The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead (34 page)

I don’t know, maybe I was getting religion—or faith—in my old age. I felt a spark that cut through the pain, but only for a second. It warmed me and made me think there might be something else waiting for us out there.

Those words sounded good to me now.

As I plodded towards
the entrance to the ice rink, I puked, missing Warnick’s boots.

“Sorry,” I said.

“No Weezer for you.”

He helped me through the doorway and led me to the counter, where Eddie waited with my skates. The old man had gotten me the best pair he could find—black leather with red trim and white laces. He even had polished them.

“Thanks, Eddie.”

He couldn’t look me in the eye. That’s when I knew Chavez had something special cooked up for me. As I walked away, the old man said, “See you, Dave.”

Putting on my skates, I noticed the mood was subdued—or it might have been in my head. Warnick stood nearby talking with Estrada like they were old friends. Weird. Then Chavez came over.

“You never meant for us to survive,” I said. “Except Warnick. Or are you saving him for later?” I knew this was the last thing Warnick wanted me to say to this guy, but I didn’t care.

Chavez looked at me, his jovial grin hardening into a look of resentment. “Everyone has the same chance. The strongest will survive. Just the way it is.”

“Whatever,” I said.

I picked through the weapons in the equipment bags but didn’t see anything I liked. If I was going to die, I wanted to go out my way. The crap in those bags wouldn’t help me. I needed a better weapon.

“Hey, Enrique,” I said. Chavez glared at me. “I want my axe.” As he stood there, I held my ground. “Look, I get this is all a show. Let me give you one.”

He eyes drifted to Warnick and Estrada. I could tell from his expression that it wouldn’t make any difference one way or the other. Let this dumb bastard think he’s got a chance. It will make his death even sweeter. Whatever.

“Hang on,” he said, and called Estrada over.

We waited as another soldier left the rink.

“Can I see your Bible?” I said to Warnick. Then I flipped through it, looking for strength.

Fifteen minutes later, the soldier was back with my axe. By now those in the bleachers had settled down. I was actually happy as I walked towards the ice. Once inside, I skated fast around the rink, swinging the axe in each hand. Axes are much heavier than hockey sticks, and I had to work on my balance. But the feeling was exhilarating.

It felt good to be on the ice. I remembered suiting up, putting on my helmet and going up against guys twice my size. It occurred to me I’d never in my life felt as free as when I played hockey. Why did I ever give it up for drinking?

I pushed the bad feelings deep down inside and focused on skating. The only things that mattered were the ice, my axe and whatever was about to come through those doors.

Chavez signaled for the draggers to be brought in. The emergency doors opened, but this time there was no cheering. I couldn’t make out the four figures backlit by the sun. Was this a mistake? Had they run low on combatants?

As they entered, I made out three soldiers leading in a single female pulling against the catch pole like an enraged animal. Something about her. As she came into the light of the rink, I stumbled. This was what they were saving for me. This was how I would die.

“We thought you’d enjoy mixing it up with Wanda,” Chavez said, laughing and touching Estrada’s shoulder in a way that was a little too familiar. “This little beauty took out eight of my men before we caught her. I won’t tell you how many she killed in the rink. It would only depress you.”

I recognized the torn, blood-soaked clothes. The skin had mummified to a dark, leathery sheen. Thin strands of dirty brown hair adorned the mostly bald head, which was scarred and dented. The eyes protruded from their sockets, twitchy and searching. The nose had long since fallen off, and the lips had shrunk back savagely, revealing daggerlike teeth.

Missy.

They dragged her to the center of the rink as I skated around counterclockwise. My heart was in my throat, and I struggled to breathe. But I kept skating, trying to escape the death I knew awaited me.

“She’s not like the others,” Chavez said. “We figured you already had an advantage, being a hockey player and all. We’re evening out the odds a little.”

Soldiers hooted and whistled in the bleachers. Then they chanted, “Wan-DA! Wan-DA!”

Missy’s dead eyes scanned me. I thought I saw a glimmer of recognition. Was it possible she recognized me? She shrieked so loudly everyone had to cover their ears. But it wasn’t the ungodly sound I’d come to dread. It was a name—
my name
.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaave!” the voice said, sounding like red-hot bearings in a burned-out motor.

“What the hell?” someone said. Then cruel laughter. “Does she know him? Aw, man. This is awesome!”

On cue, the person in the sound booth put on Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You,” and everyone screamed with approval.

My blood went ice-cold, and I almost crashed headlong into a wall and had to scramble to regain my balance. I knew that, even dead, Missy would never stop till she killed me. She was my sin calling to me—every wrong thing I’d ever done. The drinking, the bad grades, the abuse I hurled at my parents. Betraying Holly.

I felt I wanted to accept my punishment and die. But something in me brought back the words Warnick had spoken.

They were words that made me think I still had something worthwhile to do in this life, something precious to live for.

Maybe it was better to stay alive asking for forgiveness than to die without it. Holly and Griffin were out there somewhere—I felt it. If Landry was right, I could still help them.

I needed to stay alive for them. With all my heart, I wanted to make amends. So I skated away as Missy lunged towards me. My chest was tight. A red band of blood pressed my eyes, almost blinding me. All I thought of was getting away from this terror-inducing demon that wanted to destroy me.

Missy stopped as I whipped around the rink faster and faster. She seemed to be calculating where I’d be in the next few seconds. Then she leapt through the air towards me. The soldiers in the bleachers went wild. This was the show they’d been waiting for. As I skated past, I saw Warnick watching me, holding his Bible in both hands.

There was no way to run out the clock. I glanced up and saw ninety seconds had passed. I had to decide. So I attacked.

I did a quick hockey stop, sending a shower of ice at the wall. Missy hurtled towards me as if running on grass. I raised my axe and waited—waited those impossible few seconds—as she lunged at me. At the last moment, I shifted sideways and brought the axe down hard, taking off most of her left arm, which threw her off balance and sent her spinning into a fall and sliding hard into the wall as I skated away.

“Keep her in front of you,” Warnick said.

An excellent reminder, because as she came at me again, I skated backwards hard. Everyone in the stands stood, mesmerized by the death match. I’d have to turn around soon or risk crashing into a wall myself. Breathing deep, I spun and stopped cold.

Missy was closer than I realized, and I didn’t have time to raise my axe. I whacked her hard in the face with the handle, making a crunching noise. Her jaw hung open, revealing more deadly black teeth. She grabbed the axe and tried taking it away from me. Her grip was incredible.

Gripping both ends of the axe, I dropped to my knees and hit the ice, throwing Missy over my head and behind me. People screamed, delirious at the spectacle. Then I stood and skated backwards in the other direction, taking care to keep the demon in my sight.

Six minutes to go.

I was exhausted. I needed to rest, but there was no time. She was already back on her feet and coming at me. My only hope was to take off the other arm—or her head.

Chavez was right, she wasn’t like any of the others. She was cunning. It didn’t matter whether I feinted left or right. She always matched me, almost anticipating me. She was like a heat-sensing device that didn’t lose its target. The crowd booed, impatient for blood.

Then I remembered something.

When I was little, I didn’t start out playing hockey. I took figure skating. There must be something I could use. Though I wore the wrong kind of skates, I had to try. As Missy came at me, I spun. She didn’t appear to understand what had changed and kept coming. As I went faster and faster, I held the axe out. She lunged at me, and I caught the other arm and sliced it off clean, like a butcher cutting up a pig.

I stopped and saw her spinning away from me, armless and shrieking with fury. She came at me again, but all she could do was sink her teeth into me. I had to finish her.

There was silence in the room as I waited for her to close in. Then I crushed her kneecap, causing her to fall forward. As her head went down and forward, I swung the axe hard, finding the neck and taking off the head. It went skittering across the ice.

I skated backwards, the head rolling after me, the jaws still snapping. As the head came to a stop near the wall, the hate-filled eyes stared up at me.

It’s not true what they say about the undead, that they retain nothing of their former selves. Though they are no longer capable of rational thought, some of their old personality still remains. Like Missy. It reminds us that they once were people with dreams and memories.

I split the skull in two. Then I skated towards Chavez.

The music had stopped. Everyone was silent as I made my way to the exit. Sweat poured down my face, blinding me. At first I didn’t see Chavez pointing his weapon at me. When I saw him, I stopped on the ice and stared.

“It was like I said, wasn’t it? I wasn’t supposed to make it.”

“What are you gonna do?” Chavez said, taking aim at my head.

I didn’t close my eyes. I wanted to see the bullet coming, wanted to know the exact moment of my death.

Estrada appeared suddenly and swung the pipe wrench hard, connecting with the back of Chavez’s head and sending him forward in a spray of blood. Estrada stared down at the psychopath as he struggled to understand what had happened.

“Dude,” Chavez said in a thick voice, blood gushing from his nostrils, unaware of the severity of his injury.

As I left the rink, others swarmed from all sides, surrounding Estrada and Chavez. I couldn’t see. I forced my way in next to Warnick, where I found Chavez convulsing on the ground and gurgling helplessly. Though the entire back of his head was crushed, exposing pink, pulsating brain, amazingly he still tried to get to his feet. No one did anything to help. They watched as the life bled out of him.

Estrada still held the bloody pipe wrench. As Warnick moved closer, she let the weapon slip from her bloody fingers.

Lying still and scared, Chavez looked younger than I thought he was. He reminded me of a frightened child.

Something had gone horribly wrong in the time that Black Dragon had been here. A madness had taken over some. It manifested itself in Chavez, the bloodthirsty leader of a band of violence-prone acolytes. But without him, the rest of them no longer had any conviction. I looked around at the faces of these young soldiers. Not a single one of them had the stomach for it anymore.

Chavez’s eyes fluttered a few times, then he closed them for good. Blood pooled around him like oil from a shallow well. It set him apart from the other soldiers. It made him different and unwanted. Estrada unholstered her weapon, aimed it and sent a bullet into the soldier’s broken head, silencing those evil internal voices forever.

Warnick looked at me, then at the rest of the soldiers. “Listen up,” he said. “We’re putting this house in order.” Then to Estrada, “You okay?”

Estrada nodded, stunned by what she’d done.

I felt old, like I’d lived through a hundred years of war in a few weeks. Somewhere out there Holly and Griffin were fighting for their lives. And I needed them alive—especially Holly.

I needed her to forgive me.