Greg Gifune: Kingdom of Shadows

Apparently mesmerized by the field of rotting scarecrows, Starker does not respond. He stares off into the darkness as if in a trance.

“Come on biggins, time for some recon.”

Starker continues to stare at the horrible faces peering across the field through the darkness and fog. Rooster approaches him and cautiously places a hand on his shoulder. “Starker.”

He says nothing.

“Stay with me now,” Rooster tells him softly. “We need you.”

Starker remains locked on the field, one enormous finger resting on the trigger of the AK-47, the other hand sliding almost lovingly back and forth across the top of the weapon in a slow and steady motion. “Something’s not right.”

“You see something?”

“I feel it. So do you.”

He’s right, but Rooster can’t figure out how Starker knows this. Perhaps he hasn’t hidden his anxiety and uneasiness as well as he thought he has. “Maybe we should all go,” Rooster suggests. “Check the place out together.”

“It doesn’t much matter.” Starker blinks slowly, his eyes eerily reflecting moonlight. “We’re all gonna die tonight.”

Memories of Starker’s bald head covered in blood flashed before Rooster’s eyes, the huge man spitting and slobbering between horrific screams, choking on his own blood and bodily fluids while begging like a child for mercies he would never be granted.

The horrible sounds of that night were the last to leave him, fading gradually like the slowly dying things they were. And like the dead, a gruesome residue remained in their wake. A reminder of their power, perhaps, evidence that such figments of torturous nightmares had, in fact, existed.

Out in the open air the winter wind cut like a razor. Rooster held his ground at the mouth of an alley between a seedy bar and a blown-out storefront, his jacket collar flipped up to protect the back of his neck. A red neon sign advertising the strip joint two doors down blinked with a steady rhythm, painting his face in a strange and frightening haze. His headache had weakened, but a dull pain still lingered behind his eyes. He rubbed his temple and studied the passersby. Everyone on the street seemed suspect, every car a potential menace. He swore he’d seen the same black Crown Vic twice more since he’d walked the eight blocks from the payphone to the agreed upon meeting place, but of course there was no way to know for sure if it was the same vehicle. Even if it was, what would the cops want with him? He’d been doing straight time for years.

He returned his focus to the neighborhood. It was filthy and far from the safest in the city, but Rooster had a good vantage point, as from his position he could clearly see people approaching from either direction. Though like the rest of the city many of the buildings sat vacant and rotting, this was predominantly a commercial area that still crackled with intensity and life. Heavy traffic clogged both lanes, filling the air with a glut of sickening exhaust fumes, and numerous souls of varied descriptions hurried along the sidewalks, several scowling at him as if he’d done something to personally offend them but most with their heads bowed and eyes averted. At the end of the block an old homeless man collapsed on the sidewalk and lay still. After watching him a moment Rooster realized the man’s breath was no longer forming clouds in the cold air. Perhaps he’d died. No one seemed to care.

It was then that Rooster noticed a bald man of perhaps sixty standing across the street watching him, features unremarkable but for a pair of piercing ice-blue eyes. Dressed entirely in black—suit, shoes and overcoat—it wasn’t until the man glided a bit further down the block that Rooster saw the white collar and realized he was looking at a priest. The closer the man got the more disheveled he became, his clothes wrinkled and soiled and his face creased with age and looking as if it needed a good scrubbing.

Ignoring the traffic, the priest recklessly crossed the street, eyes locked on Rooster even after several drivers hit their horns and one car nearly struck him. While still several feet away, the priest raised a hand and pointed at him. “You, I—I know you!” he called. “I know you!”

Rooster shook his head and waved the man off, though oddly enough, the closer the priest got the more familiar he became. He couldn’t quite place him but was convinced he knew him from somewhere.

Just as the priest made it to the sidewalk, another man appeared out of the crowd and cut him off, blocking his path.

The afro gave him away. Snow, looking like he always had, dressed in jeans, sneakers and an old army jacket thrown over a sweatshirt, extended a hand, holding it up between himself and the priest as their eyes met. Neither moved; two statues in a sea of humanity.

Rooster stepped out of the alley, approached them.

The priest looked over Snow’s shoulder, enraged. “I know you!”

“Keep moving, padre,” Snow said evenly. “I ain’t playing with you. Move .”

Defeated, the priest slipped away, looking back every few seconds until he’d been completely absorbed by the crowd, carried off down the street with the rest.

Rooster started after him but Snow grabbed his arm, firmly enough to stop him but with enough restraint to let him know the move wasn’t a challenge.

“Let him go, man.”

“He’s right, I—we know each other, I—”

“Just let him go.” When Rooster relaxed Snow released him. “You don’t look no different.”

They shook hands. Snow’s palm was cold, rough and covered in calluses. “Neither do you,” Rooster sighed. “But we are different, aren’t we?”

Nearby, overhead trains rumbled along rusted tracks. The noise seemed to distract Snow for a moment. “Let’s get off the street.” He motioned to the bar behind them. “Catch some heat.”

The bar was dark, with scarred linoleum floors, low ceilings and only two small windows on the front wall. A scattering of tables and chairs filled the area, while a row of dark booths lined one wall and a bar filled the back. A jukebox kitty-cornered nearby sat quietly. The bartender, an overweight guy with a shock of unruly salt-and-pepper hair, chatted quietly with what was probably a regular, both staring at a small television suspended in the corner showing an old black-and-white horror movie. Otherwise the place was empty.

Rooster and Snow ordered a couple beers then took them over to the booth farthest from the bar and sat down.

“It’s good to see you, man.” Snow slowly caressed his beer bottle, focusing on it rather than Rooster. “Just sucks it has to be like this.”

After a long swallow of beer Rooster slid a black plastic ashtray from the corner of the table into the center and lit a cigarette. “What’s going on, Snow?”

He was about to answer when a bloodcurdling scream exploded through the bar.

Rooster reached to his belt for a gun that wasn’t there, a gun that hadn’t been there in years. Snow cocked his head in the direction of the television, where a ghoul was staggering through a cemetery shrouded in mist, closing in on a buxom young maiden with the ability to scream at octaves capable of shattering glass.

“Jesus H.” He rubbed his temples. “Could’ve lived without that.”

“Never seen you so jumpy, Rooster-man. You were always cold as ice.”

“The priest, who was he?”

“I don’t know.”

“He knew me. And I knew him. I just can’t remember how.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Can’t figure out much of anything lately. The strangest shit’s happening. I can’t make sense of any of it.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke and watched it climb toward the ceiling. “Look, I—”