The Devil's Graveyard

by AnonYMous

  ‘So you think it’s true, then? About him trying to kill all the other finalists?’

  Again, he nodded. ‘Actually, yes I do.’ For a moment, he looked away, apparently lost in thought. Then he turned back to her and said, in his urbane way, ‘Thank you for coming and telling me this. I’ll have him thrown out of the competition.’

  ‘Are you going to call the police?’

  ‘Of course. The proper authorities should deal with this. They’ll throw him in jail. And, I should think, throw away the key.’

  Emily breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness for that. I was really worried about telling you all this.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Powell stood up. ‘Go mix with the other finalists. Do not say a word about this to anyone, and whatever you do, don’t get split off from the herd. Stay in crowds at all times. I’ll get rid of Julius and whoever else he may have hired to try to help him rig this contest. You just worry about singing. Because, with him out of the show, you’ve pretty well got it sewn up now.’

  ‘That’s not why I told you this,’ Emily said defensively.

  ‘I know. Now run along.’ He winked at her. ‘People will start to think the show’s rigged if they see us chatting like this.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Emily got up from the seat and headed for the backstage area. She could see the back of Freddie Mercury’s yellow jacket descending a flight of steps so she raced after him. Safety in numbers, she told herself, as long as you stay away from Julius.

  Nigel watched her trot off backstage and thought hard about what she had just told him. So, Julius was the fly in the ointment, the agent of destruction, trying to ruin the show. Quite why, he wasn’t sure, but that didn’t matter.

  James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, would be eliminated before he had a chance to sing in the final.

  Forty-Two

  The members of the Pasadena Hotel house orchestra had been rehearsing for much of the day. They were therefore extremely disappointed to discover that three of the songs they had been practising were no longer required. At the last minute, Nigel Powell had informed them that they would only play for two of the finalists. The others would be singing along to some karaoke backing music that the house deejay was in the process of downloading from the Internet. Understandably, the musicians were all very frustrated, airing their complaints as they made their way through the hotel corridors to the orchestra pit in front of the stage.

  Twenty-four musicians in all, all of them, bar the pianist and the drummer, carrying their instruments, made the long walk from the rehearsal area to the auditorium. A number of them did so in the resentful knowledge that their skills and their instruments were no longer required. They would simply be sitting in the orchestra pit and watching the show. One such was Boris, the backup guitar player. His part had now become redundant. It was his twenty-first birthday, and playing in the show had been going to be the highlight of his musical career to date. But now the senior guitarist, Pablo, would be the only one needed for the two specified songs.

  Feeling more than a little downbeat, Boris plodded along at the rear of the group, sulking at his misfortune. As they trailed down the long corridor from the lobby to the stage area, he noticed the orchestra members in front of him begin to part, like the Red Sea before the Children of Israel. He saw, walking towards him through the middle of the gaggle of musicians, a muscular-looking man wearing a black leather jacket with a dark hood pulled up over his head, leaving his face in shadow.

  As Boris attempted to step out of the way to allow him to pass, the man reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder.

  ‘Hey, you,’ he said in a gravelly voice.

  ‘Yeah, uh – hi,’ Boris replied. Something about the man made him feel nervous.

  ‘Bin lookin’ for you.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘Guy up in the booth wants a word with you.’

  ‘’Bout what?’

  ‘The fuck would I know?’

  ‘Well, I’m supposed to be doing the show any minute.’

  ‘It’s about the goddam show, man. Guy wants you to do a big solo, or somethin’.’

  Boris’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah?’ But his initial excitement was quickly replaced by suspicion. This was more than likely a practical joke. ‘You just said you didn’t know what it was about,’ he said warily.

  ‘That’s ’cause it’s a surprise. I didn’t wanna ruin it for you.’

  ‘Oh. Right. What’s the solo for?’

  ‘Hey, man, I’ve said way too much already. It’s up this way.’ He pointed to a stairway running off the corridor on the right, which Boris had passed moments earlier. Not wanting to be forgotten by his fellow orchestra members, he yelled out to them.

  ‘Catch up with you guys, yeah?’

  If any of them heard him, they gave no sign of it. They all carried on walking, before turning right through a door that led into the lower area of the auditorium, where the orchestra pit was located.

  Boris followed the hooded man over to the stairway. The stranger gestured for him to go up first. The stairway consisted of no more than ten steps but it was unlit and that made it difficult to see where it led. When he reached the top, he found himself in another corridor and began walking along it. Halfway along was a door on the left on which was a plaque bearing the words ‘SOUND BOOTH’. As Boris approached the door the hooded man brushed past him.

  ‘In here,’ he grunted, pushing the door open.

  Boris walked in as the man held the door open. Inside, sitting at a mixing desk in front of a large plate-glass window that looked down on the auditorium below, was the show’s deejay. He was a short, fat, balding white guy in his late thirties, wearing a blue tracksuit with white stripes down the sleeves and legs. His ears were covered by some really serious-looking brown headphones, which probably explained why he didn’t appear to have heard the two men come in. Boris called over to him. ‘Yo, Harry! You wanted to see me?’

  Startled, Harry turned and looked at him, pushing the headphones down off his ears, his blotchy red face revealing a look of puzzlement. He shook his head.

  ‘Boris? Nah. Don’t think so. Ain’t you s’posed to be playin’ in the pit?’

  Boris turned to the hooded man for an explanation, in time to see a fist coming right at his face. Instinctively he closed his eyes as the full force of the blow crashed into his nose. The last thing he heard was a horrible crunching noise as his nose shattered.

  The Bourbon Kid picked up Boris’s feet and dragged his unconscious body into the corner of the sound booth. He lifted the young man’s guitar from where it had fallen and took a good look at it. It seemed to be in reasonably good shape. There were no visible scratches on it, and no blood from the injury he had inflicted upon the guy’s nose. The deejay, who had not stirred from his seat, appeared to be watching with interest, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘Uh, like, what’s goin’ on, man?’ he asked.

  ‘Needed a guitar.’

  ‘Ya couldn’t’ve just asked him if he’d lend it t’ya?’

  ‘I could.’

  ‘But you chose not to?’

  ‘That’s right. I want somethin’ from you, too.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A Blues Brothers CD. You got one?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘Will I get it back?’

  ‘No.’

  Harry couldn’t hide the look of disappointment on his face. But he also seemed to have a keen understanding of what would happen to him if he didn’t do as the Kid asked. He leaned down and started sifting through a large black case of compact discs on the floor by his right foot. After a few seconds he hooked out a Blues Brothers album and tossed it over to the Kid.

  ‘There y’are. Anythin’ else?’

  ‘Yeah. You in charge of the backing music for the finalists?’

  ‘A few of ’em, yeah. House orchestra is playin’ two of the songs. I’m puttin’ on backing tracks for the other
four.’

  ‘Don’t play a track for the Blues Brother when he’s up.’

  Harry looked baffled. ‘Huh? I’ve been told to. I’m playin’ “Mustang Sally” for him to sing along to. I’ve downloaded the track from the Internet.’

  The Kid stood his newly acquired guitar against the wall by the door, reached into his jacket and pulled out a dark grey pistol. He waved it at Harry. ‘You play that backing track for him, I’m gonna shoot you in the face with this.’

  Harry made his mind up very quickly. ‘Okay. It’ll kill his chances of winnin’, though.’

  ‘That’s my problem.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Okay. Whatever. Is that all?’

  ‘No. I’ll be back in five minutes. And I’m gonna want your seat.’

  ‘Great. Look forward to it.’

  ‘Yeah?’ A very faint smile appeared on the hooded face. Harry shrank from the sight.

  The Kid slid the pistol back into his jacket, picked up the guitar again and reached for the door handle to head out of the sound booth. As he did so, Harry pressed a button on the CD player on his mixing desk. The song ‘That’s Not My Name’ by The Ting Tings began playing.

  The Kid stopped on his way out the door.

  ‘You choosin’ the music?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. Cool song this, huh? Really catchy.’

  ‘You takin’ requests?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘No. ’Fraid not, buddy. I got a set playlist worked out.’

  ‘Takin’ orders?’

  ‘Er – what d’ya have in mind?’

  ‘“Live and Let Die”. Get me in the right frame of mind for later.’

  ‘What’s happenin’ later?’

  ‘I’m gonna kill someone.’

  Harry inhaled sharply and, for a man who normally had a very red face, turned a little pale. He had the good sense not to keep the Kid waiting, however. He spun his chair round and, with the speed inherent in people who don’t want to be future murder victims, bent down to the case of CDs on the floor and began frantically rifling through them.

  But by the time he’d found the Paul McCartney CD the Bourbon Kid was gone.

  Forty-Three

  Knowing that there was a horde of partially decomposed undead creatures heading towards the hotel, Nigel Powell made damn sure that the final started as soon as possible. First, and most importantly, he had to ensure that the orchestra knew what songs the finalists were going to perform. There had been some grumbling among the musicians, but Powell had no the patience for it and had made it very clear that what songs were played wasn’t up for debate. As things now stood, the orchestra would perform only the songs for Judy Garland and James Brown.

  It truly was turning into the most stressful of days. The Back From The Dead show was always a nerve-racking time for him, but this year had been a disaster from the start, and now he had the Godfather of Soul running around trying to kill as many of the finalists as he could. So far, Powell hadn’t worked out how to make sure the murderous little jerk didn’t make it to the final.

  After taking care of the music issues and a few other last-minute details, he headed back to the stage area and gave the nod to the stagehand in charge of the curtains. The song “Live and Let Die” by Paul McCartney was playing, but on a signal to the deejay the music was faded out. Once the auditorium was silent again, the curtains parted and Powell appeared onstage to a roar of approval from the watching audience. Without milking the applause as much as usual, he quickly made his way over to his seat on the panel between Lucinda and Candy, who had been waiting patiently for his return. As he sat down he leaned over and whispered in Lucinda’s ear.

  ‘I can’t wait for this all to be over for another year. This one’s really been a show to forget.’

  ‘Sure has,’ she mumbled back

  ‘At least things can’t get any worse.’

  ‘Oh, they can.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Powell muttered under his breath. He was struggling to hide just how stressed-out the event had made him feel. ‘At least it’s nearly over now.’

  Lucinda shook her head as if she disapproved of something he’d said. Before he had a chance to ask her what she meant by that, his face appeared on the giant monitor at the back of the stage and he thought better of it.

  When the crowd had calmed down, Nina Forina stepped into the spotlight centre stage.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen – the final is about to begin!’ she exclaimed, with not altogether forced enthusiasm. The crowd clapped, wolf-whistled, stamped and cheered back at her. After teasing them for a few more seconds, she made the announcement for which they had all been waiting. ‘You’re a great crowd,’ she yelled. ‘So please put your hands together for our first finalist, singing “Piece Of My Heart”… Here’s Janis Joplin!’

  As more cheers followed and Nina stepped away out of the spotlight, the Janis Joplin impersonator appeared from the wings. She walked timidly to the centre of the stage in her garish green dress and white sneakers. Then she stood and waited beneath the spotlight for the deejay in the booth to put on the backing track for her song.

  A brief pause, then a drum beat started, followed by a guitar playing the opening bars of the song. The singer began to wiggle her shoulders and hips. Her movements were not particularly in time to the music, and when she began to sing it became obvious why. Her voice was deep and full of aggression as she practically shouted out the first few lines.

  ‘Didn’t I fuckin’ make you feel like you were the only fuckin’ muthafucker, yeah?

  An’ didn’t I fuckin’ give you everythin’ that a whore really could, you fuckin’ asshole?

  Honey, you fuckin’ know I did!’

  The audience laughed and cheered. The aggressive swearing ruined the song for some, but enhanced it for others. Not having seen her audition, Nigel Powell was the only person surprised by the performance. He leaned over and whispered in Lucinda’s ear once more.

  ‘What just happened?’

  ‘We tried to tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘She has Tourette’s.’

  Powell began rubbing his forehead in despair. ‘Oh, brilliant. That’s just perfect. Of course she has. Why wouldn’t she? I mean, come on – if you have Tourette’s and it’s this bad, you enter a singing competition, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s worse when she sings, apparently.’

  ‘You have got to be kidding me!’

  ‘Shhh,’ Lucinda snapped. ‘She’s getting to the chorus. This is the best bit.’

  Powell made a point of ostentatiously covering his ears with his hands, so that no one in the audience would be in any doubt about his disgust at the performance. For the next few minutes what was almost certainly the worst tribute ever to the late Janis Joplin energetically murdered ‘Piece Of My Heart’, littering it with foul-mouthed obscenities.

  When at last she was finished she stood shyly in the spotlight, awaiting the judges’ comments. These were somewhat varied.

  ‘I loved it,’ said Lucinda enthusiastically. ‘But it’ll be a tragedy if you win, honey, ’cause the others are all better’n you.’

  The most positive thing that Candy could find to say was ‘Nice outfit, terrible singing!’

  Powell was blunt. ‘You suck,’ he said. ‘You’re a disgrace, and I have no idea how or why we put you into the final. Please go away.’

  He was quite right, of course. Now that the Tourette’s-suffering singer had performed in the final, however, would the audience decide to vote for her en masse, just for her sheer entertainment value? Here was yet another irritation to add to the ever-growing list. At the top of that list was Julius.

  In the silence that followed the dejected Janis Joplin impersonator as she slouched offstage, Powell spotted one of his security guards at the side of the stage, trying to catch his attention. It was Sandy. The hotel owner nodded at him, harbouring the cryptic thought, He knows what needs to be done.

  Forty-Four

  Tru
th was, Sanchez was a good deal more nervous than Elvis. The King had performed onstage countless times before. There were few things he enjoyed more than being in front of an audience. Sanchez, on the other hand, was edgy for all kinds of reasons. If Elvis did great and won the contest, what would it mean? Would the zombies swarm in, and if so, would they try to kill everyone? Or just the people in the audience? And if Elvis lost, and Julius-the-James-Brown-impersonator won, then what would that mean? Would the hotel really crumble and be sucked into the pit of Hell?

  Sanchez was not, by any measure, a cerebral man. Nor even a particularly rational one. All the speculation was making him extremely anxious. So he did what he always did when nervous. He headed for the restroom with the intention of filling his hip flask with piss for the next unsuspecting victim. He did this with a certain amount of trepidation, given what he had experienced there, but he was banking on his belief that, in a hotel like the Pasadena, the place would have been restored to order hours ago.

  The corridor leading to the men’s washroom was deserted, as was most of the rest of the hotel by this time. Everyone seemed to have made for the auditorium in order to watch the final sing-off and the declaration of the winner of the competition. The washroom was empty, too, and Sanchez was pleased to see that someone had come by and cleaned up the mess from earlier. The pool of blood that had spilled out of the stalls and on to the floor was gone, as were the corpses of the dead singers. Almost as important, the horrendous smell had gone too, which was quite a relief. He locked himself away in stall four and, with a remarkably steady hand, began pissing into his silver hip flask. It was a skill he had mastered over the years, and in spite of his nervous state, his aim was dead on. It was a very satisfying piss, too. As he was finishing he heard someone else walk into the washroom and unzip his fly, preparatory to taking a leak at one of the urinals.

  Sanchez screwed the lid back on his flask and unlocked the door of the stall, then made his way over to the washbasins to give his hands a quick rinse. He paid little attention to the man pissing at the middle urinal as he placed the flask down beside of one the basins and flicked on the hot faucet. As he began to rinse his hands in the warm water, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that the other man was staring at him. Without wishing to do anything that might suggest he was eyeing up another man who was urinating, Sanchez slyly turned his head to see who it was.