Hell Patrol

by R. D. Tarver

  5

  Rick surveyed the eager faces of the audience as he adjusted the noise-canceling headphones that Professor Venom had talked him and the others into wearing. He took a deep breath as Rust lowered the mic stand.

  “Thank you for coming out tonight for another Rick the Prick production. It’s good to be back, Macomb Springs!”

  Chants of “Rick the Prick” rose from the crowd.

  Rick shushed the audience as he continued. “What you are about to witness is sure to be known as the most insane underground show of the year.”

  The audience burst into applause.

  In his heyday as a local promoter, Rick had managed to put together some momentous bills. Before he was prematurely retired from his calling, Rick the Prick had rubbed shoulders with some of the greatest bands in the world.

  In the summer of ’86, he and his pal Robb-O had managed to talk their way into humping gear with Metallica’s road crew for a couple of dates on the American leg of their Damage Inc. Tour. Master of Puppets was changing the world—even more so when Cliff didn’t make it back from Europe a few weeks later. It was grueling and often thankless work—and Rick couldn’t get enough of it.

  Within a year’s time, he had managed to infiltrate the coveted underground network of regional promoters and talent bookers—the Sleaze Brigade as they were commonly known. He had quickly garnered a name for himself when he nabbed Voivod on their Tornado Tour with Kreator as direct support. Killing Technology had just come out, and the band was hot shit. That’s when he knew what he wanted to do with the rest of his miserable life.

  All that was left of that life now was the highlight reel.

  It wasn’t until his little brother and his shitty cover band came along that he ever even considered he might have a second chance at life, let alone the music biz. A spark had been rekindled, and he was coveting the flame. If by some miracle they managed to survive the night, the stars would be the limit for Hell Patrol. He would see to it. For Jesse. He owed him at least that much. Particularly if they managed to save the town. You can’t buy that kind of pr, he thought again to himself.

  “Without further ado, please welcome to the stage Macomb Spring’s own sons of metal—Hell Patrol!” He pivoted his chair towards the stage exit and muttered under his breath. “Also, we regret to inform you that Prisoners of Flesh had to cancel tonight’s show—but fear not! You are about to see a show you will never forget.”

  Rick tried to ignore the audible question mark that hung above the audience as he was helped off the stage. The awkwardness was soon dissipated by a deep and sustained horn blast, echoing up from the depths of the mine shaft. A second blast repeated, much closer to the surface, shaking the walls of the central corridor.

  “Play, goddammit! Play the fucking song!” Rick yelled as he wheeled off stage.

  Rust pulled the mic off the stand before the audience had time to process the latter portion of Rick’s announcement, or the thunderous call from the deep.

  Mazes counted off on the hi-hat as the explosive first chord of “Black Sabbath” by Black Sabbath rang out through the mine.

  The ring of the opening chord resonated from the amps that were facing down the corridor. A sustained wall of sound gathered strength as it reverberated off the stone walls before flooding into the depths of the mine.

  Rick looked beyond the lit stage towards the winch house. Dark tendrils of shadow flickered into being, rising up from the depths of the vertical shaft. They stretched across the walls of the sparsely lit central tunnel like inky fingers, reaching out towards the stage.

  A towering shape materialized from the confluence of shadows. The metallic gleam of Amduscias’s crown preceded its snarling, equine visage as it emerged from the darkness. The contracting resonating organ stood fully erect atop its brow. The demon passed through the central tunnel as several of its legion charged forth from its veil, making for the stage and the oblivious audience that surrounded it.

  “Now would be a good time,” Rick called to the stage.

  Agostino stomped on the foot switch that enabled the frequency dislocator. A thunderous roar emitted from the amplifiers, so powerful it physically pushed back the front row of the crowd, sending many off their feet to the ground.

  The Great Duke of Hell pushed through the sonic assault as it descended upon the fragmented audience. Within the glow of the utility lights, Rick could see the veil of shadow that transported the Rift Lord beginning to falter. The shimmering tendrils of living darkness were being pulled away by the explosive sound wave, trailing off towards the open vertical shaft.

  The cheers of the crowd echoed through the central corridor as the audience began to rally towards the stage. Rick watched the ironic display of flashing horns, pumping fists, and banging heads as the legion descended on the crowd.

  “These idiots think it’s fucking special effects,” Rick whispered to himself, shaking his head in disgust.

  The demon swelled up to let out another deep, bellowing call that shook the central corridor, causing pieces of stone to fall from the ceiling.

  The concussive effect of the blast caused most of the remaining audience members left standing to short circuit and tumble to the ground.

  Agostino was motioning to the others on the stage to keep playing.

  Amduscias reached into the crowd and plucked a fallen audience member from the ground. The man, a portly bearded fellow, flailed and screamed as he was brought high in the air before the Rift Lord flung him against the tunnel wall like an insect.

  Nearly a dozen of Amduscias’s demonic legion ambled towards the stage, exploding into wet clouds of organic mist as they neared the amplifiers’ weaponized sonic field.

  As Hell Patrol reached the instrumental break of “Black Sabbath,” Amduscias had visibly slowed. The demon lord struggled with each step as it tried desperately to dig into the stone. Snaky black tendrils spewed from its translucent abdomen in all directions. Its presence grew more unstable with each ring of the massive tritone chords that shook the interior of the mine, causing the great beast to briefly phase in and out of existence.

  The Rift Lord gathered its strength and lunged forward, swiping at the band. Alex and Agostino both managed to dive out of the way as Rust leapt from the stage, mic in hand. Mazes, who was stationary behind the drum kit, was less lucky.

  Rick looked on helplessly as Amduscias held the large brute in its elongated grip and attempted to crush the life out of the paladin.

  Despite being under attack, Hell Patrol sustained the sonic assault on the sonopod nexus as the guitar and bass continued to blare through the line of modified amplifiers. Rust was screaming his heart out into the mic off to the side of the stage.

  Rick watched as a late arrival emerged from the dissipating vortex of shadow that surrounded the demon lord. A large humanoid shape, larger than most men, lumbered forth. It stepped clumsily into the light, revealing a disfigured demonic form carved straight out of one of Agostino’s arcane history books—barbed tail, horns, and all. It entered the fray, pitting itself between the band, now minus its drummer, and Amduscias.

  The demonic legionnaire clawed frantically at its torso as it struggled to reach deep into its own chest cavity. A barrage of sound that rivaled the volume of the band caused the creature’s outer layer of flesh to explode, revealing what appeared to be a bulky, grey skeleton with a boombox-shaped ribcage in its place. In place of the muscles and tendons were a series of wires and cables attached to an array of speakers. Where its skull should have been, about a head or two shorter, sat a tricked-out motorcycle helmet.

  “Jesse!” Rick cried out. “He fucking did it!”

  Jesse charged towards the Rift Lord as it attempted to crush Mazes, launching himself into the center of the hulking monstrosity. The impact of the heavy suit and its field of sound was enough to knock Mazes loose from the demon’s clutches as it staggered backwards, losing its foothold against the pull of the collapsing nexus, sending it careening
backwards towards the vertical mineshaft.

  Jesse and Mazes were caught in the pull of the imploding shadow gate and tumbled into the shaft after the Rift Lord.

  Rick navigated through the tangle of fallen showgoers, spinning his wheels as fast as he could towards the winch house.

  Jesse held onto the edge with one hand while he scrambled to grab onto Mazes with the other. The hefty paladin fought desperately for a handhold on the sheer rock face as he slipped farther and farther down into the abyss.

  Just a few feet below, Amduscias grated its claws against the sides of the shaft to brace itself against the pull of the collapsing nexus.

  Rick sped towards the winch pulley crank, toppling out of his chair in the process. He managed to crawl the remaining distance, pulling himself up to the release mechanism. Once the line was released, the bosun’s chair went into a free fall towards the bottom of the shaft. The pull of the collapsing vortex brought the steel cable within reach of Jesse and Mazes.

  “Grab the line!” Rick screamed. His voice became lost in the cacophony of overdriven guitar and bass that flooded the central tunnel.

  Mazes wrapped the line around his waist as an anchor and grabbed Jesse. Together, they kicked off the edge of the rock wall, swinging freely just a few feet above the struggling Rift Lord. Rick leveraged his full weight to turn the hand crank as he pulled up on the lever with both arms; the movement secured the line and pulled it taught.

  Mazes and Jesse were thrown against the walls of the shaft as the pull of the vortex increased. Amduscias floundered as a portion of the rock face gave way beneath its claws.

  At Rick’s back, the earsplitting groan of the mine cart added to the sonic fray as it was pulled along the ancient track. Free from its rusty shackles, the cart lifted from its tracks as it was sucked down into the mineshaft. It crashed hard into the Rift Lord, sending Amduscias reeling into the abyss of the imploding portal.

  As the demon plummeted into the deep, a final low-frequency blast was cut short as the earth shook beneath the mine.

  Rick rolled on his back, narrowly avoiding the falling winch arm.

  A geyser of dust and debris erupted from the shaft, blanketing the upper level of the mine in a powdery soot. The mine continued to reel from the quake, rendering the light and sound of the stage dark and silent. The faint sonic residue produced by the modified amplifiers resolved down into the depths of the mine as the earth settled.

  Silence filled the mine.

  Rick belly-crawled over the rough stone ground towards the mouth of the vertical shaft. The impenetrable cloud of dust made it difficult to get his bearings; his glasses were covered in the stuff.

  The sound of muffled groaning resounded in the darkness near the mouth of the vertical shaft. He proceeded towards the sound with his heart in his throat. A soft halo of light beckoned from the dark. The Ripper, Rick thought to himself as he inched closer to the light.

  Agostino appeared next to Rick just in time to assist pulling Jesse up over the lip of the shaft.

  Rick pulled the helmet off just as Jesse succumbed to a raucous coughing fit. His brother’s hair and face were drenched with perspiration.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Rick said. “You gave me quite a scare, you little shit.”

  “Brilliant strategy using Amduscias’s nexus to transport yourself to the surface,” Agostino added.

  Jesse’s eyes were starting to roll to the back of his head. He struggled for breath, producing only the word, “Mal.”

  “She’s all right,” Rick said. “You did it, man. You fucking did it.”

  Just as the words left Rick’s mouth, he heard the loose rocks near the surface of the shaft buckle under the weight of the large, dark shape that appeared, reaching out towards him.

  “Master Rick,” a disembodied voice called. “Did we fell the beast?”

  Mazes lunged out from the darkness and collapsed on the ground next to Jesse.

  Afterword

  Mal burst into the green room brandishing a rolled-up newspaper above her head. She dangled the offering above the coffee table where the Hell Patrol inner sanctum were gathered.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked Jesse. He sat his new Fender Precision bass down against the couch where he and Alex were warming up.

  She smiled coyly. “Who wants it?”

  Rick snatched the newspaper from her hands and began to tear through the copy. His eyes darted back and forth as he devoured its contents.

  “Of course. Barely a mention of the heroic efforts of the road crew who pulled up all the survivors.” He tossed the newspaper on the coffee table and crossed his arms. “Or our touring schedule. I knew that hack reporter was going to drop the ball.”

  Alex jumped up to grab the paper before Rust could swoop in. He began to read aloud as Mal took his seat beside Jesse on the couch. “‘As a result of the incident, the Macomb Springs City Council has passed a resolution to demolish any and all vestiges of the derelict mine to avoid future trespassing attempts.’”

  “Typical,” said Rust, adjusting his studded leather jerkin.

  “Glory is its own reward,” Mazes smiled.

  Alex continued. “‘No charges were filed against the suspects, who were deemed instrumental in the rescue of several townsfolk who were detained by the secondary collapse of the Spring Creek Mine. Many of the survivors could not account for their whereabouts on the night in question, and appear to have experienced hallucinations from exposed toxic gases while trapped within the abandoned mine. When asked for comment, the Macomb Springs Police Department claim there is still an open investigation into the matter, but declined to elaborate further.’”

  “Instrumental is right,” Rust smirked. “I could barely hear my vocals over those hot-rodded amps.”

  “Hold on, there’s more…” Alex traced the script with his index finger. “‘The events that transpired on the night of the collapse revolved around the performance of an unauthorized rock concert put on by up-and-coming heavy metal band Hell Patrol, who also include members of Macomb Springs High 1991 graduating class,’” Alex finished, letting the paper drop to the coffee table.

  Jesse threw his hands up and hugged Mal. “They mentioned our name!”

  Robb-O entered the green room with several rolls of gaffer’s tape dangling from his arm like oversized bracelets.

  “Sound check in five. You guys ready?” he asked.

  “We’re ready,” answered Rick. “All right, everybody fall in. Circle of fists.” He gestured to Mal. “Do your thing, publicist.”

  Mal produced a bundle of sage from inside her jacket. She lit the dried herbs, and fanned the smoke around the small room.

  Hell Patrol, their manager, and their newly appointed publicist/photographer formed a circle around the coffee table, putting their fists together above the report from the Macomb Springs Chronicle.

  Rick closed his eyes and recited the band prayer. “With metal hearts, we call upon the metal gods from the altar of the stage.” He opened one eye before continuing. “Please watch over our brothers, Hell Patrol, as they embark upon their first headlining gig, complete with a catered green room, and adequate cash guarantee.”

  “Is it over yet?” belched Rust.

  Alex responded with a sharp elbow to the singer’s ribs.

  Mal gave Rick a supporting nod.

  “Brought together by denim and leather, we shine, as one, like a rainbow in the dark. We promise to never say die and to never break the oath as we seek and destroy all that impedes our path to victory along the highway to hell. May our fans bestow fortune upon our efforts. And may a hole in the sky open up and bring raining blood down upon our enemies, and so on, until we close our eyes forever,” Rick finished. “In Iommi we trust, hallowed be thy name.”

  “Hail Satan,” said Rust.

  A resounding grunt of disapproval issued collectively from the group.

  “Hail the demonslayer!” Mazes offered as he pounded Jesse on the back.


  “Fucking Hell Patrol,” finished Mal.

  A B O U T T H E A U T H O R

  R. D. Tarver is a science fiction and horror author who lives in Norman, OK with his wife and two cats. In addition to writing fiction, Tarver is also a long-time musician affiliated with the bands Rainbows Are Free and Grim Gospels.

  For information on R.D. Tarver’s previous and upcoming title releases, please visit www.rdtarver.com.