Damaged

by Timothy W. Long

  She came to her feet and he embraced her. She was a tall woman and had legs for days. She planted a kiss on his cheek, and then dashed toward the doorway.

  “Come on old man,” she challenged. “I want to eat before two. Then you have to look at the papers. Later we’ll have wine and whatever you want.”

  “Promise?”

  She shot him a soft smile and did a graceful pirouette.

  “Just you wait,” he promised.

  3

  In League with Satan

  Seth

  Seth slumped in his chair and glared at the huge monitor as it faded to black. The computer hummed as his VPN cycled through its amorphous list of IP addresses, making sure his location bounced as many times as possible before closing out the connection. Then the PC quieted, only the sound of the fans spooling down echoed in the room before they, too, went silent. Normally, Seth would find some small sense of relief at that, no one being able to trace him to his real home, the one he kept secret even from his bandmates, but not today.

  There wasn’t any hiding from the Devil.

  Not that he was trying to. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  He had spent the last several years tracking down a way to reach out to Satan, to contact him. It’d been a hell of a search, bad pun intended, the details haunting his every waking hour and plenty of his sleeping ones, too. He’d swam through the deepest pits of the internet, searching for answers, parsing the total bullshit from the partial bullshit all the way down to the might not be bullshit after all depths. Then, after digging even deeper than that, he’d received an anonymous email out of nowhere, from an address he couldn’t trace or hack back to its source.

  It told him what he needed to know, how to rescind the deal with Damaged and seal one of his own. At first he wasn’t sure what to make of it, but the longer he left it alone, the more the idea festered, took hold. So he answered the call and took a leap of faith, twisted as it was. And it had worked out.

  The fact that he’d received his own package just yesterday attested to that. He hadn’t told the others anything about it; for good reason. They wouldn’t take too kindly to him cutting a deal on the side.

  He snatched up the half-empty bottle of Jack and took a deep swig, groaning as the liquor burned a path to his stomach and settled in a warm pool. Wex had mentioned Seth’s weight loss and he grinned. The only cleanse he’d been on was a booze one. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually eaten, not that it fucking mattered. Old Lou had offered him a deal he couldn’t refuse.

  Literally.

  Seth took another swig and shook the bottle, watching the Jack slosh about inside. That was how he felt, all shaken up and ready to spill his guts across the carpet. He’d expected the Devil to give him a task he’d regret when Seth asked about a second deal, a more personal one, but even he was shocked at what was being asked of him.

  “Asked?” He chuckled. “Like I have a fucking choice.”

  Seth and Wex had been the only ones in the band to not really balk at all the weird shit they’d been made to do since their deal made them the kings of the metal world. In fact, Seth kind of got off on it, though he’d never admit that to the others. Hell, every bit of it was worth it just to have Metallica open for Damaged. Twice. How else would a garage band pull that off without stroking the Devil’s dick now and again?

  But Seth wanted more.

  He always had, but he’d been content—or so he told himself—to wait a bit, to figure things out. Now the waiting was almost over.

  Wex was pushing for them to record a new album but that was the last damn thing Seth wanted. He was done with Damaged, done with sitting around in a smoke-filled studio with those assholes and magicking their way to a new platinum record because none of them could write a real riff if their life depended on it. Which it did. He had been done for a long time but the deal kept him locked down. But not anymore.

  Seth had always wanted to strike out on his own, get out from under Wex and Michael, and get away from that fake bitch, Sunny and her glittery saved ass. She’d quit sticking needles in it but she was still smoking herself to an early grave, angel dust joints and who knew what fucking else firing her veins, lying to all of them about her coming to Jesus moment and lording her bullshit over their heads. She was the worst of the lot and was likely to get them all damned to Hell by overdosing on some gank shit before their contract was up, voiding it for the lot of them.

  Seth wasn’t going out like that.

  He’d made moves to distance himself from the band numerous times but the infernal contract held firm and none of the projects were able to crawl out from under the shadow of Damaged. Not even close. They all fell apart, unexpected song leaks killing the momentum, legal bullshit keeping him from releasing material, side band members dying under bizarre circumstances, and more shit he couldn’t bother to remember. It had gotten to the point that Seth stopped trying. Of course, it helped that word had gotten around and people wanted nothing to do with him, at least outside of Damaged. There, he was still golden, a fucking rock star for the ages, but nobody wanted a piece of solo Seth. Too many fuckers dying for that to happen.

  But that was about to change.

  He set the bottle down on the desk and grabbed the Devil’s letter, pulling the vellum close enough that he could read it, the whiskey adding a frustrating haze to his already weakening eyesight. Sunny had been right about one thing, he thought. The skin was human, no doubt about it. Seth drew it to his face and inhaled the musky scent of it deep. It might smell like wet goat’s ass but there was an underlying odor of freedom wafting from the burnt and blood-etched letter, stealing the bitterness from it. He might well be imagining it, wishful thinking and all that, but Seth didn’t give a damn. Whatever the missive smelled like, it was the key to his future.

  He just needed to do what it said and the Devil would pull his genie lamp out of his ass and grant him the world. Seth felt he could do anything for that so it was time to get to work. He had his own plans on top of what Satan wanted.

  4

  God of Emptiness

  Sunny

  Not fifteen minutes after she’d hopped off the computer, Sunny was in the back of her chauffeured SUV, her skin crawling with ants. She twitched and squirmed in her seat, staring out the window as her driver—Armand, she vaguely remembered his name being—skirted the Wilshire Blvd. traffic and found a place to park outside of St. Basil’s church.

  “Just drop me off here and I’ll walk,” she said, not liking the way her voice crackled, her throat itching deep down. “Text me when you find a spot.”

  She’d hit the pipe a couple times—and a couple after that—while waiting on the chauffeur to arrive and the shit was starting to hit her hard now. Before Armand even stopped the vehicle, she popped the door open and was stepping out.

  “Hold on a second and I’ll—”

  She ignored him and jumped for the curb, the sounds of the city drowning him out. The mid-morning sunlight stabbed at her eyes even behind the huge, dark sunglasses she wore to hide her face. Sunny jerked her head sideways, adding additional protection from the thick black wig she wore, it’s wild strands draped across her face like a shroud. The SUV accelerated with a growl and bumped into the lot, back door still swinging, as she marched toward the side door of the cathedral. She grinned, picturing the driver bitching about her jumping out.

  “Fuck him,” she muttered while yanking the big oaken door open. She paid him more than enough for him to put up with her shit. If he didn’t want the job, there were a million other people in LA who would crawl through an army of chainsaw-wielding maniacs to take his place. Probably a couple million. Which was a good thing. She couldn’t afford to get busted for driving while smoked out of her mind…again. She’d gotten off light, but who knew what would happen the next time.

  Sunny sighed as the cool air hit her and the shadows coalesced. Say what you want about the Catholic Church, but they never skimped on the blessings of ref
rigerated air conditioning. Her skin prickled under the long coat she’d slipped on to complete her disguise, and she was tempted to take it off. It wasn’t like there would be a whole lot of Damaged fans sitting in church in the middle of the week—or ever, for that matter—but the paparazzi were like roaches in LA. They staked out every street corner, waiting on some dumbass star to stumble in front of their lenses. Sunny sure as hell didn’t need them seeing her sneaking into a church and damn well didn’t need photographs of it circulating on the net, destroying her Satanic street cred in two seconds flat.

  She’d told the band she was clean and had found Jesus but she wasn’t about to wreck the gravy train of their fans while doing it. Damaged had sold them on whole Devil worship thing—the reality a bit too close to home for comfort—and it would cause some serious grief were folks to find out that Sunny was playing for the other side.

  Not that she’d tried all that hard.

  She’d sat in the back of this very church, ten, maybe fifteen times, listening to Father Malcolm preach the good word and talk about redemption and sin and the path to Heaven but, just like in high school, she kept an ear cocked for the shortcuts built into the system, only picking out the parts best suited to her needs. In this case, that was absolution.

  That’s why she was there today, to put the holy remedy to the test.

  Sunny skirted the nearly empty pews and headed straight for the confessional set in the shadows near the front of the church. The few older women who were in attendance were deep in prayer, or maybe catching a few Zs in the quiet, and none of them looked up. That suited Sunny just fine. She didn’t want to have to explain herself to a bunch of old bitches.

  Ladies, she corrected in her head. Wouldn’t do to piss Jesus off right before confessing to the boat-load of other sins she’d committed. Maybe smoking the dust before I came was a bad idea. She shrugged. That was a done deal so nothing she could do about it now. She’d just add it to the list of shit she confessed to.

  She rapped quietly on the confessional door and, when no one knocked back, she pulled the door open and slipped inside. The darkness greeted her as she sealed herself inside and took a seat. Her heart sputtering in her chest, Sunny drew in a lungful of musty air and settled in to wait.

  A few moments later, to Sunny’s relief, the door on the other side of the confessional wall opened and she saw a figure shuffle inside, the priest’s face obscured by carefully crafted shadow. He cleared his throat with a muffled cough and turned toward the partition. The small holes in the divider allowed her to see the vague shape of the priest but kept her from identifying anything specific about him. Sunny smiled at that. At least the movies hadn’t lied about that part.

  “How may I help you, my child,” the Father said in a voice that was barely above a whisper. She had to strain to hear him. Despite that, Sunny recognized the old man’s voice from his sermons and relaxed.

  She took a moment to gather her words, the ones she’d read about, playing them over and over in her mind, before finally spitting them out. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “Have you now?” he asked, his Irish lilt adding color to his words. “And what have you done, child?”

  “Far too many things to list, Father, but they’re bad. All of them.”

  “Well, I can’t help the Lord absolve your sins if I don’t know what they are. Tell me the worst of them, at least, and we’ll work out way down from there.” He shifted in his seat as if trying to peer through the partition. “You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”

  Sunny exhaled hard, the strands of her wig fluttering in her breath’s wake. “No, Father. That’s one of the few sins I’ve managed to avoid.” So far, she thought. That was why she was there. It was only a matter of time before she hit Wex’s and the ultimate sin was expected of her and there was no turning back.

  Father Malcolm chuckled. “Then I see no reason you can’t be forgiven, child. Not as long as you are truly repentant. You are truly repentant, are you not?”

  “I am,” she answered. “I truly am.”

  “For all the drugs and drink?”

  She gasped and met the place on the partition where she believed the priest’s eyes to be. His perceptiveness had caught her off guard but she quickly realized she’d admitted to everything but killing a person. Anything he claimed short of that was likely to hit the mark. She smiled at his ploy. “Deeply sorry.”

  “The covetousness and rampant fornication?”

  She nodded. “Yes, especially that.”

  “The lies and betrayals?”

  “For all of it, Father,” she told him, hoping to head off a point by point examination of her sins. She was on a schedule. “For all of it.”

  “And what of that one time, on tour in Chicago, back in `89 was it…?” he started, letting his voice trail away.

  “Chicago?” Memories floated up from the recesses of her mind and she latched onto one without meaning to, a sordid little remembrance that stirred the acid in her guts. He couldn’t possibly mean… “How could you—?”

  “You stand before the eyes of God, child. How could I not know? He sees all.”

  Sunny swallowed hard and stared at the door to the confessional, her hand already reaching for the handle of its own accord.

  “Did you know she was only thirteen?” the priest asked.

  Sunny’s hand fell away from the door at his words, thumping onto the seat beside her, limp. She had known.

  An image of the young girl welled up and Sunny couldn’t tamp it down. Sunny had argued but Wex just held up the fleshy parchment, letting Sunny read the words again, confirming what they were to do. She stared down at the girl, barely into her flower, and tried to meet her eyes. Two crystalline orbs swirled in their sockets, the drugs Wex had given her having washed away all sense. A tic of an unconscious smile played across the girl’s lips. All she knew was that she was spending the night with Damaged, her favorite metal band. She didn’t have a clue what she was in for or the wherewithal to say no. Sunny tasted bile in the back of her throat, caught between the memory of the tour bus and the confessional.

  Then Wex laughed and slapped the massive strap-on she wore in the reverie and rolled the girl over, lifting her hips and splaying her legs out. Sunny could see herself leaning into the girl, weighing what was right and the consequences of ignoring the Devil’s missive. She paused for only an instant before doing the wrong thing.

  “You didn’t even take her to the hospital afterward, did you? Just dumped her on the side of the road, drugged and naked and bleeding.”

  Sunny whimpered and buried her head in her hands. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “But you did, child. You did,” the Father told her. “You could have said no. You could have pulled the girl from the bus and faced the consequences of standing up for what was right. But you didn’t!” The priest’s voice was no longer a whisper, but a roar, the words driving into her ears as if they were nails.

  “She never made it home, that girl,” Father Malcolm went on.

  Sunny stiffened and sat upright. She could taste the tears spilling down her cheeks and rolling across her lips.

  “Her name was Charlotte, in case you were curious. She had four year-old brother named Simon. Charlotte had snuck out to see you play. You were her idol, her walls plastered with posters of you, crashing away behind your kit, sweaty and sore but still smiling; always smiling. Simon caught her leaving and she promised him she would bring him an extra special present if he didn’t say anything.” The priest cleared his throat, Sunny only then noticing the lilt had fallen from his voice. “The next day was his birthday. Do you know what his present was, child?”

  “No,” she whispered through the hand clutching her mouth. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  Father Malcolm chuckled and ignored her plea. “It was a visit from the police, telling poor little Simon that his sister was dead. Raped and bleeding internally, she’d have frozen to death i
f she had managed to survive just a little longer, gone to sleep and never felt a thing. A side effect of the Midwest winter you Californians have no clue about. It would have been a peaceful end and she never would have known what you did to her. But no, a trucker found her first. She woke up to his hands around her throat as he violated her, much like you did, all of it coming back to her in a rush of adrenaline-fueled terror.”

  Sunny leaned to the side and a gusher of vomit spewed from her, slapping the floor and spattering her legs and feet with fetid warmth. The confessional filled with the stench of her shame and the red-pepper and onion omelet she’d had for breakfast.

  “No.” She clasped the partition, fingers clawing at the holes. “No more.”

  “So you see,” the priest continued, “while you might not have killed poor little Charlotte with your own hands, you’re just as guilty as the wayward trucker who chopped her into tiny pieces and scattered her down the highway a dripping chunk of meat at a time.” Father Malcolm leaned in and grinned. “He saved her head for himself. You can only imagine the state that was in.”

  Only then could Sunny see the priest clear, as if the partition had fallen away. The old, pleasant countenance of Father Malcolm disappeared to be replaced by a face she had hoped to never see again.

  “No!”

  “Oh yes, child.” There, where the friendly old priest had been only moments before, sat the creature who had haunted her dreams ever since she’d laid the bloody quill to parchment. The Devil himself.

  Masked in darkness, he bared his teeth, his eyes gleaming like two crimson stars. His hair was wild and long, dirty-brown mats framing his bearded face like a halo of tumbleweeds. The sharpened lines of his cheeks looked ready to split from his skin as he smiled feral. He looked just as he had that first day.