Hell Patrol

by R. D. Tarver

  Another loud crackling of thunder erupted directly overhead.

  A branch fell from above, crashing through the dense canopy before eventually falling to the forest floor, followed by another. Elizabeth looked to the sky for evidence of an encroaching tempest; the full moon boasted its dominion over the night sky with little evidence of storm clouds.

  She watched in disbelief as the surrounding trees began to bend towards the ground, almost as if bowing to an unseen presence. Fearing a maelstrom come inland, she opted to begin the long, easterly trek towards the outskirts of Wenham.

  Before she could descend from her perch atop the forest canopy, Elizabeth wavered, feeling disoriented as she heard what sounded like a discordant orchestra playing disparate notes all at once, clawing at her ears. She turned, following the sound with her eyes, until she gazed upon its source.

  Silhouetted against the backdrop of the ripened Blood Moon, a towering shape emerged from the dense primeval forest. Judging by its position on the horizon, Elizabeth surmised the creature had to be well over two stories tall. A single spear-like protuberance emerged from the base of its elongated snout.

  Paralyzed by fear, Elizabeth was held frozen as the creature emitted a thunderous bellow hat sounded like the deep, low blast of a great horn.

  The force of the sound caused the tree branch to give way beneath her, awakening her from the paralytic trance as she landed hard on the forest floor. Panicked, she ran with all her might back in the direction of her familial farm.

  The sound of heavy footfalls trampling through the forest trailed behind her.

  She ran without stopping all the way back to the smoldering ruins of her house. The entire town had gathered to watch the structure burn. With the creature still on her trail, she relinquished any trepidation she had felt among her human persecutors, and fell before the crowd, gasping for breath.

  The vestry, surrounded by the town’s dutiful magistrates, moved in to apprehend the girl. Before they could don the waiting manacles, crusted in the burned blood of those who had been put to the flames before her, a thunderous blast erupted from the center of town.

  An enormous figure appeared, wreathed in shadow despite the abundant torchlight carried by the townsfolk. What she could see of the creature, not veiled in shadow, bore the likeness of a monstrous bipedal equine, reaching out with elongated claws as it strode towards the throng.

  As the behemoth neared the house, Elizabeth could feel its focus drawing towards her. The beastly shadow reached out with a pair of clawed talons and plucked the Reverend McGregor’s head from his body like the delicate petal of a marigold, holding it aloft for all to see.

  Elizabeth’s last thought was of the twins as a discordant sonic assault washed over the gathered townsfolk.

  C H A P T E R F O U R

  THE BURNING OF BEELZEBUB

  1

  Rust exhaled a puff of smoke through the mouth of the rubber demon mask as he read from the church flyer.

  “Prizes, games, and a prayer vigil. Sounds like a blast.” He tossed the flyer on the floor and sunk back into a bright yellow bean bag chair. “I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with that fuckin’ school anymore.”

  “You think Principal Anderson is gonna be at the lock-in?” Alex asked, twirling one of the demonic masks on his index finger.

  “She said so on the morning announcements when she declared that all students who attend will be getting extra credit.” Mal rolled her eyes. “Desperate much?”

  “So this is how we finally get expelled,” Jesse said as he surveyed the costumes that were strewn about the practice space.

  “Not to mention my parents will disown me and take Vanzig away,” Alex said.

  “Then we just make sure we don’t get caught.” Mal grabbed one of masks and pulled it over her head as if to demonstrate. Her voice was muffled under the heavy foam rubber. “People still dress up in costumes for Halloween, right? How are they going to know it’s us?”

  Jesse grabbed another one of the masks, sizing it up. “Another six months and we’ll all be out of that shithole anyway.”

  He had to remind himself that Rust’s status as a high school dropout was a double-edged sword. Sure, it earned him some street cred, but he could also tell it was a source of embarrassment, not that Rust would ever cop to it. Jesse always tried to change the subject whenever the group mentioned events at the high school.

  “If we don’t get signed before that,” laughed Rust. He shot up from the bean bag chair and jumped on Mazes’s shoulders.

  The drummer had just finished assembling a towering demonic effigy made from foam, pvc pipe, and copious amounts of black gaffer’s tape (a stockpile he had rustled up from his Society of Creative Anachronism days).

  Mazes stood his creation upright and unfurled its large black wings—an assemblage of garbage bags stretched across a support frame of wire hangers and more gaffer’s tape.

  Mal removed her mask and tossed it up to Rust, who placed it over the head of the effigy from his perch atop Mazes’s broad shoulders.

  “Behold!” bellowed Mazes. “A fiend of the Nine Hells walks among us.”

  Mal grabbed her camera and snapped a photo of the group posing in front of their creation wearing their masks. She took her eye off the viewfinder and nodded approvingly at the scene. “I think it’s time we gave these Jesus freaks exactly what they want.”

  2

  Halloween. Today’s the day!

  Jesse had awakened to the incessant union of hammer upon nail. The familial property had been nearly converted back to its original glory (except for a few lingering cosmetic upgrades), including a complete replacement of the deck planks on the massive wraparound porch that ran the perimeter of the structure.

  “Morning rockstar! Happy Halloween!” His mother tapped on his bedroom window from outside. “Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, but it’s almost noon, and Randy could use your help finishing the porch.”

  “Fine,” Jesse grumbled. “Be right there.” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, got dressed, and stumbled out to face the all-too-eager sun.

  In the distance, a pair of plump black crows were warding off an encroaching hawk as it glided through the trees that lined the property. Jesse followed the chase with his eyes as they weaved in and out through the lattice of lifeless oaks.

  As Jesse laid the planks, Randy hammered in the nails to hold them into place. In typical fashion, Randy executed the labor saying little, only pausing to mark his progress after every ten planks or so by opening a fresh can of beer.

  Once they had secured the final plank, Randy turned up the volume on the radio and fell back into one of the patio chairs that lined the deck. Robert Plant’s sultry tenor was screeching through the speakers as Randy fished inside the cooler for another beer. He handed Jesse one.

  “Job well done, Boss.”

  Having worked up a thirst, Jesse took the offering despite the early hour, downing a heavy swig.

  “Your mother ever tell you about the time we saw Zeppelin at the Myriad?”

  “You guys saw Led Zeppelin?”

  Randy nodded. “Less than a year after I was out of the service. I was staying with my cousin, trying to get my shit together.” Randy paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought as he surveyed the past. “Any way, his girl was one of your mom’s best gal pals.”

  “Crazy Catherine?”

  Randy smiled. “Yep. Little Miss Linda Reynolds was a real firecracker back then.”

  “I didn’t even know she listened to music.”

  “Welp, she made it through the first half of the set before getting kicked out by security. Her and your Dad had been in some kind of fight, or just separated or some such. I think she was just cuttin’ loose.”

  Jesse fought to contain his astonishment as he took another drink.

  “When was this?”

  Randy wiped the sweat from his brow and reflected on the query as he lit a cigarette. “Spring of ’77—the good ol’
days. You were just a little bitty thing, probably not even old enough to wipe your own ass. That’s when I knew…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yessir. She was the finest woman I’d ever seen walk this godforsaken Earth.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s just focus on the show. How was the band?”

  “These guys were somethin’ to see.” Randy gestured towards the radio. “They don’t make music like this anymore.”

  “Don’t let Rick hear you say that.”

  Randy uttered what sufficed as a laugh. “Speaking of which, when’s the next gig, kemosabe?”

  “Rick the Prick talked his way into getting us an opening slot on a pretty big show in the city next month.”

  Randy sat with the news for a few pulls from his can. “Between you and me, it’s a good thing you and your brother are doing.”

  Jesse gestured over his shoulder towards the house. “She think so?”

  “Long as you two are together, taking care of each other like you do, she’s good.”

  Jesse couldn’t help but notice his own reflection in Randy’s dark transition glasses; the visual occurrence forced an uneasy self-awareness. The dark glasses granted a sense of gravitas that complimented Randy’s stoic demeanor. Beneath the lenses, Jesse couldn’t tell if Randy was looking directly at him or combing through some lost desert of memories.

  “Just don’t do anything to break her heart.”

  The words carried weight in Jesse’s ears.

  “She’s a strong woman, but she’s already had more than her share of misery.”

  The screen door squeaked open.

  “Oh my God! It’s like a totally different house.” His mother burst out onto the porch. “If only your grandad could see this place.”

  “Mom. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “Tell you what, hon?”

  “That you got kicked out of a Led-fucking-Zeppelin show back in the day?”

  “Jesse, watch your mouth.” She tried in vain to force back a surfacing grin. “And yeah, we saw Led ‘fucking’ Zeppelin.” She took a beer from Randy, opened it, and took a slow drink. “And what I can remember of it was incredible.”

  “Holy shit, it’s true,” Jesse guffawed.

  “You know—you might be surprised to learn that your lame old mom could teach you a thing or two about music. Where do you think you get it from?”

  Jesse finished his beer and stood from the patio chair. “Well, that’s about all I can handle for today. Thanks for the emotional scarring.”

  “The Lynn brothers have a gig in the city next month,” Randy added. “Maybe we can roadie for ’em?”

  Jesse mock-slammed the screen door on his way into the house to the delight of his parents, who responded by turning up the volume on the portable radio.

  Once inside, he caught a whiff of his t-shirt, soaked through with sweat, and opted to head to the shower.

  Rick’s door was ajar. Inside, heavy music and incense lingered in the air.

  “Dude. Mom and Randy are freaking me out. Did you know they got kicked out of a Zeppelin show at the Myriad back in the day?”

  Rick was reading at his desk. He looked up at Jesse over his shoulder, appearing unfazed by the information.

  “Adventures in Babyshitting.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Of course.” Rick sighed and turned his chair around. “Why would you be expected to bear the memories of the horrors you have inflicted upon others?”

  Jesse shrugged.

  “While you were shitting your little infant brains out—sick with some hellspawn stomach bug—your irresponsible young mother was out gallivanting all over town, soaking in the gyrations of overhyped, mediocre, blue-eyed appropriators.”

  “Whatever, man. Zep rips.”

  “Do you wanna hear this story or not?”

  Jesse settled in, taking a seat on Rick’s bed while the tale was weaved. He recalled pieces of the story, but was never one to dismiss his older brother when he was in the zone. Rick had a way of aligning his thoughts with his tongue in ways that Jesse could never muster.

  “I was going through my second pack of pampers right about the time Plant’s prick was bursting out of his pants on stage.”

  “Dude.”

  “What?” Rick shrugged. “That guy wears his wallet mark in the front.”

  “I don’t want to think about mom scoping out some dude’s junk. Even if that dude is Robert Plant.” Jesse shook his head in disgust. “Also, you sounded like a horny Dr. Seuss just then and it was kinda weird.”

  “Well it happened, so deal with it.” Rick pushed his glasses back atop his nose and began to gesture wildly in the air. “Hour after hour the onslaught continued. I was convinced that you were dying, so in a panic I ran to the phone to call Crazy Catherine’s house.”

  “Wait. This is the shirt story, isn’t it?”

  Rick raised his hand to ward off the interruption. “By the time I got off the phone you had managed to break out of your crib and crawl through the house, leaving behind a snail trail of hot, runny stink everywhere you went.”“Jesus Christ.”

  “Oh no, my friend, your precious Jesus was nowhere to be found on this day.” Rick did his best Dracula laugh. “Unaware of your prison break, I ran back to your room to check on you, slipped in a stream of shit, and slid down the hall like I was riding an infernal Slip ’N Slide straight to hell.”

  Jesse frowned. “I think I’m getting sick to my stomach.”

  “And I never got the smell out of my limited edition Sad Wings of Destiny shirt.”

  “And there it is.” Jesse got up to leave. “Clearly you have moved on.”

  “Not in this life.”

  “Well thanks for the memories. Speaking of hot stink.” Jesse fanned his armpit towards Rick. “I’m gonna jump in the shower before the others get here.”

  “Wait.” Rick held up the bound manuscript from his desk. “Listen to this shit.”

  A unique feature of heavy metal is the proliferation of a multitude of sub-genres that, while diverse, enable the stability of the parent genre as a whole.

  The heavy metal genre is made stable, but not static, by the inherent flux of novel transgressions alongside the incorporation of an early metal pastiche that pays homage to the progenitors of the genre, thereby reaffirming the sonic tenets of tonality and lyrical syntax. These elements, when combined with the visual harmony of semiotics and performative dress, elicit an underlying continuity emblematic of heavy metal as a whole.

  “Who the fuck is this guy again?”

  “My guidance counselor. Seems like a pretty cool guy, actually. I think you’d like him.”

  “Like him? He’s a fucking genius.” Rick looked over the page, shaking his head. “He’s clearly missed his calling.”

  “I think he plays too—had a bunch of weird old instruments, and gets kinda spooky when you ask him about them.”

  A knock at Jesse’s bedroom window alerted him to the itinerary at hand.

  “Shit, what time is it?”

  Rick examined the black tactical watch on his wrist, turning his chair back to face the desk. “Almost five. Tell Elvira I said hi.”

  Jesse ran to his bedroom and threw open the window. Mal passed Jesse a large duffel bag before she climbed inside. Once inside, she threw her arms around his neck before recoiling from the embrace.

  “Fuck, dude! Sometimes it’s actually cool to shower,” Mal said.

  He leaned in for a kiss. “Sorry. I was out front helping Randy finish the deck.”

  Mal pushed him away and fell back into the bed, feigning unconsciousness. “You can touch me when you’re clean.”

  “All right, all right, I’m going.” Jesse opened the door and turned back before closing it. “Rick says hi. He’s in his room if you wanna hang out while I take a quick shower.”

  She offered a fake smile as she sniffed the air. “Take your time, Smell Patrol. Be thorough.”

  Jesse took off the sweaty t-shirt
and tossed it on the bed next to Mal, who screamed as she wrestled the soiled garment to the floor.

  3

  Back at the practice trailer, Rust and Mazes were loading up the demonic effigy and the rest of the loadout into the van.

  Jesse and Mal watched from outside as his parents danced across the front windows of the ranch house. Music, laughter, and alcohol flowed freely into the evening like a meandering stream connecting past to present.