by AnonYMous
A drum roll began to sound from the orchestra pit, working up to a crescendo. Seconds later, the curtains parted and Nina stepped forward into the spotlight. The audience began cheering. Sanchez looked down at his wristwatch. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. The witching hour was nearly over. Where the hell were the zombies? And Angus, for that matter?
While he was contemplating the answers to these worrying questions, he gazed out at the auditorium. Every seat was full, men and women of all ages waiting excitedly for what was to come. All undoubtedly oblivious to the fact that what was to come probably involved a lot of bloodshed.
Looking up to the gallery, Sanchez saw the deejay flicking switches in his glass booth. There was someone else in the booth with him. Sanchez squinted. His eyes were still plagued with occasional flashes and black dots from the blow to his head when he had knocked himself out cold. But he’d seen something. Were his eyes deceiving him? He couldn’t decide whether his eyes were playing tricks, or there really was a gunman in the booth with the deejay. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision, to see if he had imagined it. But he hadn’t. Standing next to the deejay was a man dressed in black with a hood pulled up over his head. He was holding at his side something that looked like a pistol.
Sanchez was on the point of grabbing Emily’s arm to draw her attention to the sinister figure in the deejay’s booth, when the gunman suddenly ducked down into the shadows. It wasn’t the first time Sanchez had seen this man. Who was he? And what was he doing in the deejay’s sound booth?
With a gun.
Fifty-Six
Emily felt more nervous than she had the first time she had ever auditioned. The feeling was even worse than the first occasion on which she had performed in public. In fact, this topped just about any experience of her life, as far as nervousness went.
Nina Forina stood before the audience waiting for a signal from Nigel Powell. Emily was sure that he was teasing the audience by taking his time to wait for them to be quiet. Eventually, and before a riot started, Emily saw him give Nina the nod she had been waiting for. After that, she waited a further few seconds for total quiet from the crowd. Then she spoke again.
‘Okay, everyone. OKAY! I’m extremely pleased to announce that I have the results of the Back From the Dead singing competition right here in my hand.’
She was speaking the literal truth. In her hand she held a small shiny gold envelope. The eyes of everyone in the auditorium seemed to be glued to it. Emily’s fate was in that envelope. Her mother’s medical care rested on the result tucked inside it.
As the crowd began to grow restless, Nina racked the pressure up another notch by opening the envelope agonizingly slowly and then coyly peering inside it. Emily could just make out a small rectangle of white card in the envelope. It was too far away for her to be able to read what was written on it, but Nina took a long look. After pulling it halfway out of the envelope, she glanced back up at the audience. This sent a whole bunch of them off into a screaming fit worthy of a Beatles concert, circa 1964. After savouring the moment for just a little longer than was necessary, she finally drew out the whole card. Emily craned her neck to see if she could get a good look. Nina was no fool, however. Like a poker player, she kept the card close to her chest, peering downwards to take a sneaky look at the results. After a long moment, her eyes opened wide. Since her face was there for all to see on the giant screen behind her, everyone saw her expression. She let out a small gasp and put her hand to her chest as if she were short of breath from the shock of what she had seen. Emily wondered what that look might mean. It might mean that the result was a genuine surprise, and since she was the favourite, that wasn’t good news. Alternatively, the show’s host might just be faking the shock to keep the audience guessing. Either way, Emily felt as though she would never breathe again.
More screams and yells from the restless and by now thoroughly over-excited mob followed, and after gesturing for them to quieten down, Nina cleared her throat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the results of the Back From the Dead singing contest are as follows. In sixth place is… Freddie Mercury.’
There were gasps of surprise from the audience. Although he hadn’t been one of the favourites to win, most people had expected him to finish higher than sixth. Freddie walked onstage and waved at the audience, who applauded him loudly. From behind her, Emily heard someone (who sounded uncannily like Sanchez) mutter something that sounded like, ‘Serves the bastard right. Smug prick.’
Freddie made his way over to Nina, kissed her on the cheek and took up a place on the raised area at the back of the stage. Partly out of politeness, and partly from disappointment, the crowd applauded with some vigour. But, like Emily, what they really wanted was to know the names of the top five, particularly the top name of all. People began calling out the names of their favourite performers to show their support. Nina waited for them to quieten down before continuing with the results.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for the contestant who finished in fifth place.’ She looked down at the card she was holding in her hand. Emily was sure it wasn’t really necessary for her to look at the card again, but it kept the audience guessing for a few seconds longer. Then she announced loudly, ‘Here we go… Janis Joplin!’
The crowd cheered, clapped, shouted their favourite swear words and gasped in equal measure, as a slightly disappointed Janis walked onstage. She waved politely, kissed Nina on the cheek, shouted ‘Muthafuckers!’ at the audience, and then walked away to take up her place next to Freddie Mercury at the rear of the stage.
Once again the auditorium fell into a hushed expectation. Among the little group at the side of the stage the tension was almost unbearable. Emily was watching how all the remaining finalists were coping. Julius was wiping his sweaty hands against his suit. Why was he still here? Nigel Powell had promised to have him thrown out. Somehow he had managed to avoid that, and Powell had obviously decided not to ban him from competing. Why was that? she wondered.
The Blues Brother, Jacko, was giving very little away, his eyes well hidden behind his sunglasses. Elvis, for all his self-confidence, seemed a little nervy, in Emily’s opinion. His jaw was working, as though chewing imaginary gum. The only person at the side of the stage who didn’t seem concerned about the result was Sanchez. He was staring at Candy Perez. He’d overheard someone backstage say that her tits were liable to fall out ‘again’. He wasn’t quite sure what that ‘again’ meant, but if there was a sniff of a chance of an appearance of Candy’s finest, he wasn’t going to avert his eyes for more than a second at a time.
Again Nina waited for the audience to quieten before announcing the next disappointed contestant. Or loser, Emily thought.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, in fourth place, please put your hands together for… Elvis Presley!’
Elvis looked livid. His lips were pursed and his fists tightly clenched. The gold-rimmed sunglasses probably hid just how furious he actually was. He strutted on to the stage with an angry swagger, staring over at Nigel Powell with a trademark sneer. He managed a half-hearted wave at the crowd, but blanked Nina altogether on his way to the losers’ podium at the back to join Freddie and Janis.
Now only three remained.
‘So – we’re down to the final three,’ Nina announced once the applause had died away. ‘Who thinks the Blues Brother will win?’
A loud cheer went up from the crowd.
‘Anyone favour Judy Garland?’
Another huge cheer.
‘Yeah? Then what about James Brown?’
Once more there was a riotous cheer from the audience. If one thing was clear, it was that the result was going to be close. Emily couldn’t gauge from the audience’s reaction which act was the most popular. Had the crowd cheered as loudly for her as they had for Julius and Jacko? It was impossible to tell.
What followed was a shock. Nina looked down at the card in her hand once more and bit her lip. Then
she smiled, nervously.
‘Let’s have a big round of applause for our third-placed contestant… James Brown!’
There was a momentary gasp from the entire audience, followed by loud cheers and then a roar of applause. Emily saw Julius’s mouth drop open. He looked utterly dumbfounded, and for a moment could only stand in stunned silence. Emily felt a huge surge of excitement. Her dream was so close now. In less than a minute she would know if she had won. She stepped aside from Julius as he walked onstage. She didn’t want to be anywhere within stabbing distance of the man who had tried to have her killed. As he passed, Jacko patted Julius on the back and spoke for Emily when he said quietly, ‘Tough shit, fuckface.’
From his spot behind Emily, Sanchez watched with interest. Hearing that Julius hadn’t won snapped him out of his hypnotic trance. He had been concentrating so hard on Candy’s breasts, trying to use the force of his will to bring them out, that he’d not been paying sufficient attention to Nina’s announcements. But on hearing that Julius had only come third he looked to see how the James Brown impersonator was taking it. Badly, Sanchez reckoned. He was standing stock still, doing a passable imitation of a stunned mullet. Jacko patted him on the back and said something, whereupon Sanchez decided to offer his won thoughts.
‘You gotta go up onstage with the rest o’ the losers,’ he whispered in Julius’s ear.
The devastated singer appeared not to hear him, so Sanchez shoved him in the back hard enough to propel him out from behind the curtain and on to the stage. Julius walked towards Nina with a half-hearted wave at the audience. His body language hinted that he was far more disappointed than the other losers. Unlike Elvis, however, he did manage to plant a kiss on Nina’s cheek. Then he too took up his place at the rear of the stage, on the end of the line next to Elvis.
Now thoroughly alert – or as alert as he could ever be – Sanchez thought hard about what this might mean. What the fuck happens now? he muttered to himself. He tried to grab Elvis’s attention by standing on tiptoe and discreetly waving his hands, but the King was obviously still coming to terms with not winning the competition and wasn’t making eye contact with anyone.
Again the applause died down, and again Nina spoke up.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she began seriously. ‘There are two contestants left. Can we have them both onstage, please?’
Sanchez watched Emily and Jacko walk out on to the stage to a chorus of cheers from the audience. They took up places on either side of Nina, who kissed each of them on the cheek. She had now replaced the card bearing the results in the gold envelope so that no one could see it.
‘Okay – quiet please, everyone,’ she yelled.
Once more the crowd gradually fell into an expectant hush, though it was punctuated by the occasional shouted comments from a few drunken lowlifes. And then Nina announced the result.
‘The winner – yes, winner – of the Back From the Dead contest is… ’
Fifty-Seven
Sanchez had no idea what to do. Julius hadn’t won. HAD. NOT. WON.
He had plenty of time to dwell on this serious complication because almost a full minute had passed since Nina had announced ‘The winner – yes, winner – of the Back From the Dead contest is… ’ A seemingly never-ending drum roll swelled under her announcement and kept on going in a continuous roar of sound. Sanchez half expected to see a giant Battery Bunny in the orchestra pit, tapping away at the snare drum, because the tattoo was showing no sign of coming to an end. It just kept going. He looked at his watch again. That contract had to be signed by 1:00 a.m.
It was now 12:55.
The entire audience was going crazy, shouting out encouragement to whichever of the two remaining acts they favoured, as well as abuse at the drummer. Then suddenly the drum roll crashed to an end. A hush descended upon the auditorium. Nina finished her announcement.
‘… the Blues Brother!’
The audience roared its approval. Nina, who was holding the hands of both finalists, raised Jacko’s hand into the air to signify his victory. Standing on Nina’s right, he smiled and waved his right hand in acknowledgement, thanking the audience for their votes. On Nina’s left, Emily hung her head in disappointment. Then, graciously, she let go of Nina’s hand and walked across to Jacko. She gave him a congratulatory hug, then stepped back to join the crowd of losers at the back of the stage.
Sanchez shook his head and turned his thoughts to what might happen next. Julius was supposed to be the one signing the contract. But Julius hadn’t won, and he could hardly push Jacko out of the way and sign the contract himself. So what was he going to do? If the answer was nothing, did Elvis have a plan? Because Sanchez was ready to go home. Like, now.
He frantically waved a hand at Elvis again, trying to grab his attention. It was time to get the fuck out of the hotel. Elvis finally noticed his friend’s desperate wave and nodded back at him. With any luck he was thinking the same thing. Grabbing hold of Janis Joplin by the arm, he whispered something in her ear, and then the pair of them headed offstage to join Sanchez.
‘You ready to get the fuck outta here?’ Sanchez asked.
‘Dam’ right,’ said Elvis. ‘Let’s just hold on one minute, though. See what Julius does.’
Sanchez was anxious to get away from the place, the faster and farther the better. Now that he had Elvis with him, he reckoned his chances of getting out alive had improved considerably. Deciding that he no longer gave a fuck about events on the stage, he headed over to the flight of steps down to the corridor that led to the reception area. As he was making his way down the steps he heard the sound of glass breaking. It came from the lobby. A cold blast of air followed it. A window must have broken somewhere near by. When he reached the foot of the steps he heard the sound of footsteps, lots of them, heading his way. Moving fast.
He stopped and peered round the edge of the doorway, looking towards reception. His jaw dropped open and he felt his heart miss a beat. The zombie creatures from the desert had crashed through the glass double doors at the entrance and were swarming into the hotel in their hundreds. They darted off in all different directions, looking for human flesh to feast on. Sanchez turned and ran back up the steps to the stage area. He wasn’t happy about being an appetizer. And as appetizers went, he was big enough to share. At once his cowardly instincts came to the fore and he did what he did best – ran from trouble.
Elvis and Janis were standing at the top of the steps with their backs to him, watching the proceedings on the stage. Nigel Powell had left his seat on the panel and was holding what could only be the contract in both of his hands. The shock of seeing the zombies had rendered Sanchez temporarily speechless. He stood behind Elvis and took a few deep breaths. The King hadn’t noticed him. He was talking to Janis.
‘Soon as someone signs that contract, we gotta get the fuck outta here, babe,’ Sanchez heard him say.
‘Don’t you wanna see the encore?’ Janis asked.
‘Nah, we gotta go. That guy who’s won is about to sign a contract with the Devil. Gonna sell his soul. Be damned all to hell.’
‘What?’
‘I’m serious, babe. There’s a buncha fuckin’ zombies headin’ this way, too. They’ll kill us all, ’less we can get ol’ James Brown there to sign that goddam contract.’
‘But the Blues Brother won fair and square,’ Janis protested.
Sanchez finally got his voice back and blurted out what he’d seen. ‘Elvis! The zombies! They’re already here! They’re in the fuckin’ hotel!’
Elvis turned round and looked at Sanchez, then glanced down at his watch. ‘Shit! It’s twelve fifty-seven.’
Sanchez looked over at the stage. ‘If Jacko signs the contract, then the zombies’ll stay an’ kill us all, yeah?’
Elvis nodded. ‘That’s how Gabriel told it.’
‘But if he don’t sign it by one o’clock, then this fuckin’ hotel sinks into Hell, an’ we’re all dead, right?’
‘Again, correct.’
‘So why’re we still here?’
‘’Cause if Julius signs it, we might be okay.’
‘What happens if Julius signs it? I don’t recall Gabriel bein’ very clear about that part.’
‘Fuck, man, ya do ask some goddam questions,’ Elvis said exasperatedly. ‘Listen, I ain’t sure, but Julius is the only one can break the curse. Whatever the fuck the curse is.’
Janis looked at the pair of them as though they were certified lunatics. ‘What the – shit, fuck, muthafucker – are you two talkin’ about?’
‘Ain’t no time to explain,’ said Elvis. ‘We gotta stop that guy from signin’!’
‘Too late,’ said Janis quietly, pointing at the stage.
Nigel Powell was now standing centre stage with the Blues Brother, facing the audience. Powell was holding the deadly contract, Jacko a ballpoint pen. Ready to sign an agreement with the Devil. Selling his soul.
Jacko took off his sunglasses and tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket. Then he reached out a hand and took hold of one end of the contract in Powell’s hands. He held the pen up, signalling that he was looking for the appropriate place to sign.
Elvis shook his head and looked away, unable to watch. ‘Poor bastard,’ He sighed. ‘He’ll be damned all to hell.’
‘Better him than me,’ mumbled Sanchez. They watched as Powell took a look at his own wristwatch. His eyes betrayed how eager he was to see some ink on paper. It was a beast of a contract, nearly two inches thick. There was no time for Jacko to read it. Just sign it, seemed to be the overwhelming message. As Jacko brought his pen up to paper ready to sign his life away, Sanchez and Elvis stood frozen, wondering what would happen. And what to do.
At that moment, Sanchez heard a noise behind him. He looked back and saw two zombies run past the foot of the stairs from the corridor below. Those fuckers’re goin’ to be everywhere in a minute, he thought. He looked back at the stage.
