The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead (32 page)

He pulled out wooden and aluminum baseball bats, assorted golf clubs, a huge red pipe wrench and a number of old hockey sticks. He chose one of the sticks, which was already greasy with blood.

“What about protection?” he said to Chavez.

“What, are you having sex? No way. Don’t worry, though. Your opponents won’t have any protection either.”

Warnick made his way to a makeshift door and waited while two soldiers pulled it open and let him in. As Keller left the ice, Warnick skated into the rink, fell hard, got up and glided unsteadily to one end. The nets weren’t out, so it was open ice from one end to the other.

I walked up to the Plexiglas shielding to examine the ice. It hadn’t been smoothed in a long time. I heard a thud behind me and found Ram on the floor cursing in his native language. Landry tried helping him up, then he fell.

Chavez grinned in that cold, hard way of his and patted my shoulder. “LOL, my friend. LOL.”

Rolling my eyes, I walked over and gave each of my friends a hand. “You idiots are going to have to do better than this.”

“Let him get his sea legs,” Chavez said. “Warnick, go ahead and do a couple of practice laps. Take your time, buddy.”

The party atmosphere was ridiculous. All the other soldiers had taken seats in the bleachers. They nudged one another and made comments, probably betting on whether Warnick would survive the ten minutes.

Warnick gripped the stick with both hands and skated counterclockwise around the rink. As he became more confident, he picked up speed. Next he tried swinging the stick and skating. I had to give it to him, he was a quick learner.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Chavez said.

The laser lights accelerated and “Fight for Your Right” by the Beastie Boys blasted out of the blown speakers. We waited. I thought a bunch of soldiers would jump in and attack Warnick with clubs. They’d make a game out of it. Some insane hazing ritual where they cripple him so he can’t win.

But it was worse.

The emergency doors at the other end of the rink flew open, letting in blue daylight that blinded me. The crowd erupted in wild cheering. Then I heard it—a death shriek.

Using long catch poles, soldiers clad in body armor and helmets pushed through six draggers. They forced the creatures into the rink as they snapped and clawed. Then they released them to attack Warnick. I couldn’t imagine how Chavez had dreamt this up—or why.

For the first time, I saw a look of terror cross Warnick’s face as he tightened his grip on the stick and began skating in big, slow circles. One by one the draggers became aware of him. This was not a contest—it was ritual sacrifice.

The draggers snarled and came after Warnick, falling all over themselves. It was comical till I remembered all they needed was to get hold of him and he was done. I felt bad for Warnick, but what was more frightening was the idea that I would soon be in there trying like all hell to survive.

The soldiers in the bleachers went wild, standing and screaming, some yelling at Warnick to watch himself, others encouraging the draggers to get busy and tear him to pieces.

The first one to reach Warnick—a young woman in a revealing orange tank top and no bra, her dead flesh spilling out—came for him, her waiting arms terminating in spiky fingers. Even with the mortified flesh, she might have been half-good-looking if it hadn’t been for the ripped abdomen that exposed her liver.

Warnick took aim and whacked both her wrists hard. Her hands hung limp and useless like dead birds. Then he hooked her by the open wound and threw her across the ice. She slid backwards and crashed hard into the wall.

We looked up at the clock. Eight minutes to go.

Warnick circled again as the other enraged draggers went after him, having figured out how to maneuver on the ice. I saw what he was doing, and it was smart. Instead of trying to kill them one at a time, he took well-calculated shots at any who came near, weakening them as a unit. This tactic brought incessant booing from the bleachers. Six minutes left and it was working.

Till Warnick slid out on a blood slick and fell.

“Warnick!” I said.

I tried to go to him, but Chavez grabbed me by the collar and stuck a gun in my ear. “You’ll get your chance soon enough.”

Before the draggers could reach him, Warnick rolled to one side and scrambled to his feet. Then he hit a line drive to the lead freak’s head, caving it in and exposing a black roux of rotting brains. That was the good part. The bad part was the force of the blow snapped his stick.

“Give him another weapon,” I said.

None of the soldiers did anything. So I pushed past them and ran to the equipment bags. The aluminum bat was sticking out. As I reached for it, Chavez’s hand grabbed mine.

“If you’re going to shoot me, do it. I’m helping my friend, you son of a bitch.”

Chavez smiled with a coldness that chilled me and let go. “It’s going to be fun watching you die on the ice, Pulaski.”

I ran back to the rink and heaved the bat over the Plexiglas. It clattered onto the ice a few feet from Warnick. Avoiding the hungry draggers, he skated around to retrieve the weapon. What happened next was like a dark, amazing ballet of blood, which caused unbridled screaming and foot-stomping in the bleachers.

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

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

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

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

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

“You bet against me?”

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

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

Who would be next?

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” I said.

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

“You did a lot of damage out there.”

“I got lucky.”

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

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

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

“Never.”

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

“Okay, then Landry,” Warnick said.

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

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

“I don’t know, man.”

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

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

“What’s the plan?” I said.

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

“What?” I said. “But why?”

“He’s saving you for last.”

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

“What about me?” Ram said to Warnick.

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

“How did you swing that?” I said.

“I appealed to the soldier.”

“Who’s the best skater?” Landry said.

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

“Pretty damn awesome,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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