by Greg M. Hall
little dance-move about face, only this time his leg swung around with blurry inhuman speed, and made his way back to the bar. As he walked back, Thomas, nodded his massive head once, slowly and gravely, to his employer. Frank exchanged a worried glance with Mike, who started twirling a drumstick around in the fingers of his right hand. That brought a quizzical expression to his friend’s face, so Mike jerked his eyes to his right, still twirling the stick. He started to say something normally, maybe about what song they’d use to start the next set, when he ‘accidentally’ fumbled the stick. It clattered to the floor, bouncing a time or two before coming to rest about ten feet away, by the back door. Stephenson noticed it, but only glanced briefly in their direction.
Casually, Mike walked over to his stray stick, squatted to pick it up, and stood, resting his right hand on the door in what he hoped looked like an innocent attempt to steady himself. The plan was, sneak a look out there, see if the goons were still sitting on their van, see if they had a chance to run for it …
It held solid. Someone had pulled the rock he’d used to chock it open.
As casually as Mike could, he tried the handle, one of those push-the-bar jobbies, but it was as rigid as if it had been welded in place.
He gave Frank a solemn look. There was no sneaking out the back.
They huddled, hoping it looked like they were talking about the next set, stealing cautious glances at Stephenson and the others, the patrons who now didn’t look like yuppies, or country-clubbers, or all that human anymore, despite no hair being out of place or stitch of clothing being other than perfect.
“If we’re going to bug out, it’s through the front door,” theorized Frank. “And to do that, we’ve got to somehow get by all of them.”
“What, we just run for it?” asked Mike. “If they let us, and we just leave, all of our stuff’s still in here, man. We’re out a thousand, too.”
“You mean you want to stay and see whether or not something bad happens to us?”
“No,” Nick suddenly said, turning both of his bandmates’ heads around in surprise. “They’re not after either of you. When this is all over, they let you guys go.”
They didn’t say a word, so he continued, even though it seemed like the act of talking itself was more of a strain than his body would be able to endure. “You couldn’t see? Their moods shifted around based on my playing. That first set, I was flailing away, and they were thrilled. Second set, I’m feeling a little tired, they’re not so happy, and the last couple of songs I swear my fingers were going to fall off. If feel like I’ve got anemia or something, no matter how many Cokes I pound. And I think when I finally lose it and have to stop playing or pass out, that’s when they’re gonna swarm me.”
Mike could only look at Frank, and Frank at Mike.
“Well, anyway,” Nick continued, “I am getting really tired, and I don’t think I can hack a third set of this, so it’s time to do something about it. You really sore about maybe losing the gear? If I’m right it’s better to buy more than to lose the ability to play the rest of my life, but you two, I think, would be okay if you wanted to stick around, although I’m not sure if they’d be too happy when I make my getaway, and besides, Mike, you got the keys.”
Mike couldn’t say anything. He just gave Nick an underhanded pushing gesture with both hands: well, come on, do whatever it is you think will work.
Casually, Nick walked over to the stand holding his Les Paul. Mike knew how much he loved it; it wasn’t just a case of it being a Les Paul, but of this one sounding particularly good. The guitarist loved its heft, built like a tank it was, and it sounded so good unplugged that’s usually how he rehearsed.
He gripped its neck, and the entire room shifted. Conversation stopped, and that look, now becoming so ludicrous, of hunger, anticipation, and joy, smeared like a shiny veneer over something ugly, rotten, maybe even jagged and bloody, now shone from every face in the room.
Walking over to Frank’s mike, Nick said: “This one’s a solo number.” Then, just as casually, he walked over to his amp, a nice, hundred-fifty watt Marshall head sitting over a four-speaker cabinet, cranked the volume full, and set the Les Paul down in front of it.
The effect was explosive. Feedback enveloped the room, mauling its way through everyone’s eardrums, seizing flesh and bone in a shuddering, harsh, grip. Every one of the patrons immediately clamped hands over their ears, mouths opening—
Were those fangs in there?
—in screams of raw pain, many doubling up on the floor.
And they ran for it. Stephenson, seeing what was happening, fought his way through his own unique brand of agony and stumbled for the front door, trying to head them off. Mike, who’d grabbed Frank’s bass for want of a weapon, hefted it by the neck and clouted the manager on the head. The impact was both exquisite and dreadful, because something far too ripe and yielding give way under the ash body of the instrument.
Then they were out the door, into fresh air and hope. They sprinted around the back of the building as the shrieking from the Marshall abruptly cut off.
“Not good!” Mike shouted, more due to the ringing in his ears than from fright.
“They either pulled the power cord or something blew!” Nick answered, grabbing the corner of the structure to help him round it. “Hope it’s the power cord – that’s a really nice amp!”
Mercifully, the men that had been loitering around the van on the first set must have wandered back inside in anticipation of more playing, because it sat unattended. It had never looked so beautiful to any of them, rust spots or no, sitting under the yellow glow of the parking lot luminare.
Mike never bothered locking it, since it was a high-mileage piece of crap, and with all their gear inside the club there wasn’t anything in it worth stealing. He jumped up into the seat and grabbed the ignition before realizing the keys were still in his pocket. He cursed a little too loudly, and Frank let out a bark of panic as the back door of the club exploded open, banging on the cinder block wall as two of the stronger patrons, along with Thomas, pitched to the ground with the momentum of their effort.
In an effort to fish his keys out of the pocket of his jeans, Mike stiffened in his seat, mashing his head against the ceiling. He’d thought it was cool to have all those old keys he didn’t need; made him look like he had lots of stuff. At the moment it served to hook the nest of metal firmly inside his pocket and he swore if he ever got out he’d throw all of the extras away.
Frank hollered at him, telling him dammit get moving, staring out the window at the dark-haired people that no longer seemed like people, screaming and hooting with insanity from elongated faces and too-large mouths, their hands scrabbling against the windows.
Nick, casually reached forward from his seat and locked Frank’s door for him.
The keys finally came free, ripping a little denim with them, and Mike jingled through them, grabbed the biggest one, and jammed it in the ignition. Relieved that Ford keys didn’t have an upside-down, he wrenched it around as an arm clubbed against the glass next to him.
The van was notoriously hard to start, and often he flooded it by pumping the gas one too many times. This time, it caught right away, not being interested in sticking around any longer than its occupants. Mike yarded the gear selector as far as it would go and, in First, the vehicle lurched forward. At least he didn’t lay it over by turning too quickly. He was sure the back end lifted up a couple of times as bar patrons found themselves under his tires, but he didn’t high center on the bodies and they made it out of the parking lot and back onto the road, which wasn’t so neatly paved anymore.
“Hurry up!” screamed Frank. Why aren’t you speeding up more?”
His side-view mirror had been torn away, but in the rear-view Mike saw scores of screaming mouths, too-white faces, pumping arms and legs gaining on them. The engine’s roaring caught his attention before he screamed and he looked down, realized he was still in lo
w gear, and hopped the selector back to Drive. The van pounced forward, jarring and jumping over potholes, ancient asphalt patches upon patches, until the asphalt finally gave way to the plain gravel that surfaced most of the roads in this part of the state.
Frank reached over and slapped a hard hand on Mike’s shoulder, grabbing it as he started a mantra, good job Mike, we made it, we got outta there, I thought we were screwed, good job Mike…
He finally shut up as the lights of the nearby town came into view, tiny beacons guiding them back into the normal world. Mike was able to let the van coast into something resembling a responsible speed, and he glanced in the rearview mirror. No headlights behind; just a few yard lights from the farms that surrounded this little community. Nick’s silhouette was back there, still and silent.
“Great idea, Nick. I don’t know how you thought that would work, but I’m glad you did.”
Not hearing a response, Mike looked up to the rearview again. He saw the guitarist’s head moving, side to side, in denial, as he looked at his hands. Another mile down the road, Frank and Mike heard him croak: “They took it away, guys. I… I’ll help you two look for another guitar player.”
The late afternoon sun had ducked behind some of the taller downtown buildings, but Mike still had to squint when Frank
