by David Simms
His head swung to and fro like the pendulum on those old-time grandfather clocks. “The River got to them. Too much swimming in it. There's never any excuse for the drugs, but people are human and humans are weak. They got hooked on the River long before they found the ganga or the spoon. Heck, I even had my run-ins with them—both addictions, pharmaceutical and metaphysical—and look where it left me.”
Muddy didn’t understand. From the looks on the rest of the band’s faces, he wasn’t alone. “But, you’re a great musician.”
“Without a pot to pee in. If I'd played it right, I’d be spinning out records like B.B. and Buddy and even McCartney. Incredible River, incredible obsession.”
Muddy opened his mouth to delve further, but something in the old man’s voice told him to zip his lip. “Hey,” he managed to say. “Look at this.”
In his hand he held a solid silver guitar pick—the one his brother used. It even had Zack's initials engraved in it, except this one had teeth marks, deep ones, through most of the letters.
“Zack’s definitely there. We need to get back there before he winds up like this.”
The old man whispered so that they barely heard him. “If he’s not already.”
They gathered their instruments and began the trek back to Silver Eye’s home. No one spoke or made any noise. It seemed as though none of them felt any fear of walking through the worst part of town in the middle of the night with only an old man for guidance.
One feeling that did register with Muddy was a tingling of sorts, like each finger and each toe had been shoved into electrical sockets while his body splashed in water. Weird—he vibrated.
The empty streets glowed under the streetlights. Litter fluttered and danced in the shadows, every dismal color jumping from wrappers, magazine strips and plain old newspaper. Oil spots on the asphalt shimmered as though a pot of gold might await at one end. In the sky, beyond the smoggy clouds, stars forced themselves through in elaborate constellations—something they noticed only in a blue moon.
He doubted he was the only one to notice the change by the silence that blanketed them. For now, they avoided each other as the space between them spread. Only the bluesman, who hadn’t said a word since leaving the crossroads, had any spring to his step.
The night had scared them to their cores.
Muddy felt it had only begun.
* * * *
Silver Eye Watkins sent them home with the instruments, despite their protests.
“Trust me, you’ll need them,” he said, without giving any explanation. “Practice on them. It’s not like they’re something you get at the store.”
Like kids leaving an odd Santa Claus, they lumbered through the dark, somehow finding their way without encountering Vince or any other perils. One by one, they slunk away into their respective homes, dropping Poe off first, everyone gazing into her windows to make sure her dad wasn’t home. If he happened to be home early from the bar or the police station, punches would likely be thrown, first by him, then by one of the band. The fact that he was a cop and could arrest them didn’t matter. The man drank so much, chances were he wouldn’t remember what the heck happened.
As usual, Muddy walked home alone. It partly made sense. His father wrote horror novels. He often guessed he should be afraid of his own shadow, but he knew all the monstrous creatures he invented came from his own mind. If someone saw enough scary movies, read enough frightening stories, sometimes the real world didn't seem as intimidating.
Then again, if someone had faced what he’d just encountered and went where he’d just gone, even a drug dealer’s or a serial killer’s resolve wouldn’t bend.
Okay, maybe a serial killer with a grumbling stomach.
* * * *
Howard Rivers sat on the living room sofa, laptop perched on a pillow, fingers dancing over the keys as he created images that would probably frighten readers all over the world. For a brief moment, a pang of jealousy ached within Muddy as he thought about how he could never enjoy those stories like millions of others did. Dyslexia sucked. Sure, Mrs. Berg had him hooked on that new reading program. She swore it would allow him to chew through a few pages at a time without his head spinning, without the letters swirling before his eyes. Okay, that was an exaggeration, maybe, but he knew the hell of being a successful writer’s son who couldn’t slog his way through even one of his father’s novels. It really sucked.
Maybe one day that would change.
“Hey, Edgar.”
The man knew his son hated his full name, but he loved to mess with the kid, anyway. Joking was one of the few things that kept them sane after Mom died. Still, being named after a horror writer should be cool, though, Stephen would’ve worked. Or Dean. Ray. Brian. Heck, even Ramsey had a cool ring to it. But no, Howard had conned his wife into naming him Edgar, the dark son of literary macabre.
“Hey, Dad.” Howard was a cool guy, in father’s terms, but ever since Mom died, a wall thicker than a math teacher’s skull kept them from being how they used to be. His stories became darker; Muddy’s songwriting became more blue, more distant.
“Long practice?” His fingers never stopped typing. He often had a half-dozen projects going at once, so giving his only son partial attention seemed normal to both of them. His mom had often suggested adult ADHD, but the man simply laughed, stating his mind just never stopped chugging along. “Like a caffeinated locomotive,” he often quipped.
Muddy headed straight toward the fridge, remembering he hadn’t had dinner. After rummaging through a mess of takeout containers and Dad’s leftovers from experiments gone awry, he found two slices of pizza hiding in the back, probably afraid of the massive amounts of garlic the mad chef used in most of his concoctions.
“You guys play late tonight?” Howard asked, this time louder.
Not wanting to be rude, but not wishing to get into a conversation, either, the teen simply nodded. Part of his brain had fried out from the trip; the rest normally retreated from family talk. Zack was even worse.
Is worse, he chided himself.
“New guitar?”
Crap. Forgot all about that.
“Nope. Just something Otis’ dad had lying around the house. Just borrowing it.”
Howard nodded, but the look in his eyes asked more. “Have you heard from Zack today?”
Anxiety began to form within him. Muddy shook his head as the pizza nearly slipped from his fingers.
“I know he didn’t come home last night. Is he back with that Rachel?”
Nope, Zack couldn’t stand that empty-headed, conceited witch. Yet with Zack, there was always another female waiting in the wings. He wondered if hotties surrounded Zack wherever he was now. Somehow, after that quick glimpse into the nightmare at the crossroads, Muddy doubted it.
He gave his father what he hoped was a blank look, wondering how much of tonight was scribbled on his face. Dad created characters for a living and said his skills at reading people gave him that talent. Rarely could Muddy or his brother hide what they thought from him, which was why neither one spent much time at home.
“Not going to heat that up?”
Muddy realized he'd started to carry the pizza, cold, out of the kitchen.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” he muttered. “Sometimes it’s better if you take things as they are.”
Father looked at son as though he’d just spouted something from Plato. “You don’t think that about Zack, do you?”
Muddy doubted his dad meant it as a question and not about dinner, either.
“I sometimes worry he’ll get himself into something he can’t play his way out of,” Howard said, “especially lately. The boy hasn’t handled Mom’s passing well.”
Not finding the words to form a reply, Muddy trudged upstairs.
Like any of us have.
Sleep found Muddy quickly that night, and without the nightmares about his mother. Only one dream danced behind his eyes—the one about the crossroads. He stood at the epicenter,
alone, or so he thought. A figure approached with the deliberateness of coming night. Muddy's hands scrambled for his guitar, only to find an empty strap instead. Fear gripped him.
The shape of a person loomed larger, but only in shadow. With the moon behind him, the person’s face couldn’t be seen. Muddy’s feet were glued to the dirt trail; he could only stand and wait. His face burned, but ice rolled down his back.
Time crawled by until the figure stood before him. Covered in a cloak of deep purple, its head pointed toward him, faceless behind a hood. His fingers shook as he raised his arms to touch the thick material that masked the mysterious person. It felt course, dark and strangely warm as his thumb and fingers curled around it.
All the while, it simply stood there, unflinching.
After drawing a deep breath, he did what he needed to do, what he dreaded. He yanked the hood back. And screamed himself awake for the second night in a row.
* * * *
Muddy meandered through the following day, not taking notes or paying a speck of attention to the teachers, even the ones that he liked. In between classes he traveled the hallways in a fog, paying little attention to most of the conversation around him. Stress overload, the counselor would call it. Everything from the previous night's journey to Zack’s disappearance and finally, to seeing that face, added up to a brain fry.
He spoke to no one until band practice, the last period of the day. During resource room, the period designed to help students with whatever ailed them, the other band members sat in uneasy silence. Obviously, they shared his fears and likely doubted their own memories of the night. However, once the music flowed from their instruments, their real instruments, practicing a Mozart rip-off that some wannabe composer tossed off to the high schools as the next big fad, things opened up.
Otis broke the ice with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, as usual. “Hey, you swimming in the River there, Muddy?”
“Shut. Up.” Muddy replied with more venom than he'd intended.
“Edgar,” Poe snapped. “Relax. We’re all on edge after last night.”
So, it did really happen.
“Sorry, Otis. I just had a bad night.”
Poe leaned in and whispered, “Dreams?”
“Bad one,” he answered, not wanting to explain.
Her hand shook as it gripped his arm. “Me, too.”
“Make that three,” Otis added.
“Four,” came a shaky response from Corey.
After a minute of playing that awful song and tripping over the hackneyed, convoluted rhythms, Mr. Satriani eyeballed the foursome and signaled to them to break again. The friends regrouped and looked at each other, waiting for something to happen.
“Mine was just freaking scary,” Poe said.
“Mine, too,” Corey replied. Otis and Muddy just nodded.
“I mean, it’s normal to dream about those horrible crossroads after what happened, right?”
It hurt Muddy to see her so shaken, even if it was by something unreal.
“Yeah, of course,” he said, but even as he spoke, the muscles in his shoulders pulled tight.
“And it’s okay for me to be scared of something that seemed like it was from the other side, right?”
“Sure.” His back became as taut as the strings on the guitar neck.
“So, why did I dream of that freaky guy in the dark hood?”
“Holy…” breathed Corey.
“No way!” Otis started, but then simply shook a little.
Muddy felt paralyzed, glued to the metal chair.
Corey leaned in, letting the others hear his fear, even though their teacher tossed odd glances toward them from time to time. “Did you see? Did you see his face?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Just that freaky hood. I think that was scarier. Did you?”
“Nope,” the sax man replied.
“I didn’t, either,” Otis said, his fingers white on the drum sticks.
They waited for Muddy to speak up.
“I did. I saw his face.”
Chapter Eight
They left class shaken—none more than Muddy—but things had to be done. Any plans they had to pursue the person in their collective dreams had to be put on hold, at least for the moment. Set up and auditions for the Battle of the Bands was scheduled right after school.
“How am I supposed to practice now with that image in my mind?” Otis swirled his sticks, but without the usual finesse.
All of the bands were set up on the auditorium stage, many sharing amps and drum kits, much to the chagrin of the pickier musicians. Yet with only one PA system, they had to get along for this one day. Each group was allowed to play two songs. The Accidentals had yet to decide on which ones they were going to play.
Muddy shook his head, unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze. “Just play. Pretend we’re in the basement. Just focus.”
“Okay,” Otis replied. “Okay.”
As they watched one lousy band after another, butchering cover songs to the point where even the student advisors couldn’t decipher what they were hearing, the memories of the previous night faded enough so that the group could concentrate on the deal at hand.
When it came time for Bentley’s group to gear up, the butterflies in Muddy’s stomach grew rusty barbs on their wings and spit fire through his insides. Bentley was the school’s cover boy and thought life revolved around him. He believed that because he had good looks, money, and a hot car, he was better than any of his peers. Muddy felt like a one-fingered, lobotomized accountant compared to his nemesis’ speedy, fleet-fingered runs. True, not much soul existed in Bentley’s flashy playing, but no one seemed to care. A good-looking guy playing fast guitar would usually win over the high school crowd, especially the girls. Plus, Bentley could sing. Girls like Chelsea and Porshe fell for that every time. Muddy wondered if Poe ever would.
Even though six-stringing seemed to be embedded in his genes, his vocal cords must've had some connection to the president of the Tone-Deaf Club. Thankfully, Poe’s voice made up for any torture he inflicted on anyone’s ears.
Bentley’s singing fell way short of Poe’s angelic style, but when you were popular, audiences forgave just about anything. He might as well have sung the theme song to Barney. Most of the student body would have still applauded.
They launched into an up-tempo version of a classic Van Halen song (of course, classic rock had rushed like a tsunami through American high schools in recent years, thanks to Guitar Hero and other games). Simple to pull off, technically, but with that band, it was never about technique, but about soul and rhythm.
As Bentley rambled toward the end of the song, the waiting foursome readied themselves. Muddy wondered if the others ever felt those same rusty butterflies.
“Hey, where’s Brian?” asked Corey.
He must have given Corey a dumb stare in return because Corey slapped the back of his head. “Our bassist du jour? Does he know the audition is today?”
Sighing, Muddy thought about their four-stringed situation. Most bands employed a full-time bass player, usually someone who couldn’t handle guitar, a friend who’d do anything to be part of the band, or a singer who couldn’t sing while playing. Few these days actually loved to play the instrument. Even fewer could play it well. Nobody wanted to be Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers anymore.
His dad called their problem the “Star Trek” situation. The teen had never watched the show, but the writer said that when the spaceship explored a strange new planet, they sent out a scout team to scour the area for life forms and ominous danger. In every single episode, one member never lasted for more than that one episode, always falling prey to whatever terror lay in wait. He died within minutes of the show’s opening, before anyone even learned his name or background.
The Accidental’s bass players lasted only a bit longer, thus adding another reason for their moniker. True, no aliens ever chomped down on their brief, four-stringed friends, but odd incidents usually befell them.
Most of the time, a freak accident took the blame. The other incidents weren’t as colorful, but usually ended with stitches or at least an ice pack.
While anxiety readied its attack on Muddy in the form of hands twitching and his back sweating, the auditorium doors burst open and in sauntered Leo Lumley, a lanky goof who had close to zero musical skills. Slinging his vintage Fender P-bass over one shoulder, he approached the stage with a smile that suggested flatulence would soon follow.
“I’m here,” he announced in the deep voice of a junior who still hadn’t found his niche in school. Very similar to the band in many respects, but he could hold his own, and that was all that mattered.
“Um,” Muddy said, still anxious. “Where’s Brian?”
“You expected him to show up?” The towering bean pole nearly tripped over the PA. “Seriously? He got suspended yesterday for hacking into the school’s computer system and putting a screensaver of Principal McIlveen in a bikini on the school’s homepage.”
They laughed, but time was tight. Muddy wondered if this guy could pull it off.
“All set to knock out some “‘Sweet Emotion?’”
“Sure thing,” the gawky teen replied, hooking up his bass straight through the PA system, using only an EQ box to tweak his sound.
Muddy hoped Leo remembered the original. They loved the guy, often jammed with him when he was bored, but never considered him family. Loners will do that to a group. Still, he was likeable—and dependable.
As they entered the stage, the pompous leader of Silver Shadow had to toss in his two cents, of which Muddy was sure he thought was worth much more. “Good luck, Puddles.”
Inside, the teen’s blood seethed, but Muddy kept cool, mostly from fear of retribution if he decided to give the guy dental work via a Les Paul. “It’s Waters, Chevy. Waters.”
He sneered as only a constipated-looking, anal-retentive snob could. “Waters. Dirty Waters,” he said with a chuckle. “Is that like a retarded version of James Bond?”
