Cold Walkers
Chapter 03: Saying Hello
The two female hunters stood beside Bergeron as he caught everyone’s attention and the Bolts turned toward them. Both girls resisted the internal urge to panic and, admittedly, scream as the defenseman introduced them as police women that helped arrest the attacker and saved him in the process. Closest to them, Ryan Malone and Anders Lindback stood and held their hands out with wide grins.
“Good job saving Bergeron’s ass,” Malone said as Quinn grabbed hold of his hand and shook it excitedly. “You must pack a punch.”
Kimberly admired the height difference between herself and Lindback when they greeted one another as a few other players ambled over to say hello. Being confined in the locker room until further notice, and without the typical rush of media during normal meet and greets, it was much easier to introduce themselves to the two fans. Quinn was amiably introducing herself to Cory Conacher, a rookie of the team, when she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see the captain of the team, Vincent Lecavalier, standing behind her and smiling. Just behind him was Kimberly, looking on and grinning wickedly at her best friend.
“I was just talking to Kimberly,” he said, gesturing back to the strawberry blonde girl, “and she suggested I come say hello.” Vincent held his hand out to her. “So hey there, I’m Vinny.”
“Quinn!” she replied, as his large hand took hold of her smaller one and shook it heartily. “It’s really, really great to meet you! All of you, I mean,” she corrected, and shot a quick look at Kimberly as she hid a laugh and turned to meet Martin St. Louis. “It was great of Bergeron to let us come here. We had meet and greets for after the game today, but… well. That didn’t work out.”
Vincent shrugged. “Hey, you help a guy out on our team, you deserve a reward. Besides, we’re bored out of our minds here.” He gestured to the large locker room. “They kept us here to protect us from that attacker, but I think they also want to make sure we don’t know anything about him. Do you know anything about that?”
“Oh, yeah,” Quinn said, shifting on her feet. “Well, Homeland Security is involved and they think there’s a steroid and drug exchange happening on a massive scale in the country. They’re worried it’s… connected to sports. So, I imagine that attacker showing up at a hockey arena was enough to make them suspicious, maybe.”
The captain ran his fingers through his hair, sighing. “Makes sense. I just hope we get out of here soon enough. Marty’s wife is at home with their kids, and a few of the other guys have families and friends to get home to.” Shaking his head, Vincent clapped Steven Stamkos on the shoulder as he walked by and pulled him over. “Anyway! Have you met this bonehead yet?”
“Bonehead?” Steven said, swatting him away and laughing. “Watch it man, I’m offended.” He turned to face Quinn, smile still on his face. “Hey there.”
“Hi,” she replied, trying not to grin stupidly as the rather attractive players stood before her. “Surviving lockdown in here alright?”
Steven shrugged. “It’s been alright so far, but if I’m stuck in this room with these guys much longer I’m gonna start going crazy.”
“Crazier,” Vincent corrected. Steven chuckled.
“Hey, I don’t mean to bother you, but have you met Kimmy yet?” she gestured to her partner, who was chatting with right wing Adam Hall. “She’s quite a big fan of yours. If you haven’t met her yet, I think she’d be really pleased. In fact… Hey, Kimmy!” Quinn called, and the taller girl turned. Her expression quickly changed from euphoria to a strange mixture of terror and joy when she locked eyes with Steven Stamkos.
“Kimmy, right?” Steven asked, holding his hand out. “Hi!” Quinn grinned as Kimberly took his hand and a large smile appeared on her face.
Dean grimaced at Romero as he drooled mindlessly from his position tied to the chair in their hotel. Sam flipped through their father’s old leather-bound journal, searching for answers to Romero’s strange form.
“I don’t get it man,” Dean said, kneeling in front of the boy and examining his face. “There’s nothing in dad’s book?”
“Nothing that I can find yet,” his brother replied. “He’s not possessed—the holy water proved that much. And it doesn’t seem like he’s cursed. He’s just… mindless. And apparently, they chomp down on the nearest person they can get a hold on.”
“You know what I’m thinking, right, Sammy?” Dean said. Suddenly, Romero’s eyes twitched upward and locked on Dean. He lurched forward, snarling with his teeth bared, and Dean scrambled backward to fall on his ass, narrowly escaping the clutches of Romero’s jaws. Sam, halfway out of his chair, swallowed hard, startled, as his brother glanced back at him and Romero continued to growl, fighting against the chain binds that held him to the chair.
“Zombies, Dean?” Sam said, eyebrows raised.
“Zombies,” he confirmed, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. “Looks like we’re starring in Night of the Living Dead.”
His brother sighed, sitting down in front of his laptop and pulling up Google as he flipped through their dad’s book again. “I’ll see what I can find. Hopefully there’s more to this than just a disease, or we’re screwed, Dean.”
“Can’t be a disease,” Dean replied. “Some random disease suddenly popping up and bringing the dead back to life, or turning normal people into flesh-eating machines? Popular as it is, that doesn’t make sense.”
Sam frowned incredulously at the older Winchester. “Nothing in our lives makes sense, Dean.”
He rolled his eyes, popping open a beer and taking a swig as Romero settled back down and hung his head uselessly once again. “Well, yeah, but even for us that wouldn’t make sense.”
On the shores of Hillsborough Bay, a thin, willowy black man sat on the edge of a dock, staring out at the horizon as the sun began to inch carefully down. His feet just barely touched the lukewarm salt water and his thin collared shirt rustled slightly in the sea breeze. In his hands he clutched a small, wooden statue of a man, its mouth gaping open mournfully and its eyes wide and horrified. He rubbed the statue absently, a smile ghosting across his face.
Though he was present on the dock in body, his mind wandered far, out into the world and the souls beyond. He stared into the eyes of a young girl as he bit her hand off; then he watched a woman scream as he looked on from the eyes of her husband, whose mother had just been institutionalized for attacking two boys in the park, and ripped into her neck. A variety of scenes played before his eyes, miserable and horrifying, as person after person fell to his plague. With every bite, every gnaw, the man felt his weak, sickly body surge with a burst of energy.
His gaze flickered to two men sitting at a hotel table, both examining a book and a computer screen. He felt his body fight to move forward, fight to attack like it had been commanded, but the restraints kept it tied to the chair. The frustration building up within the body of young Romero was becoming unbearable, and the black man on the dock winced painfully.
“Check this out,” one of the men, with longer hair, said to the other. “Dad’s book might have something after all.”
“Yeah?” the other said, tossing his beer bottle into the trash.
“It’s just one small little note, not much. Something about this old practice in Haiti…”
The thin man growled, coming back into his own mind and staring down at the idol in his hands. He clutched it tightly, clenching his teeth as he stood and turned away from the dock.
Those boys would soon know the truth. He had to make sure they couldn’t stop him before they did.
“Good job saving Bergeron’s ass,” Malone said as Quinn grabbed hold of his hand and shook it excitedly. “You must pack a punch.”
Kimberly admired the height difference between herself and Lindback when they greeted one another as a few other players ambled over to say hello. Being confined in the locker room until further notice, and without the typical rush of media during normal meet and greets, it was much easier to introduce themselves to the two fans. Quinn was amiably introducing herself to Cory Conacher, a rookie of the team, when she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see the captain of the team, Vincent Lecavalier, standing behind her and smiling. Just behind him was Kimberly, looking on and grinning wickedly at her best friend.
“I was just talking to Kimberly,” he said, gesturing back to the strawberry blonde girl, “and she suggested I come say hello.” Vincent held his hand out to her. “So hey there, I’m Vinny.”
“Quinn!” she replied, as his large hand took hold of her smaller one and shook it heartily. “It’s really, really great to meet you! All of you, I mean,” she corrected, and shot a quick look at Kimberly as she hid a laugh and turned to meet Martin St. Louis. “It was great of Bergeron to let us come here. We had meet and greets for after the game today, but… well. That didn’t work out.”
Vincent shrugged. “Hey, you help a guy out on our team, you deserve a reward. Besides, we’re bored out of our minds here.” He gestured to the large locker room. “They kept us here to protect us from that attacker, but I think they also want to make sure we don’t know anything about him. Do you know anything about that?”
“Oh, yeah,” Quinn said, shifting on her feet. “Well, Homeland Security is involved and they think there’s a steroid and drug exchange happening on a massive scale in the country. They’re worried it’s… connected to sports. So, I imagine that attacker showing up at a hockey arena was enough to make them suspicious, maybe.”
The captain ran his fingers through his hair, sighing. “Makes sense. I just hope we get out of here soon enough. Marty’s wife is at home with their kids, and a few of the other guys have families and friends to get home to.” Shaking his head, Vincent clapped Steven Stamkos on the shoulder as he walked by and pulled him over. “Anyway! Have you met this bonehead yet?”
“Bonehead?” Steven said, swatting him away and laughing. “Watch it man, I’m offended.” He turned to face Quinn, smile still on his face. “Hey there.”
“Hi,” she replied, trying not to grin stupidly as the rather attractive players stood before her. “Surviving lockdown in here alright?”
Steven shrugged. “It’s been alright so far, but if I’m stuck in this room with these guys much longer I’m gonna start going crazy.”
“Crazier,” Vincent corrected. Steven chuckled.
“Hey, I don’t mean to bother you, but have you met Kimmy yet?” she gestured to her partner, who was chatting with right wing Adam Hall. “She’s quite a big fan of yours. If you haven’t met her yet, I think she’d be really pleased. In fact… Hey, Kimmy!” Quinn called, and the taller girl turned. Her expression quickly changed from euphoria to a strange mixture of terror and joy when she locked eyes with Steven Stamkos.
“Kimmy, right?” Steven asked, holding his hand out. “Hi!” Quinn grinned as Kimberly took his hand and a large smile appeared on her face.
Dean grimaced at Romero as he drooled mindlessly from his position tied to the chair in their hotel. Sam flipped through their father’s old leather-bound journal, searching for answers to Romero’s strange form.
“I don’t get it man,” Dean said, kneeling in front of the boy and examining his face. “There’s nothing in dad’s book?”
“Nothing that I can find yet,” his brother replied. “He’s not possessed—the holy water proved that much. And it doesn’t seem like he’s cursed. He’s just… mindless. And apparently, they chomp down on the nearest person they can get a hold on.”
“You know what I’m thinking, right, Sammy?” Dean said. Suddenly, Romero’s eyes twitched upward and locked on Dean. He lurched forward, snarling with his teeth bared, and Dean scrambled backward to fall on his ass, narrowly escaping the clutches of Romero’s jaws. Sam, halfway out of his chair, swallowed hard, startled, as his brother glanced back at him and Romero continued to growl, fighting against the chain binds that held him to the chair.
“Zombies, Dean?” Sam said, eyebrows raised.
“Zombies,” he confirmed, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. “Looks like we’re starring in Night of the Living Dead.”
His brother sighed, sitting down in front of his laptop and pulling up Google as he flipped through their dad’s book again. “I’ll see what I can find. Hopefully there’s more to this than just a disease, or we’re screwed, Dean.”
“Can’t be a disease,” Dean replied. “Some random disease suddenly popping up and bringing the dead back to life, or turning normal people into flesh-eating machines? Popular as it is, that doesn’t make sense.”
Sam frowned incredulously at the older Winchester. “Nothing in our lives makes sense, Dean.”
He rolled his eyes, popping open a beer and taking a swig as Romero settled back down and hung his head uselessly once again. “Well, yeah, but even for us that wouldn’t make sense.”
On the shores of Hillsborough Bay, a thin, willowy black man sat on the edge of a dock, staring out at the horizon as the sun began to inch carefully down. His feet just barely touched the lukewarm salt water and his thin collared shirt rustled slightly in the sea breeze. In his hands he clutched a small, wooden statue of a man, its mouth gaping open mournfully and its eyes wide and horrified. He rubbed the statue absently, a smile ghosting across his face.
Though he was present on the dock in body, his mind wandered far, out into the world and the souls beyond. He stared into the eyes of a young girl as he bit her hand off; then he watched a woman scream as he looked on from the eyes of her husband, whose mother had just been institutionalized for attacking two boys in the park, and ripped into her neck. A variety of scenes played before his eyes, miserable and horrifying, as person after person fell to his plague. With every bite, every gnaw, the man felt his weak, sickly body surge with a burst of energy.
His gaze flickered to two men sitting at a hotel table, both examining a book and a computer screen. He felt his body fight to move forward, fight to attack like it had been commanded, but the restraints kept it tied to the chair. The frustration building up within the body of young Romero was becoming unbearable, and the black man on the dock winced painfully.
“Check this out,” one of the men, with longer hair, said to the other. “Dad’s book might have something after all.”
“Yeah?” the other said, tossing his beer bottle into the trash.
“It’s just one small little note, not much. Something about this old practice in Haiti…”
The thin man growled, coming back into his own mind and staring down at the idol in his hands. He clutched it tightly, clenching his teeth as he stood and turned away from the dock.
Those boys would soon know the truth. He had to make sure they couldn’t stop him before they did.
@CanadaHockey Can't*
12/30/13