Damaged

by Timothy W. Long

  And, to be honest—if only to himself—that line he’d drawn wasn’t all that solid to begin with. It wavered and shifted with his mood and, lately, it had crept real close to his toes, teasing them. It didn’t take much to get him to cross it, not with everything that was at stake. So, with that in mind, he pulled on his gloves, grabbed the crowbar from the passenger seat, and eased out of the car, the interior light long ago disabled so as to keep the interior dark, and started off down the sidewalk, chin down. He felt his pockets to make sure he’d left everything at home but the one thing he needed for tonight. There was still time to turn back but it wasn’t happening, he told himself. For all the other shit he’d done, this was his Baptism in blood. He needed to do it as much for himself as for his infernal patron, maybe even more so.

  The two blocks between where he parked and the first address he’d been given seemed to take an eternity. His heart pounded in his chest, making his ribs ache, and he cringed as sweat rolled down his back and invaded his ass crack. There’d be a serious swamp going on down there before too long. Still, all that was better than letting Sunny fuck their deal because she stroked out on dust while recording the new Damaged album. Not that he didn’t want to see it, mind you, but he wasn’t going to let that skank fuck up his dreams.

  Not again.

  He pushed away the thoughts spilling into his mind and bit back a growl. “Not now,” he whispered, thumping his skull with his palm. For what she did, she deserved every bit of the karma coming her way, but tonight wasn’t about her. It was about the little shits who’d seen one of the rituals they’d performed after one of their last shows.

  As he sat outside the house of the first of the ‘little shits,’ Oswald Riker being his name, Seth paused a moment to take it all in. The place was your average, two story home in Northridge. The lawn was yellow and weeds rose up about knee-high, swaying in the breeze. A couple of old newspapers rotted in the grass. While the porchlight was on, one of those yellow bug ones that cast a sickly pall, none of the windows gleamed with illumination and the house was shrouded in shadows by all the overgrown foliage that buffered the home. Box elders lined the edges of the yard and unkempt, leafy branches reached out as if they were hugging the house, devouring both sides. Gray cinderblock pathways squirmed beneath them on either side, disappearing into the jungle that shielded the house from its neighbors. Seth grinned at that.

  All that made it easy for Seth to do what he needed to. He skirted the side of the house and worked his way toward the backyard. Seth knew damn well where he’d find the kid. In the basement, just like all the other little shits who still lived at home with mommy. It was a pox on the state of the nuclear family, Seth thought. He chuckled. Speaking of nuclear, this place could use a good nuking. Nuke it from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.

  Seth eased open the unlocked gate to the backyard. No sign warning him about a dog, he slipped inside like he owned the place. More trees lined the fence, making him invisible from every which way but the house itself. And since all the lights were out, he felt confident no one watched his approach. In this neighborhood, everyone worked a nine to five, some menial bullshit, or graveyard shifts at 7-11 or a donut dive. By now, everyone would be asleep, likely drunk off their miserable asses, except for maybe the disappointment that was Oswald, the little headbanger with big ideas. He was probably up whacking off to donkey porn while his mom slept upstairs, dreaming of the son she wished she’d squirted out instead of the one she had.

  After tonight, while she’d be down a tax exemption, at least she’d be able to lift her chin proudly in Walmart, knowing she’d never again have to buy cheese in a fucking can or Yoohoos by the case.

  Thanks to the privacy invader Google Earth, Seth knew exactly what Oswald’s house looked like, down to the back entrance to the basement. A few quick clicks later and he knew the layout of the old house, a set of stairs between him and another inside door, which led into the basement. Seth set the crowbar in the gap between the door and the frame and eased his weight against it. There was a long creak that sounded as loud as a Friday night at the Rainbow, during which he gritted his teeth, and the door popped open. He held his breath for a minute, listening to see if anyone had heard, if anyone was coming to investigate, but there was no sign that he’d been noticed. Grateful for that, he dug the switchblade from his pocket, clicked the blade loose of its sheath, and went inside.

  Now it was definitely too late to turn back, breaking having turned into entering.

  He crept down the steps, staying to the sides to avoid making any noise, and came face to face with the second door. Seth touched the knob with a tentative hand and turned. He nearly burst out laughing as the knob spun and the door inched open, unlocked. The rumblings of Megadeth’s “Good Mourning/Black Friday” wafted to his ears from somewhere inside. The kid was awake, just like Seth expected.

  He resisted the urge to bang his head and eased through the opening, closing the door behind him, certain the click would be drowned out by the metal spilling from the stereo. The basement had been modified at some point so it wasn’t just one big room, but several apartment-type rooms set off to either side of the hallway that ran down its center. Right beside him was a small, dark bathroom, the door wide open so he could see it was empty, and a laundry room on the other side. Dim, flickering light spilled from a room down at the end of the hall, off to the left. That’s where the music was coming from. Seth grinned. Just like he’d seen on the layout, the basement was completely sealed off from the house above, the entirety of its space converted to living quarters. And that explained the blasting music so late at night. Oswald’s parents had probably soundproofed the place to keep their problem child out of their hair.

  If only they’d taught the little shit the value of staying the fuck away from places he wasn’t wanted. Then their kid wouldn’t be Seth’s problem, like he was now. Determined to rid himself of that very problem, Seth steeled his nerves, clutched tighter to his knife and crowbar, and made his way down the hall. The music grew louder as he approached, the floor vibrating under his feet. The earthy scent of weed met him halfway. Seth chuckled. The kid must have spent daddy’s money because the stuff Seth was smelling wasn’t skunk. It was the good stuff. Which was cool, he thought. It was like the kid’s last supper. Better to die smoking primo than be gutted while sucking down dirt weed.

  At the doorway, Seth peeked inside, realizing the place was lighted by candles. The room was good-sized, the walls plastered with heavy metal posters and band paraphernalia and Seth recognized a whole bunch of Damaged’s merchandise hanging about, not to mention a fucking What Would Wex Do? T-shirt, but what drew his eye was the kid himself. He sat in the middle of the room, hunched on the floor without any clothes on, his back turned to the doorway.

  Seth’s first instinct was to bolt inside and start wailing on the kid while he had his dick in his hand, but something about the situation froze him in place. A moment later, he caught a whiff of something other than dope, something mingling with the smoke but standing out. Something familiar, a coppery tang. That’s when Seth noticed the dark pool that encircled Oswald. It slowly spread about his feet, oozing across the tiled floor, filling the cracks between.

  Blood?

  Seth stared as the kid muttered to himself. At first Seth thought Oswald’s trembling was a trick of the guttering candlelight, but he soon realized the kid was doing something just out of sight, something that caused him to twitch and hiss every couple of seconds, one of his arms shifting from side to side. From where he stood, Seth had no clue what Oswald was doing and he caught himself drifting into the room so he could get a better angle on things, hoping now that the dude wasn’t whacking off. He didn’t need to see that.

  His focus on the kid, he didn’t see the shards of broken glass until it was too late. They scraped across the tile and crunched underfoot.

  Oswald spun about and Seth felt something warm pepper his cheeks. The kid’s eyes went wide at seeing him
standing there while Seth slid a hand across his face, his fingers coming away red. Seth didn’t need to ask what it was, recognizing the crimson stain of blood, matching the scent he’d noticed. He met the kid’s frantic stare and his breath caught in his lungs. Seth had come to cut Oswald into pieces but it looked as if he’d started without him.

  “I knew you’d come,” Oswald said, his voice raw and ragged, but there was no disguising the crooked smile plastered across his lips. “The voices said you would. Blood orgy.” In his hand was a long, jagged shard of glass. A piece of a mirror, Seth thought.

  Rivers of blood ran from his forehead, streaming around his eyes and dripping from his chin. Seth spied something carved into the kid’s forehead and realized it was an upside down cross, each line cut down so deep that the white of bone glistened beneath the skin. Glen Benton would be impressed.

  “What. The. Fuck?” Seth found himself asking.

  But the cross was the least of the damage. Oswald’s chest and stomach were a mass of dangling strips of flesh that hung in shredded flaps. And there, amidst the blood and scraps of red meat, were the words “Wex is God!” Beneath that, carved across his lower stomach, the cast off staining the kid’s shriveled dick red, was the band’s name, Damaged, cut so deep that Seth feared the kid’s bowels would spill through the letters.

  “I…I know we…shouldn’t…we shouldn’t have been there,” Oswald answered, his eyes orbs of white swirling in their sockets. Seth didn’t know if it was the dope or pain that had him reeling, or both, but the kid looked ready to keel over already. “Shouldn’t have…have taken…taken the pictures… But now…now I know why…why I was chosen to see it.”

  Seth just stood there. He’d come to the house with every intention of killing the kid but what he’d planned was nothing compared to what Oswald had done to himself. The shit was surreal.

  “Uh…chosen, huh?” He didn’t know what to say so he went with the obvious. “Chosen for what?”

  “Yeah…the ritual. All…all of it. I’m…meant to be…be a witness to…to the glory of…your…your damnation.”

  “Yeah?” Fuck! And Seth though Wex was whacked out.

  Oswald nodded, barely able to move his head. “I’m sup-supposed to go…go first. To announce…you.”

  “Go where?”

  The kid swallowed hard. “Hell, of course.”

  “Of course.” How fucking convenient. “So, what? You’re like…our herald or some shit?”

  Oswald grunted and tried to shake his head. “Sac-sacrifice to…to Damaged’s…glory. I die for…for you.”

  That much was fucking obvious. The kid didn’t look as if he’d make it through the next few minutes, let alone the rest of the night. Seth stiffened at the thought, remembering why he was there. Then he let out a nervous sigh. The letter from the Devil only said the kid needed to die, not how or by whose hand. As long as he was dead, Seth had met his obligations and could walk away without worrying about getting ass-fucked by Satan’s cadre of demonic lawyers.

  That worry relieved, Seth drew a little closer, examining the wounds Oswald had inflicted on his miserable flesh. It was bad. Real bad. Seth felt his stomach churn being this close.

  Additional cuts had been made across Oswald’s thighs; song lyrics from what Seth could tell. He growled as he recognized them.

  Burn, burn the house of God.

  Let it be remembered no more.

  Burn, the idols of the age.

  Icons to the fallen faith.

  Of course it had to be “Burn,” one of the few songs Wex had actually written himself, without help from Old Lou. Seth hated that song. Add that to the idiotic tribute to the fucker carved into Oswald’s chest, any pity Seth felt for the kid vanished. “It had to be fucking him, huh?” God damned singers. Nobody gave a damn about the bass player who held the shit down night after night. No, all those little girls and boys screaming out Wex’s name and begging for his autograph and throwing their moist panties at him. Fuck that guy.

  “And fuck you, motherfucker!” Seth kicked the kid in his chest and sent him sprawling. “Get to dying if that’s what you’re supposed to do, but you’re gonna be damned disappointed that I’m in no hurry to meet your dumb ass there.”

  The kid took the shot without crying, not that Seth would notice any tears amidst the waterfall of blood painting his face. He tumbled into the bed and just lay where he’d fallen, staring up at Seth through round, red eyes.

  The band had only known about the kids because of some loudmouthed security guard who’d bragged about catching them outside the door to the room the band had worked the ritual in. That was bad enough, but then the little punks released photos of the ritual. Sure they were lousy pics, blurry and hard as hell to identify anything, let alone the band or what was going on, but they sure as shit didn’t need anyone looking deeper into what the band did behind closed doors. There was way too much crap there not to find something if someone wanted to look hard enough.

  Besides, no one uninvolved was supposed to observe the rituals, especially no one not so drugged out of their head that they could remember any of what happened. These two kids, however, had seen everything and there was no way to know who they’d told outside of the whole fucking internet. Even if most people wouldn’t believe a word the two stoners said, eventually someone would have to. Too much smoke for there to be no fire.

  Seth couldn’t have that. Not now. Not when there was so much riding on the line. So he asked the Devil for a way out and the Devil provided. Now Seth just needed to tie off the loose ends.

  “What about your friend?” Seth asked. “The other fucking moron that was with you when you took the pictures.”

  “He won’t…won’t tell anyone anything. He…he…”

  Seth grinned. Oswald knew his time was up, but that didn’t change anything. “Tell me where I can find Jon right now. You can tell your buddy Seth.” He had the address but, after the weirdness he’d witnessed, he didn’t want to take any chances. Who knew what he would walk in on? The other kid might damn well be fucking nuts just like this one was. “Better yet, how about you call that fucker and have him come over so I can have a chat with him.”

  Oswald shook his head. “I told you…he…he won’t be a problem. He—”

  “I don’t give a badger’s nuts what you told me. I want to see him. Now!”

  The kid sank deeper toward the floor, his head bobbing as blood loss made him faint and he tried to stay awake. He stayed quiet and only pointed. Seth followed his finger and felt his heart sputter.

  Now he knew what Oswald meant by the other kid not being a problem.

  There, just the other side of the door, was Jon Moony. He stared at Seth through narrow eyes but he wasn’t seeing shit. The kid was dead. A makeshift noose of electrical cords was wrapped about his neck and he hung from the wooden frame of what used to be the stairs that led to the house above, nothing left but wooden beams. His face was a deep shade of purple, his neck twisted at a crooked angle. The blackened nub of his tongue lolled from his mouth.

  He, too, was naked, and it was obvious that Oswald had practiced his handiwork on his friend before starting in on himself. Deep lines were carved above the kid’s crotch, but it was what had been done to the rest that caught Seth off guard. A weight had been tied to Jon’s dick with fishing wire, pulling it toward the floor. His nutsack had been split and each of his testicles had been pulled to the side and nailed to the kid’s inner thighs, like two disgruntled starfish arms. The whole thing, the cuts and disfigurement taken as a singular image, formed a rudimentary pentagram. Seth didn’t know whether to applaud the effort or puke.

  More lyrics had been carved beneath the splayed nuts but Seth couldn’t be bothered to read them in case they were more of Seth’s, or God forbid, that fucking bitch Sunny’s. He turned from the wreck of flesh dangling from the rafters and nodded at Oswald, a grudging respect growing for the kid’s audacity.

  “That’s some fucking metal shit, man. Br
utal.” He threw up the horns. “They’ll be talking about this for ages, bro. Well, I will, at least.”

  Oswald grunted, clearly about to slip away.

  Seth stared at him a moment. The kid would be easy to kill now but Seth had an idea. He chuckled. “You want to go out with a bang?” he asked.

  Oswald nodded as best he could. “Yeah…yes.”

  Seth tossed the switchblade to him, the knife clattering to the floor beside the kid. “Finish the job then,” he said. “Die on your terms and I’ll put a good word in with the Devil for you. Tell him how fucking radical a sacrifice you made.” He motioned toward the floor with his chin, eyeing the knife.

  The kid clearly understood. He did his best to grin as his hand dragged across the floor and gripped the knife handle. “You’ll tell…tell my mom I…I went out…serving...a…grand purpose?”

  “Sure thing, kid.” Seth crossed his heart, trying his best not to laugh at the infantile gesture. “The fucking grandest.”

  That seemed to be all the motivation Oswald needed. He lifted the blade and, without any hesitation at all, jammed the knife into his eye, burying it up to the hilt. There was a quiet pop like someone had stepped on a sheet of bubble wrap, and goo spewed from Oswald’s wound, streaming down his cheek. His hand fell away and hit the ground with a slap. The kid slumped against the frame of his bed, blade jiggling from his eye socket.

  Seth staggered back a step. He hadn’t expected the kid to really do it. Damned if he didn’t go out a warrior. He figured Oswald would bleed out before he could do more than cut himself a few more times. Still, the deed was done and Seth was free of it. With only one more thing to do to meet the Devil’s demands, he took off.

  Seth left the switchblade where it was—it was something he’d found ages ago, anyway, and had wiped all the prints off before bringing it—and made his way out of the house and back to his car. No witnesses to what had happened, he started the Mercury and drove away, leaving the lights off until he rounded the corner.