“It’s going to shit down there, man,” Dean said, staring down at the chaos on the ice and in the lower levels of the seating. Security guards were doing their best to take down the zombies who were attacking civilians, but with so many being bitten and turned, it was nearly impossible. On the ice, the zombies were so numerous it was like watching a swarm of angry ants attacking their prey. He could see Quinn and Kimberly, still surviving as they shot down or knocked out whoever they could. The hockey players didn’t look quite as good. He heard the captain of the Lightning yell out in terror as his teammate went down, and grimaced. Man. This part of hunting was the worst.

Sam ran up to him, pushing his way through the crowd. “He’s just down there,” he said, pointing to the man seated calmly at the edge of the tier. “That’s him. He’s not moving. And he’s focused so intently on everything down there. He fits the profile.”

“Well then,” Dean said, and called, “Hey, Philippe!”

The black man started as if snapped out of a reverie and turned slowly in his chair to face the men. He smiled, standing and adjusting his jacket. “Welcome!” he exclaimed. “Are you enjoying my show?”

“I personally think you’re ripping off AMC, man,” Dean replied. “Copyright artists are gonna be knocking at your door.”

He chuckled, strolling into the aisle. “You are the funny one, yes? I have heard about you.”

“Really?” he glanced at Sam. “I’m flattered. How?”

“From the spirits beyond, of course!” Philippe replied. “You have researched Bokor by now, yes? Do you not know that we communicate with the souls long gone? In fact,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “I have a few of them captured for my own uses. Do you know a Bobby Singer, by chance? I was traveling this beautiful country a few months ago and spoke with his spirit.”

“You lying son of a bitch,” Dean snarled, all camaraderie abruptly gone. “You need his body to take his soul.”

He looked surprised. “Only if I intend to use his body, my friend. But I can simply take a soul whenever I please, for… conversation.”

Sam held Dean back before he could rush the man as he swore violently. Philippe chuckled, leaning back against the railing and glancing over his shoulder at the chaos below. “Is it not perfect?”

“What’s your goal, huh?” Sam asked as Dean jerked away from him irritably. “What are you trying to accomplish? Destroying the world?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty cliché, isn’t it?” Dean snapped.

“No, no, that is not my intention at all,” he replied, adjusting the cuffs on his blazer. “What I want is to put this world in the right hands, under the right control.” He sniffed. “Namely, mine.”

“You?” Dean laughed mirthlessly. “Oh yeah, I can see you’re on your way to being a great leader. Also, Hitler called, he wants his psychotic ideals back.”

“Psychotic? Dear child, this is merely destiny.” He swept his arms out in front of him, smiling darkly. “I was raised to do what I felt right with my powers, regardless of your Judeo-Christian ideas of ‘good’ and ‘evil,’ and I decided that this world is suffering and struggling quite needlessly. However, under my rule, I will end suffering. Because everyone will be under my rule.” He surveyed the panicked crowd below. “I moved to this state with my sister under the guise of wanting to start a new life, but do you know why I really came here? Because Americans travel. Always you are moving, seeing new places, going to new countries, taking your diseases and ideals across the world. What better place to spread my power than through your people?” He sighed contentedly. “My sister disapproves, as I’m sure she’s mentioned to you—how else would you know about me?—but that doesn’t matter. Soon enough she will be forced to agree. In fact…” his expression took on a faraway look as he flipped to a mental image in his mind of the inside of his sister’s home, where a few of his slaves were taking down Sauda and tearing into her flesh. “I think she will very soon.”

“You’re sick,” Dean spat out. “You know we run into some really freaky things in our line of work, but every day we get a surprise and meet someone even more disgusting. Congrats, man, you win the prize for this week.”

Philippe grinned, casually putting his hands in his pockets. “Well, come on then. Slay me if you are so keen.”

“Be glad to,” Dean said, and raised his gun and fired.

---

“Crombeen!” Adam Hall yelled as said right wing player was attacked and fell to the ice. He groaned helplessly below the violent mob, but soon enough was pulling himself to his feet, a slave to the Houngan’s desires, and joined the others in attacking those around him.

“It’s hard to keep up with who’s still human!” Lecavalier exclaimed with a grimace, hesitating before firing a shot into Crombeen’s left shoulder. Not a deadly shot, but one that knocked him onto his back. Hopefully for a while. Quinn tossed her empty magazine clip from her Ruger and slapped in a new one, firing it with one hand while still holding the Mossberg in the other.

“Sure would be nice to have the Winchesters down here,” Kimberly commented, getting pushed down onto the ice by a skinny blonde zombie before she managed to yank out the knife hooked in her belt and slash the girl’s legs across the back of the knees. The girl crumpled, the major tendons in her legs severed. She growled from where she lie, but would not be getting up any time soon with her useless limbs.

“I just wish they’d hurry up!” Quinn shouted pointedly, hoping they could hear her. Likely not, but she tried nonetheless.

“Hall,” Vincent said, turning toward his teammate, “Give me the other magazine cl—Hall!” Crombeen’s fellow right wing was gone. They hadn’t even seen it happen. He was far on the other side of the ice, trying to hold back a few attackers from taking down Rangers players Rick Nash and Matt Gilroy. Unfortunately, he had become nothing but a meat shield, as the zombies had already torn into him. Nash and Gilroy pushed him away, taking off before he had time to change and turn on them.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Quinn hissed. Their numbers were quickly dwindling, and they wouldn’t be doing well for much longer. The fans in the stadium were quickly succumbing and were turning on each other, building up the zombie numbers and increasing the Houngan’s power. He’d be invincible before this night was over. “Kimmy!” she shouted. “Vinny needs a clip!”

“Steven, cover me,” she said, and he obeyed as she dug in the duffle bag on her shoulder and pulled out the clip for the captain’s pistol. She tossed it far over the heads of attackers and hockey players, and Vincent caught it just before a zombie snatched his arm. Quinn shot the fat female cannibal and shoved her body back as he loaded his gun and nodded at her.

“Thank you,” he replied. “You guys seriously are fighters.”

She took the time to give him a tight smile before popping off bullets in the legs and shoulders of zombies attempting to drag down some of the other Bolts players. “Why do you think we like a sport like hockey? We need that violence and adrenaline.”

He’d have smiled back had he not gone cold upon spotting Martin St. Louis making his way toward them. “Ah, Marty,” he said, his expression pained. “Why did you have to show up here, man?” His best friend and teammate growled heartlessly and grabbed him, and Lecavalier fought him off, putting his hands on his neck and keeping him at a distance. “Don’t do this, Marty! Don’t make me do this!” Vincent felt panic rising up in his throat like never before, realizing he was going to have to make a horrible decision that Malone had failed to do with Cory: it had to be him, or his best friend.

“Vinny!” Quinn shouted, coming up behind St. Louis.

“I got this, blondie,” he said, and looked into St. Louis’ lifeless eyes before pressing his pistol against St. Louis’ side. He fired. Martin St. Louis crumpled. Quinn stared up at him, worry etched on her face, before touching his arm briefly and then returning to her duty.

I’m sorry, Vincent Lecavalier thought before he stepped over St. Louis’ still groaning body and skated over to help Benoit Pouliot.

---

“Shit,” Kimberly hissed, holstering her Glock. “I’m out of 9mm bullets.” She shouldered the Coach once again, glancing at Steven Stamkos. “I can’t handle short range with this gun, so you’ll have to take care of it the best you can. I’ll try to keep them off of us.”

Steven nodded as he stabbed the machete through a nearby man and cut him down. The two of them had become separated from the rest of the group, and so stood back to back to protect one another. The swarm around them was growing thick, and Kimberly felt a growing sense of helplessness in the pit of her stomach. It had been a long time since she and Quinn had been stuck in any situation like this, and usually they’d been stuck together. But as she scanned the ice, she could see Quinn on the far side, Lecavalier and Alex Killorn at her side. They were far apart, and it was nerve-wracking.

“Kimmy!” Steven’s voice drew her back to her senses just in time to see a zombie launching himself at her. It was Carlo, the first boy she’d seen on the local news from the initial attacks a few days ago. She raised her gun to fire, but he knocked the long barrel out of the way and grabbed at her, making her stumble backwards into Steven.

“Dammit!” she yelled, dropping the Coach gun and struggling to find her knife in her belt loop. She then spotted it on the ice a few feet away, having fallen out when he pushed her. “Shit! Steven—!”

On cue, Stamkos appeared behind the boy and tore him off of her, tossing him to the ice. He checked her over quickly to make sure she wasn’t bitten, then put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She picked up her gun and sighed in relief, offering him a look of gratitude.

Then Ryan Callahan grabbed hold of him, and before Kimberly could scream, he crushed Stamkos’ shoulder padding and bit down, drawing blood before Steven managed to shove him off.

“Oh, shit,” Steven said dumbly, looking up at Kimberly with wide eyes.

“Steven!” she exclaimed. “No, no,” she said quickly, reaching toward him. “You’ll be fine! You’ll be fine!”

He smiled reassuringly, then shoved her backward. “Go.”

“But Steven, no, I—” she began, desperately scrambling to shoulder her gun and shooting Callahan in the shoulder, her face contorting into a mixture of rage and grief. “Oh god, I’m so sorry.”

He laughed weakly as his vision began to blur. “Go, Kimmy. I’ll see you later!”

She grimaced, horrified, before taking off across the ice and distancing herself from Steven Stamkos as he lost control of his senses and Philippe’s influence sucked the soul from his body.

---

Dean’s bullet did not reach Philippe. It hovered in the air a good few feet in front of him, then fell uselessly to the ground. The Houngan sneered, crossing his arms.

“Do you see? My power is so great, your weapons cannot harm me now,” he explained, strolling up to the brothers confidently. “With every soul I capture, I leech away their power, their life force. It is mine to use. I am immortal.”

Dean glared at him. “I’ve met a lot of people who said they’re immortal. Usually they die.” Before Philippe could reply, he pulled his fist back and socked the man in the jaw. He flexed his fingers painfully, but smirked. “No bullet or blade can hurt you, but a five-finger sandwich does some damage, huh?”

Sam scrambled over to the man, who lay on the ground in a daze, and fished through his pockets for the talisman. His hand just closed around it when the vodou priest came to his senses. Sam was blown back by a strange force and knocked away, and the fetish flew from his hand and into the stadium seats.

“No,” Philippe said, worry for the first time crossing his grim features. “How did you know about the fetish—ah, Sauda told you.” He crawled quickly over the seats, searching for his source of power, but Dean was upon him in an instant. He dragged the man back by the collar of his blazer, only to be met by a punch from the Houngan himself. Dean reeled, startled.

“You are not the only one with a right hook,” Philippe stated, all smugness gone and replaced with cold ambition. “I will enjoy turning you into my servants once my zombies have made their way up here.”

Dean raised his pistol again, but rather than firing it, used the gun to whip Philippe across the face. The man reeled as Sam crawled toward the seats and searched for the wooden fetish.

“Don’t you think ruling the planet is a bit of a challenge?” Dean said, grabbing him by the lapels. “That’s mighty stressful, having all those souls to hear and minds to control at once.”

“Fool,” Philippe snapped. “That is only what one who is weak would say.” He then slammed his forehead against Dean’s, and Dean groaned from the pain and dragged Philippe back with him as he stumbled from the impact. Sam, meanwhile, spotted the figure and snatched it, crawling backwards and digging for his lighter in his pocket. To his horror, he realized it was gone—likely having fallen out when he was blown back by the Bokor’s power. He couldn’t see it, and Dean was clearly too preoccupied to search for his own. In a last desperate attempt, Sam turned around, toward the ice.

“Quinn! Kimmy!” he shouted. The two girls glanced up from their place amidst the madness. “Catch and burn!” With that, he hurled the fetish onto the ice.

‘No!” Philippe shouted. “I will have them torn limb from limb before that happens!”

“Shut up, witch doctor,” Dean said, and then slugged him in the nose.