Field Of Screams

By J.D. Gordon

While baseball is the game of the day for Andy Biggs, an evil force lurks beneath the old Maryknoll Stadium. A ghostly witch doctor is turning teens into zombies to help summon the demon Jumlin into humanity. It’s up to Andy and his band of paranormal sidekicks to save the world and thwart the witch doctor and even Jumlin himself!

• Language: English
• Publisher: NewLeafBooks
• Release date: Sep 16, 2012

J.D. Gordon

J.D. Gordon, or just Jimmy, stepped into the world of writing after spending fourteen years as a professional firefighter and paramedic. Jimmy is the author of Kritterkreep, the first book in his middle-grade paranormal series, and the Eddie Gilbert Caribbean adventure trilogy for adults.Jimmy loves to hear from his readers. Feel free to email him at jimmygwrites.aol.com.

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Field Of Screams

By J.D. Gordon

New Leaf Books / Illinois

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual organizations and persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

April In The D by Don Middlebrook is reproduced with permission.

Published by WigWam Publishing Co.

Smashwords Edition

This book is also available in print. http://www.newleafbooks.net

Copyright 2012 by Jim Radzinski

eISBN-13: 978-1-930076-17-4

Cover by Terry R. Cagle, www.terryrcagle.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did

not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to

Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work

of this author. All rights reserved.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Emily and Erich

A big thank you to my lovely wife for all of her support and for not minding me coming to bed at three a.m. after hours of typing away on the computer. Thank you to Ophelia Julien, Joyce Faulkner and Randy Richardson. These fellow writers have been generous with their time and wisdom and for that I am truly grateful. Rose at the Bundles of Books in Glen Ellyn continues to honor me with her friendship and support. I’d also like to thank all of the friends and acquaintances that have read Field Of Screams prior to publishing and offering their kind words and sometimes their not so kind words on the subject.

Finally, thank you, the reader, for welcoming Andy Biggs and friends into your life and for allowing me to keep them jumping from one adventure into another. You make it happen.

April In The D

My dad took me to a Tiger game when I was nine

Willie Horton, Stormin Normin, and Al Kaline

I caught that '68 run on a black and white TV

McLain, Wilson, Lolich, my first April in the D

April in the D, got a hold of me

With the crack of the bat

I got shivers up my back

And even though I was just a boy

I can still hear that Tiger Roar

April in the D, got a hold of me

In '84 Sparky took us back to the top

Whitaker, Trammel, and Gibby just couldn't be stopped

And I took my son to his first game so he could see,

What my daddy showed me

− Don Middlebrook

CHAPTER ONE

The old stadium baked beneath bright blue skies on an early Midwestern summer day. Three days ago the skies were grey, rain fell from heavy clouds and the mercury in the old thermometer next to the home team dugout barely hit the seventy mark. That’s summer in Chicago.

Andy Biggs stood on a small pile of earth, his foot resting against the rubber bar on top of the pitcher’s mound. A bead of sweat dripped from his cap and ran down the side of his face. He rotated the ball in his right hand. The leather felt good in his grip, familiar. The tips of his fingers gently played with the red laces which graced the ball’s surface. The catcher was flipping Andy the sign for a fast ball. He shook his head no, looking for a different call. With two runners on in the seventh and final inning, and only leading by one run, every pitch could call the fate of the game.

Typically Andy preferred the fastball. It was, after all, his strongest weapon in his arsenal against most of the batters standing a mere sixty feet away. But not in this case; Brandon Spevik stood at the plate, swinging gently, warming up and waiting for Andy to make his move.

Andy waved off the fastball again. This guy always hits my fastball.

Suddenly a shiver ran through Andy’s body. The little hairs on his neck stood up straight through the sweat and the dust.

Andy looked over his left shoulder towards first base. He caught something out of the corner of his eye—a certain something that had been popping up over the past few weeks he had been attending the camp. Whatever it was it always seemed to be just out of sight.

The runner on first returned to his base thinking Andy was just keeping him true. The first baseman raised a mitt, waiting for a throw. The umpire stood there sweating; everything as it should be.

He rubbed those little hairs on the back of his neck.

Back to the task at hand, the next pitch. He returned his attention to the three individuals waiting for his toss. The umpire with an unknown name; everyone just called the guy G. The catcher, a friendly fellow named Christian Schiller, and the batter, Brandon Spevik, the only guy attending the camp who Andy hasn’t been able to strike out since day one.

Fine, they want the fastball they'll get the fastball.

Andy wound up and let the ball fly. A swing and a miss, strike two. And with two outs another strike would end the game, Andy’s side victorious; a hit would lead to disaster.

Whew, maybe I'll luck out this time.

The catcher tossed the ball back to Andy and the process started over. As the last game before the break in baseball for the Fourth of July holiday, Andy wanted to walk away with a win. Sure, it was just a scrimmage game between two sets of teens attending a summer camp, but to Andy the games meant as much to him and his peers as the playoffs did for the big leaguers. This particular game was the third game in a three game tourney, both teams owning a win; this one is the tiebreaker and Andy wanted to go into the break on top.

Andy removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He replaced his cap and let the leather ball rest in his grip again. He bent over, blinked an eye, the salt water causing a moment of irritation. Where was that seventy degree weather from a few a days ago? The catcher called for another fastball. Again, Andy waved the sign off. Again, the catcher, now getting a little ticked about the wave-offs, forcefully called for the fastball.

And there it was again, that strange shiver, those raised hairs. Andy looked over his left shoulder again. He startled this time, surprised as to what he found. He dropped the ball. The ump screamed Balk! And Brandon picked up ball three, a full count.

Which really didn’t mean much to Andy at this particular moment in his baseball career, this being the first time during the camp that something was actually there when there was usually nothing, if that makes any sense?

The runner was present and so was the first baseman. The umpire was gone. Standing in for the official was what Andy had been seeing out of the corner of his eyes since day one of the camp. He really didn’t know what for sure. It was just something down in his gut that told him something was there. His mind quickly worked to come up with a word for the change in scenery around the base, apparition fit the bill.

Instead of a man in long grey slacks, a light blue shirt and dark blue cap, stood an entirely different person.

How could that be possible?

This apparition stood there just beyond the runner and the baseman. His face was pale and gaunt. His clothing was not completely out of place. He wore a uniform of white with green pinstripes gracing the material. A green cap sat on top of his head. There was a symbol on the front, but Andy couldn’t make it out.

He looked away, then looked back again and found everything as it should be, the runner, the baseman and Floyd the umpire standing there in his normal attire. Andy looked back to the plate. Someone had called a time-out. The ump stood there with his arms held high and wide. Schiller marched out to the mound.

What’s goin’ on Andy? Drop the ball for a balk? Come on. Just give this kid the fastball and let’s be on our way. Schiller looked Andy in the eye in an attempt to settle his pitcher. Andy nodded in response and watched as the catcher jogged back to his position behind the plate.

Play ball! G settled into his position behind the catcher. Brandon, who spent the time-out with the bat, casually tucked in his right shoulder took a few practice swings and waited for the pitch.

They want the fastball again, they got it.

Andy wound up and put everything he had into the pitch. An impressive throw considering he’d been in since the start of the game. After a brief flight, the ball neared the strike zone. It may have been barely a second or two, but to Andy the whole scene seemed to unfold in slow motion. The trajectory of the ball as it sailed through the early summer air. Brandon leaning into the swing ready to chop away at Andy’s best. Andy knew before the swing where this ball was going, the bleachers.

Crack! The sound split through the old park like thunder. Andy watched as the ball screamed over his head. He followed the progress as the ball sailed over the sand of the infield and then the green of the outfield. Everyone watched the last hit of the game as the battered white and red ball dropped with a dull thud, then bounced around the stands behind the outfield. Game over. Andy watched as Brandon strode around the bases, the other runners crossing home before him. The guy stepped on the plate and looked towards the pitcher’s mound. Andy could see a smirk plastered across his face. Spevik had him again.

Andy jogged back into the dugout. He held his head high. He may have been beaten this time, but he wasn’t giving up the game. Before the summer camp ended Andy would strike his nemesis out. At least he hoped he would. The two teams lined up and shook hands. Brandon offered Andy a friendly wink as they passed each other in the line.

Was it friendly? Andy wondered. He's not a bad guy; I just can't strike him out. He’s more of an adversary really, not like they were enemies off the field—or were they?

The teams retired to their dugouts to collect their equipment and head for the locker room, showers and the everyday critique from their coaches and instructors. Andy glanced towards first base, curious to see if he’d catch another glance of the apparition from earlier. Nothing.

This was actually one of Andy’s favorite parts about the whole camp. The stadium was an old classic, raised back in the late thirties for minor league play. It had been rehabbed for modern use, but much of the old style still hung on. The door leading to the hallway which lead below the stands and eventually to the locker room was an old heavy contraption, varnished to a bright shine and still toted the old fashioned brass pieces that made the slab of wood work as a door should. Every time Andy walked through the old portal he fancied himself as a pro player back in the day with the game over, tired and ready for a long drink of water before hitting the showers and heading home. Though he knew the stadium never truly catered to the elite of the ball club, the real pros, but acted as a home to a minor league club, it still felt the same.

The hallway stretched beyond the door and stooped lower in the middle to accommodate the stands above. The walls were painted glossy white and the floor glossy as well with tiles similar to his school hallway tiles, little green flecks sparkled beneath the naked bulbs sticking from the ceiling above.

Doorways lined each side of the hallway and lead off to the various rooms within the confines of a working baseball stadium. The first door on the right opened up to a set of batting cages where players could warm up before and even during the games. Most of the camp’s batting practice happened out on the field. The organization boasted ‘real life’ experiences. These cages were in service, but only used during inclement weather, like when a bad storm was coming through and the covers were laid over the field.

Another door, this one on the left opened up to a pair of pitching cages, again, same issues applied to these as the batting cages. They were used before and during games for warm ups and during poor weather.

The ball players moved along, their cleats cracking on the surfaces below. The bare bulbs created odd round patterns on the floor as they walked along. Near the end of the hallway, where an old styled water fountain stood for business, there was a fork in the hallway. Andy casually glanced to the left as he headed off to the right. He always glanced to the left but headed right. Whatever dwelled off to the left was off limits to the campers.

That hallway was dark and dingy and had not been rehabbed when the rest of the old ballpark received its face-lift. A tall gate spread out from one wall of the hallway to the other. Beyond the gate a massive wooden door stood guard at the end of the passageway. A massive padlock helped with that duty, along with a sign which read… NO ADMITTANCE.

The noise in the hallway was garbled with some of the players laughing, some joking while others talked about how they were going to spend their break from camp over the Fourth of July holiday. A door on the left leading to one of the coach’s offices stood open. A voice emerged from the confines of the room as Andy marched by.

Hey Andy, the voice called. Have you got a minute?

Andy stopped and stepped into the small office. Arlington Craig sat at a desk on an old swivel chair. Arlington worked for the camp as an assistant on the pitching staff. Andy worked with him quite often. Arlington sported grey hair and a slightly over-sized belly, but his pitching arm still worked as well as it ever had. Although Arlington never broke into the majors, he spent much of his younger years in the various farm leagues touring the country by bus and playing in small stadiums for home-town crowds. Though the man lacked actual big-league play, Andy respected the guy. He had a ton of experience and Arlington was always happy to share his wisdom.

What’s up coach?

Come on in and sit down for a second.

Okay, sitting down for a second with Arlington never happened. When asked to take a seat Andy knew from the past that the meeting might turn out to be a little longer than a casual hello. Arlington had a habit of drawing his stories out much longer than the need might be. Usually Andy wouldn’t mind. He’d settle in and ready himself for the standard nods of the head and the occasional wow…really, interesting, which generally came along with one of the Arlington’s stories from the good old days of baseball.

Andy grabbed one of the old metal and vinyl covered office chairs, spun it around and sat down, his chin resting on the chair’s backside, which now sat to the front. One of the legs scraped the floor as Andy moved the piece of furniture about. Andy could hear the showers firing up in the background. A wired window which looked out into the locker room started to fog up from the steam. Andy hoped the chat wouldn’t last long. Sweat from the day on the field started to dry on his skin, evaporate, leaving behind gritty grime and itches in certain locations which Andy would prefer to tend to in a more private manner.

I missed the scrimmage today Andy. Arlington motioned to a stack of papers sitting on the desk. How did you do against Spevik?

Andy sighed, removed his hat and ran his fingers through his salt-crusted hairdo. Not much of an answer.

That well huh? Hit it into the bleachers again?

I just don’t get it, Coach. It’s drivin’ me nuts. I can a get a few strikes, but I can never strike him out. It’s all walks or hits and usually multiple bases.

Use anything besides the fastball? I know it’s your strongest pitch, but I don’t think you’ll get him with that one.

No duh.

I didn’t like it, but I threw what was called.

Well yeah. Jones is gonna hit you with that. It’s your weak pitch against Spevik. It’s where you need the work.

Jones being Andy’s immediate coach, sort of like the head coach or manager for a team. He’s the man who calls the shots during the camp scrimmage games. The games are played out as if they were actual season games in a bona fide league, just to offer the kids a little practical experience.

I wouldn’t worry about, Spevik, kid’s good; no one can strike him out. You will though, Andy. If anyone can, it’ll be you.

Andy nodded, appreciating the compliment, deserved or not.

Arlington continued, The two of you. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his belly. "You’re like a pair of knights doing