Cold Walkers
Chapter 01: Taste of Flesh
“Give me that!” Carlo snatched the basketball away from Romero and dodged around him, heading toward the goal on the other side of the small park court. It was a gorgeous spring day in Florida on March 7th, and after classes were over for the day at the nearby high school the two friends had taken over the basketball court to shoot some hoops before dinner. Romero dashed in front of Carlo, blocking his way to the goal, and knocked the ball out of his friend’s hand. The two scrambled after it and Carlo inevitably pushed the ball past and knocked it off the court, and it rolled onto the sidewalk nearby.
“Smooth,” Romero said jokingly, shoving Carlo after the ball. “Cheater.”
“It’s not cheating, man, my hand slipped!” he insisted, jogging after the basketball and picking it up. “You’re just scared I’m gonna whoop your ass.” He shook some of his dark, curly hair out of his eyes and began to jog back toward the court. He stopped just before, however, when he happened to notice something not too far away on his left—an elderly woman, shuffling slowly through the grass in her nightgown, her old tennis shoes dirty and stained with mud. Carlo stopped in his run and examined her, knitting his brow in concern when he saw how pale and expressionless she seemed. A nearby jogger noticed her as well and headed over to the woman.
“Hey, man, that lady doesn’t look so good,” he said, tossing the ball to Romero. “I’ll be right back. Lemme see if she needs some help.”
Romero groaned. “She’s just an old lady, bro, leave her!” Carlo ignored him and made his way toward the old lady, so he added, “Hurry up! I gotta head home soon for dinner.”
Carlo glanced at the jogger, an athletic woman probably in her thirties, and asked, “Is she okay?”
She shook her head. “She’s not responding to me. She just keeps staring off.” Turning toward the grey-haired woman, she asked, “Ma’am? Ma’am, can you hear me? Do you need to sit down?” She pursed her lips and looked Carlo up and down briefly before saying, “Look after her a minute, I’m gonna call 9-1-1.”
As she stepped away and took her iPhone out of the jogging strap on her arm, Carlo placed a hand on the old woman’s shoulder and bent down to look at her face. “Lady, you’re gonna be okay, alright? Uy, carajo, you look pretty bad though…”
Suddenly the woman’s eyes came into focus and snapped up to meet his gaze. Carlo recoiled slightly, started at her eyes. Small pupils, eerily cold blue irises, and most of all, they were totally blank and expressionless. She reached a shaky hand up toward him, which he uncertainly took hold of, assuming she was reaching for help. The jogger hung up her call with the 9-1-1 operator and turned to see the events unfolding. Her eyebrows rose and she said, “At least she’s responding now.”
Carlo would have responded had the old woman’s mouth not suddenly opened, revealing a set of yellowed, cracked teeth with black chunks between them and what looked like blood driveling down and out onto her chin. “Woah!” he said, grimacing, “Lady, what—”
Romero, dribbling the basketball impatiently back at the court, soon abandoned the ball when he heard Carlo’s screams of pain and saw the jogger running, sprinting away from him and the old woman. He dashed over to his friend’s side and pulled him away from the woman, and immediately gagged. Carlo’s face was bleeding profusely and a large chunk of the flesh from his cheek was missing, and before Romero could support him he collapsed to the ground, holding his face and moaning in pain. Then there was a low, inhuman growl. Romero swung around in time to see the elderly woman launch herself onto him, mouth hanging open with a chunk of Carlo’s cheek in her maw, before she clamped down on his shoulder and ripped into the flesh as they crashed down onto the sidewalk and blood splattered across the old concrete.
“I can’t believe we’re in Florida,” Sam Winchester muttered from his seat in the sleek, black ’67 Impala. “We were in New Orleans two days ago, Dean. Why couldn’t you go to that beach?”
Dean scoffed over the blaring noise of Asia on the radio. “You go to New Orleans for the booze and jazz, Sammy. But you come to Florida for the sunshine, the waves, and the babes.”
Sam rolled his eyes as they swung into the parking lot of Trails End Resort, a small, barely two-star motel on the west edge of the sunshine state. “And to work, right?”
His brother shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” After checking in at the front desk they moved into a room on the lower of the two available floors and threw their bags onto the beds, taking some time to settle in before Dean turned on the television and Sam sat down in front of his laptop. Dean spent a leisurely few minutes glued to a rerun of Baywatch before reluctantly tuning in to the three o’clock news, listening to the overdramatic reports in hopes of finding something unusual to look into. An hour or so later, after a break for cheeseburgers from the nearby McDonald’s, Sam perked up when reading an article online and said, “Hey, Dean, check this out.”
“What?” Dean replied, his voice muffled from a mouth full of fries.
Sam swiveled the laptop around and beckoned his brother over. “So you remember last year when there was the news story about a guy being found naked after having attacked a man and bitten him?”
“Yeah,” Dean said with a nod, leaning over to see the laptop screen and scan the article. “We thought about looking into it but it didn’t smell fishy enough.”
“Right, well.” Sam clicked over to another page. “This is a section of the news in Tampa. The ‘bizarre’ news, actually. I found at least four articles from the past year since then of people attacking one another and biting off flesh of some kind.” He glanced up at the older Winchester. “Starting to smell fishy now?”
“Yeah, like week old tuna,” Dean replied, sitting down to scan the articles. “Is it just in this area?”
“There are a few other places, but most of them are focused around the Tampa Bay area or the metro area.” Sam leaned back in his chair and took a swig of his bottled water. “What do you think?”
Dean opened his mouth to reply, but paused upon looking outside, through the slats in the shades. Sam, frowning, turned to look outside as an 80’s model Mustang drove past and parked a little farther down from their room. “What?” Sam asked.
His brother squinted a moment, then shook his head. “Nah, nevermind. Thought I saw something. Anyway, has there been a recent attack? Something we can look into?”
“Well yeah, get this,” Sam replied, “So there’s this old lady in a local park a few days ago…”
Outside, at the red Mustang, two girls climbed out of the vehicle with bags in hand. One, tall, with blonde hair that had the remnants of red hair dye streaking through it, unlocked a motel room with the key as her companion, a bit shorter with one side of her own much brighter blonde hair shaved off, waited patiently. The girls soon entered their room and set their things down before the shorter one plopped a bucket of KFC chicken on their small table.
“This should be a blast,” the taller one said, sitting down and stealing a leg of chicken from the bucket, biting into it, and chasing it down with a gulp of coke. “When was the last time we went to a hockey game?”
The other laughed as she joined her friend at the table. “Years, probably. And now that we aren’t working anymore, it should be that much better.”
They ate in silence for a few moments, enjoying the peace, before the first one broached, “Quinn, did you see the Impala outside?”
“I saw it,” the other replied, glancing out the window. “I never miss a beautiful antique car.”
“…Do you remem—”
“I remember.” Quinn snapped in half a wishbone left over from the fried chicken. “I wonder if they’re here on a job.”
“…Don’t think about it,” her friend replied, eyeing the girl. “We’re here for hockey and vacation, remember?”
She wrinkled her nose. “But Kimmy, what if—”
“No, no.” The tall girl, Kimberly, tossed the Coke bottle into the trashcan. “Hockey. Beach. Maybe even beer. No more. God knows we need to actually be retired for once.”
Quinn sighed and reluctantly nodded. “You’re right. Retired. We should stay that way.”
Meanwhile, the older Winchester peered out the window again as his brother began to look up directions to the scene of the latest flesh-eating attack. Dean knew cars, and he knew that Mustang. And he wondered idly if the two girls who owned it were here for the same reason as him and his brother.
Hunting.
“Smooth,” Romero said jokingly, shoving Carlo after the ball. “Cheater.”
“It’s not cheating, man, my hand slipped!” he insisted, jogging after the basketball and picking it up. “You’re just scared I’m gonna whoop your ass.” He shook some of his dark, curly hair out of his eyes and began to jog back toward the court. He stopped just before, however, when he happened to notice something not too far away on his left—an elderly woman, shuffling slowly through the grass in her nightgown, her old tennis shoes dirty and stained with mud. Carlo stopped in his run and examined her, knitting his brow in concern when he saw how pale and expressionless she seemed. A nearby jogger noticed her as well and headed over to the woman.
“Hey, man, that lady doesn’t look so good,” he said, tossing the ball to Romero. “I’ll be right back. Lemme see if she needs some help.”
Romero groaned. “She’s just an old lady, bro, leave her!” Carlo ignored him and made his way toward the old lady, so he added, “Hurry up! I gotta head home soon for dinner.”
Carlo glanced at the jogger, an athletic woman probably in her thirties, and asked, “Is she okay?”
She shook her head. “She’s not responding to me. She just keeps staring off.” Turning toward the grey-haired woman, she asked, “Ma’am? Ma’am, can you hear me? Do you need to sit down?” She pursed her lips and looked Carlo up and down briefly before saying, “Look after her a minute, I’m gonna call 9-1-1.”
As she stepped away and took her iPhone out of the jogging strap on her arm, Carlo placed a hand on the old woman’s shoulder and bent down to look at her face. “Lady, you’re gonna be okay, alright? Uy, carajo, you look pretty bad though…”
Suddenly the woman’s eyes came into focus and snapped up to meet his gaze. Carlo recoiled slightly, started at her eyes. Small pupils, eerily cold blue irises, and most of all, they were totally blank and expressionless. She reached a shaky hand up toward him, which he uncertainly took hold of, assuming she was reaching for help. The jogger hung up her call with the 9-1-1 operator and turned to see the events unfolding. Her eyebrows rose and she said, “At least she’s responding now.”
Carlo would have responded had the old woman’s mouth not suddenly opened, revealing a set of yellowed, cracked teeth with black chunks between them and what looked like blood driveling down and out onto her chin. “Woah!” he said, grimacing, “Lady, what—”
Romero, dribbling the basketball impatiently back at the court, soon abandoned the ball when he heard Carlo’s screams of pain and saw the jogger running, sprinting away from him and the old woman. He dashed over to his friend’s side and pulled him away from the woman, and immediately gagged. Carlo’s face was bleeding profusely and a large chunk of the flesh from his cheek was missing, and before Romero could support him he collapsed to the ground, holding his face and moaning in pain. Then there was a low, inhuman growl. Romero swung around in time to see the elderly woman launch herself onto him, mouth hanging open with a chunk of Carlo’s cheek in her maw, before she clamped down on his shoulder and ripped into the flesh as they crashed down onto the sidewalk and blood splattered across the old concrete.
“I can’t believe we’re in Florida,” Sam Winchester muttered from his seat in the sleek, black ’67 Impala. “We were in New Orleans two days ago, Dean. Why couldn’t you go to that beach?”
Dean scoffed over the blaring noise of Asia on the radio. “You go to New Orleans for the booze and jazz, Sammy. But you come to Florida for the sunshine, the waves, and the babes.”
Sam rolled his eyes as they swung into the parking lot of Trails End Resort, a small, barely two-star motel on the west edge of the sunshine state. “And to work, right?”
His brother shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” After checking in at the front desk they moved into a room on the lower of the two available floors and threw their bags onto the beds, taking some time to settle in before Dean turned on the television and Sam sat down in front of his laptop. Dean spent a leisurely few minutes glued to a rerun of Baywatch before reluctantly tuning in to the three o’clock news, listening to the overdramatic reports in hopes of finding something unusual to look into. An hour or so later, after a break for cheeseburgers from the nearby McDonald’s, Sam perked up when reading an article online and said, “Hey, Dean, check this out.”
“What?” Dean replied, his voice muffled from a mouth full of fries.
Sam swiveled the laptop around and beckoned his brother over. “So you remember last year when there was the news story about a guy being found naked after having attacked a man and bitten him?”
“Yeah,” Dean said with a nod, leaning over to see the laptop screen and scan the article. “We thought about looking into it but it didn’t smell fishy enough.”
“Right, well.” Sam clicked over to another page. “This is a section of the news in Tampa. The ‘bizarre’ news, actually. I found at least four articles from the past year since then of people attacking one another and biting off flesh of some kind.” He glanced up at the older Winchester. “Starting to smell fishy now?”
“Yeah, like week old tuna,” Dean replied, sitting down to scan the articles. “Is it just in this area?”
“There are a few other places, but most of them are focused around the Tampa Bay area or the metro area.” Sam leaned back in his chair and took a swig of his bottled water. “What do you think?”
Dean opened his mouth to reply, but paused upon looking outside, through the slats in the shades. Sam, frowning, turned to look outside as an 80’s model Mustang drove past and parked a little farther down from their room. “What?” Sam asked.
His brother squinted a moment, then shook his head. “Nah, nevermind. Thought I saw something. Anyway, has there been a recent attack? Something we can look into?”
“Well yeah, get this,” Sam replied, “So there’s this old lady in a local park a few days ago…”
Outside, at the red Mustang, two girls climbed out of the vehicle with bags in hand. One, tall, with blonde hair that had the remnants of red hair dye streaking through it, unlocked a motel room with the key as her companion, a bit shorter with one side of her own much brighter blonde hair shaved off, waited patiently. The girls soon entered their room and set their things down before the shorter one plopped a bucket of KFC chicken on their small table.
“This should be a blast,” the taller one said, sitting down and stealing a leg of chicken from the bucket, biting into it, and chasing it down with a gulp of coke. “When was the last time we went to a hockey game?”
The other laughed as she joined her friend at the table. “Years, probably. And now that we aren’t working anymore, it should be that much better.”
They ate in silence for a few moments, enjoying the peace, before the first one broached, “Quinn, did you see the Impala outside?”
“I saw it,” the other replied, glancing out the window. “I never miss a beautiful antique car.”
“…Do you remem—”
“I remember.” Quinn snapped in half a wishbone left over from the fried chicken. “I wonder if they’re here on a job.”
“…Don’t think about it,” her friend replied, eyeing the girl. “We’re here for hockey and vacation, remember?”
She wrinkled her nose. “But Kimmy, what if—”
“No, no.” The tall girl, Kimberly, tossed the Coke bottle into the trashcan. “Hockey. Beach. Maybe even beer. No more. God knows we need to actually be retired for once.”
Quinn sighed and reluctantly nodded. “You’re right. Retired. We should stay that way.”
Meanwhile, the older Winchester peered out the window again as his brother began to look up directions to the scene of the latest flesh-eating attack. Dean knew cars, and he knew that Mustang. And he wondered idly if the two girls who owned it were here for the same reason as him and his brother.
Hunting.
Notes
I was anxious about posting this story online since it's a crossover and has two original characters, but the friends I shared it with gave me some good feedback so, well, here it is. There will be some moments of romance between the OCs and hockey players Stamkos and Lecavalier, just FYI, but I don't really intend for them to be the main focus of the story.Anyway! No actual mention of the Bolts yet, I know. They'll appear in the next chapter!
@CanadaHockey Can't*
12/30/13