The Devil's Graveyard

by AnonYMous

  In the corner of his eye, he could see Elvis bouncing on the balls of his feet, a little like a boxer psyching himself up for a fight. Making an effort, Sanchez snapped out of his thoughtful state of mind and began making encouraging noises to his friend about how making it to the final was a formality. While Elvis didn’t need any boost to his confidence, he probably appreciated the effort.

  ‘Hey, man, whatcha gonna do if you get selected for the final, huh?’ Sanchez asked. ‘I mean, what if you get through and James Brown don’t?’

  Elvis was eyeing up the James Brown impersonator much as Sanchez had done moments earlier. He answered Sanchez without taking his eyes off the Godfather of Soul in the bright purple suit.

  ‘I’m damn’ sure he’ll make it. I don’t reckon God put us through the last twenty-four hours only for His Apostle guy not to qualify for the final.’

  ‘Sure hope you’re right.’

  ‘I’m right.’

  ‘So where’s Gabriel, then? You think he’s bumpin’ off Judy Garland ’bout now?’

  ‘Well, I guess that’d explain why she ain’t here.’ Elvis seemed supremely unconcerned.

  Sanchez thought about it for a moment. The Judy Garland impersonator had done nothing wrong, from what he could tell. And she’d smiled at him and said hello backstage earlier in the day. None of the other precious bastards had done that. Wannabe celebrities, he thought. They were all in danger of disappearing up their own buttholes. So far, she seemed like the only one not totally self-obsessed. Even though Sanchez liked Gabriel, and owed him a debt of gratitude for saving him from the zombie mutant folk in the desert, he didn’t really like the idea that his new friend was possibly murdering an innocent young woman in cold blood somewhere in the hotel. Especially one who had seemed to smile genuinely at him. Not even his friends usually did that.

  He was dwelling on the unpleasantness of the whole situation when a security guard came over and politely asked him to move out of the backstage area. Wishing Elvis the best of luck one last time, Sanchez headed for the area at the side of the stage where he could watch the show from behind the far edge of one of the huge red curtains, which for now were still closed, hiding the stage.

  He had barely arrived at his vantage point when the rear of the stage area went dark and a drum roll began to boom out of the sound system. A moment later, the magnified voice of the show’s host, Nina Forina, followed the roll of drums.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said dramatically. ‘Please – put your hands together – for – our judges!’

  At that moment, the curtains parted and a spotlight lit up centre stage to reveal the three judges standing proudly in its beam. Sanchez was able to stay tucked out of sight behind the curtain’s edge. He had a perfect view of the proceedings. All he was missing was his recliner, a bag of popcorn and a couple of bottles of beer.

  Onstage, the three judges stood in the centre and lapped up the adulation from the audience in front of them. After milking the applause for all it was worth, they took their seats on the panel, which was level with Sanchez. Once the cheering and clapping and whistling began to die down, the stage lit up again and Nina Forina walked elegantly to the centre. She stood for a moment, beaming a bright white smile, basking in the last dregs of the audience’s applause. Then she held out her arms, and the auditorium finally fell quiet.

  ‘Hello, everyone. Are you ready to find out who our five finalists are?’

  ‘Yeeeaaahhh!’

  ‘I can’t hear you. Are you ready to find out who the five finalists are?’

  ‘YEEEAAAHHH!’

  Nina clapped along with the roaring crowd, before turning sideways and making a gesture to the back of the stage. The glare of the lights blazing down on her gave Sanchez a view he hadn’t been expecting. Her dress was practically transparent. Jesus.

  All of the shortlisted contestants began filing out on to the stage behind her. There were about a hundred of them, yet on the stage it looked like twice that number. Elvis was one of the first to come out, waving and blowing kisses at the audience. He looked confident enough, unlike Julius who, to Sanchez’s surprise, now looked quite nervous.

  When the noise eventually died down to a gentle hush, Nina turned back to the panel of judges, now seated at the front of the stage with their backs to the auditorium.

  ‘Nigel, would you please tell us all who the first contestant is to make it into the final five for this evening’s show?’

  Powell sat looking smug in pride of place between his two female colleagues. His face flashed up on a giant television screen at the back of the stage and, for some reason unknown to Sanchez, it invoked a few screams from a number of young women in the audience. As if looking in a mirror, Powell stared up at the screen and smiled his overly bleached, toothy grin, which shone brightly against his orange tan. After preening for so long that Sanchez started to feel nauseous at the spectacle, he eventually responded to Nina’s request.

  ‘I certainly will, Nina,’ he said, with a wink that Sanchez found almost equally nauseating. ‘The first finalist impressed us all with his showmanship. His singing voice wasn’t perhaps the best, but if he picks the right song in the final, he stands a serious chance of winning this competition. Nina, our first finalist is…’ He paused for a ridiculously long time in order to tease the audience, before announcing, ‘Freddie Mercury!’

  The Freddie Mercury impersonator jumped for joy, punching his fist in the air and hissing a quick ‘Yesss!’ under his breath. He bounded over to Nina Forina, who hugged him and gave him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before directing him to stand a few yards behind her on the right. Freddie looked over and, seeing Sanchez, flashed a wide beaming smile at him. Sanchez smiled back, and through gritted teeth muttered the words ‘smug’ and ‘prick’ under his breath.

  Again, Powell psyched the audience up before announcing Janis Joplin as the second finalist. The delighted performer bounded out of the crowd of contestants at the back of the stage, waving her hands in the air like a hyperactive escapee from a lunatic asylum. She was a hippy chick with long brown hair, wearing pale-tinted sunglasses with circular lenses and a green flowery dress that stopped just above her knees. She hadn’t bothered with high-heeled shoes, either, preferring a pair of comfortable white sneakers. The outfit was topped off by a number of strings of beads of varying lengths hanging around her neck, including an enormous yin-yang symbol that bumped against her navel. She shared the obligatory hug and kiss with Nina, to a surprisingly enthusiastic reception from the audience, then took up a place next to Freddie Mercury.

  That’s two down, thought Sanchez. Only three spots left. Sure hope that Julius guy gotta decent contingency plan if he don’t get picked. Otherwise his whole scheme is fucked.

  Hugely amplified, Powell’s mellifluous voice boomed loud and clear for a third time.

  ‘The next contestant through to the final – that’s number three of five, remember – is the man with the most hideous pair of red leather pants I’ve ever seen… the Blues Brother!’

  As the audience roared and stamped their approval, Sanchez saw a black guy dressed as one of the Blues Brothers appear from among the crowd of hopefuls. He was wearing a black suit over a white shirt with a thin black tie, and a pair of sunglasses. On top of his head was what looked distinctly like Frank Sinatra’s missing hat. He walked over to Nina Forina, looking, Sanchez thought, somewhat sheepish. She congratulated him with a polite hug and peck on the cheek, and then he walked over to take his place alongside Janis Joplin in the row of finalists. Sanchez scratched his head and tried to make sense of Powell’s ‘red leather pants’ comment. The Blues Brother was wearing a black suit – black jacket, black pants. Maybe the chief judge was colour blind? Which maybe explained why he’d picked a black Blues Brother?

  Sanchez had been loyally hoping Elvis would get through, but not having been one of the first three picks meant that his buddy’s chances were now looking pretty slim. Ideally, the last two finalists would
be Elvis and Julius. Elvis could then deliberately lose in the final, meaning that Julius would only have three others to beat.

  Truth was, though, even those were minor considerations. Or distractions. Sanchez’s palms were sweating profusely. The knowledge that there were bloodthirsty, flesh-eating zombies on their way to the hotel was bad enough. But knowing that his only chance of getting out of the Devil’s Graveyard alive rested on the shoulders of a James Brown impersonator hardly filled him with confidence.

  Up on the giant screen, Powell waited for the excited audience to quieten down before announcing the judges’ next choice.

  ‘Our fourth finalist blew us all away with his performance earlier. Someone full of energy, and undoubtedly one of the best entertainers in this competition. Ladies and gentlemen, the fourth contestant through to the final is… James Brown!’

  Sanchez felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He also hoped to hell that Julius really was the saviour that Gabriel had predicted. Guy’d better be who he says he is, he whispered to himself as Julius appeared out of the crowd of wannabes at the back of the stage. He was bouncing around like a complete lunatic, uttering trademark James Brown ‘heh’ noises. The plan was still on. Whatever the fuck the plan actually was.

  Once again the applause gave way to an expectant silence. ‘And finally,’ Powell announced. ‘Our fifth contestant was an absolute certainty to make it into the final after delivering what was probably the best vocal performance of the heats. Ladies and gentlemen, the last contestant through to the final is… Judy Garland!’

  The audience produced an even bigger cheer than they had for any of the four other finalists, only this time it didn’t last as long. It began to peter out as it became evident that Judy Garland wasn’t onstage. Soon, the crowd’s confused murmurings overtook the syncopated smattering of any remaining applause. Everyone started looking around, as if they expected the missing singer to appear from round a corner somewhere or from behind another of the hopeful – and now heavily disappointed – contestants standing at the rear of the stage.

  ‘Judy Garland?’ Powell asked hopefully. ‘Is Judy Garland still here?’

  Nina Forina joined in. ‘Judy Garland? Maybe she went back to Kansas?’ she said, with a horribly overdone guffaw. An uncomfortable hush descended upon the auditorium. Sanchez took some comfort from the knowledge that he wasn’t the only one in the room who came up with crap gags.

  He waited to see if Judy Garland appeared from among the crowd of other contestants at the back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Julius subtly clench his fist in front of his chest in victory. Gabriel must have done the job. Judy Garland would not be making it to the final. Sanchez felt a little guilty about that. Her non-appearance meant that she had almost certainly been brutally murdered, all so that a guy claiming to be the thirteenth Apostle could save a bunch of others (including Sanchez). Sure it was kinda harsh, but in the best interests of everyone, the bar owner thought, sententiously.

  For a few minutes, confusion reigned as the judges deliberated on what to do. Members of the security team were sent to check the corridors to see if Miss Garland was on her way. As the seconds ticked by and still she didn’t show, the audience became restless. A few plastic cups were hurled towards the stage. The security guards were speaking urgently into two-way radios as they darted out into the corridors. The show was in danger of turning into a shambles. One by one, the guards returned with shakes of their heads to indicate that the fifth finalist was nowhere to be seen.

  Nigel Powell was going to have to think on his feet, but this was obviously something he was good at. And he knew it. From his seat in the centre of the panel, he gestured for the crowd to calm down, his every move repeated, hugely magnified, on the screen at the back of the stage.

  ‘Okay, ladies and gentlemen, it appears that Dorothy has got lost somewhere on the Yellow Brick Road!’

  The audience laughed heartily (in spite of his joke being no better than Nina’s earlier effort). When the laughter died down, he carried on. ‘So, what we’re going to do here is pick the sixth best contestant from the heats. Would you please put your hands together for a performer who surprised us all with his musical talent. Ladies and gentlemen, contestant number five in the final will be… Elvis Presley!’

  Elvis strutted to the front of the stage with the confident swagger of a man whose place in the final had never been in doubt. He blew kisses and waved to the audience. After kissing Nina Forina and grabbing her ass for a good squeeze, he made his way over to the other finalists. He looked over to Sanchez and gave him a thumbs-up with both hands as he took up a spot next to Julius on the end of the row.

  Nina, who was blushing after Elvis’s inappropriate (though not altogether unwelcome) grab at her tush, raised her microphone to her lips and gestured for the crowd to be quiet.

  ‘Okay everyone,’ she yelled. ‘We now have our five finalists. Let’s please give them all one more round of applause!’

  The crowd was up on its feet, loudly cheering, stamping and clapping once more. After a few seconds of cheering, however, Sanchez noticed the volume of noise from the audience go up a few decibels. At first he wondered if someone had fallen over onstage, for it sounded as though the audience had worked itself into an overexcited frenzy. He craned his neck and twisted his head from side to side, hoping to see evidence of some horribly embarrassing pratfall. He’d be sick with disappointment if he’d missed it. There was nothing Sanchez loved more than seeing people trip over in public.

  Then he saw the reason for the extra loud cheers.

  Out of nowhere, Judy Garland had rushed on to the stage. She looked flustered, but with every step she took towards Nina Forina and every ringing cheer from the audience, she began to regain her composure. This young woman was undoubtedly the crowd’s favourite, and by the look of the wide, beaming smile on Powell’s face, she was his, too. He stood up from his seat and once again gestured for the audience to be quiet. When they calmed down, he kept them waiting in silence for a little while longer, before making the announcement they all wanted to hear.

  ‘Okay, folks. Who has a problem with us having six finalists this year?’

  The crowd went wild. The screams of approval became deafening. Sanchez looked across at Elvis. Elvis looked back at him with a frown of deep concern darkening his face. Julius’s chances of being crowned winner with his James Brown impression had just taken a serious knock.

  And what had happened to Gabriel?

  Forty-One

  Emily had come frighteningly close to not making it to the stage on time. She had the Bourbon Kid to thank, she supposed. He’d saved her life, after all. (Well, okay, Gabriel’s gun hadn’t been loaded. But he could have bludgeoned her to death with it. Or strangled her. Or… Emily could rationalize with the best of them, when necessary.) And he hadn’t killed her for openly defying him. When he’d reached inside his jacket, she’d feared he might be about to draw out a weapon. Instead, he had pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was probably capable of killing someone with a cigarette, but he’d chosen not to in her case. Which was a relief. Whichever way you looked at it, he was famous for killing people over pretty trivial matters. Like nothing, for instance.

  As she stood on the stage reflecting on all that had happened, she became aware that Julius was staring at her. She looked over and nodded to him, offering a half-hearted smile. He glanced at her curiously before flashing a brief and insincere smile in return. If what the Kid had told her was true, Julius had expected her to be dead. No wonder he was looking at her oddly. Emily shivered. She didn’t feel safe. There was only one person who could help her. Nigel Powell.

  As everyone slowly departed the stage in the wake of the announcement of the finalists, Emily walked tentatively over to the panel of judges. A twenty-minute recess had been called. Many of the audience had deserted their seats and gone off to stretch their legs. Powell’s two female companions, Lucinda and Candy, had also left their seats and vanished, which
gave Emily a perfect opportunity for a quiet word with Powell.

  He smiled at her when he saw her approach. ‘Hello, Emily,’ he said, getting to his feet. You could say what you liked about Nigel Powell, but he had good manners. When it suited him. ‘I thought you weren’t going to make it for a minute. You cut it a bit fine there, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m terribly sorry about that. Actually, I need to speak to you about that. Can I have a quick word with you?’

  ‘Sure. Take a seat.’ He gestured for her to sit in the chair to his right and, when she had done so, sat down himself. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Emily shifted in her chair; it was still warm. ‘I’ve got a headache.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. Would you like me to get you some painkillers?’

  ‘Someone hit me over the head with a gun.’ This was not absolutely true, she knew. But it was shorter than launching into a full explanation.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘A gun. A man broke into that room you put me in. He shot both of your security guards dead and then tried to kill me.’

  Powell’s face looked about as shocked as it could. ‘Oh my God. Start from the beginning. Who tried to kill you?’

  ‘He was a big biker guy called Gabriel. Shaved head, arms like tree trunks.’

  ‘Jesus. Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s dead. His body’s still in the room, with the two security guards.’

  ‘He’s dead? Who killed him? You?’

  ‘No. A guy called the Bourbon Kid. He saved me. For reasons that make very little sense to me, really.’

  ‘The Bourbon Kid saved you?’

  ‘Yes. And according to him, Julius, the James Brown impersonator, paid this Gabriel guy to kill me. Apparently the other three finalists – the original finalists, that is – are dead too. Did you know any of this?’

  Powell nodded, but made no attempt to explain just what it was that he did know. ‘Julius, huh?’ he mused. ‘I should have known. There was something about him that got under my skin the first time I met him.’