by Bill Myers
“Besides what?” Scott pressed as they headed toward the hotel.
Becka looked at her brother and frowned. She had felt the same sensation she had experienced a couple of months ago when battling some evil spirits that had taken up residence in her best friend, Julie.
Becka swallowed and finally answered, “When he was staring at me, it was like I couldn’t speak. Like I was choking — ” She met her brother’s eyes. “Scotty, I couldn’t breathe.”
Mike detected the faint smell of marijuana smoke the moment he knocked on Jackie Vee’s hotel-room door. There was no answer, so he knocked again. Then the door opened slowly, and Jackie peered out at him.
“Hey, Jackie. Got a minute?”
“Sure. C’mon in.”
As soon as Mike closed the door, Jackie took out a small silver case, about the size of a pack of cigarettes. He opened it and took out a joint. From the looks of him, it wasn’t his first. “Want to get high, man?”
Mike shook his head. “No. It throws off my timing. We’ve got to rehearse in a couple of hours . . . I hope tonight’s show goes well. I want us to feel really good for that cable broadcast. Forty million viewers, man.”
Jackie nodded. “Should be good. Will Billy be back for that?”
“Should be. I talked to him a while ago. He’s outta the hospital. Sounds like he’s doing pretty well. You should call him.”
Jackie took a long hit off the joint and stared blankly into space.
“I said you should call him,” Mike repeated.
Jackie looked up, squinting like he was trying to focus. “What? . . . Oh yeah.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m too tired to call him now. Maybe after rehearsal.”
Mike nodded, but he knew Jackie would never remember to call. He probably wouldn’t even remember this conversation. “Listen,” he asked, “what are we going to do about Doland? I can hardly talk to him anymore.”
“He’s off on his own trip, that’s for sure,” Jackie agreed. “But he gets the crowd going, doesn’t he? He plays the audience like I play this guitar.”
Mike pressed the issue. “I talked to him about Billy getting hurt. It was like he didn’t even care. He just said it would sell more CDs.”
Jackie took another hit. “Probably will. Doland knows that stuff.”
“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “But does he care about anybody?”
Jackie didn’t seem to hear. He took another hit, staring at nothing. Mike knew from past experience that the conversation was over. Jackie was too high to listen to anything that required thought. He stood up. “I’ve gotta go. See you at rehearsal.”
He was halfway down the hall before he heard Jackie call after him, “Okay . . . See ya, Mike.”
He headed for the elevator and pushed the button. A moment later, the door opened to reveal Tommy Doland.
“Doland . . . I . . .” Doland’s sudden appearance startled him. Mike felt guilty, like he’d been “caught” being disloyal.
Doland smiled, but there was something very unpleasant in the way his lips curled. “Hi ya, Mikey. Is your room on this floor? No, that’s right. Your room is on the sixth floor. Jackie’s room is here . . . just down the hall, right?”
“Right.” Mike tried to smile. “We were just — ” He broke off. Doland’s smile had turned to ice.
“I know what you were doing, Mikey. You were trying to turn Jackie against me.”
Mike stared at him, stunned — and very uneasy at the look in Doland’s eyes. “No, I wasn’t . . . not really. I’m just worried.”
“You should be worried, Mikey. You cross me again and I’ll fry you.”
Mike was shocked by the threat. “What? Fry me? What is that supposed to — ?”
Doland cut him off. “Fry you? My, my, getting a bit paranoid, aren’t we?” He smiled again, his eyes glazing over. “I said I’d fire you, Mikey . . . from the band.” The smile broadened. “You just need to be more careful now, don’t you? When you listen to people, I mean.” Doland stood there in the elevator, glaring at Mike as the steel door closed, leaving Mike staring blankly at it.
“This place is unbelievable,” Scott muttered as he studied his reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator. “It’s so cool that Z booked us a suite in this huge place!”
Becka shook her head. It didn’t take much to entertain some people.
Just then there was a loud ding. As the elevator door opened, she moved to step out. “Our floor, Scott — ” She broke off suddenly and stared in surprise. There, right in front of her, was Mike Parsek. In fact, if she hadn’t known better, Becka could have sworn he’d been staring at the elevator, waiting for them.
Scott recognized him immediately. “Uh . . .” But for the first time in his life he seemed speechless.
Becka grabbed his arm and pulled him from the elevator as Mike moved past them to enter it. At last Scott found his voice . . . well, at least some of it. “Hey, hi . . . uh . . .”
But as Mike turned and the elevator doors closed, he was not looking at Scott. His gaze was locked on Becka. And he seemed very impressed.
The two stood in stunned silence. Finally, Scott spoke. “Wow! Did you see him check you out?”
Becka was dumbfounded. Most of the boys back at school didn’t even know she existed. But clearly this guy did. And he just happened to be a rock star!
“That was Mike Parsek!” Scott exclaimed. “He’s the one we’re supposed to talk to! Why didn’t you say something?”
Becka tried to swallow, but her mouth was as dry as cotton. “Why didn’t you?” she finally croaked.
“I did!” Scott insisted. “I asked him how he was.”
“Oh, really? ’Cause all I heard was, ‘Hey, hi . . . uh.’ ”
Scott turned red. “Yeah, well, at least I said something. You were afraid to even talk to him.”
Becka took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. I was.” She slowly turned to her little brother, feeling very uneasy and very concerned. “And maybe . . . maybe you should be too.”
That evening Becka and Mom got ready for the concert while Scott played with his laptop computer.
“You’d better hurry and get ready, Scotty,” Mom called from one of the rooms of the suite. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”
“I am ready,” he replied, keeping his voice calm. “Hey, Beck, I’m checking out the Scream’s website. You should see it. The whole thing comes out of this huge skull.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“What do you mean you’re ready?” Mom yelped as she stepped into the room and stared at Scott’s attire: a worn, torn sweatshirt, dirty jeans, and beat-up joggers.
“This is what you’re supposed to wear to the concert,” Scott explained in his most patient voice. “This is what everyone will be wearing — everyone but you and Becka.”
“Really?” Mom asked in surprise. “But you . . . you look . . .
so . . . destitute.”
“ ‘Destitute at the Institute.’ ”
“What?”
“That’s a Scream song. You know, ‘Destitute at the Institute, but alive in my mind.’ ”
Mom grimaced. “This is going to be a difficult evening for me, isn’t it?”
Scott nodded. “Yes, Mom. I imagine it will be.”
She sighed slowly. “All right. You can wear everything but the sweatshirt.”
“Mom!” Scott protested.
“It stinks.”
“But . . . it’s the coolest thing I’ve got.”
“Well, I want you to take it off.”
Becka joined the conversation. “Mom, the sweatshirt is the focus of his entire outfit. It goes with his jogging shoes, right, Scott?”
He tossed her a grateful look. “Yeah . . . exactly . . . what she said.”
Mom nodded. “I see. And I still say it stinks — literally. It smells, because you haven’t washed it in a month. So . . . change it.”
“All right,” Scott finally conceded, mostly beca
use he was more interested in what was happening on his computer than in continuing the conversation. “I’ve got a message coming in.”
In the lower left-hand corner of the screen was a blinking yellow Z, signaling that a message was coming through. Scott had created the little Z symbol and programmed his computer so that the symbol would pop up whenever an email message arrived. He would have liked to make the symbol come on only when the message was from Z, but Z’s address always changed. That was part of the mystery of Z — the person they had never met, but who always seemed to know what was going on in their lives.
“Hey, it’s Z!” Scott called after the message appeared. “Check it out.”
Becka joined him. Together the two read silently:
Greetings. Hope you enjoy the hotel. I have two pieces of information. 1) Your mission is Mike Parsek. He is a pastor’s son, but has not communicated with his father for several years. He knows the truth from his childhood, but he’s in over his head. He has no concept of the danger he’s in. 2) Beware of Tommy Doland.
Becka felt a chill as she read the warning. Her eyes dropped to the bottom of the screen, where Z had written a brief Scripture. It wasn’t long, but it was enough to remind her of the seriousness of their task:
“Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that your brothers throughout the world are undergoing the same kind of sufferings” (1 Peter 5:8 – 9).
Scott didn’t seem to even see the warning or the verse. Instead, he pointed his finger to the number 1 on the screen. “See?” He smiled smugly. “I told you, you should’ve talked to Parsek.”
Becka shrugged. “What makes Z think these people will listen to us anyway?”
“Not ‘these people,’ ” Scott corrected. “Mike Parsek. And I’d say by the way he scoped you out earlier that he’d be willing to listen to anything you say.”
Becka’s face flamed. She turned quickly, grabbed her coat, and headed for the door. Scott snapped off the computer and followed, smiling. Being a pesky little brother definitely had its advantages at times.
The Forum in Los Angeles held about twenty thousand people, and it was jam-packed. But Becka wasn’t bothered by the size of the crowd. Instead, she worried about the attitude of the crowd.
Everyone in the place seemed angry — maybe even beyond angry. Most of them seemed ready to explode. Small groups huddled together, scowling at the groups surrounding them. It was the most explosive group of people Becka had ever seen under one roof.
And there are twenty thousand of them. All here.
She glanced at Mom. From the expression on her face, things seemed equally bizarre to Mom. Her mouth gaped open. Becka knew that Scott’s comment about torn sweatshirts and faded jeans had been an understatement. Becka hadn’t had the heart to tell Mom that.
One guy had three safety pins in his left eyebrow. Another had a stud through his nose and one through his lip. And one girl, clad all in leather, had four Scream buttons pinned to her lower lip.
This was definitely not Mom’s kind of place.
“I had no idea that it’d be this . . . this . . . bad!” she shouted as they made their way toward their seats. “Maybe I should have stayed at the hotel.”
“You can go back if you want, Mom!” Scott shouted. “We can catch a cab back ourselves.”
Mom’s response was immediate. “Forget that thought, young man,” she said firmly. “Now that I’ve seen what this concert is like, I’m glad I came here with you.” She shook her head. “I’ll be glad when this thing is over.”
As they took their seats, Becka felt the tension in the air increase. The band was late getting started, which made the crowd even rowdier.
But suddenly —
WHAM! WHAM! BOOOOOOOOM!
The sound of explosions came from the stage. The crowd roared. As the curtain rose, the spotlights came on, bathing a huge skull in reds, blues, and yellows. Doland’s voice could be heard.
Army of the night,
Not afraid to fight!
Doland suddenly appeared in the spotlight. He screamed into the microphone as the guitar wailed and the bass and drums pounded the beat. Everyone in the crowd leaped to their feet, screaming.
Everyone but Becka. She couldn’t explain it, but she suddenly felt nauseous.
“Becky, what’s the matter?!” Mom shouted. She also remained in her seat.
“Nothing!” she replied. “It’s just my stomach again! I’ll be okay!”
“Maybe it was something you ate!”
Becka nodded, but she knew that wasn’t the reason for her stomach trouble. She’d felt this before. She always felt this way when she encountered something demonic. And looking up at the stage, at Doland’s blazing eyes as he shrieked the song, Becka knew with sudden certainty that the skulls and other symbols of satanism were far more than props.
There was something very real — and very frightening — going on here.
4
The intensity of the crowd built and subsided in perfect rhythm with the music and pacing of the show. As the band neared the end of their performance, there was one climax after another, with each new one topping the last. By the time Mike launched into his drum solo, the mood of the crowd had been driven to a feverish pitch.
More and more effects were released. Two large fog machines at each end of the stage shot out a mist that quickly enshrouded the bottom three feet of the stage. But Becka’s eyes were drawn away from the fog to the huge dragon cannon. So far it had remained a silent yet ominous presence. With firepots and other effects cutting loose all night from unseen places, one couldn’t help but wonder what this big machine might do when fired. From her seat in the third row, Becka could see the top of the cannon rising just above the fog.
It began to vibrate.
She felt the urge to pray. That’s silly, she thought to herself. I’m not wasting energy worrying about some special effect. It’s what the band wants — to freak people out and make them think there’s real danger when everything is under control.
Still, the dragon cannon bothered her. And the harder Mike played, the more it vibrated, as if preparing to fire.
Becka glanced at Scott. He appeared to be watching Doland, plainly enthralled with the show.
Several times during the evening, Becka had exchanged glances with Scott. He also seemed to feel that something strange was going on. She felt good about his silent agreement. But she knew that Scott wouldn’t let a weird feeling spoil his good time.
“Scotty — ” Becka nudged him — “let me see your binoculars for a minute.” She had been about to criticize him for bringing them, since they were in the third row. But now she was glad that he brought them.
She knew he didn’t appreciate the interruption, but he handed them to her anyway. She focused on the dragon cannon. It was definitely vibrating. Again she felt the urge to pray but dismissed it as a childish fear.
Then she saw something that made her blood run cold.
One of the large bolts holding the cannon in place had come loose. With every vibration of the cannon, the bolt slipped more and more out of place. Any second now it would fall out completely!
Becka wasn’t sure what that meant. She directed the binoculars to the opposite side of the cannon. The other bolt seemed solidly in place. Her stomach knotted as she wondered whether or not she should do something or tell somebody.
The tempo of Mike’s drumming increased. Scott reached for his binoculars, but Becka shrugged him off. She stared at the bolt as it shook back and forth. Suddenly, it fell out, disappearing into the fog.
Now, with only one bolt holding the cannon, the great machine shifted slightly with each vibration. The icy fear gripping Becka grew as she watched the cannon turn. Oh, Jesus, she prayed, no longer dismissing the urging as childish. Jesus, protect them! No one onstage appeared to notice, yet the cannon slowly turned in an entirel
y different direction.
She felt Scott tapping her on the shoulder, but she wasn’t about to give the binoculars back. As the drum solo reached a crescendo, the cannon vibrated even more.
And the more it vibrated, the more it turned, until it was pointing directly at the band. More specifically, it was aimed at Mike Parsek!
God, don’t let this happen! Don’t let it end like this before we even get a chance to talk with him! Becka’s lips moved as she prayed. Through the binoculars she saw a roadie crossing behind the band to some kind of control panel. A spark of hope surged through her.
Please, God, help him see that the cannon is loose.
But the roadie didn’t notice. Instead, he flipped some switches on the control panel. The cannon shook even harder, but it could turn no farther.
It was about to fire!
Becka watched the roadie press another button. A deep rumble began, even louder than Mike’s drums. The cannon’s firing mechanism ignited. She couldn’t bear to look, but she couldn’t bear to look away.
Mike reached the peak of his solo. He glanced to the side and suddenly saw the barrel pointing directly at him. But it was too late. The cannon ignited . . .
But it did not fire.
Something had malfunctioned. Becka saw Mike shouting at the stagehand, frantically motioning for him to shut down the device. The stagehand leaped into action, and the cannon stopped vibrating.
Everyone was safe.
Becka knew why the cannon had failed to fire. Her prayer had been answered! Not exactly in the way she had prayed, but answered nonetheless. And for that she offered up another prayer — this time, a prayer of thanks.
Before the final note of the show was finished, Scott was already on his feet. He knew what they had to do. “Let’s hurry up and get backstage!”
“They just got done, Scotty!” Becka shouted, her ears still ringing from the loud music. “Shouldn’t we give them a few minutes?”
“Are you kidding?! In a few minutes there will be a hundred people in front of us trying to squeeze their way in!” He glanced toward the door closest to the stage. Already, scores of kids lined up, hoping for a glimpse of one of the band members.
