Enforcer by Travis Hill Page B

his thigh, the skin peeled back and the dark red meat exposed to the air. He watched in horror as a lake of blood formed around him and the defenseman.
    He started to black out, feeling detached from his own body. Suddenly he was above his body, looking down at the ruin of his leg and the pool of blood expanding around him. He was scared that he was dying, that he had died. Why else would he be above his body just like in all of the near-death experiences he’d heard about. At the same time, he felt at peace. He’d tied the game. His team still had a chance to make the gold medal game.
    He drifted away from the ice, through the Zamboni door, down a long corridor, until he came to the locker room. He didn’t remember pushing open the doors, but somehow he was inside, sitting on the bench in front of his locker. He waited for his team to enter the locker room, full of joy at winning the game. Niklas Laarkonen sat on the bench to his left. Niklas hadn’t been there when Connor had appeared in the locker room.
    He was about to say something to Niklas when Travis Benkula said from his right, “Good one, Connor. You tied the game. That was a killer move you pulled off.”
    Connor stared at Travis, fear growing inside of him.
    “The price was high,” Niklas said. “But winning always costs something.”
    “Nothing is free,” Travis agreed.
    “Was it worth it?” Niklas asked while taking off his bloody skate. “Souvenir?” he asked, holding the skate out to Connor.
    “Better hang that on your wall,” Travis said. “It’s going to be worth money some day.”
    “You can sell it, maybe make enough to buy your life back,” Niklas agreed.
    Travis’s face was black, eyes bloodshot, the white nylon rope now red, blood seeping out from under it where it had cut into his neck. Connor looked back to Niklas. Niklas was still holding the skate out to him, but his eyes were gone, his face rotted away. Worms weaved their way through the defenseman’s cheeks and nasal cavity.
    “You’re dead,” Connor whispered, trying to back into his locker.
    “No,” Travis said, “You’re dead.”
    “Look at your leg,” Niklas taunted.
    Connor looked down. His leg had been sliced open from knee to his groin. The exposed muscles made him nauseated. The blood pumping out of his femoral artery and onto the locker room floor made him scream.
    “It’s not so bad,” Travis said as if he were talking about a movie he’d just seen. “Not as bad as what you did to me, anyway.”
    “You got off easy,” Niklas agreed.
    “It looks pretty serious,” Travis said, reaching over, pinching the end of the artery to stem the flow of blood. “You should probably get that looked at.”
    “I didn’t kill you,” Connor said, black spots forming in front of his eyes.
    “Yes you did. But hey, at least I was murdered by The Cannon. I have to hand it to you. I didn’t even see it coming. Your buddy Dracul, he’s a pro.”
    “Bullshit!” Connor screamed.
    “You at least got it quick and easy,” Niklas said to Travis. “Connor tricked me. He let me believe I could live, that I could be happy again.”
    “Noooo!” Connor screamed. “I didn’t kill you!”
    “Yes you did, friend,” Niklas said, shaking his head, dropping the bloody skate at Connor’s feet. “You made me believe I could be a star. All I got was a steering wheel through my chest.”
    Niklas’ chest was a gaping ruin, the white of shattered ribs poking through muscle and skin, organs spilling out onto the floor. The worms had migrated from the Swede’s face down into his chest cavity. Connor noticed that one of the defenseman’s legs below the knee was missing, the other a mangled wreck, barely recognizable as the remnants of a foot and shin.
    “I didn’t kill you!” Connor screamed over and over.
    Travis laid a hand on Connor’s shoulder, his blackened face stretched in a terrifying smile, smoke rising from skin that began to melt off.
    “You killed us. Now