by Paul Seiple
A hush fell over the crowd. The man laughed into the microphone.
"Take this goddamn blindfold off of me," Melanie said.
"Patience, Miss Carpenter. Maestro will not keep you waiting much longer."
Music played again. It wasn't ragtime. Big band maybe. Melanie wasn't quite sure. At least it didn't have the same repetitive beat.
"You're so lucky."
"Excuse me," Melanie said. "You must have a warped definition of lucky. I'm being held captive and blindfolded."
"He wants you."
A hint of jealousy clouded the disappointment in the woman's voice.
"We've all tried to get his attention."
Melanie chuckled. "He's not a god."
"Oh, but he is to us. And he has chosen you." The woman's voice grew irritated. "I wish I could slice your throat right now. No, no, I don't. I'm sorry for saying that. He wouldn't like that. Maestro is a peaceful man."
The music stopped again.
The deep voice spoke into the microphone again. "Please stand for the reason we are here tonight. Miss Melanie Carpenter."
Clapping rang out. Melanie felt something against her face. The woman tore the blindfold from Melanie's eyes, allowing bright light to assault her. Melanie squinted before the scene came into focus. There were at least twenty people staring at her, clapping. She saw Abe standing with a woman who was tracing the scars on his bare chest. He smiled and mouthed the words, "I like the pain."
Melanie jerked in an attempt to free herself from the wrist shackles. She tried to stand, but someone from behind pressed down on her shoulders.
"Just relax."
Melanie caught a glance of the giant behind her. A bald man, standing nearly seven feet tall, hovered over her. It's a goddamn freak show, she thought.
"Silence," the man at the microphone said. He wore a top hat and a wine-colored coat with tails. His pencil-thin handlebar mustache drew attention to his narrow face.
The crowd stood in silence as a shadow appeared behind the emcee. It grew wider and larger and resembled something out of a horror movie. The emcee backed away from the microphone and disappeared behind a curtain. "My Reverie" by Glenn Miller played as Maestro appeared. He was a tall man who hid beneath a weathered brown trench coat. His face was shielded with a gas mask colored brightly to resemble Day of the Dead face paint. Dark hair peeked from underneath the mask. He held a cane in his left hand. The crowd cheered as he raised it above his head.
Melanie shifted again. Two strong hands on her shoulders reminded her that she wasn't going anywhere. The music lowered to a whisper. The lighting gave the illusion that Maestro grew taller as he approached the microphone.
"Good evening, my faithful congregation. We are about to witness a very special evening." The voice was slightly distorted, almost robotic. "Has everyone welcomed our guest of honor?" The man pointed to Melanie. "I'd like to introduce myself, Miss Carpenter. I am Maestro." He held out his arms, displaying an impressive wingspan. "And this is my world."
The crowd waited for Melanie to respond. She stared, stone-faced, at Maestro. The audience clapped awkwardly out of key, not sure how they should react. Maestro motioned for silence.
"I hope the silence isn't due to ungratefulness," Maestro said. "Maybe a cat has Miss Carpenter's tongue."
The crowd laughed in unison, almost as robotic as Maestro's voice. Shivers spread over Melanie's body. The laughter and the way the group hung on the edge of Maestro's every word proved that this was a cult and Maestro was supplying the Kool-Aid.
"Before we begin, I'd like to address an incident that happened earlier with one of our guests. I've spoken to you countless times about the power of control."
Two smaller men dressed as court jesters moved a podium in front of Maestro. He took a book from the pocket of his jacket and began to read.
"In Meditations, Marcus Aurelius said, 'You shouldn't give circumstances the power to rouse anger for they don't care at all'." He moved away from the podium. "Our brother Miles gave his power to a situation he had no control over today. He learned a valuable lesson about what is and what is not within our control. I do not bring light to this situation to embarrass Miles. I mention it in hopes you will remember this incident if something outside of your control threatens to steal your power. What do we say if we are faced with this?"
Everyone chanted, "My control is my power. My power is my control."
Maestro nodded.
"The shit is too weird," Melanie said.
The enormous hands pressed down on her shoulders.
"What? I can't voice my opinion on this Heaven's Gate nonsense? My opinion is my power. My power is my opinion." Melanie sighed. Her voice held strong without cracking. The spectacle terrified her. She’d fought hordes of the dead, but the only thing that came close to this was finding out her ex-boyfriend was a serial killer. Melanie had been through more than enough horrors for one lifetime. But this felt different. In the past, she had an escape. With Dean, it was Winston Fleming who helped her. With the dead, it was the compound. She was on her own now, and this Maestro held the will of at least thirty people, and who knew how many more watching from the shadows, in the palm of his hand.
Maestro shifted behind the podium again. He surveyed the crowd. His body language hinted at approval, but the gas mask hid his true feelings. "We've taken enough time. I'm not here to preach tonight. We have Sunday for that. Tonight, we celebrate this new life we have been given in the face of adversity. Every one of you, including Miss Carpenter, are free from disease, immune to the plague that desecrated the world we knew. We are the saviors left to rebuild humanity in its purest form. Tonight, my friends, we celebrate rebirth. We celebrate letting go of the past and creating the future. And most importantly, we celebrate survival. Tonight's show is called 'The Inferno: An Ode to Dante.' Let the show begin." Maestro raised the cane again. The cheering was almost deafening.
Two women appeared from behind a purple velvet-like curtain and pulled ropes. The curtain opened. Twelve bodies hung from the ceiling by their feet. Their arms were crossed against their chests and secured by ropes. They wore plastic bags as masks painted similar to Maestro's gas mask. The bodies jerked and swayed like caterpillars trying to break free from their cocoons. Maestro weaved between the bodies, spinning and dancing around each one to Bobby Darin's rendition of "Mack the Knife."
"Is it unfortunate that this happened?" Maestro asked, quoting Marcus Aurelius again. "No, it is fortunate that this has happened, and I've remained unharmed." He pressed the cane's handle and a twelve-inch blade appeared at its base. Maestro swung the cane like a bat, striking the abdomen of the hanging body closest to him, spilling its insides. The crowd cheered. Melanie tried to stand again. The hands on her shoulders made it impossible.
"The soul possessed by the devil's virus shall now be free," Maestro said as he removed the mask revealing a man with sunken cheeks and grayed flesh. "Rejoice in the afterlife." Maestro jammed the blade into the man's temple. After a moment, he cut the rope, and the man fell to the dirt.
"I don't know what you're worried about," the giant behind Melanie said. "Maestro is freeing the souls of the infected."
"He's playing a goddamn game of piñata with the dead," Melanie said.
Maestro repeated the action and the speech until there were only two bodies hanging. He pressed the blade to the head of one. Its movements were more fluid than the others.
"Fate is a fickle thing. Two are left. One will meet the blade. One will be spared of its tip. Who has the better fate? What is the better fate? To drift off into the abyss and not to hunger for the life you once had? Or to remain a mindless shell, wander aimlessly, and hunger for human flesh? Maybe one day there will be a cure for the devil's virus. So who receives the better fate?" Maestro asked.
The crowd went silent. Melanie wasn't sure if it was due to the lack of an answer or out of fear of answering wrong. The man who called himself Maestro ruled these people. Melanie knew from the l
ooks on their faces the latter was probably the case.
"To paraphrase Cicero, if it is your fate to recover from this illness, you will recover. But what defines recovery? Is ultimate death the true recovery from this diseased-riddled world?"
Melanie chewed her cheek in an effort to keep quiet. Maestro was unhinged. His speech began to make no sense. No longer able to keep quiet, she turned the man holding her in place. "Why do you follow this guy?"
"Recovery from the devil's virus is subjective. I view recovery as fading into the abyss. There may be nothing for the soul after this life, but true hell is wandering this land aimlessly with no control," Maestro said before swinging the cane and slicing into the body to his left. This was different. The body writhed and a guttural wail followed. Maestro tore the mask from the face, revealing Roger.
"No!" Melanie screamed. She jerked with enough force to free herself from her captor. She lunged toward the crowd, but Abe ran forward and stopped her.
"Get the fuck off me. That sick bastard murdered my friend."
Melanie headbutted Abe, splitting his cheek. She felt warm liquid flow from her forehead down to the bridge of her nose. The giant restrained her and guided Melanie back to the chair. Her vision was blurred from a mixture of tears, blood, and the throbbing ache from hitting Abe.
"Miss Carpenter, I know this seems like a cruel game we are playing with your friend, but the gods have smiled upon him. Roger will no longer suffer in this unforgiving world." Maestro grabbed Roger's hair. Roger tried to call to Melanie but could only produce a moan. Maestro jammed the blade into the Roger's right ear, ending his misery. He didn't cut Roger down like the others. Maestro allowed Roger to hang like a deer after a prized hunt.
"You're a fucking psycho!" Melanie screamed. Her words ricocheted through the crowd.
"I understand that you're upset, but getting angry will not help the situation, Miss Carpenter. Control your emotions. You have no control over this situation,” Maestro said.
Maestro dipped the blade from his cane into Roger's blood that pooled on in the dirt and used it to write on the torso of the last hanging body. He wrote "Forgive" in crimson before removing the mask to reveal Miles.
"Please... don't kill me," Miles said.
"Killing you would have been doing you a favor. I forgive you, but your suffering will continue." Maestro turned and walked away from Miles. He handed the cane to a woman. "Cut him down and continue his medical attention."
Twenty
He crouched and moved forward on his knees. The leaves beneath his body crunched but weren't loud enough to disrupt the rabbit from feeding on a patch of grass. He needed protein. Before the outbreak, he weighed a solid two fifteen, which he carried well on his six-two frame. He hadn't weighed himself in years, but he guessed it was around one thirty.
The rabbit shifted. Its back was no longer to him. He froze, hoping it would move again. Something dug into his kneecap. I hope it's something I can eat, he thought, knowing it was probably a rock. Whatever it was ground into his skin deeper. He couldn't hold the position any longer. He slowly lifted his hand before moving his leg. The rabbit stopped eating and looked around. He held the pose resembling a bad form of yoga. Come on, eat the grass, he thought.
A scream rushed through the forest. The rabbit ran. He fell to his side and fumbled for his knife. Another scream, this one was female. He brushed the pebbles from his knees and stood. The survivalist in him said mind your business and move on.
"It came from the direction of that weird camp."
He paced for a few seconds weighing the pros and cons of investigating the screams. The protector in him argued that someone needed help.
"Screw it. I need the supplies anyway."
He dropped his bag and shuffled through it for a weapon. He grabbed a pistol. It wasn't much, just a rusty revolver with two bullets. But he only needed one if he got in a bind. He sheathed his knife, slung the pack over his shoulder, and headed in the direction of the screams.
The camp came into sight. He checked the revolver again and felt his hip for the knife. After the check, he stepped out of the woods and ducked behind a torched pickup truck. Two men stood near the entrance of the camp wearing something resembling vaudeville outfits. It was hard to tell if they were guards or if they were armed. This was another one of those moments he scolded himself for not going to the doctor before the apocalypse. His eyes had gradually worsened as he got older. He could use a pair of glasses. He squinted and gauged the men were younger than him, but he could take them. He eased around the back of the truck and ran towards a wall of wooden pallets on the other side of the road. The enemy was clearer at this distance. One man had a rifle and the other a bat. He scoped out every direction for more people. After reassuring himself there were only two, he moved in. He placed his back against the metal fence shielding the camp. He took a few steps, hid behind more pallets, and eavesdropped on their conversation.
"That was the best show yet."
"You think? I would have liked it better if Maestro had gutted Miles."
"Yeah, I guess. Miles is an asshole. He probably deserved it more than that new guy."
"What about the girl? She's my type."
"You mean hot and crazy as hell?"
Both men laughed.
Enough of this, he thought. He slipped closer to the men, who continued to talk with their backs to him. Once within his reach, he unsheathed the knife and cleared his throat, drawing the attention of both men. He shoved the blade under the chin of the man armed with a gun and took the knees out of the man wielding a bat. He grabbed the bat and clubbed the man in the side of the head.
"That was easy enough," he said, retrieving the knife. He peeked through a curtain blocking the camp. His stomach gurgled as the smell of popcorn wafted through the air.
"How the hell did they get popcorn? I can't even catch a rabbit," he said before picking up the rifle. It wasn't impressive. It looked to be an old Springfield, maybe World War II era. The rust made it impossible to identify. He didn't care, as long as it fired. He inspected the rifle further. It wasn't loaded. He laughed and put it on the chest of one of the men.
He placed his back against the fence and slid to the ground. The lack of protein had weakened him to the point walking a few paces tired him. He needed to rest up before taking on the weirdos.
Twenty-One
Melanie ran her hand over the gauze bandage wrapped around her forehead. It was damp with a warm liquid. Blood seeped through. Her eyes throbbed. Her head was sore to the touch. Melanie had no idea how bad she hurt herself, but judging by the gash on Abe's cheek, it would leave a scar. She rolled onto her side and faced the cold, concrete wall of the cell. Her eyes watered as she thought back to meeting Roger. It was a few months after the destruction of Black Dog. Melanie had wrestled with trust issues since her time in New York. The Black Dog incident helped to solidify her fear that the majority of people were not good souls. Meeting Roger gave her hope in humankind, or what was left of it. Roger took Melanie, James, and Carolyn in as strangers even after hearing the absurd story of how a private military organization destroyed her town. Roger welcomed them and shared his land and resources. The group became a family, and their bond tightened as Judas spread throughout the United States. Roger trusted Melanie with his life, and she got him killed. The guilt created a pain that overshadowed the gash on her forehead.
Melanie closed her eyes but couldn't shake Roger's smile. He was happy even in the face of extinction. He probably cracked jokes until the point of being hanged like a piñata. Roger didn't deserve to die at the hands of a madman. Melanie wanted to vomit, not from sickness. She wanted to purge the guilt that possessed her, but it was something she would carry for the rest of her life. Roger was dead because of her. Nothing would ever change that, not even the long and painful death of the man who called himself Maestro.
A clang against the door startled Melanie. She sat up and backed against the wall. The door opened. A short, ch
ubby woman with glasses blocked the light attempting to enter the cell.
"It's OK, dear. I'm not going to hurt you. I need to check out your injury."
"Don't come near me," Melanie said.
The woman put her stubby arms up. "You need medical attention. I'm a doctor. My name is Beverly Cooper."
"I don't need anything from you people."
"You can be stubborn later. I really need to check that cut," Beverly said.
Melanie stood and bent her legs, taking an offensive stance. Even in her injured state, she knew she could overpower Beverly.
"I'd advise against hostility, dear. There are two well-trained soldiers on the other side of this door waiting for me. I'm the only doctor here, so I'm pretty important." Beverly moved toward Melanie. "Now let's survey the damage."
Beverly reached for the bandage. Melanie relaxed and let the doctor examine her. She could get past Beverly, but she believed there were two people waiting on the other side of the door. She didn't have the fight in her to deal with them. And she had a sinking feeling they didn't have orders to kill her. Melanie was tired of suffering.
"Ouch. You pack a mean headbutt. I thought Abe's cut was bad. You're definitely going to scar. I need to stitch you up." Beverly reached into a black bag. "I'm sorry I don't have any anesthetic. It's going to hurt."
"It already hurts," Melanie said.
Beverly's soft touch soothed Melanie. It reminded her of home, something she hadn't thought about in years. Melanie's mother would be around Beverly's age if she were still alive. She relaxed and went back to a time when she was about ten or eleven and her mother took care of her after a bicycle accident. Until this point, Melanie had successfully blocked out her memories of her parents. It was too painful to remember, but a warmth blanketed her as she pictured her mother telling her everything would be all right as she cleaned a scrape on her knee. Melanie smiled, as she felt this was a way of her mother protecting her once again. This time from the guilt of Roger's death.
