return the _favor_... That's a different story."

"Huh." He sounded slightly perplexed but fascinated. "Being a lesbo's some complicated shit."

"You have...no...idea, my man. Women are a very shifty breed. And all of 'em are cock-teases... Even if you don't have a cock."

He nodded in acknowledgment, graciously accepting her input. "We should double date. Your insight on the female creature could help a brotha out..."

"I don't think so, dude. Goes against the natural laws of the _jungle_. Lesbians whose best friends are well hung _black_ men, an' all..."

"Right...right... Makes sense. _Penis_ envy."

"Ohhh, no. Don't get me started on _that_ shit."

"It's true, ain't it?"

She gave him an " _are you really that dumb"_ glare before she answered.

"The reason lesbians are lesbians is because we don't like dick... So, what the hell makes you think we'd want one?"

"I don't like dick, and I'm happy to have mine."

She stopped for a second to evaluate his retort.

"You make a good point."

"See? _Penis_ envy."

"Blow me."

"Penis—"

"Suck—"

"—envy."

"—my cock."

He paused for effect then glanced over with a cocky grin smeared on his face.

"You wanna borrow mine so you can take pictures with it?"

"I wanna borrow _yours_ so I can slap you in the _mouth_ with it."

"And the _truth_...shall set you free!"

She laughed and shook her head. He glanced over at her and smiled as she peered out the windshield, noticing what looked like Parkman standing in the middle of the street in front of his vehicle.

"Didn't that asshole swear he'd stay in his car?"

Bowman looked out at what caught her eye and shook his head. "I _knew_ his ass wouldn't be able to resist tryin' to be a hero."

Parkman stood casually, waving his arm for them to pull up. Bowman reached over to roll down his window, but Carlyle stopped him when she noticed something out of place.

"Whoa...wait a minute..."

"What?"

"What's with all the broken glass next to his car?"

He followed her stare and expressed his intrigue with a, "Huh...," then took his hand away from the window controls and stared in thought. "Maybe it's just a coincidence. He might'a just stopped next to it."

She peered through the distance, suspicious of the civility in Parkman's wave, and noticed the profile of a man in his driver seat.

"...And who the hell's he got behind the wheel?" She looked over at her partner who tried confirming her account with his own eyes. "Stop the car. Something doesn't feel right." Bowman obliged and she grabbed her radio to bark into it. "Parkman. What the hell's goin' on over there? I thought you said you weren't getting out of your car?"

They both waited from a little over two hundred feet for him to respond but, instead of answering, he just continued to wave them in. Bowman felt the moment was just as odd as Carlyle did so decided on investigating from afar.

"Grab the binoculars. See if we can shed some light on what'n the hell's goin' on over there."

Carlyle put the binoculars up to her eyes and directed them toward Parkman who oddly disappeared from her sights when she did. "What the hell...?" She lowered the specs and looked again with her own two and he was right where he was supposed to be, but when she looked through the binoculars a second time he disappeared just as quickly as the first. "That...doesn't make sense..."

Little did she know; it made more sense than she could possibly understand. The illusion Tessura created for the two of them was the same. It was simple enough to make them both see Parkman standing in front of them at an equal distance, but the demon trickster couldn't put two different images in both their minds when Carlyle's perspective was changing so rapidly.

"What? What do you see?" He was eager for an answer. Parkman's eerie, repetitive wave was racking his nerves.

" _Nothing_... I don't see _anything_... I mean, he's not even _there!_ "

"What?"

Searching for an explanation, she finally aimed her specs away from the empty street and gazed through the windshield to see the sunken in, soulless corpse of the officer formally known as Parkman in the front seat—

"Oh god!" She jumped at his pale, petrified expression.

"What?! What?! The fuck is goin' on?!"

" _Fuck!!_ He's dead!! He's fucking _dead!!_ "

"Wha—?"

"Just go! Just get us the fuck out of here, now!"

Bowman slammed his toes to the floor, too much in a panic to think to put the car in reverse, and peeled out toward the threat ahead.

"No! No! The other way! The other way!"

"Are you crazy?! We're not goin' deeper in!"

"Shit! Shit! Shit!"

They fishtailed toward the illusion of Parkman, and by the time Bowman straightened out the car, Tessura let the image of the former policeman dissipate, purposely revealing her startling true self in its place. Carlyle and Bowman's eyes spread wide and jaws hung low as they blew by, that fraction of a second lasting ten times as long.

Tessura's yellow eyes and drooling pallet were almost as terrifying as the soulless look left on the corpse of Officer Parkman, and Carlyle felt her heart stop at the moment of passing when she and the beast met eye to eye.

Bowman was so taken with the nightmarish thing that even after they passed he couldn't help but continue staring through his sideview mirror. What neither of them knew, or could have possibly guessed, was that Tessura wasn't looking at them, but at the backseat of their car, vacant and shrouded in dark...

Carlyle could hardly _move,_ let alone think, but after a few seconds she realized she'd have to do both if they were going to stay alive. Bowman was still so intently staring behind through the reflection of the side-mirror that he forgot he was the one behind the wheel. He was heading recklessly for the back of a parked semi and couldn't be bothered to realize he was driving straight for a face full of steel bumper...

"BO!!" She yelled at the top of her lungs, reaching for the wheel. Her hands shot up to steer their bumper away a second too late, but the speed and weight of the well-built Crown Victoria charged on with a loud noise, a broken headlight, and only a few scrapes to show for it.

"Are you with me?!" She wanted to be sure his head was behind the wheel before she let it go. He didn't respond right away, so she called out again. "Bowman!"

"Yeah!... _fuck_... Yeah, I got it!"

She looked into his eyes before putting her life back into his hands then finally let go, somewhat convinced he was back on the job.

"...What..." He didn't even know how to begin to ask. "...What..." He wasn't even sure if the English language had words for what he wanted to say. "...What..." But eventually, four of them inevitably came to mind: "...What the fuckin' fuck?!"

Correction: three.

"I don't know, Bo... Let's...let's just get out of here, okay?"

He looked into his rearview, uncomfortable with not keeping an eye on the beast that already killed one officer for sure and possibly more.

"Shit!"

"What?!" She didn't like the sound of that.

"It's gone! I don't see it!"

She whipped her head around to look behind them then found a second to think his words through.

"That's a _good_ thing, isn't it?"

"But where the fuck did it go?!"

She continued her search, scanning over every inch of the street she could until Parkman's swirling lights got swallowed by red fog in the distance.

"Back to Hell, hopefully..." Her entire body, along with her voice, was shaking, but her spirit remained strong. Underneath all her fear and instincts to flee she felt the warmth of anger kindle inside and wanted retribution for the death of a fellow officer.

"Can you see it?!"

She stared for longer than she could even think for a reason to until she eventually settled on an answer:

"...No."

"Fuck!" He slammed his hand against the wheel to vent his frustrated anxieties. "... _Fuck!!"_

"Just...just _drive_ , okay?"

"Yeah, _I'll_ fuckin' drive... I'll fuckin' drive, goddamn it... Can't fuckin' do anything _else_ , now _can_ I!"

"Yeah, you can. You can get me the hell out of here in one piece."

He took heed to her tone and allowed her words to sink in and straighten him out.

"Yeah..." He inhaled deeply. "Yeah... I can do that..." Glancing over at his partner and friend, he gave her a feebly composed nod. "...I can do that."

Regardless of his assurances, he still found himself compulsively eyeing his mirror – but stayed focused on his task. The silence that fell between them was filled by the pounding of their hearts but grew quieter with every passing second.

Carlyle's head eventually fell back against the seat, attempting to capture a moment of ease. For the time being she felt safe in her partner's care and did her best to allow the calm to settle her nerves and slow her heart. Breathe in; breathe out. The drumming of her pulse against her temples quieted with her every swell of oxygen so she repeated the process once more; a deeper breath, this time, eager to take comfort in the air – but squinted and gagged instead at its sudden putrid stink—

"Jesus..." Coughing at the taste, she covered her mouth. "...What the hell _is_ that?"

Bowman noticed it as soon as she did and lifted a hand to his face as if to will the smell away with a fist clinched by his nose. "God damn... What the _fuck_...?"

She whipped her head back impulsively to the backseat, bracing herself, as if expecting to see the rotting corpse of Officer Parkman smiling behind her, putrefying their calm... But there was nothing there but shadows.

Peeling her eyes from the back, she looked down at her feet...but didn't know what she was looking for. The smell was so rancid and sudden it couldn't have been coming from inside the car because...that just didn't make any sense... So she followed a line of logic that led to her closing the vents and making sure her window was rolled up, but the effort did nothing but give her something else to focus on other than the stink – like dead fish warming up in a Port-A-Potty. The look on both their faces was of such disgust it appeared painful, but all they could do was bear. After a few seconds, Carlyle thought that maybe she'd get used to it so lowered the arm covering her nose. She tried settling into the stench and relaxing her body, and even succeeded in doing so for an instant, but the warmth of foul breath rolling over her left cheek and ear froze her in her seat—

Paralyzed, she sat suffocated by a sudden dread, hearing the metal cage that separated her from the backseat scrape against itself as if squeezed between the claws of beast.

The wires' creaking was a drill-bit digging into her skull and she cringed at the sound. She tried convincing herself the noise wasn't real and wanted so much to look over at her friend for comfort...but couldn't. She was either losing her mind, having some kind of delusional anxiety attack, or there was something unthinkable in the backseat... Something that didn't have to be seen if it didn't want to be...and that smelled of death, and bowels, and Hell...

Her eyes were closed; her fists clenched so tight she couldn't grip a weapon even if she remembered she had one. The smell singed the inside her nose and the sounds of the metal wires being torn from the car's frame rang one by one.

What was Bo, her partner, doing during all of this? Was he as petrified as she was? Somehow still driving the car in a straight line while waiting for the death that stalked them to finally bring their lives to an end?

Maybe if they worked together, they could make it out of this alive. Maybe this thing couldn't break through the cage and all they had to do was turn around and shoot. Maybe all she had to do was open her eyes...

Open...

Your...

Eyes!

Lifting lids as heavy as anvils from over her eyes, she soon found the road in front of her had quit moving. Somehow Bowman had stopped the car without her even being aware...

Maybe...maybe he'd already done what she couldn't. Maybe whatever had stalked them was dead already – a lifeless, powerless bag of bones that was only about as dangerous as a dead doe...

She convinced herself she'd have to find out even though her gut was telling her otherwise. She began turning her head, and it was like her neck was encased in concrete and she was forced to break through the mold to get it to move. Compelling her chin to lead her eyes, her brain pieced together a pleasant picture of her partner's smiling face beside her....It's funny how the mind sees what it wants to until its thrust upon the ugliness of reality...

She let her guard down just a little when her subconscious optimism jumped the gun so wasn't braced for the horrifying face of terror awaiting her. Bowman's eyes were like protruding rubber props on a fake head you could squeeze them out of for fun, and his mouth hung crooked and wide as if still trying to scream for the sake of his soul. But the fact that his head wasn't even attached to his neck was nearly the worst of all. If that would have been the end of it, she may've survived this night as a tormented, trauma patient in a psychiatric ward, doomed to suffer waking nightmares for the rest of her life. But unfortunately for her, Tessura wasn't going to allow her that easy of an out.

On top of her partner's mummified veneer was a demon's paw attached to an arm that didn't stop until it came to a body of a beast that no human should ever have to suffer the sight of. Fate was a cruel mistress – Carlyle might even go so far as to call her a cunt – but the extent of her cruelty couldn't compare to that of the demon Tessura's. All the pain and fear combined in life that Carlyle had had to endure wouldn't begin to scratch the surface of the cage her soul was destined to be slowly digested from...

Tessura...hungered.

5

"Car, uh..." Officer Grant B. Buterhanz couldn't for the life of him remember the designation of Gibbons' car. "Car Forty, umm......fuck..." He tapped the mic against his forehead to jar loose a lost set of numbers from his short-term memory. "Car-forty-fucking-Gibbs-and-Delgado, come in."...Close enough. "You two slack-offs are about six minutes past check-in. What's the word?"

With the limited range of their radios, every officer on patrol was instructed to stay in regular contact with the next; no more than 15 minutes radio silence between them, keeping less than two blocks apart. "Gibbs. Delgado..." If for any reason they lost contact, their orders were to abort and return to base of ops. "Earth to Space Monkeys. Come in, Space Monkeys." In this case, "base of ops" was the National Guards' post ten blocks back and three blocks south. "I'll have both your asses skinned raw with a cheese grader and fried in the grease made from the fat off your own thighs if I have to abort this pursuit..." The last thing he wanted was to have to give up on his search. "I'm talkin' fried, Space Monkey bacon bits, you assholes... Come in." Without the support of his patrol, he could wander through the fog for days and never find the two that got away. "Damn it." The raw, death-flavored air was so thick that the culprits could've been on the same block as him, a few hundred yards in either direction, and he'd never even know it.

His first thought was that his fellow officers might have drifted out of range, or that inside the mist wall the communications-distance was shorter than they thought. The protocol was to head back immediately. If something happened to the car next to him and he went searching, he could end up just as missing as it, and the last thing the Police Force needed right now was a shortage of cars and good men to patrol them. His brain said, "turn back now, get more backup and come back strong." But his balls apparently wore the pants and were filling him with an encumbrance of foolish hormones egging him to push on. He knew enough to not blindly continue his search or to go after the missing officers on his own, but he couldn't see any way out of at least finishing searching the block he was on, then heading up the next one over to give it a look on his way back.

In order for them all to stay on the same page they were told to patrol the streets at no more than 15 mph. That way they could keep a fixed distance between them and maintain contact, but since contact had already been lost...

He hit the gas and sped up to twenty-five.

Instantly, the surrounding fog took offense to his speed. Clumps of blood-mist coalesced and splashed against his windshield and made it harder for him to see. He wasn't paying it much mind at first, but as soon as he noticed the change he looked directly into the amassing red to find scowling faces and gnashing mouths twisting fiendishly in the vapors. The mist streaked off the side windows like claws gripping at the glass – hissing – and he flipped his wipers to High, the soap-spray mixing with the blood and smearing a cranberry tint over the world in front of him.

He tried putting his mind off the morbid haze and surveying as far ahead as possible. This being the last opportunity he'd have to catch his quarry, he needed to cover as much ground as he could. So he leaned forward in his seat and gripped the wheel tightly, ready to swerve if he'd have to. He'd patrolled these streets a thousand times before but there was something about the texture to them underneath the mist that made them feel foreign. He knew exactly what street he should be coming up on but, for some reason, it didn't appear when he expected it to. It'd been like that the entire time he spent behind the fog-line. At first he assumed it was because he was limited to such a slow speed. But even now, every block he pursued stretched on for longer than it should; it was as if the city found it amusing to antagonize him and his journey.

"Any minute now..." He mumbled to himself to calm his concern, hoping he'd run into some kind of good fortune before he'd have to head back. "Aaaannnnyyy minute now..." Thinking positively may've been psychologically healthy but it felt naive. His instinct to flee kept butting in its nervous little nose, pushing him to make a clean break for civilized waters. "Aaaaannnnnnyyyy...fuckkkinnnggg—" Then his heart jumped when he thought he might've seen a glint of yellow in the distance rounding the corner. "Oh, no fucking way..." Gassing it, he covered enough street in a hurry to get a clearer shot at the backside of a cab right before it turned out of his line-of-sight. "No. Fucking. Way....Your ass in mine!" Finger switching on his lights, he thought better of his siren, not wanting to draw any potentially dangerous attention his way. "You're not gettin' away from me twice in one night, shit-holes. This I swear."

Twenty seconds later, Buterhanz rounded the corner and got close enough for the Cabby to see the red and blue lights gaining from behind.

"Oh, shit... Not again..." He peered into his mirror, shifting unsettled in his seat. "I thought they couldn't see us?!"

Alex turned back to see exactly what she was hopping she wouldn't. "Damn."

"Now what?" He'd already made a habit out of looking to her for answers.

"Just...pull over. A high-speed chase in this fog would get us killed." She almost let a trifle of hope rise in her heart when realizing the demon that followed them must not be near. If it was, then it was likely the cop would've never found them. Either that or he'd already be dead.

This time, Buterhanz didn't waste a second on the smell of his breath or straightening his hairline. He wasn't about to take his eyes off his prey for even an instant until he knew he had them exactly where he wanted them. So he hopped out of his car in a hurry and drew his firearm, aim straight and steady.

"Let me see your hands!"

Todd the Cabby was a little taken by the officer's urgent tone. "Shit...he looks pissed..." He put his hands on the dash and Alex lifted hers to where the officer could see.

Buterhanz cautiously approached the driver-side with eyes on the Cabby, not wanting to be distracted again by Alex's appeal. He gave the front seat a good look for weapons or drugs and then backed off slightly to address his perp.

"I got one question for you, Houdini....No...scratch that... I got about seven – but I don't wanna be out here any longer than I have to so we'll chop it down to three." He paused a moment as if giving Todd the opportunity to take part in the dialog. When he didn't, he went on. "One: How the hell did you two get by me earlier?"

"Uhhh..." He was racking his brain for a bullshit explanation—

"Two: What the shit do you two think you're doing out here on a night like this?"

"We were just—"

"And Three:" He cut him off before pausing to give his detainees a chance to catch up. "Is it just me or is it really fucking warm out tonight?"

They were both at a loss for words.

"First things first, Copperfield: step out of the car with your hands on your head."

Todd _really_ didn't want to get out of the car. He was crying-out to Alex in his mind, hoping she'd find a way to get them out of this mess. And Alex had heard his cries but didn't understand how to go about addressing their problem. She decided on polite conversation to start.

"Officer, uhh...?" Her tone suggested he fill in the blank.

"Oh _no_ you don't, cupcake. You're not sweet talkin' your way out of this one." He was still being sure not to look her way, but after hearing her voice, the struggle he waged against his hormones was _ever_ so much more trying...

"Look," She figured she'd just try to be as straight with him as she could, but before she even had the chance, a surge of adrenalin flushed over her body and a familiar sense of danger tightened her throat. "...oh, shit..." Tessura's stench was closing in and Alex got the feeling things wouldn't turn out so well for the courageous policeman outside her door. "I don't know how else to put this, other than: it's really not a great idea for you to be out on the street right now..."

Her remark threw him off enough to where he let his guard down and made eye contact.

"What?" He didn't have a clue as to how to take that.

"What?" Todd the Cabby, on the other hand, had a clue, but wished he hadn't.

Buterhanz looked down at Alex as her eyes jumped around, nervously scoping their surroundings for what she knew was out there. He found himself getting lost in her features but tried to stay focused.

"Look, sweetheart, I'm not the one you need to worry about right now..." She looked back up at him with concern in her stare and the green flicker in her eyes caught his attention. "Whoa..."

"You _really_ need to get in the car right now."

Stunned by the jade glimmer, he was a little thrown for conversation. "What, you mean _this_ car?"

"Yes. _This_ car. _Now_." She tried to be stern but could see he wasn't the type to blindly take orders, so she added, " _Please_."

"I don't think..."

Todd too was getting that familiar feeling in his chest. He knew the demon was closing in so he exploded with an anxious outburst.

"Get in the fucking car, asshole, she's trying to save you!"

"Save me?"

It was all a little much for him to process, his weapon lowering along with his guard. Then his gaze drifted up in contemplation and ironically met with the stare of a thing that defied explanation.

Tessura huffed and drooled with burning yellow eyes – her and the officer only separated by the bulk of the cab and his proximity to the strength in Alex that kept the beast at bay.

" _Holy Hell!"_

His raw shock didn't allow him to find the courage to fire. Instead, he reached for the cab door and jumped inside like a child trying to avoid being stung by a bee. He nearly flattened Alex on his way in but she managed to slide over before becoming a casualty of his hastiness.

The Cabby couldn't move. The sight of the beast who had nearly taken his life petrified him. Buterhanz was screaming at him to drive but he couldn't hear him. Alex was yelling for the officer to calm down, more afraid that he'd accidentally shoot one of them than of the beast who had her locked dead in its glare.

"Relax! _Relax!_ It can't _get_ you in here!" She put her hands on the officer's shoulders and noticed her touch had a calming effect.

He briefly broke his stare away from the angered beast and looked over to her. "How...how the _hell_ do you know that?!"

"Because if it could, I'd be dead already."

He was trading glances between her and the monstrosity on the street that stalked them and realized what she'd said made some kind of sense. "So, what...what're you saying? It's after _you?_ "

She cocked her head. "At the moment, I think it's after _you_... But _because_ of me, yeah."

"W-what if I...j-just let you off with a warning? Forget any of this ever happened?"

"I get the feeling you're better off sticking with me now..."

She sighed at the idea of having brought another innocent bystander in on her life choices, but let the thought go when she realized they still weren't moving. She looked back over at the beast outside who snarled and puffed in an aggravated display – Tessura's black coat nearly indistinguishable from shadow – then toward her new friend, the Cabby, still petrified by the sight.

"Todd?" She spoke gently to carefully break through the wall of terror he'd been hiding behind. She considered how the latest addition to her group, Officer Buterhanz, seemed to react calmingly to her touch, so after a moment of doubt, she reached up and put her hand on his shoulder. "Todd? Can you hear me?"

The contact was a warm flush spreading over his chilled body that thawed him out enough for him to breathe. He took in a deep chest-full of air and surfaced from his daze with its exhale – then turned his head to look back at her gleaming, green eyes.

"Yeah..." He finally answered with a nod to back his words. "Yeah... I-I can hear you..."

"I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, remember?"

He took in another breath and nodded again. "Yeah... I remember."

"OK, good. Then...let's keep moving."

Todd gave the demon one last glance to prove to himself he was back in control then, with shaking hands, put the cab in gear.

"Wait – what? What about my car?" Buterhanz was reaching to gain some kind of control.

"What about it?"

After a shift of his stare to think it over, he adhered to her argument. "Well...where the hell are we going?"

She glanced into his eyes, sighed, then leaned back in her seat. "...You really don't wanna know."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Holy Assemblage! (A Reunion of Priests)

1

The sound of the exhaust blaring from his hog roared through the city with enough pomposity to piss off the dead, but most were too preoccupied with building the army Imala demanded to go gallivanting off in search of the knuckles that bruised their ego.

The inner-city streets were devoid of demon soldiers, but the Damned, those whose souls were trapped in the minutes before dying, haunted corner-stores and turned over vehicles throughout, reaching with despairing pleas for Marty's aid as he passed... But he knew they were beyond his help – he could smell that none of them were still alive.

When he pulled up to Alex's complex he sprung off his hog in a hurry, momentarily forgetting about the half-naked young woman perched on the back of his bike. He glanced back to see the fear of abandonment in her eyes and quelled her worries with an extended hand.

" **Come on. Let's get you some clothes."**

"Do you think she's home?"

He gazed up at the apartment building toward Alex's window.

" **No... She's not."**

"H-how do you know?"

"... **I just do."** He wasn't a hundred percent sure but believed for now he could trust his instincts. "Hopefully she left a note...or some sign she's still alive."

Desi scooted off the bike and scuttled up behind him, careful where she stepped since she had nothing on to protect her feet, her canary-yellow toe polish an ironic contrast to the collecting filth at the base of her arches.

The walkway toward the apartment cut through two other buildings on either side and then opened into a front yard before a few stairs led to the apartment's entrance. Blood splatter befouled the face of the building, broken glass polluted the lawn in front of the walls, and the steel gate that used to protect the doorway was lost to the anarchy the block had suffered. When they reached the entryway, they found the door kicked in with the interior halls telling tales of undead turmoil.

Marty wanted to dash up the stairs as fast as he could but knew not to leave Desi alone. Instead, he examined the wall to his left and found the Up button to call for the elevator. The button lit at his touch and the gears groaned in response.

"M-maybe it's out of service..."

The groan turned to a wail as the metal in the lift's mechanics sounded like it was at war with itself. A clanking echoed through the shaft and the cry of a ton of steel shrieked down, vibrating the walls and rumbling the ground around them.

Desi jumped into Marty's arms as he turned to shield her with his undead bulk. The boom of the elevator cart blew sparks and dust through the crack as it settled on the lobby floor, and the Up arrow dinged above while the doors unsuccessfully creaked to open.

They both looked through the swirling dust at the disaster that landed at their feet and then at each other. It didn't take a deep, emotional connection, or some form of supernatural telepathy for them to quietly reach a mutual decision to take the stairs. He set her on her feet and then grabbed her hand to lead her up.

Five flights of vacant floors got them where they needed to go. From down the hall, Marty immediately noticed Alex's door broken from its hinges, the frame jutting splintered wood into the passage. He let go of Desi's hand and raced against the rising image in his mind of his sister's blood decorating the interior walls.

He found himself in the dark apartment within a blink of an eye and stood as fixed as stone, scanning his surroundings with every heightened sense he could muster from his cursed existence.

He used his three-tone vision to search for the red of blood, and his nose to smell for flesh. He used his hearing to listen for the sounds of insects feasting on what would be the leftover carcass of a young woman and searched his racing heart for the hope she might still be alive.

There were no sounds of ants eating human bodies or splashes of blood on walls – but there was a smell... It wasn't Alex. But whatever it was, it was definitely rotting...

Desi came in a few seconds after him, felt around for the light switch and flipped it on. With Marty so intensely focusing his senses, the lights pummeled his retinas with a blinding flash.

" **Ahh...** fuck..."

He instinctively threw his hands over his eyes, protecting them from the shine, and his outburst made Desi assume the worst.

"What? What happened? Is she dead?"

"... **It's** _bright_ **..."**

"What?"

" **The** _lights_ **."**

"Oh...sorry..."

"... **s'alright..."** He shook his head under his palms. "I'm just not used to...being like this..."

"You...you mean...like a zombie?"

He lowered his hands and let his eyes take in the glare.

" **I wouldn't slap** that title on me just yet..." He looked back at her to give his eyes something to focus on. "Or maybe I would... But... I'm still—"

"Myyyy herooo..." A familiar, masculine voice interrupted him with a childish tone.

Marty snapped his head toward the taunt. Even before he saw the undead face of his ex-teammate sitting in an easy-chair in the corner, he knew who was waiting for him by the smell of his cheesy sense of humor. Mac had sunk into the chair as if it were his throne, his bright white Priests jersey conveniently camouflaged by its compilation of cemetery dirt.

" **What the f—"**

"Who's yur _friend_ , Marts?"

Marty didn't waste time sympathizing for his teammate who'd obviously been turned. In a flash, he had his giant hand clenched around Mac's throat, lifting him several feet from the ground.

" **What the fuck are you** _doin_ g **here, Mac?!** _WHERE'S ALEX?!"_ His eyes screamed with green fury while Mac clawed at the grip on his esophagus. **"** _Answer_ **me, goddamn it or I'll rip you open from mouth to nuts!"**

"I..." He tried squeezing his voice through the death-grip on his neck. "I don't _know_... I... I was looking...for _you_..."

Marty fought through his anger and found a pinch of fleeting calm, temporarily believing his ex-friend's words. Or at least _hoping_ they were true. He looked deep into his black, apathetic eyes and hardly recognized him.

" _Why?"_

Mac gestured toward Marty's grip for him to maybe loosen it a bit so he could respond. Marty hesitated, but got the impression Mac wasn't someone he couldn't handle if it came down to it. So he set his dead friend down and relaxed his hold.

Mac rolled his head around as if to make sure it was still attached and kept his arms raised to show no aggression. "What do you mean 'why?'...Yur my captain. Yur one of _us_."

Marty wasn't following.

" **The fuck're you talking about? We're** dead." He searched Mac's eyes, trying to gage his sincerity. "This isn't a game, Mac. I'm not yur captain anymore—"

"That's where yur wrong, Marts!" He smiled a wickedly playful smear. It was amazing how closely "human" these dead-men could appear. "Yur Priests need you now more than ever."

" **The Priests?"** His heart fell at Mac's words, assuming he meant they'd all been turned. "They're all...?"

His reaction puzzled the ginger dead-man. J.C. had said Marty turned his back on them, but he was just now realizing his afterlife team captain was a whole other kind of animal.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Marty? You're acting like you still got...feelings for people..." He stared into Marty's eyes, probing the soft spots of his still human soul. "You said it yurself... 'We're dead.'...It's a whole new world out there, man! And it's ours for the taking!"

" **The only thing 'I'm taking' is my sister** out of this hellhole when I find her." He raised a finger toward him to stress his sincerity. "And if you even think—"

The focus in Mac's eyes shifted toward Desi, turning his expression from contemplative to conniving in a blink. It didn't take a zombie psychologist to realize what he was doing when he made his move. Apparently, he decided to "think" despite his brawnier companion's warning not to.

Mac was faster than the soldiers Marty had run into in the cemetery but not fast enough. He grabbed a handful of Mac's dirtied, orange hockey-hair as he blazed by before his outstretched arms could reach their female prize. He flung the dead Priest in the opposite direction with one commanding move, snapping his head back and tearing him off his feet. Mac's powerful body was tossed out of the five-story apartment window like a dog's toy, taking a good portion of the surrounding wall with him. Desi didn't even get the opportunity to flinch until after her would-be attacker was already a few hundred feet away, soaring through the thickening blood-mists that engulfed the complex.

Twenty seconds earlier, Terry, Jimmy and Tara were tiptoeing up the path toward Alex's apartment with guns in hand, none harboring a clue as to what they'd shortly find. Jimmy took the point and Terry brought up the rear, all on full alert, curious to who owned the boldly parked Chopper on the front sidewalk, knowing it'd been left recently since the engine was still warm.

The "old Jimmy" may've made some crack to Tara about "ladies first," not wanting to be primary in line to run across the trouble that no doubt festered near. But he'd recently been realizing he'd have to grow some major, testicular machismo to stay alive in this new Hell in L.A.

But he wasn't the only one who had hang-ups about their current tact. Tara felt exposed as well and spoke up in favor of an alternate approach.

"Guys..." Her voice was a loud whisper, her shotgun an old friend firmly in her grasp. "Maybe we shouldn't be just...waltzing in through the front door..."

They stopped in consideration of her words just before making it to the complex's front yard – but didn't have time to think them through—

The crashing of broken glass and the explosive sound of a two-hundred-ten-pound dead-man plowing through a building wall caused them to spin toward the chaos and freeze, awkwardly hunched over like cats caught in the garbage. Mac's body flew toward them with an unworldly force and landed only a few yards ahead. His frame hit the dirt leaving a dent in the earth and kicking up clumps of grass and mud that showered the three unsuspecting friends in startlement.

It didn't take more than a second for Mac to regain his footing and recognize the good fortune he'd so conveniently been thrown into.

He gave his ex-teammates a savage grin and fiendishly turned his stare toward the lady-figure beside them.

Marty looked back at Desi, just after expunging the overgrown Irish cadaver from the apartment. She seemed a little rattled but no worse than she had been. After she finally put together what had happened, she respectfully voiced her humble opinion of her latest acquaintance:

"I'm...not sure I like your friend so much."

Marty shrugged as he continued to inspect the apartment.

" **He's not so bad."**

But his loose opinion of the "New Mac" may've been premature...

The sound of Tara screaming outside the building had him quickly wishing he could take back his words as he sprinted toward the open wound in the wall.

Two hundred feet away, Mac had Tara in an excessively feisty headlock. Jimmy and Terry stood frozen right behind him with the undead Priest not paying his two, still-breathing teammates much mind.

"Hey, Marty!" He slid his arm from around her neck to grip her by the throat and gave her a deep sniff to provoke his ex-captain. "...I got yur bitch!"

Jimmy and Terry – unnerved – found themselves caught in a flood of emotions: They were shocked shitless to see a dead, Harold McKenzie fly out a five-story window and take their dear friend hostage, frightened as all fuck that they might have to watch her die in front of them, and slightly relieved to see what looked like their fearless captain, alive and standing nearly within reach.

But they unanimously decided to put all that disorder aside, gave each other a glance, drew the handguns from their waistlines, and aimed for the back of Mac's muddied, orange mullet.

Marty saw his friends make their move and knew he had to do the same. Jimmy and Terry both pulled the triggers of their guns as the Priest's captain leapt from the apartment window with all the strength he could find. Both bullets entered the back of Mac's skull simultaneously, and each exited his opposite eye, projecting black goop out of his sockets and into Tara's well-kept hair.

Mac was more surprised than anything else, but knew he was up to his lips in shit when he heard the impact of Marty's size-sixteen's. Before he could react, Marty already had his hand around Mac's wrist to pull it away from Tara's throat. She skidded to the ground with the force of the move which allowed Marty the freedom to plant a solid right-cross into the eyeless visage of his dear dead friend.

Mac flew twenty feet from the force of the blow and into a chain fence bordering the yard, but to Marty's surprise, his head stayed fully intact. He half expected it to break into pieces like the undead shit-bags he'd put a beating on back at the cemetery. He thought for a second he'd unintentionally pulled his punch, since Mac was a friend, but was pretty sure that that wasn't the case. There was definitely something more to him than the other dead-men he'd come across...

He briefly looked back at Tara to make sure she was okay but had other, more pressing, issues at hand (and subconsciously rued the notion of his friends seeing him as he was).

The three coddled each other to be sure they were in one piece, and out of the corner of their eyes kept a close watch on Marty. It quickly became obvious he wasn't the "Marty" they were hoping to find.

" **What the fuck's this all** about, Mac?! Who did this to you? Who sent you after me?!"

Mac wiped a handful of glop off his face from his position on top of the flattened fence and flung it to either side.

"Our ol' pal Shit-Face is runnin' the show." He chuckled at the thought. "Me and the boys were hopin' you'd take his place..." He lifted himself up from the ground to take a robust stance, chest swelled with undead pride and black blood and brains smeared down his cheeks. "Guess you ain't feelin' up for the job..."

" **I told you** : all I care about is Alex. I don't want any part of this New Hell yur so proud of."

As he got closer, Marty got the distinct impression they weren't alone. He slowed down and focused more on his other senses, uncovering the quiet approach of two more dead-men from around the buildings both to his right and left.

"That sucks massive balls, Marts... We were really lookin' forward to gettin' the whole team back together."

Mac's partner in crime, Donny, and the young Bobby Shye strutted onto the scene like two cowboys looking to get into a tussle. Donny ripped loose one of the metal poles from the fence and Bobby followed his lead. Both men walked with an exaggerated poise that only a dead-man could own.

" **You two know where I'm gonna** stick those fucking things if you come any closer, right?"

He sounded like he had all the confidence in the world – and he did... But he was concerned with the three or four living people around him he knew he might not be able to save. He wasn't fast enough to stop all three of his zombie teammates from getting their hands on his friends. He'd have to pull off some pretty spectacular shit to keep everyone who was still alive alive.

And as if it were etched into his otherworldly makeup, he reached up for the charm hanging from his neck and pulled it over his head. With the amulet set in his palm, he tightly wrapped the chain around his hand. He wasn't entirely sure what he had in mind; he was just letting his imagination take on a life of its own.

"You think that lucky charm is gonna save your friends from what's coming, Marty?" Donny grinned perversely while fondling his pole, smacking it against his palm and twisting it in his hand. The extra attention he gave the thing, along with his gentle-but-firm caress seemed...well-rehearsed.

Marty didn't bother with exchanging anymore banter. He wouldn't let it be seen on the surface, but he was worried. He clinched the charm in his fist and its strength glowed through his fingers. He shifted his eyes up to stare directly into the black holes in Mac's face and his glare glistened with his spirit. His show of mysticism was enough to give Bobby and Donny pause, buying him the time he needed to speed toward their leader.

He rallied all his will with his charge and slammed his hand over Mac's forehead, palming the front of his skull. The charm in Marty's hand singed against Mac's cranium while white smoke rose from under his palm and a green essence spread below his skin.

The onlookers all watched in awe – none really sure of what was happening. Bobby and Donny could've easily grabbed a hostage from the three standing by, but both were too morbidly engrossed in the occurrence in front of them to move (as was Desi, silently watching from the apartment above).

The effort Marty put into his force carved canyons into his brow, and that energy, in turn, burst from Mac's eye-holes and mouth while he howled in pain. Body shaking, Mac fell to his knees, the grass scorched and smoking around them.

When it was over, the defeated Priest slumped in defeat, still upright and kneeling, and green smoke escaped his seared lids.

All anyone could do was watch, waiting for some kind of answer to their unasked question to make itself known...

Marty lifted his hand from Mac's forehead to reveal the circular brand of his charm burned into Mac's skin. And not even Marty could've guessed what would happen next – everyone equally astonished to witness Mac's body regain some sort of consciousness.

Mac rolled his head back, breathed in, and opened his eyelids, which, to their surprise, revealed two fresh orbs absent of demon-black (but cataract; drained of life and color). Marty's touch had healed his dead flesh just as the charm had healed him when he was torn into by ravenous canines in the cemetery.

Mac looked down at his hands by his sides and turned his palms up in confusion, and the brand on his forehead evaporated with a green whisk.

"What..." He was surprised to hear his voice wasn't as deranged and aggressive as it'd been a minute before. "What the hell'd you do to me, man?"

Bobby and Donny both looked at each other, still not sure what to make of this new factor in the equation of their evil scheme.

Marty too was unsure, ready to punch a hole right through the middle of Mac's face if he didn't like the answer he'd get from him.

" **You tell** me."

Mac looked up with two, nearly human, dead eyes; a touch of green dancing against the black of his pupils.

" **You still feel like** eating our friends?"

Mac's stare shifted, pondering the question. Then he glanced over at the three, still human spectators, all anxious to hear his reply.

"...Maybe just the blond."

Marty and the rest didn't look to be in the mood for jokes.

"Kidding..." He reached out for his captain's hand. "Actually, I don't got much of an appetite right now... Can we put off breakfast 'til later?"

Marty grabbed his dead friend's palm and got him to his feet, but kept a sharp eye, still not sure of what side he was on. The Priests' captain looked to his right and his winger did the same to his.

"I'll take Donny, you get Shye."

It would seem what "side he was on" would become clear soon enough.

Bobby went straight for a hostage while Donny stood his ground. Jimmy noticed Bobby had him in his sights, but in an instant, a blurred collision exploded at a midpoint in front of him that left Marty standing tall and a Bobby-sized hole in the back of the building to his right. It seemed Marty wouldn't have much problem taking care of the young Priests' left-winger.

As it turned out, Donny and Mac were more evenly matched. Mac wasn't quick enough to dodge the swing of Donny's metal pole so he got caught with an upward swipe. The blow lifted him off his toes and forced him into a sprawled-out, spine-bending backflip. He nearly landed back upright, but his momentum carried him too far. He rolled backward, heels-over-head, until he popped up to his toes and didn't even hesitate before looking for retaliation.

This time, Donny was caught off guard, contemplating if he could reach a hostage before Marty could stop him. Mac took advantage of his divided attentions and planted a right blow into his left cheek that knocked him back into the corner of Alex's complex, a hefty chunk of the building breaking off with the heavy collision.

"You never _could_ take a punch, Donny-boy!" He peered back over his shoulder to see Marty already making fast work of Shye, towering above his squirming body with his Glowing Hand of Righteousness simmering the evil right from his bones. He turned back to Donny who'd just made it to his feet. "Why fight it, D? Yur a _Priest_....You really wanna keep takin' orders from Shit-Face?"

Donny dusted off the cement from his jersey and delivered an estranged glare.

"I _like_ who I am now, Mac. For the first time in my life...I don't have to hold anything _back_." His voice had a sickness to it: the demented tune of the confessions of a madman.

"What the fuck are you talkin' about, man? Yur not a—"

"A killer?" He scoffed at his ex-friends assumption. "This city's not as empty as you think." Mac looked closer with his new eyes and saw the tint of blood around the corner of Donny's mouth. "Found some leftovers in the back of the building. He was injured; hiding out...nearly dead, anyway. Not a very tasteful kill but still fresh enough to savor the tang."

"You ate somebody?"

"I wouldn't say 'ate' per se... _Snacked_ on's, more like."

Mac hesitated, troubled by the sinister gleam in his teammate's eyes.

"It was _amazing_ , Mac! Like eating the sweetest snatch on Earth smothered in strawberry sauce and PCP!" He looked over to Tara who was still huddled up with the others close by. "A lot like what I imagine going down on Marty's girl's gonna be like....But I think with her," he checked her out from head to toe, "I'll start with the tits."

Marty was helping Bobby to his feet in the distance but turned when he'd overheard his name. One look at Donny's stare and he knew his amulet's strength would be put through a gauntlet. The blood Donny consumed burned subdermally, visible only through Marty's eyes, infesting his ex-friend with ravenous guile. Marty stepped up beside Mac with Bobby trailing behind to look deep into the aura of the young man he once knew turned dark and depraved.

Donny's eyes radiated evil and his shoulders tensed. Their stares were entangled, locked in anticipation, but Marty's eyes held the key. Donny knew if he was going to make his move, it'd have to be now. Then his arm flinched as the metal pole he held shot from his hands like a five-foot-long silver bullet.

Mac raised his hand to protect himself as Marty reached for it in midair. He caught the pole at its middle while the front-end extended through the center of Mac's palm, spraying him with more of his own black blood.

Marty looked over at his friend to see he was relatively in one piece, then in the opposite direction, beaming into Donny's demonic glare. He decided he didn't like the cocky look on his face so he pulled the pole from Mac's hand and returned it to sender all in one motion.

The throw was so fast and powerful it speared straight through Donny's face, making it to the middle of the pipe before his reaction caught it in its path. He stumbled back from the impact but found enough strength to stay on his feet, the pole skewering through the center of his cocky grin and taking his nose and eyes along with it. They all gawked afterward, amazed when he slowly starting pulling the pole back out of his own head.

Marty decided he'd seen enough of Donny's Polish Pole-Trick and began his approach to finish the job. He grabbed the metal skewer and yanked it from his enemy's grip, then forcefully plowed its sticky end back through his blackened heart.

" **I wish you hadn't said all that shit, Donny. It's gonna make our friendship real fuckin' awkward as soon as I turn you back to a Priest."**

He slammed his hand onto Donny's forehead, expecting the outcome to be the same as the others, but noticed immediately something was different. Instead of Marty's signature green shine, Donny's skin burned in flushed scarlet – his ensuing scream a shriek of agonizing pain, forcing those who still had living souls to quiver at the sound.

"Fuck, Marty, wait..."

Mac tried intervening, wanting to silence the excruciating howl, but Marty's posture didn't waver. It wasn't that he needed to see Donny punished; he just couldn't stop even if he wanted to – his hand unwillingly welded to his victim's skull. He couldn't move it away until there was nothing left of the tainted Priest but the echo of his cries and smoldering soot over a pile of bones.

He watched the glowing remains scatter in the air under his palm as Donny's skull fell from his grasp and settled to the ground, leaving a morbid mound of charred marrow and glowing embers behind.

"What the hell just happened?" Bobby spoke up – a big-eyed, meerkat-stare peeking over Mac's shoulder.

Marty looked to Mac first, then to the doe-eyed Bobby Shye, then the three others who still stood watching fearfully from the center of the yard; there'd been way too much happening at once for them to take it all in.

" **Everyone get inside."**

He figured it was a good idea to get out of the open. He walked past Mac and toward the three of his friends who still had a pulse. A rapidly beating, symphony of pulses, at that, which he realized he might need to address before he'd get any cooperation.

" **You guys okay?"** The first thing he noticed in himself was that he addressed them all equally. He felt no more or less attached to any of them, despite the intimacy he and Tara had shared.

None of them really knew how to answer. Terry eventually decided to be the one to speak.

"Marty...are you...?"

" **Dead?"** It was a strange question to have to answer, but probably the least unordinary of all that would eventually come up. "Yeah, man... Looks that way."

Tara and Jimmy just drooped pale and defeated at his reply. Terry had an expression on his face that begged the question, "How?" as if he couldn't quite believe it could happen to him, of all people.

" **I ran into our boy Duprie back at the cemetery last night....He wasn't exactly in the mood to 'hug it out.' "**

None of them could find it in their hearts to respond. Then Bobby and Mac walked up from behind and they all just stared at each other for a moment, not sure how to interact.

" **Let's talk inside. We all gotta lotta questions."**

The masses seemed to agree on that, at least, and began walking toward the complex until Bobby spoke up.

"Wait a minute... What about Donny?...Shouldn't we...burry his bones or something?"

Jimmy was quick to have an opinion on that.

"That's a terrible fucking idea... What if he just comes back again? We'll do all that digging for nothin'..."

"He's right," Terry decided. "Unless you guys know for sure how all this shit works, reburying what's left of him doesn't sound like a smart move to me."

Marty agreed. "Leave him. We don't have time for that shit right now, anyway."

The Priests' captain led the way into his sister's apartment with Terry, Jimmy, and Tara trailing; Shye and Mac weren't far behind.

Desi was still inside, waiting anxiously for the return of the cavalry. With all the commotion going on, she hadn't gotten the chance to find anything more appropriate to wear. In spite of her awkward, partial nudity, she felt it only polite to speak up.

"Is everyone okay?"

It didn't come as a surprise that Tara was the first to respond.

"Who's this?" If she sounded pissed, she meant to. She was risking her life coming into this hellhole to find her man, and when she finally does, not only is he a whole new breed of monster, but he has some half-naked floozy hiding out in his sister's apartment.

" **This is Desi."** Marty didn't take much notice to her tone. "I found her in Westwood, outside the cemetery."

Tara walked up to her, and Desi firmly stood her ground. Tara bluntly looked her up and down before addressing her.

"You're not wearing any pants."

Desi responded to Tara's challenge in-kind.

"You don't look like the type of girl who'd be bothered by that."

Jimmy felt now might be an appropriate time to intervene. "It doesn't bother me..."

Terry shook his head. "Jimmy...not now, dude." He sounded annoyed but secretly was a little relieved to have Jimmy acting more like himself.

" **First thing's first."** Marty was all business. He still had no clue as to where to find his sister and wanted answers. "I know what Mac and Bobby are doin' here, but what about you three?"

Tara still had her eyes on the younger, blonder Desi, and Desi eventually broke off their staring bout with a little smirk. Terry ultimately chimed in to answer Marty's question.

"Alex called us earlier – before all this shit started goin' down. She said you were in trouble and she needed us to find you."

" **You talked to her? Where is she?"** His voice was booming and a little more aggressive than he meant it to be.

"I didn't talk to her, no – Jimmy did... But she didn't say where she was goin'. She just said to meet her back here once we found you. But when all this crazy shit started goin' down we had no idea where to look for you except here... So...here we are." He looked over at Bobby and Mac who were standing near the door, still uncomfortable with them although they seemed relatively not homicidal. "So...what the hell's goin' on with you guys?" He looked back to Marty who continued his search of the area. "Why aren't you trying to tear us apart? And what was all that glowing, green shit comin' out of yur hands and faces?"

Marty didn't know much, but of what he did know he wasn't sure how much he should divulge. Even though he thought he was among friends, he didn't feel too comfortable trusting anyone right now. He decided to skip answering his teammate's queries for the moment and present another of his own.

" **So yur saying Alex warned you about all this shit before it even happened?"**

"Yeah... that's part of why we risked our lives to find you. None of this shit makes any sense to anyone, but Alex seemed to know somethin'..." He gave Marty a peculiar look. "...And you seem like you know somethin' too."

Marty decided his friends had earned at least some answers from him. Like Terry said: they risked their lives to come this far.

" **I don't know much...other than, whether I'm dead or alive, I still got some kind of talent for kickin' the** shit out of people."

The unfulfilled stare on their faces told him that that wouldn't be good enough. He decided to start from the beginning.

" **After J.C. tore out my insides and buried me in his own grave...I dug my way back out – just like all the rest of 'em... Except...somethin' was different."**

He looked around the room at the faces of his friends and decided that if the good guys were going to win this war, he'd have to trust somebody... This group seemed like as good a place to start as any. So, he reached under his torn shirt and lifted up his amulet.

" **This was my mother's."** It shined in his hand when he spoke of her. "She asked me to give it to Alex when she was old enough... And Alex gave it back to me to hold last night in the hospital. It broke off when me and Shit-Face were goin' at it, but when I climbed my ass out of the dirt, it...called to me. It took everything I had to reach it, but when I did...somethin' happened – like what you saw with Mac and Bobby. It...set me free...of whatever it is that's controlling the rest of 'em."

"Do you know what that is? What's controlling them, I mean?" Tara decided to join in.

" **Not exactly. Except...I think...it's...** family..." His voice trailed off.

"What family? What family do you have other than Alex?"

" **None that I know about..."**

"Her name's Imala." Mac figured now was the right time to ante up. "She's the new Lucifer – a demon sorceress with a whole army of dead behind her... And that's just the beginning." No one liked the sound of that. "I don't know how her and Marty are connected, but I know her throne is back at the cemetery... And that she's more than any of us can handle."

" **Don't be so sure."**

"What about this 'magic charm' of yours?" Tara felt more vocal as the discussion went on. "It set you and these two free from her spell or whatever, but what about Donny?"

" **I don't know... I guess—"**

"He wasn't worthy." Mac scornfully finished Marty's sentence for him.

Tara still didn't understand and was maybe a little more flustered about losing her boyfriend than she'd be willing to admit. She could see it in his eyes that he really had only a passing interest in her, nothing more.

"So...what? It has some sort of built-in evil-ometer? Your inner Santa Clause gets to decide who's been naughty and who's been nice?"

Marty finally noticed her outward frustration, and she shifted her eyes away from his when realizing she might've been out of line.

"Yeah... And why's Mac still have a hole in his hand?" Bobby finally had a question he figured was relevant enough to add. "I thought that charm thing was supposed to heal us."

Mac looked down at his hand, just now remembering he could still see straight through it. "This happened after that, genius." He wiggled his fingers curiously to find an even more interesting question present itself. "...But how the hell can I still move my fingers? The tendons that control 'em aren't even connected..."

"I don't think any of that stuff matters right now." As usual, Terry was the bold voice of reason. "What does is that it turned both you guys from evil, people-eating shit-bags back to just...regular-eating shit-bags..." His timing may've been a smidge off, but he was sure not to let his passive attempt at levity downsize his point. "So shouldn't you guys go out there and start liberating every one of those decaying assholes you can find? Starting with our friends?" Then it hit him. "...waitaminute... Where're the rest of the Priests?"

"Most of us are scattered across the city looking for hostages to lure Marty in," Mac explained. "Me, Bobby, and Donny came for Alex; Bryan, Newy, and Beezee went to Tara's house;" Tara shivered at the thought. "Obie, Jack, Trev and Relly went to look for you two dicks; Commie went after the Coach, and Carl and Mace went to Marty's pad..."

" **What about Truck?"**

"Truck?" Desi was trying to follow along. "You have a friend named 'Truck?'...Is he from Alabama or Idaho?"

"He's our goalie." Jimmy figured he'd be the one to make her feel welcome to join in. "And I think he's from Portland..."

"Your goalie?...What are you guys, Soccer players?"

All six of them, including Tara answered in unison—

" **Hockey players."**

Desi seemed to be the only one to see the glaring irony.

"Hockey players in the middle of Hell on Earth..." Her brows rose as she mumbled, "Sounds like...really...bad writing..."

Mac tried following Desi's remark with an answer to Marty's question, but for some reason found himself surprised by it.

"No one went after Truck... I guess we really didn't consider it since he's not in L.A. right now." He realized the question brought up an interesting point. "Come to think of it, I don't think any of the dead have tried to make it out of the city yet."

"That's a plus..." Terry was just thinking out loud.

"Unless you happen to be trapped inside." Jimmy, naturally, challenged his optimism.

"So...what do we do now?" Desi was starting to feel more like part of the team.

While the rest were going back and forth, Marty continued his search of the apartment for anything Alex might've left. When he was satisfied there was nothing for him to find, he decided on giving them all a direction, knowing they'd be looking to him to take the lead.

" **You all know why I'm here..."** His every instinct was telling him to set them straight; let them know there was only one thing that really mattered to him... But his sister's level-headed words once again tempered his thoughts. He knew she'd want him to think things through and not act rashly if he could help it, and thanks to his mother's necklace, he could. "But since I don't have any way of finding her right now...and since there's much bigger things going on here than just me and my sister... I say we go and find out which one of our boys has been naughty, and which've been nice." He gave Tara a glance to give her credit for her own words. "Mac, you said Commie went after the Coach, so I'm guessin' that means Shit-Face didn't do him like he did the rest of you?"

"As far as we know, he's alive, yeah."

"And we all know Coach won't pass up this kinda opportunity to break out his toys." Terry was following Marty's line of reasoning. "He's probably armed to the tits right now, ready to blow to pieces whatever walks through his front door."

" **Then we go find him since there's a chance he's still in the city...and hopefully still alive."**

"Not much of a chance..." Mac hated to be a downer, but he wanted to speak plainly and be honest about what they were dealing with. "Most people aren't a threat to us, no matter how heavily loaded they are." He felt like he just let all the air out of the room, so he added, "And for the record, I never ate anybody. By the time we crawled out of the ground, the whole city was already picked clean." He directed his comment to Terry since he was the one who made that "people-eating" remark earlier. "Shit-Face sent all us Priests out to do his bidding before I ever got the chance to make a meal of anyone."

"Thank god for that..." Bobby murmured. "I never thought I'd be so stoked that J.C.'s such an asshole..."

"That must be why Donny couldn't be...y'know...cleansed or whatever." Jimmy was finally starting to make sense. They all took in the weight of his insight until Marty decided it was time to activate his squad of freshly recruited kick-assersists.

" **Alright then... Let's do this."**

"Wait a minute..." Tara still had at least two more cents to throw in, if not an entire dime. "I'm..." She wasn't sure where to begin. "...I... I don't know... I'm a lot of things right now... Exhausted, upset, terrified...angry..." She caught her voice shaking and her skin beginning to flush, so she took a breath before continuing and everyone listened closely.

"But one thing I'm not is dead yet." She hoped that wasn't too blunt. "I'm... I'm still alive...for the most part...and..." How should she put this? "...living people need to pee." Caught off guard, everyone was slightly relieved she ended her rant on a lighter note. "Not to mention, put some food and water in our stomachs." They all understood her point and were maybe even a bit sympathetic – but she wasn't finished...

"And...and being this still living, breathing, person... I don't know if it's such a good idea that we go with you..." She almost felt guilty for saying it, but it needed to be said.

"Marty," Jimmy thought he'd better get her back on this one. "I love you to death and beyond, dude, but she's right... I do have to pee...and I'm tired...and..." He lowered his head. "...I don't wanna be zombie-food..."

Marty heard his two friends loud and clear, but this time they were the ones who weren't thinking things through. Fear and exhaustion could weigh heavily on a person's decision making. He thought he'd better do what he could to enlighten them.

He walked over to Tara who'd found a seat on the couch. She tried to keep eye-contact at first but found she couldn't look at him for long, his dirt-crusted dry skin too painful for her to see. When he stood over her and she looked away, he reached his hand out to gently brush the hair from over her eyes. She didn't look back. She just focused on the huge hole in the wall that led outside, knowing that if she looked him in the eyes for too long she might break down and cry.

Marty looked back up to his two friends who were still alive, then over to Desi standing off to the side by the hallway leading to Alex's room.

" **Like I said before; you all know why I'm here: to find** Alex... But I don't wanna see anything happen to any of you... Alive or otherwise..." He gave Bobby and Mac a glance. "Chances are, if the Priests who're still demon puppets of this bitch Imala find my sister before me, they're gonna take her back to the cemetery. And if that happens, I'm gonna need as many of our boys on my side as I can get. And the more Priests...or...hell, even Hounds I can turn, the stronger we'll all be."

"Strength in numbers." Terry agreed with a nod. "That's why I wanted to find you in the first place." He'd almost forgotten. The fear and nonstop swell of anxiety had him on edge as much as the rest. He turned to Tara who been seated next to him to get her attention. "We're safer stickin' together." She finally looked away from the hole in the wall that so accurately described her heart and met with Terry's stare. He could see in her eyes he was getting through to her. "And I wouldn't mind havin' the Coach on our side, either," he added.

She nodded softly, still just trying to keep her emotions in check. Everyone would probably agree she was doing a hell of a job.

"You can use the bathroom first." Terry smiled. "I'll try an' hold Jimmy off for as long as I can."

She feebly returned his smile and stood up. She knew if she didn't make it to the bathroom soon, she wouldn't be able to contain herself. She swiftly passed by Desi, being sure not to make eye-contact. If anyone could understand what she was going through it would be the only other woman around, and she didn't feel comfortable showing this younger girl all her cards.

Just a few more feet and she'd have her privacy. No one could accuse her of being weak if they never knew how badly she was hurting inside. A broken heart and a splintered spirit wouldn't be easy to slip past the people in the room, but she'd be damned if she wasn't going to try.

# (CHAPTER 22.5)

The Bathroom Blues

1

Tara shut the door behind her and locked it. She'd been holding her breath through the short hallway that led to the bathroom while her pulse hammered against the sides of her skull.

She felt dizzy. Her vision narrowed. Her stomach did backflips while collapsing in on itself from a lack of anything in it to help hold its shape. She turned the water on in the sink. Luckily it wasn't red worms and black oil that came spilling out but just L.A. tap water (which was only half as bad).

She locked-on to the despairing image of herself in the mirror to try to slow the spinning of her head.

It didn't help.

She leaned over and splashed cold water in her face in hopes to snap out of her bombardment of cascading emotions.

Not a good idea.

The trickle of the water on her skin made her realize how thirsty she was and she instinctively put her mouth under the faucet to drink desperately and maybe a little too fast. Six or seven gulps later and she noticed she'd forgotten to breathe. She pulled her head from over the sink and gasped for a lungful of the stale bathroom air.

Her stomach churned.

Standing upright too quickly, she discovered that Earth's gravity had a personal grudge against the blood in her veins. The color drained from her face and she knew if she didn't get closer to the ground soon, _it_ would be the one calling the shots.

So she reached her hands out, fumbling to lift the toilet seat, then collapsed to her knees over the bowl. Her breaths were short and erratic. She felt like she couldn't get enough oxygen to her lungs – or that maybe she was getting too much...

Her gut clinched.

The back of her tongue pushed open her throat with a gag, her head forcing itself past the sturdy porcelain brim that kept her from falling in. She gripped the sides for their cold support and closed her eyes...

Her last memories of being with Marty, lying next to him in bed, curled up on his chest, spilled into her mind and the thought of that moment being gone forever coxed whatever fluids she had bubbling inside to find their way out.

He was there, twenty feet away, in the room right next to her...but was gone forever...

Her stomach heaved a few more times but had nothing left in it to offer. No food. No water. No strength... No hope...

It'd been a long time coming.

Sometimes a girl just needed to cry.

2

" _Oo_... _oo_... _ooo_...!" Jimmy sat down over the toilet and unleashed a hellacious bowel movement that could've put a wild animal to shame. "Good god _damn_ , that's not a happy smell..." If it were any livelier, he may've had to waste a bullet on putting it out of its misery.

He'd made it clear to the rest that he was next in line for the shitter but did his best to be subtle about it when he had to give Tara "the boot." He asked her if she was okay and she nodded and said she was. He then politely requested she vacate the premises before he made a horrible mess out of the both of them. "That's gross, Jimmy..." was her reply to his fair warning, and she wisely stepped clear.

After the initial bracing for his fight against rapid, explosive forces, he eventually let his body relax with his elbows on his thighs and head in his palms. He'd always gotten "the shits" after moments of high anxiety and stress, but this one felt like he just donated a _kidney_.

After a few moments of quiet, he realized he was shamelessly prying on the commotion in the other room, wondering who would say what to who and how the rest were affected by what they've been through. He wondered if Terry was as torn up inside as he was that all their friends were walking, talking fertilizer. He wondered if Marty really gave a shit about any of them or if he was just basing his behavior solely on what was expected of him. He questioned if he really would have a better chance at making it through all this by sticking close to a man who would put him right in the middle of it – but then remembered that the other three friendly corpses they'd run into were specifically looking for leverage to use against his ex-captain, and his chubby ass would make for a pretty plump turkey of a hostage.

The fear of death was primary in a long list of scary shit that was going through his mind but, somehow, the second most pertinent thing fueling his woes was his thoughts of Alex. At least he had his friends alongside him – one of them being her badass brute of an older brother. But who did she have? She was out there alone somewhere, with a squad of rabid, zombie sports enthusiasts looking to pass her around like a piece of cold, hard rubber on the ice. He was over here safe in her home, comfortably befouling her toiletries while she was being ruthlessly hunted down by a team of hockey cannibals from Hell...

He wiped his hand hard over his face to wash away his emotions and conquered his self-control with a deep breath. He let the breath go with a new sense of certainty shaping inside: He would help Marty find his sister for as long as they all stood together. It was like Terry had said: there was strength in their numbers. He made a promise to himself right then that he wouldn't prove to be the weakest shaft in their duffle bag.

3

"Fuck, it _stinks_ in here..."... _like burnt rubber and barbeque sauce,_ he didn't say.

Terry shook his head in front of the bathroom mirror to shake off the stench crawling up his nostrils and down his throat. To say the bathroom reeked after leaving a room full of half-dead jocks was saying a lot. But the odor was preferable to the mountain of worries avalanching into his head as soon as his bathroom break allowed him a moment alone to think.

The screaming ghosts of those who died horribly in the streets still hounded his thoughts, and the realization that it'd happened to so many others was more putrid than anything that could've come from the depths of Jimmy's bowels. And that the same thing would probably happen to him was only half as bad as the thought of it happening to Tara or Jimmy...

He reached over and gathered a handful of liquid soap from the dispenser on Alex's sink. Healthily lathering up his hands, arms, and face, he wasn't shy about going back for a second and third squirt. He felt like he had other people's blood all over him and gagged at the thought of how much he must've breathed in from the outside air.

Coughing and spitting, he forcefully cleared his throat then rinsed his hands and face, desperate to rid himself of the film over his flesh that he wasn't even sure was really there. He coughed again and gagged while franticly looking around for a tube of toothpaste that he finally found inside the shower. He grabbed the tube, unscrewed the top, and strangled it at its middle until it spewed two inches of paste into his mouth. His fingers worked to scrub his teeth's enamel, and he took in a mouthful of water to swish the paste around between his cheeks. When he finally spit, it splashed against the white sink revealing a haunting hue of pink.

He looked closely at the foam before spitting again, deciding if what he was seeing was real or just a trick of his tired eyes. The red-tinted dribble slowly drained into the pipes, so he turned the water on to help it along (the sooner it was out of his sight the better). After another rinse, his saliva only reflected the minty freshness of Crest, and he still wasn't sure if what he'd seen was real...

He looked into the mirror at his gums, thinking maybe he'd nicked them with his nails when he was scrubbing his teeth. But his reflection wasn't in accord. Lifting and pulling at his lips, he found nothing but undisturbed flesh and bone.

Could he really have breathed in so much of that demonic air that his mouth and teeth were caked with the blood of the dead?

A swish and spit later, he found no trace of the troubling hue. He ran his tongue over his teeth with his lips closed and swallowed, grimacing at the taste of iron still lingering inside. The strangled tube of toothpaste still had some life left in it so he repeated the reaping of its insides, taking it for all it was worth. If he couldn't get the flavor of death out of his mouth, then he'd just have to get used to it. No one ever said the end of the world would be an evening stroll through summer sands. If there were ever a time to man-up and tough it out, right about now, he thought, would make for good practice. The taste of blood in the air was only the metaphoric "extra mayo" to his proverbial fish taco. Terry loathed fish tacos...but he'd learn to eat whatever the fuck he'd have to keep him and his friends alive.

He wiped his mouth then snatched a towel from the shelf above the toilet, scrubbing his face to uncover a false sense of cleanliness.

The idea that Marty was dead sat awkwardly on his mind – he couldn't quite wrap his brain around it. He thought that if he and his like could survive this then Marty was sure to still be alive. But it would seem fate had Marty's number from the get...which, in a sense, could also mean that he was still alive for a reason too.

He wasn't the most spiritual of men, especially compared to other professional athletes who were obtusely superstitious, but now seemed like a good time to keep an open mind. If there was a greater plan at work here, it'd make him feel a whole hell of a lot better to know it, considering how far they'd come. He and his friends could be three of a very small group of people who've managed to survive the transformation of the city of Los Angeles, and if that was any indication of how things were supposed to unfold then he'd graciously accept it as a good sign. He didn't believe in destiny...or trapped spirits...or red-eyed zombies... But if two out of three of those were now a fact then how much of a stretch would it be to believe in a happy ending?

He gave himself a stern look in the mirror to settle his thoughts and focus his mind.

"Head in the game, man." A little man-to-man pep talk between him and his reflection seemed like a healthy way to prepare for the journey ahead. "Stick close to the good guys, find the Coach, find Alex..." he took in a deep breath, picked his shotgun back up from where it laid tilted in the corner, cocked it and exhaled, "...and repeatedly shoot anything that looks at me like my ass is a ham sandwich."

4

The young, undead Bobby Shye found himself tactfully retreating into the kitchen away from the discussion in the living room. He didn't know why, but he felt like he needed to put some distance between him and the others. Marty was doing his loner thing, staring out the hole in the wall and into the blood-mists that obscured the view outside. And Terry and Mac were running through plans of action and strategic scenarios that just seemed a little above Bobby's paygrade. He'd never been much of a thinker. He was athletic, quick and agile, and good at following instructions, but when it came to strategy, he was definitely more inclined to play Tic-Tac-Toe than Sudoku.

He glanced around the room and noticed Desi sneaking peeks his way. He would've expected her to seem on edge around him – maybe just watchfully keeping out an eye – but something in her stare seemed more complex than he could put his finger on. Their eyes locked for what seemed like a little too long and he didn't want to frighten her, (or maybe he was still somewhat frightened of himself...) so he turned his head to break the tension. A strange sensation chilled him to his bone when he was suddenly overwhelmed with the carnivorous thoughts that swam through his brain less than an hour before. Cravings for chaotic violence and human flesh hounded his memories like an echo of his own voice in a mausoleum...

Turning away from the living room entirely, he instinctively went for the kitchen sink. He wasn't thirsty or at all concerned with the dirt under his nails, but instead just going through the ritual motions he'd been accustomed to from living out life as a hygienically inept human being (the thought of not being able to consider himself human anymore an unsettling one...).

In need of a distraction, he turned the faucet on and put his muddied hands under the flow. It was a strange sensation. He couldn't tell if the water was hot or cold, and when he rubbed his fingers together to inspect the texture of the liquid it just rolled off his digits like his body was unwilling to absorb the hydration. Suddenly he was transfixed by the reaction of the liquid to his skin and watched it repel from his flesh as if it wanted no part in this façade of his at trying to appear alive... But then his attention was diverted by another of his senses which now seemed beyond that of mortal men—

His nose twitched at the smell of warm flesh growing stronger and his heart jumped with the sensation it allured. He didn't want to hurt anyone, he was sure. And he was certain he didn't feel like taking a bite out of any of his friends... But the sadistic temptation was still rattling around inside, closer to the surface now than it had been just a few minutes before...

"So..." Desi's chipper voice surprised him. He felt awkward when she approached, as if he just got caught staring down her shirt to get a peek at her breasts. "...I take it zombies don't need to pee?"

He aimed his nose toward her and realized where the strong scent taunting his senses was coming from. The faucet no longer did enough to occupy his mind so he turned it off and took a step back to put some distance between him and the pungent fragrance of her positively edible flesh.

"Yeah, I uh... I guess not..." He took another not-so graceful pace in retreat and found himself cornered in between Desi and the counter beside the refrigerator.

"So, what's it feel like?"

"I...I...I don't know... I guess...I just feel like I don't hafta go, you know?"

Desi smiled and took a step closer. She was used to her prowess making guys uncomfortable, but she was a little surprised it still had that effect on this guy since Marty didn't seem affected by her at all.

"No, I mean...you know... What's it feel like...being a zombie?"

"Oh...right... Well, I'm not... I'm not really a zombie, actually. I mean... I never really ate anybody, so..."

"Right, sorry..." She put a playfully awkward look on her face and shrugged. "I used to watch way too many cheesy horror movies." She noticed him feeling a little crowded so she broke eye contact and looked toward the refrigerator. "You don't mind, do you?" She pointed to the fridge. "It's not gonna freak you out if I eat in front of you or anything, is it?"

"No... I uh... I don't think so..." He didn't seem sure. "Yur not like a...a messy eater, or something, are you?"

She smiled. "I might not look very ladylike in t-shirt and panties, but I promise I still remember all my table manners." She grinned smartly and he gestured for her to help herself.

The flashes of violence in his mind and the temptations of her flesh dissipated when she looked away. He hoped it was just a bit of leftover blood-magik working its way out of his system and that it'd be gone now for good. But nobody really knew what would happen to any of them and he wasn't sure how that made him feel...

The only thing he knew for sure was that he didn't feel as certain of himself as he did when he was under Imala's spell... But he did feel like he'd been manipulated and taken advantage of, and that feeling evoked in him a demand for retribution. He may never need to use the restroom again, but he discovered he still wanted to take a shit all over the lives of whoever was responsible for him and his friends being the newest members of the zombie-fucking-apocalypse...

5

Coach Gary Carver of the Los Angles Priests had a delightful habit of whistling while on the john. There was something about the acoustics in a small bathroom that brought his melodies to life and brightened his scornful days. Comrie's head may've agreed with him concerning the vibrancy of his tune bouncing off the tile around the tub, but the knob of the hockey stick through his neck-hole replacing his torso negated his ability to remark accordingly. Fortunately, his hearing and capacity to appreciate a jingle didn't seem to be hindered by the lack of him having any arms or legs. It was clear from his head's position, leaning up against the sink, that he was seeing a side of his former coach he'd never imagined he would. And his coach seemed happy enough to share in his hidden talents and may've even been open for critique if the situation had permitted.

Alas, the life of an aging, zombie slayer was one without the inspiring nuances of polite conversation. There would be many things he'd be forced to sacrifice in the coming of the New Hell but, so help him, Lord, whistling joyfully while taking a shit would not be one of them.

He paused in his rendition of "Zipidy Do Da" to spark up a dialog with his undead bathroom guest.

"I know there's a joke somewhere in here about me 'hittin' the head,' but I can't quite get a bead on it."

It worried him how easily he took to the morbid aftermath of the demise of his ex-teammate. It struck him as being a bit "off" how comfortable he was conversing with a severed orifice, but keeping a good sense of humor about the end of the world was a personality trait his former life had certainly prepared him for.

"I hope the smell isn't botherin' you..." He shrugged. "I just thought we should have this last moment together before I start diggin' around in that brain of yers to see what makes it tick." His head tilted to the side with a contemplative frown. "Or, I suppose un-tick would be more accurate, since I plan on tryin' to kill ya." He glanced back over to Comrie who had a look in his eyes that any use of the word "ticked" would appropriately describe. "Here... I got an idea." He tore off two squares of toilet paper and twisted them each into a cone. "This should help with the stink." Leaning forward, he inserted one cone into each of Comrie's nostrils to block both passages, then gave him a friendly slap on the cheek. "That oughta do it."

A sigh of satisfaction breathed from his lungs as he eased back on the toilet and picked up his whistling repertoire where he'd left off.

The truth of the matter was, he was scared shitless... And there wasn't enough toilet paper left in the entire universe to clean up the mess the world had gone and made of itself. But he was a little relieved that civilization may very well be coming to an end. It seemed horribly selfish to think it, but the old, miserable bastard was tired of the rest of the world going on happily with their lives while he was stuck standing still, trapped in the hole that the death of his son had left him rotting in.

It seemed a terrible weight had been hoisted from his shoulders. Before, he was expected to move on and make a life for himself in a world where no one could truly know his pain. Now the whole city of L.A. had sunk to his level, and he felt like he was at the top of the trash heap – king of the utterly fucked. He'd been suffering quietly for so long that he didn't have any suffering left in him. All he had left now was a large collection of wrath and firepower and, coincidently, the world around him just went and turned itself medieval and crowned him a shining knight. Ten to twelve years ago he might've considered it "God's will." Today he'd just settle on labeling it rotten fucking luck for the bad guys. If Los Angeles, California was one, giant porcelain bowl filled to its brim with urine and human excrement, then the Coach would prove himself to be the shiny, metal lever that would graciously flush them all back to the sewers of Hell.

The pitch to the tune he whistled this night had never sounded so inspired. And to think, it only took the beginning of the end of the world for him to finally feel at home.

"Ya know, it's a shame I had to blow you all to hell to stop you from... Well, I guess I don't know what the hell you were plannin' on doin' since I didn't get the chance to ask..." Even through the frustration of being a bodiless head stuck to a hockey stick, Comrie could clearly see the gears spinning in the Coach's mind. "I wonder what it'd take to find you a fresh pair of lungs so we could have a chat..."

He looked through the open doorway of his bathroom and Comrie did his best to follow his gaze. He couldn't be sure, but it looked like the Coach was sizing up the torso of his flea-bitten, pet feline licking itself clean in the hallway. The old man's eyes shifted back over to his friend, the severed head, and he threw out a question that might not have been as random as it sounded.

"Are you much of a 'cat person,' son?" Comrie's eyes widened in realization of what his former coach may've been suggesting. "Me? I can't stand the damn things. It was my son's. He found it when it was a kitten and brought it home. I didn't have the heart to tell him he couldn't keep it... Then, of course, he died a year later and left me stuck with the bastard thing." He shook his head. "I keep expecting the little turd to keel over dead every passing season, but the sonovabitch just won't die." He looked back over to the aging, gray flea-bag lying lazily atop the hamper outside the restroom. "But...maybe it could finally prove itself useful after all..."

He appeared to be deeply studying his thoughts – then abruptly snapped out of his trance, reaching for the toilet paper.

"I gotta admit," he wrapped his palm in the scented 2-ply and chuckled at his own ponderings, "this's been one of the more...inspirational dumps I've had the pleasure of takin' in my life." He laughed before he wiped and gave Comrie a patronizing grin. "It sure is awful nice to have someone here to share it with."

6

Alex shifted uncomfortably in her seat, trying to avoid the awkward silence that filled the cab. Officer Buterhanz shifted after she did. It was as if her unnerved adjusting was contagious, like another person's yawn or itch. She tugged on her seatbelt and he squinted and sneered at the cab's stale air.

"You guys mind if I crack open a window?" It wasn't much of an icebreaker, but he figured it'd have to do.

Todd just glanced back at him through his mirror and Alex shrugged politely and sort of smiled.

"No, go ahead." She wanted both of them to be as comfortable as possible. As if the end of the world wasn't awkward enough, she'd hate to end up hot-boxed between two grown men who might have gastrointestinal anxieties...

Buterhanz lowered his window a sliver to let in some air...but outside was just as sultry as in. He inquisitively leaned forward to address his driver.

"Doesn't this thing have—?"

"AC's broke." Todd already knew what he was going to ask. Cutting the officer off and not allowing him to finish his sentence didn't do much to ease the tension.

Buterhanz leaned back in his seat, took a second or two to weigh his options, then reached over and rolled the window back up. Alex looked over at him and he made a face.

"Blood-fog or body odder... Pick your _poison_ , am I right?"

She forced a smile, not really sure how to respond to his shot at small-talk. He quickly realized his subtle complaints weren't actually helping the situation and probably not doing a whole lot as far as him redeeming himself for nearly jumping into her lap earlier like a frightened Pekingese pup. Sooner or later he would have to get some answers out of them and figure out what the hell was going on... But he could tell Alex wasn't in the mood for talking.

It astonished him that even in the midst of a life-threatening situation he still wanted to do right by her. A man's feelings toward a woman were a very powerful, driving force... Especially with a woman as gorgeous as the one sitting next to him.

He shook his head at the thought, amazed that even as a grown man he was still easily compromised by the distractions of a schoolboy crush. His heart skipped a beat every time a streetlight pushed through the cab's window and touch her lips, and it was all he could do to just keep himself from staring. He could see the vibrance of strength in her posture and was overawed by it.

He peered out his window and tapped his forehead expressively against the glass a few times in frustration. He was a police officer, for god's sake... He was the one who was supposed to have his shit together. She should be looking to him for strength. But the only way that was going to happen, he realized, was if he dug down deep and found some strength to present her with. And he could start by turning that uncomfortable sensation in his gut into an air of confidence and control... Except, half the feelings churning in his insides were stemming from something more along the lines of "nature calling" than nervous tension...

"Does anybody else have to use the little policemen's room?" That wasn't exactly the strong, confident, or manly thing he'd hope to say to prove himself, but he realized he was having trouble thinking clearly for more than one reason. "...I think my back teeth are floating."

The proceeding quiet was almost worse than the bind itself until Alex spoke up to mitigate the unease.

"I could use a minute to freshen up a bit, yeah."

Buterhanz was relieved he and Alex had something in common. Todd figured he should speak up, if nothing else, just to be a cooperating member of the trio.

"I went before we left."

Buterhanz shifted his eyes to the side and mumbled, "Is _that_ what that smell is?"

Alex's eyes widened in embarrassment and Todd's pinched into slits.

" _You_ try havin' your life threatened by a nine-foot demon from Hell on a steady diet of coffee and soda!"

The officer quickly realized making fun of the scrawny cab driver wasn't going to impress anyone. He nodded and offered up a truce.

"You're right. I'm sorry." He sighed. "I guess it's not any worse than me springing into a girl's lap who's half my age and a third my _size_." Alex traded a smile for his offering. He looked over to her in the hopes of actually speaking to her on equal terms for once. "So, what're the chances your pet Sasquatch will give us a minute to lighten our loads?"...Maybe not the most _charming_ way to put it, but Alex didn't mind.

"I think the question is: are you willing to take the risk?"

He thought about it for second then decided on a reply.

"Ask me again in about fifteen minutes and I'll give you an honest answer."

She almost laughed. She'd already forgotten what that felt like.

7

"Yo, Bob-O!" Mac called out to his young friend keeping to himself near the kitchen. Jimmy and Terry were sitting on the couch discussing the state of things while Desi poked at her leftover spaghetti at the dining table between them. "Me and the boys worked it all out." Bobby paid his group of friends some mind, eagerly awaiting the announcement of their brilliant scheme. "We're gonna need somebody to go undercover and draw Shit-Face and his crew of ass-bags away from the cemetery. And we think you are the perfect dead-dude for the job."

He was less than impressed with their conclusion.

"Me?...Are you _serious?_ "

"Yeah, man. All you gotta do is go in there, make up some story about how you got away after Marty smoked me and Donny. Then you just tell 'em you know where we're headed and draw 'em out."

"But...they're gonna know I'm not the same, man!...What if they try and make me eat somebody? I mean...Jesus...you guys know I'm a fucking vegetarian!"

Mac walked over to his young friend and put his hands on his shoulders.

"Bobert...bro..." He gave him a firm smack on the side of his arm. "I'm kidding." Bobby's shoulders drooped in relief as Mac laughed, in no way aware of how terrible that joke had been for him. "Lighten up, man! We're already dead! There ain't anything else that asshole can do to us."

But Bobby's discomfort wasn't about what they could do to him, but what he might do to someone else...

Tara walked out of Alex's bedroom afterward and dropped a folded pair of jeans and a shirt on the table in front of Desi. The pantsless young woman looked up from the plate of food she'd been pushing around and Tara tried her hand at being cordial.

"Here, I found these for you. And the bathroom's free if—"

"I don't really have to go."

"...If...you wanna use it to get changed?"

"Oh." She figured it might be a wise decision to show some level of cooperation. "Sure. Sounds good."

She smiled tightly as a courtesy, dropped the fork on her plate and headed for the restroom, garments in hand. Jimmy and Terry both peeked her way as if to take one last gander at her nearly naked ass teasing under her t-shirt while she left the room. Tara caught them in the act and they split their stares up opposite walls. She shook her head and sighed, amazed that even under the direst of circumstances a man's mating instincts were still in full control of his faculties. Would it kill a guy to not check out a girl's ass every time she left the room?...She also noticed Bobby looking Desi's way, but his eyes weren't glued to her posterior. His were definitely above waist-level and she couldn't quite place the uncomfortable glaze in his dead eyes... He almost seemed...afraid of her...

She dismissed the curiosity in her mind for matters more pressing and headed toward her ex-man.

"Marty?" Her voice was a delicate twig propping up a roof of worries. She didn't know how long it'd hold or even if it'd hold at all. A whole assortment of ardent ramblings were parading through her head, but deciding which ones were _relevant_ was a little like asking a blind woman to pick her favorite color.

He didn't budge when she spoke. He just continued patrolling his visual spectrum through the broke-open wall. She realized he wasn't trying to ignore her...but instead appeared to be...looking for something... She decided now probably wasn't the right time to talk about their relationship, especially since he seemed particularly unconcerned with it, so she set those feelings aside for the moment to address him on a more platonic level.

"What is it? What do you see?"

" **I'm not sure..."** The haze of fog forced him to see everything under a reddish tint, and his dead eyes could pierce through the mist better than those who were still alive. But as far as he could tell...they were alone. "I think...something's watching us..."

"A Hound?"

" **No... It's..."** It was just a feeling, but he didn't know how to describe it or assign it validity to someone who couldn't feel it too. **"It's something in the shadows... It's like there's...a** _presence_ **in them... But...there's nobody out there..."**

She didn't know how to respond to that, so she didn't try. If there was one thing she'd learned out of all of this, it was that there were a lot of things happening she didn't understand. She instead decided on addressing another topic, still being sure to avoid anything relating to them as a couple.

"Do you think someone should wait here for Alex? She told Jimmy she'd meet us here..."

He took in a deep breath and let it go.

" **We shouldn't split up."** He paused, thwarted by his own words. "There's no way of knowing for sure if she'll even make it back here." He shook his head. "We stick together." His stare finally broke away from the demonic fog and drifted over to her. "There's a better chance we'll find Coach right now than Alex, and we shouldn't wait much longer. If he's not dead already, then he will be if we don't get to him in time to back him up."

"And _then_ what?"

" **Then we get you guys out of the city. I'm sure there's some kind of government resistance being setup out there to fight. We'll hook up with whoever has the balls to take on Hell's soldiers and hopefully find a way to take back L.A."**

He looked her in the eyes and she finally found the guts to meet his gaze. It drew her into the depths of the ocean of green swirling in his retinas and she found that it lent her courage. She nodded with apparent confidence and Marty turned back to the rest of his friends who'd all been quietly eavesdropping on their conversation.

" **You guys all cool with that?"**

They were all quiet for once, each with a sincere look of loyalty in their eyes. Terry nodded when no one else spoke and gave Marty an answer everyone could get behind:

"One, two, three, Priests."

He recited their mantra with mitigated conviction, and Marty found it within him to nod, summoning a grin.

" **Amen."**

Desi walked out of the back hallway right after, wearing a pair of Alex's jeans, some sneakers, and a yellow V-neck t-shirt. She put her hands up to her sides to offer herself for inspection.

"Looks like Alex is about my _size_." The boys looked her over, the top-half of her being more exposed now by the tighter, lowcut shirt she wore. "I think the jeans are a little loose on the ass, though..."

She turned to the side and pulled up her pants, accentuating every crevasse and fold in her backside. Jimmy and Terry's eyes lit up and Tara shook her head.

"Don't worry," she promised. "You'll be able to fill out a pair of jeans when you get a little older." Her comment was meant more for Terry than her, considering he had close to a decade in-hand over the young blond.

Jimmy noticed Tara's subtle affront and rushed to Desi's defense.

"I think they fit fine... Right, Terry?"

Terry dragged his eyes away from her ass and up to meet her stare with a shrug. "I could stand them being a little tighter."

Desi grinned, and he replied with a smirk.

" **Jimbo,"** Jimmy looked over to his team captain and friend with wide eyes. "You need to go another round with the shit-box before we go?"

He shook his head despairingly. "After that last one, I might never need to go again."

Terry eyes rolled. He apparently had his doubts.

" **Everyone else ready to roll?"** The question was aimed at them all but his eyes asked Tara directly. She nodded back as everyone else shifted about eagerly. "Good. Then the concessions stands are closed. Bathroom break's over. I'll take the lead on the bike. Desi, you're with Terry. Mac and Bobby, you got the rear."

"Me and Bobby thought it'd be a smart move if we took fewer vehicles. We got our _own_ ideas for first-class travel if it's alright with Tara."

Marty was intrigued by Mac's vagueness but would let him enjoy his theatrics and wait to find out what he had in mind.

" **Then we're all on the same** page **."** He looked around at his crew of supposed, apocalyptic do-gooders and felt that for all of their righteous intentions, they might not be enough. But every revolution had to start somewhere...

So he nodded with a swelling of pride tingling inside and confidently addressed his crew.

" **It's Sermon Time, boys..."** His fellow Priests waited for their Captain's tailored mantra – the one he'd recite before every game that would lead to their cheer. **"...Let's go preach..."**

And they unanimously answered their captain with a word. One that instilled strength and hope. One that defined their struggle and bound them in brotherhood – a word they wore with pride across their chests; a magnanimous hurrah that would be their battle cry to summon the apocalypse—

"PRIESTS!!"

The word to precede the Reigning Dead.

...CONTINUED...

# AFTERWORD

I know, I know, I know... I'm an _asshole_...

It wouldn't be a soaring leap for me to assume you're slightly peeved about the ending. And all I can say to that is this: I hope you read the Foreword _first_ before diving in so you knew what to expect. But, if not? Go read it now, take some time to ring out the bitter juices from this pestering predicament, and if you still feel the need to fill my emails and blog spots with grueling disgust, then _hit_ me with it. Punish me like the naughty little book-tease I am. I can take it. Get it all out. We'll work through this _together_. And by the time we do, you're gonna have a brand new, hardy horror/fantasy novel weighing in your sweaty palms just waiting to be eagerly explored.

And for those of you who read the Forward _first_ and bought this jip of a storybook anyway, thank you darkly form the deepest pits of my most private of places. Sincerely. Your generous contributions get me all tingly and clammy down under, and without them the second half of this (part of a) whole wouldn't even be feasible.

For those who aren't exactly in the know, this fraction of my story is the first of five more to come. So, if you found some enjoyment out of this amateur attempt at literature then you're gonna fucking _love_ what comes next. The next novel – Blood Magik: The Reigning Dead – is the original ending to the story you just read, cram-packed with undead action, zombie gore, and heroic, morbid adventure. You'll be shocked at where it lands you and probably even _more_ pissed about the ending than you are now. But it'll be worth it.

So, thanks again for being a part of my world, and don't forget to check the web page (BloodMagik.com) for exclusive previews, discounted books, merchandise, and more.

Eternally indebted,

-CM

# About the Author

A construct of tales untold, Corwyn Matthew is not a man, but a vessel hosting an abyssal entity that feeds on wonderment and imagination. This formless being inhabiting the skin of an average Joe channels creativity through the pecking of keys to bring structure to dreams. Desperate for a world where art conquers greed, the Construct thrives on bold concepts, hard work, and sugary snacks. Please refrain from feeding the Construct, however, for it is weak of will and easily swayed.

# Other Books by Corwyn Matthew:

Blood Magik: The Reigning Dead (Book Two) available now!

A Christmas Carcassing (Shawn & Marv's Holiday Horrors, Book One)

(Please remember to leave a review of the novel at your favorite retailer)

(This book is also available in print)

Contact: Corwynmatthew@gmail.com

BloodMagik.com

# A Christmas Carcassing (Preview)

### Christmas Eve

Crimson stalactites of frosted what-the-twisted-fuck-is- _happening_ -right-now chillingly maturated from the corners of the truck-bed's gate like demonic slushie fingers bent on being noticeably villainous. One taillight busted, the two thoroughly baked teens in the truck's cab were lucky to be navigating Winterset, Iowa's version of the river Styx on a dreadfully snowy night that harbored the dreary and barren air of the planetoid Pluto in a K hole. Not a creature was stirring...other than these two hungover hamburglers, carting around several near-frozen carcasses five hours before midnight.

The delicate flakes of a white Christmas swirled in their pickup's wake. They'd coursed this path before. Maneuvering the bumpy backroad with close to pitch-black looming at their periphery was becoming old hat. Hardly a word was exchanged between them on the drive.

Four boots crunched against the frozen, wet annoyance at their feet before two heavy doors slammed shut, both sets of galoshes aiming their clumsy paths toward the truck's gate. One screeching of angry old hinges later – like the howling of a sickly, injured beast – and two hands reached to heave while one mouth hooted—

"Ho...ho...ho... Waitaminute..."

Marvin, the taller of the two youths, angling for the bit of the tarp that burritoed a sizeable head, paused, discernibly numb to the moment. He was the darker of the two teens. Where Shawn could compare the shade of his melanin to that of Ice Cube's, Marvin would more closely blend in to a scene with Chris Tucker. Either, consequently, could match bowls in a bong-off with Smokey and Craig despite being just short of legal age. In their senior year at Benjamin Bakem High, at this point in the semester they both wondered if they'd ever get the chance to throw up the "deuces" at their graduation and doobie the fuck on out; blunts tucked under beanies, boastfully rebellious stroll carrying them off the podium...

"What?" Slightly sticky with stupor from the hold up, Marvin's bloodshot eyes told the tale of a young man who'd been heavily over-medicated.

"You get the legs, man. I got the legs the last time." Shawn, just as spent in the tanked-bank as his best dude, hung slothfully in the moment, waiting for their mutual agreement. Facial hair like lint on his chin, if the town were to put it to a vote it's likely they'd motion for him to just shave it all off and stop pretending his scruff was dignified.

"The fuck difference does it make?" The afore-described "sticky with stupor" escalated to a gooey, mystified squint.

"The legs is heavier. Dude's got big ass feet – fucking boots on an' shit."

"You seen this fucker's belly? All the weight's in the middle, bruh." Marvin found the strength to fail at a gesture toward the cadaver-burrito's bottom half. "Dude's short, anyways – legs are like...I dunno... Fuckin' corndogs or some shit."

"Fuck, man... Just get the legs, a'ight? Damn... We in this shit together."

A sigh moved Marvin's light green, alien-beanied forehead to meet the tarped torso before he discovered more of that strength he waisted gesturing and used it to lift his chin and nod. "A'ight, man, chill... Here, get on this side."

Boots depressed snow, positions exchanged, and Shawn grabbed just enough head to lose his half the minute the weight slid over the other two tarped bodies and off the pickup.

A thump preceded Marvin's drowsy concern.

"Dude...f'real?"

Shawn attempted to recover his fumble but found his ass in the snow sooner than he found redemption.

Marvin's shoulders slumped; beanied, alien antennae appropriately lackluster over his skullie. It was one of those uber hip, pop-culture snow caps that looked like no male over the age of four should own but somehow found their way into men's sizes. Reflective, elliptical alien eyes adorning his forehead with two moveable antennae, green-balled tips, braided green rope dangling shoulder-length from the earflaps...

"Hurry, man, shit..."

Battling gravity and his weather-weary gear, Shawn made his way to his feet and found a stable grip under the twine that kept the tarp closed. He lifted at the neck – six inches shorter than Marvin in eight inches of snow – just barely getting the cadaver's caboose up high enough to lug it toward its unlikely place of final respite, several miles into the woods and an hour north of the mall where the trio had first been acquainted. The path they tromped was another familiar one, blood and what was likely a small intestine dripping from the center of the tarp. By the time they made it to their destination – a quarry they figured would soon fill with snow – seventeen feet of some sad sap's colon lazily laid behind.

"On three."

Shawn nodded, and the sendoff proceeded as planned. Three counts and a release sent a two hundred and thirty-five-pound body over a steep ravine with serpent-like sinew whipping behind. Shawn's fingers had loosened the twine around the tarp so that it unraveled in its fall, unveiling the barely-hanging-together carcass under it in jolly red velvet with white trim. The bloody and matted flag of a once proud, long white beard waved in the gully's wind...until the elastic keeping it attached slipped from his head along with his Christmas hat and fluttered the rest of the way down. The body splattered into several pieces when it landed and joined the unthinkable carnival of gore that presided there before it.

Seven other jolly dead sons of the Happiest Time of Year already decorated the snowy floor, spread in fragments over a hundred feet; bits of red and green fabric and pink flesh scattered about like yuletide sprinkles over vanilla frosting.

"C'mon, man..."

Marvin led the way back for the next two flavors to add to their very troubled snowy desert while Shawn dragged behind. Santa's little helpers were easily half the big man's size, so they grabbed a tarped-elf apiece and proceeded to top off their evening's burdens after both stumbling to their rumps three or four times, trails left behind as glairing as neon signs reading, "Murder Depository in 100ft." The two elves' tarps came apart like Santa's before them, and if there was ever a greater waste of a sexier pair of candy cane thighs under holiday green skirts, it was not only a crime against Christmas, but against all of mankind.

Afterward, Shawn – brow and ears hidden under his red, black and white Star-Wars-themed Christmas beanie – shuffled back over their path, kicking up snow to hide the trail of death they left behind. But Marvin stayed fixed, manifesting a moment of clarity (or a resemblance of something thereabouts). His eyes cut through the icy winter breeze into the vicinity of an unspoken decree, and there, for the first time in his near-adult life he discovered something most weed-heads thought to be a myth:

Resolve.

His plod back to the passenger side of the truck and into the cab was an assiduous one.

"Grandad Santa."

"Wha?" Shawn was exhausted when he got in the truck: a lump of snot stuck on the seat. Not in any kind of condition for purposive conversation.

"That's who's next. That's where we gotta go."

"Fuck you mean, man? We can't—"

"This shit ain't over, man." He looked to his one and only true friend, eyes never more unfaltering than now. "Not until it's over."

"What... You mean like right now?"

Shawn knew what he meant. An answer wasn't required. Truth be told, as exhausted as he was, he was just as ready as Marvin was for this to be over... He'd just prefer to handle it after a few bong loads and a month-long nap.

He sighed.

The key in the engine turned, the emergency break went the way of the killer whales, wet boot met pedal, warm grill sucked cold snow...

The "day of" was nearly here...and only one man was left in town who was down on his luck enough this season to have agreed to take the velvet reins – and all for a beggarly wage of ten-eighty-five an hour...

Merry-corporate-fucking-Christmas, chump...

But for the sorry son of a bitch known as Grandad Santa, it may be too much to hope for a happy New Year.
