by Bryan Smith
Table of Contents
1: ON THROUGH THE NIGHT
2: SUBMISSION
3: GARBAGEMAN
4: LIGHT UP THE SKY
5: CHILDREN OF THE GRAVE
6: VIDEO NASTY
7: JAILBREAK
8: SOMETHING IN THE WAY
9: DIRTY DEEDS DONE DIRT CHEAP
10: GIMME GIMME SHOCK TREATMENT
11: PERSONALITY CRISIS
12: PRETTY BABY SCREAM
13: RAINING BLOOD
14: YOUR PRETTY FACE IS GOING TO HELL
15: MY AIM IS TRUE
16: BREAK ON THROUGH
17: FRESH FLESH
18: CRASH COURSE IN BRAIN SURGERY
19: STONE DEAD FOREVER
20: BURN THE FLAMES
21: MAMA I’M COMING HOME
EPILOGUE: MESSIANIC REPRISE
ROCK AND ROLL REFORM SCHOOL ZOMBIES
by Bryan Smith
First Digital Edition
Copyright © 2011, Bryan Smith
All rights reserved
www.bryansmith.info
Cover design by Alan M. Clark, from the print edition. Used with the permission of Deadite Press.
Bitter Ale Press logo design by Brian Bishop
Ebook creation by Dellaster Design
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the permission of the author.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
This one’s for Kent Gowran, rock and roll guru.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: It is my deep belief that heavy metal and punk rock music did much to keep me sane in my youth. I truly cannot imagine my life without the soundtrack provided by the following bands: AC/DC, The Cramps, Motorhead, the Ramones, Hanoi Rocks, Van Halen (but only in the David Lee Roth years), KISS, Iggy and the Stooges, Guns N’ Roses, the Dead Boys, the Cult, Metallica, Black Flag, the Dead Kennedys, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Mercyful Fate, the Creeping Cruds, the Misfits, Junkyard, Kix, Led Zeppelin, Lords of the New Church, Motley Crue, Nashville Pussy, the Replacements, Mojo Nixon, Mudhoney, Deep Purple, the Sex Pistols, Generation X, Backyard Babies, the Hellacopters, White Wizzard, Wednesday 13, 45 Grave, Alien Sex Fiend, Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction, Alice Cooper, Faster Pussycat, D Generation, Reverend Horton Heat, and so many more.
I’d also like to thank many of the usual crew for the usual variety of reasons. Cherie Smith, Jeff Smith, Eric Smith, Shannon Turbeville, Keith Ashley, John Barcus, Kent Gowran, Joe Howe, Mark Hickerson, Tod Clark, Brian Keene, John Hornor Jacobs, Derek Tatum, Paul Synuria II, KAOS, Elizabeth Rowell, Blake Conley, Steven Shrewsbury, Shane Ryan Staley, Doug and Jamie Dobbs, all the regular readers and posters on my message board and at Facebook, and Deadite Press editor Jeff Burk, for generously allowing me to use the cover image from the print edition of this book.
“There’s nothing on the radio when you’re dead.”
—The Cramps
1: ON THROUGH THE NIGHT
November 17th, 1987
Rain slashed across the darkening sky. A brilliant flash of lightning followed a violent crash of thunder. The sizzling jolt forked before striking the ground, two white slashes on the turbulent horizon. To Wayne Devereaux, it looked as if God Himself was waging war against the earth. The hard drum of rain against the top of his Jeep Cherokee sounded like the relentless pop-pop-pop of automatic weapons fire on a battlefield. Not that he would have firsthand knowledge of how such a thing would sound. This was the late 1980’s. Wide-scale armed conflicts spread across blood-drenched battlefields and continents were a thing of the past. There might well be war again, but it’d be America and the USSR tossing warheads at each other, and that’d be all she wrote for the human race.
But he’d seen Platoon and Full Metal Jacket numerous times. And the gun battles in those movies did sound eerily similar to what he was hearing now. He imagined himself as an MP speeding through the streets of war-torn Saigon as the North Vietnamese closed in on the city in the last days before the fall. The crack and boom of thunder morphed in his head, became the sound of heavy artillery fire. He imagined the wailing strains of a Hendrix tune. Massive guitar riff like the cry of a god. All the good ‘Nam movies had Hendrix tunes out the ass. Jimi or the Doors. Wayne’s taste in music ran more toward more modern stuff. Metal and glam. Some punk. Guns N’ Roses and Faster Pussycat. Motorhead and the Sex Pistols. The Cult. But yeah, he could really groove on some Hendrix right now. That and a toke or two from the ganja Steve Wade had on him would really complete the illusion.
Then the Cherokee’s headlights picked out a large sign looming on the right.
The ‘Nam fantasy flew apart as he sat up straight behind the steering wheel. He slapped Steve on the arm and said, “Yo, check it out. We’re here.”
Steve groaned and shook his head. His eyes fluttered open and he leaned forward, squinting at the sign. “Yeah. That’s it, man.” He produced a half-pint bottle of Southern Comfort from an inner pocket of his denim jacket and spun the cap off the bottle. “Fucking place looks creepy as hell. How the fuck we supposed to get her out of there?”
The big white sign read: SOUTHERN ILLINOIS MUSIC RE-EDUCATION CENTER.
Below that was a number to call for appointments.
Reading the sign sent a shiver up Wayne’s spine. Demand was so high that many of these institutions had long waiting lists. Places like the SIMRC claimed to be able to “de-metal” teenagers. Kids would have their love for metal purged from their minds and have their spirits cleansed of the music’s evil taint. Three or six months later (depending on program and institution), they would “graduate” and reenter the world, presumably ready to begin a long, bland existence as a contributing, productive member of society. A few of Wayne’s friends had gone through these programs. They went in as sullen and defiant rebels and emerged as clean-cut, fresh-scrubbed little robots in preppy clothes. Piercings gone and tattoos covered. Long hair shorn. And when they talked they parroted the teachings of the re-education programs. It was like listening to flesh-and-blood tape recorders. Fucking creepy.
Wayne was lucky. His parents weren’t rock and roll-hating fundamentalists. They had their own quirks and ways he didn’t understand, but they were tolerable. Religious, but not in a zealous way. He thanked God for that every day.
His girlfriend hadn’t been as lucky.
Hell, that was an understatement of fucking epic proportions. Melissa’s mother was churchgoer and a drunken hypocrite, but her stepfather was the real problem. He was an evil, abusive bastard. Lucas Campbell liked to quote the bible and rant about liberals. And, of course, he condemned nearly all of Melissa’s lifestyle choices, especially her interest in “devil music.” So Wayne had been unsurprised when Lucas and Melissa’s all-too-compliant drunk-ass mother shipped her off to the SIMRC at the beginning of the school year. Pissed off like a motherfucker, but unsurprised. And, of course, he had been utterly powerless he’d felt to do anything about it. Melissa was a minor. Her mother had the legal right to send her to the SIMRC, which Ronnie Raygun’s administration viewed as a perfectly acceptable kind of “alternative school.” There had been nothing Wayne could do about it.
Or so he’d thought.
The call had come in last night, waking him up at midnight. His dad knocked on his door and told him in a groggy voice that Melissa was on the phone and wanted to talk to him. Wayne leaped from the bed, pulled on boxer shorts, opened the door, and brushed past his bewildered father. He picked up the kitchen extension and said, “Melissa? Dad said—”
And then he heard the sound that ne
arly made his heart stop. That sniffle. A world of heartache resonated within that sound. Then she was talking, her voice low and shaky. “Wayne, please come…please come g-get me.” She was crying and Wayne felt a strange tightness in his chest. “Please…I love you…please…”
He frowned and glanced at his dad, who was standing in the archway separating kitchen and hallway. The old man’s eyes were bleary, his brow creased with concern.
Wayne shrugged and turned away. “Melissa, what’s going on? Are you—”
“I’m s-still in this f-fucking place.” More tears now. More sniffles. Then she composed herself and said, “I shouldn’t be doing this. I managed to sneak out to the hall phone after lights out. Wayne, this place is horrible, worse than you can imagine. Please come get me out of here.”
“What? How am I—”
Then she sucked in a startled breath. “Oh no. I’ve got to go. Someone’s coming.”
Wayne opened his mouth to ask more questions, but the line abruptly went dead.
His assuaged his dad’s concerns with a made-up story and went back to bed. But the little sleep he got was fitful. He spent most of the long night staring at the dark ceiling and scheming. Then the next morning he talked his best friend into helping him break Melissa out of the SIMRC.
Steve knocked back a huge swallow of Southern Comfort, then spluttered as he nearly choked on the warm whiskey. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and offered the bottle to Wayne.
Wayne accepted the bottle and parked at the road’s shoulder. He tipped whiskey into his mouth as he stared at the big white sign. He relished the sting of it on his tongue.
He sighed and passed the bottle back to Steve.
Then he finally answered his friend’s question.
“I don’t know how we’re gonna do it, man. Not yet. But I’ll tell you this. We’re not leaving this place without Melissa, one way or another.”
2: SUBMISSION
The headmistress’s office was large and well-appointed. The several pieces of furniture were all sturdy and expensive. The floor was hardwood varnished to a high gloss. The walls were adorned with several pieces of original art, all of which had been purchased for extravagant sums via telephone auction. A brick fireplace dominated one wall. A fire burned in it now. A large bearskin rug was stretched across the floor in front of the fireplace. Several sets of dark wood bookcases held numerous leather-bound volumes.
Anna thought it looked the kind of office a big oil tycoon or someone like that would have. Some fat high roller who liked to show off his wealth. The kind of man who always had a cigar in his mouth and ate steak for dinner every night. Then shat fat rolls of money every time he took a dump.
Not at all like the kind of office one would expect of the headmistress of a place like the SIMRC, an institution that traded in self-righteousness and so-called conservative values.
But Anna was used to such hypocrisy by now.
She sat in an uncomfortable chair opposite the headmistress’s big oak desk. The chair was a tiny, rickety thing that wobbled and creaked every time she squirmed or fidgeted. The chair wobbled and creaked a lot. It was the one bit of furniture that didn’t look like something Robin Leach would gush over on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. It wasn’t part of the usual decor. The sole reason for its presence here tonight was to make Anna writhe in discomfort. The ridiculous outfit she was wearing added to her discomfort. Black stockings, high heels, a pleated short skirt meant to resemble those worn by Catholic school girls, and a white blouse stiff with starch, which was at least one size too small.
This wasn’t the normal attire of female students at the SIMRC. Those prim, conservative garments had been folded and were sitting in a neat stack in a leather recliner to her right. This was her “special” outfit, the one she wore every time she was brought to Miss Huffington’s office for a late night “counseling session.”
The headmistress was pretending to ignore her for the moment. Her attention was focused on an open file on the desk. The fortyish woman nodded occasionally as she read, pausing now and then to make a notation in the file. Sybil Huffington looked good for her age. She was tall and slender. Her hair was pinned back, but several long blonde strands hung loose and and framed her cheeks in a way that made her somewhat plain face seem prettier, almost girlish.
Anna thought, It could be worse.
The bitch could be a warty old hag covered in liver spots.
Outside, thunder boomed. A flash of lightning lit up the big window behind the headmistress. The lights in the office flickered for a moment, but stayed on. Another crash of thunder followed quick on the heels of the last, this one so loud and violent it made Anna flinch.
She shifted her aching butt and the chair’s legs groaned again. She hated the damn thing, but knew she wouldn’t be in the uncomfortable little chair much longer. Miss Huffington enjoyed these torturous little mind games. She was a sadistic bitch. But there were other things she enjoyed more. Intimate things. She was torturing herself by stretching out the wait every bit as much as she was torturing Anna. Anna knew from experience the woman wouldn’t be able to stand the exquisite anticipation much longer. She sure hoped so anyway. She wanted to get on with the evening’s naughty escapades and then get back to her private room.
Most of the time she didn’t much mind being Miss Huffington’s little slave. There were benefits, after all. She had a room of her own, no fucking roommate to put up with, and she didn’t have to put up with half the shit the other kids did. They were going to leave this place fundamentally changed. Forever. No more partying. No more sex. No more booze or drugs. No more rock and roll. The graduating boys would all go on to become soulless middle management automatons, or maybe republican party operatives, while the girls would all prepare for a future as good little Stepford wives in suburbia.
But not Anna.
In another few months she’d emerge from this place essentially the same person she’d been upon entering. She’d been spared the worst of the deprogramming training and was only required to go through the motions with the rest of it, just enough to keep up appearances. The price she paid was mostly loss of dignity and self-respect. But she would get over that.
Eventually.
Maybe.
Anna frowned.
She didn’t like to dwell too deeply on the long-term implications of this situation. Hell, she didn’t like to think about the future at all. It was this gray, nebulous thing lurking somewhere beyond the visible horizon. She had long subscribed to the live fast, die young, leave a pretty corpse aesthetic. And she’d always figured her end would be like Nancy Spungeon’s. Dead in some squalid hotel room in New York City or Paris. A needle in her arm or a knife in her gut. This didn’t bother her. She looked forward to living as hard as possible prior to her rendezvous with dark fate.
Or maybe…just maybe…she’d grow out of all that.
Either way, it would be her choice. She would always remain captain of her own soul.
There were just a few hard things to get through first.
Miss Huffington snapped the file shut and looked at Anna with a smile. “It’s time, dear.”
Anna forced a smile of her own. “Yes, m’am.”
She stood up and walked around to the other side of the desk. Miss Huffington pushed her chair back and stood, giving Anna room. Then Anna bent over and braced her hands against the edge of the desk. Miss Huffington moved into position behind her. She didn’t do anything at first. More of this waiting bullshit. Anna looked at the bearskin rug. If things went the usual way, that’s where the evening’s festivities would conclude. At least the rug felt nice on her bare skin.
Another long, pregnant moment elapsed.
Anna heard Miss Huffington’s breathing deepen.
Another burst of thunder shook the window behind them.
Then, finally, Miss Huffington lifted the hem of Anna’s pleated skirt and pushed it up over her waist. Anna lifted her ass a bit higher. Then she fe
lt the headmistress’s hand on her bare buttocks. It rested there a moment. A light, almost gentle touch. A mockery of what was to come. Anna held her breath and swallowed hard.
Miss Huffington’s hand came away from her ass.
Anna tensed.
Then she heard the headmisstress’s hand swooping through the air.
The blow landed. Hard. Anna rocked forward and gripped the edge of the desk more tightly.
“You’ve been a very bad girl, Anna.”
Anna gritted her teeth. “Yes, m’am.”
“Do you regret your transgressions, dear?”
“Yes, m’am.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, Anna. You’ve been naughty and require discipline.”
Anna rolled her eyes.
Of course I do.
Miss Huffington’s open palm struck her rear end again. Then again and again, over and over until Anna lost count of how many times she’d been struck. This was how it usually went. Soon Miss Huffington would pause briefly between blows to lightly caress her exposed buttocks. Then there would be more blows. And, eventually, Anna would feel the tentative probe of a finger. And soon after that any pretense of discipline would end and they would move this party over to the bearskin rug.
But Anna was wrong.
Miss Huffington did deviate from the routine she’d established with the young girl.
And for Anna, nothing would ever be the same again.
3: GARBAGEMAN
Digging a grave was always nasty work. Dirty and time-consuming work. Everett Quigley wasn’t a gravedigger by profession, but in his time as chief maintenance man at the SIMRC he’d been called upon to dig three of the things. And now a fourth. He hadn’t exactly enjoyed it the first three times, but at least on those occasions the weather had been nice. Although the work had been exhausting, he’d been able to take his time with it, had even been able to take frequent breaks. Unfortunately, a leisurely pace wasn’t possible tonight.
