Among the Living (22 page)

Allen strums his guitar lovingly, fingers dancing up the frets, then whipping down again. The guitar is shaped like an ax, and it goes well with Sid’s. When they headbang together, it is a wicked sight.

They pass the remains of the whiskey around, all except Eric, who doesn’t drink anymore. He was a heavy alcoholic but avoids the stuff now like it’s acid. The rest of the band has heard the stories, how he was a mean drunk and started shit with fans every night. Not good PR, man.

The club manager pokes his head into the room. “Five minutes, guys.”

Grinder answers with the devil horn salute, index and pinky finger raised high.

The band doesn’t say a prayer, they don’t have a pre-show ritual, they just wait for the signal and then march to the stage. There is some posturing, hair being loosened or tossed back as if they are already on stage. They walk with big, purposeful strides as if they own the place. There is an attitude to being in a band like this, an attitude of unbridled intimidation.

The little hallway reeks of cigarettes and beer. From one corner comes the stench of old piss, and instead of shying away or looking grossed out, Grinder snorts in a familiar way that says, “This is my house now.”

The stage is tiny, a postage stamp, and through the little curtain that separates the left and right sides, they can see the crowd is a seething mass. There may be only six hundred out there, but they are fucking loud. The ground shakes in anticipation, and Grinder almost gets wood. This is why I do it for, for the love. Then the music starts. It sounds grandiose, like a sweeping chorus from a Lord of the Rings movie.

The lights start to flash, a strobe that turns the howling mob into demons. The front row is pressed up against the stage so they can barely move. Sweaty faces and upraised fists are the order of the night. When the lights go down, there is a massive wave as the latecomers jockey for position against those who have stood their ground all night while pressed against the stage. It’s not just men, either. Girls in leather and stilettos fight for the front with as much passion.

BOOM! The first volley as the music crescendos and the stage flashes brightly from behind. Wil slithers between a stack of amps and creeps up on his drum kit. When the next splash hits, he is already on his throne.

BOOM!! And the lights flash again. This time Wil raises both hands in the devil horn salute. Then the stage goes dark and they step onto it. Grinder struts to the microphone as the music builds. He doesn’t look at the crowd, who are going nuts; he just offers his fist.

The last BOOM shakes the building and the music stops, the lights go out, and all they can hear is six hundred people screaming at the top of their lungs. Screaming for them, and Grinder wonders how in the world Sid can even think about giving this up. He glances Sid’s way, but his head is down, long curly black hair obscuring his face and upper body.

The lights go up, and the band launches into their favorite opener, a staccato-paced piece called The Sleeper Awakens.

If Grinder were in the back, he knows exactly what he would see. Four heads bobbing up and down to the music as they bang the shit out of the venue. Then the first line comes up, Grinder gathers phlegm, pulls the microphone to his mouth in a tight fist and lets loose his growling vocals.

It’s going to be a great night.

* * *

Chuck is a gorilla of a man. He stands outside of El Cid with his hands crossed over his massive chest while the third shitty band of the night batters the brains out of the kids inside. It’s dark thanks to a series of streetlights that failed months ago and have never been fixed. There is the rush of cars along Eastgate Avenue on their way to I-5, but fewer than usual, owing, perhaps, to the shit going on up on Queen Anne.

A tour bus is parked outside behind a camper on the back of a big Ford F-350. The bus is old, seen better days. It must house the main band, a gift from their record label. Here ya go, boys, enjoy riding in style in this twenty-year-old bus that probably used to ferry old people to Vegas once upon a time.

The camper is just plain pathetic. Who would want to live that kind of life? Not Chuck Malanski, that’s for goddamn sure.

He has been doing this job for a long time, and he has seen a lot of shit. He wears his old black t-shirt every night with something approaching pride. It has a single word on the front and the same word on the back:

SECURITY.

This magic word allows Chuck to get away with all kinds of things. He gets to pull people out of the mosh pit by their hair. He gets to sucker punch drunken ones who don’t listen when he yells that they need to move the fuck out of his way. He can start fights, he can stop them. He is big enough that no matter how fucked-up the little metal heads are, they usually don’t mess with him. He is all too familiar with their type—all the attitude and ego. It’s all for show, and when he confronts them, they always back down with a whispered, “Wish that mother fucker would have touched me” as he struts away.

He hates the music at the place, although he would never say that to his employer’s face. Truth be told, he is a good guy when he is away from this sinful cesspool. He enjoys church on occasion and would consider himself a God-fearing man. He lives his life by his own code, one that allows him to do bad things to people he considers beneath him, people like those at the concert tonight.

When he goes to work, he is a different man. He sees himself as some sort of avenging angel, the kind that uses his fists for words and his size 14 metal-tipped boots when he has to. Tonight is no different. It’s another band of losers playing for a full house of equally brain dead losers.

He watches the back entrance to make sure none of the little shitheads tries to sneak out for a toke. He likes the way the music washes over him from inside. It is muffled and mindless with a beat he can still feel in his chest.

A couple of girls walk by in miniskirts, black tank tops barely holding in their boobs. Both sport six-inch heels. They look like whores, but he watches them just the same. Nice ass on the blonde—too bad she is probably a skanky bitch who is trying to get backstage so she can blow one of the band members.

A man wanders into the alley and slips on a pile of refuse. Oh great, another drunk. The guy staggers and then walks into a wall. He stands there, face to the red brick surface, and doesn’t move for a minute. He is stocky, built like a linebacker except he can’t be taller than five foot six. He wears a pair of blue coveralls that look like a painting uniform. There is a patch on the front, but Chuck can’t read it in the poor lighting. The man turns his head ever so slowly, eyes passing the beefy security guard, sweeping past him and then staring at the moon as if he were a werewolf about to howl.

Chuck doesn’t offer a smile or even acknowledge the guy, who is clearly drunk. As if to confirm this, the guy lets out a moan and then staggers toward him. Chuck leaves his arms crossed, because no one is stupid enough to mess with him. He may give him a dirty look or try to bum a smoke, but Chuck is confident he will get a load of his size and move the fuck on.

“You okay, buddy?” he asks as the asshole wanders toward him. Now that he is closer, Chuck thinks the man doesn’t look so hot. In fact, he looks like hell with blood-red eyes sunken into their sockets. His face is ashen, devoid of emotion. Is that blood on his shirt? Chuck likes to kick ass and not take names, but he hates to get blood on himself. Please be spilled tomato juice.

“Just calm down, buddy. We are full up in there, all right?” he says in the tone they taught before he washed out of the Seattle police academy for lying on his job application. It was just a big misunderstanding—him and that kid. If she had just kept her mouth shut … but she had to tell her dad. It’s not like they even did anything. He only put his hand between her legs because she said it was cool.

The drunk moves quickly, and Chuck steps back into a fighting stance. He draws back to throw a punch, but the guy now has his mouth wide open, and it is a bloody grin of horror.

He howls just before he leaps in the air, but Chuck throws his arm forward and catches the guy full in the face with one giant fist. Cartilage snaps, bones shift, and the guy should be down for the count. He drops like a lead weight and doesn’t move. Chuck didn’t mean to hit him that hard. In fact, he threw the fist up as protection more than anything else. But the guy was moving so fast the momentum turned into pain and, it seems, broken bones.

Oh shit, how hard did I hit him?

He wanders over and nudges the body. No response.

“You okay, buddy? Didn’t mean to hit you so hard,” he lies in case the guy is still conscious.

He drops to one knee on the side of the road and checks the guy’s chest. Holy crap, no heartbeat. He puts his hand near the drunk’s nose to test for breath, because that’s what they do on TV. As soon as his hand is near, the guy opens his blood-filled eyes and darts his face off the ground. Pulped nose notwithstanding—and not bleeding—he snaps like a viper and takes off the last finger of Chuck’s large hand. It just pops off in the guy’s mouth, and as the pain starts to register, as the revulsion starts to sink in, the drunk moves forward. Hand whips up and wraps around one of Chuck’s massive biceps; mouth darts up and nips off the tip of the big security guard’s nose.

There is chewing, there is screaming, but the thing doesn’t let go. It tightens its grip and pulls closer as Chuck tries to stand. He comes to his feet, and the thing bites him in the neck, severing his vocal cords and sending his blood flowing down his black SECURITY shirt. At first he is shocked that a short guy attacked him at all, and then his mind turns to the blood rushing across his chest. Not someone else’s blood, but his own. His mind tries to cope with the shock, with the pain. He thrashes, but the thing latches on and won’t let go. It bites into him over and over, and his world is nothing but blinding agony.

Then he dies, and he doesn’t think of anything at all.

Lester staggers out of the house, breathless, exhausted, and pissed. He storms across the yard, into the gate and promptly trips over one of his bags of pilfered goodies.

“Mother fucker!” he screams and stands up and kicks the bag. This results in him stubbing his toe against a very hard tin can. He wants to pound on something, but he goes silent as moans from the front of the house scare his breath away. He gasps and freezes. What did he just do? All that creeping about only to lose it for a minute. Stupid!

He grabs the bag and grimaces at the way it crinkles. He shuts the gate quietly but for the little snick as the latch catches and locks. He storms to the back of the house on light feet, teeth clenched so hard they grind together. He almost bowls over Angela in the process. She backs into the doorway, wide eyes fixed on him. Lester studies her for a moment, her hair hanging in her face because she hasn’t been able to wash it since yesterday morning. Her face is lined with tiny wrinkles, particularly around the eyes and lips; she looks at least ten years older. Her eyes are sunken in; red blood vessels make them look like they are glowing. What the fuck are we doing here? They need to get out of Dodge, because there ain’t no sheriff coming to rescue them anytime soon.

Even for her tired look, he can’t get mad at her. She is so good to him and fucks like a little monkey on speed. She is the best time of his life, a life he has pretty much wasted in the pursuit of the next scam, moneymaker, or drug deal. But being locked up in the little house is going to get real fucking old real fucking quick.

“Sorry, babe,” he mumbles and limps into the house. She stands aside as he walks past.

“What happened? I heard gunshots!”

“I found our neighbors.”

“Oh God, are they all right?”

“Well, John had half his brains lying on the floor but was still moving. I had to beat the shit out of Jan; she attacked me.”

“Jan?”

“The wife. Jane?”

“Her name is Justine.”

“Oh. Well, I had to beat Justine to death with a DVD rack. She came on too strong.” He tries to grin but instead starts laughing big hysterical guffaws that come fast and breathy. Tears blur his vision, and he isn’t sure if they are from the stress of the last half hour or the ridiculous way he had to massacre his neighbors.

Angela puts her hand on his back and rubs it. He doesn’t stop laughing, and pretty soon she is giggling along with him.

“It’s not funny!” He tries to sound serious as tears of relief stream down his face.

“I know.” She laughs with him.

* * *

“Start, bitch!” Lester grumbles again as he yanks the cord on the generator. This time he must have gotten it primed right, because it roars to life. They placed it upstairs in the empty bedroom near an open window, exhaust pointed out. He already ran a couple of extension cords downstairs. Once satisfied with the fuel level, he shuts the door with the cord running under it and stuffs a folded towel into the space. There is no way he is going to run that thing outside with the back door open.

“We got juice!” he calls out.

“Can we heat some water?” she calls back hopefully.

“I don’t think so, maybe a little at a time.”