“Must you behave like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight? Quit fidgeting; they're watching.” Bernie launched daggers over his glasses.
Don't get me wrong, Bernie's cool. I swear the guy has ice water in his veins. His cold stare made me squirm. Alpha's naturally have that pucker factor going for them—even with friends.
“Sorry, Bern. The size of that crowd down at Big Mike's has me on edge. That bunch is going to be hard to beat.” I couldn't help a little whimper slipping into my voice.
Bernie didn't seem to notice. He shrugged and turned his attention back to the game.
Ice water.
It was Martinsville versus Cryerton; the game of the year. I always got a thrill out of the annual competition. Who doesn't? Bernie, on the other hand, he lived for it. Yet this year's game had a special hold on him. He tried to deny it, but Aimee Rollins wasn't the real reason he went to all the team meetings. The scent of it dripped from his every pore; Bernie wanted to be on the field.
Well, we were sitting in the bleachers---again. The strange part was that Bernie took it all in stride. It was kind of inspiring. The fact that we were the home team this year just added to the excitement. Somewhere in the seats beside us was the mystery player; that surprise addition to softball that made the Martinsville—Cryerton rivalry legendary.
Anyway, it was the bottom of the third; no score. Bernie was in the zone with the game when Shari Lebel's ground ball took a nasty hop off the infield grass and caught the Martinsville second baseman in the face. Red mist exploded around her head. Everybody was on their feet. I didn't see any guns in the Martinsville stands, but they were there. Oh yeah, they were there. Count on it. Bernie was standing beside me, but he wasn't looking for guns. His face was a frozen mask of determination.
Blood streamed from the wrecked nose of their player. I found out later her name was Marie Raynaud. Marie was a gamer for sure. She refused to leave the game. Bernie's lips thawed into a tight smile. That's when I knew.
The knot of coaches and players around Marie broke up. They carried off a trio of bloody towels and a used ice pack while the players resumed their positions. A round of cheers went up from both sides when Marie tipped her hat to the crowd. Bernie turned to me with a sly wink. The game was on.
Folks settled back into their seats. The ump tossed out a new ball and Martinsville sent it around the horn.
“Play ball!”
Billy Hector, our shortstop, dug in at the plate. The Martinsville pitcher started his wind up. Beside me, Bernie kicked off his shoes. Billy under cut a fastball; breaking his bat and popping up directly over the plate. The ball went up forever and every eye in the park was on it. Well, all but two. Bernie leaped from his seat to the top of the dugout and onto the field before anyone knew what was happening.
Ice water in them veins.
Bernie streaked across the field. His jaws closed on Marie's throat. Her neck snapped right as he took her down. Bernie threw his shoulder into her body. Marie pinwheeled and there was a loud pop as her head broke free and rolled toward second base. A shout and a roar went up from our side.
Billy shoved the broken haft of his bat into the catcher's chest. Thick dead blood and ashes spewed from the ragged hole in the catcher. It was the old hit and run. Bernie threw Marie over his shoulder as the benches emptied. The top row of Martinsville fans opened fire raising plumes of red dust around Bernie's feet. Bernie shifted Marie to his other shoulder as a shield and the race was on. Martinsville swung their guns to pick off our players as they came on to the field. A shot caught Todd Zebwinski in the upper thigh and he went down howling.
Damn silver bullets!
I knew I had to get moving if I wanted to get in on this. The playing field was off limits to fans. The melee behind the first base side would only slow me down. I broke left to circle the field. Bernie was headed for right field. I hoped to get around the outfield and meet him as he cleared the fence. As I rounded the flag pole in center, a pair of red lights roared out of the trees along Second Street and a long, black bullet bounced over the curb onto the empty grass. Old man Allen's hearse slid to a stop. Bernie stuck the landing beyond the fence; coiled and sprang through the open back door of the waiting limo still holding Marie in his teeth. Old man Allen gunned the big V-8 fishtailing across the grass and back onto Second Street.
You got to give the vamps credit; they're built for speed. A half dozen of them were closing on the hearse in a hurry. It was still five blocks to the safety of Park Pavilion. No way they would out run the vamps. Bernie was about to have one hell of a fight on his hands. The lead vamp got a hand on the limo, but that was as close as they came.
“Down Cindy,” someone yelled.
I hit the ground. A volley of wooden crossbow bolts sizzled over me and took out the vamps. Their hopes of victory turned to ashes faster than their bodies.
The after party was killer. I remember a mountain of vamp chitterlings and beer---lots of beer. It kind of gets hazy after that. I do remember waking up with Bernie standing over me. He gave my belly a gentle nudge with the toe of his boot.
“Looks like Cinderella swallowed the pumpkin,” he said.
I sighed and closed my eyes. Good times.
