Authors: Scott Westerfeld
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Horror & Ghost Stories, #Performing Arts, #Music
The Last Days (25 page)
In all my fantasies about being famous, I was
already
famous, so I never had to
get
famous. I never had to walk out in front of a crowd for the first time, unknown and defenseless. In my dreams, this awful night had already happened.
already
famous, so I never had to
get
famous. I never had to walk out in front of a crowd for the first time, unknown and defenseless. In my dreams, this awful night had already happened.
I looked over at Moz, but he was staring down at his feet and still trembling, like he was having a seizure. Behind her paint buckets, Alana Ray’s eyes were shut, and Pearl was peering down at her keyboards, flicking switches as fast as she could, like she was about to take off in a spaceship. Nobody looked back at me, like they were all suddenly embarrassed to be in the same band.
It’s not my fault!
I wanted to shout.
I never wanted to play the bass!
I wanted to shout.
I never wanted to play the bass!
Minerva was the only one who looked happy to be onstage. She was already leaning over her mike stand, talking to a bunch of tattooed guys down in front, flirting with them, flicking at their grasping hands with spike-heeled black boots. Even through her dark glasses you could see that her eyes were scary-wide and glowing, sucking energy from the crowd before she’d sung a single note.
Pearl gave me a low E, and I took a deep breath and tuned up. The sound boomed out from my bass like a foghorn, rumbling through the club. A few howls from the audience answered the noise, as if I’d interrupted someone’s conversation and they were pissed.
The guys flirting with Minerva had big muscles and tattoos on their shaved heads. I’d read the night before about a big riot in Europe, a whole crowd at some soccer game going crazy all at once, attacking one another. Hundreds had died, and nobody knew why.
What if that happened here, right now? The whole crowd turning into deadly maniacs? I knew exactly who everyone would choose to kill first.
The half-assed bass player in the lame T-shirt. That’s who.
When we were all tuned up, the stage lights lowered. Total darkness, like I’d suddenly gone blind from freaking out. More impatient shouts filtered up from the crowd, and someone yelled, “You suck!” which people laughed at, because we hadn’t even started yet.
We were so dead.
I swallowed, waiting to begin. . . .
“Zahler!” Pearl hissed.
Oh, right. We were doing the Big Riff first.
I
was supposed to start.
I
was supposed to start.
My fingers groped for the strings, and I heard the amps squeak with the sweat on my fingers. I tried to remember what to play.
And I couldn’t.
No, this wasn’t happening. . . .
I’d been playing this riff for six years, and yet it had somehow disappeared from my brain, from my fingers, from my whole body.
I stood there in silence, waiting to die.
25. MASSIVE ATTACK
-MOZ-
Zahler had frozen up.
Perfect.
My head was burning, sweat running into my eyes, heart pounding like something in a cage. But it wasn’t stage fright; it was the beast gone wild in me. I’d been anxious all day, too nervous to eat, and now the hunger had caught up with me all at once.
Garlic and mandrake tea wasn’t cutting it. I needed flesh and blood.
“Play, Zahler!”
I heard Pearl hiss, trying to get him going.
I heard Pearl hiss, trying to get him going.
The crowd was growing impatient, a restless hum building before us, but at least the delay gave me a few more seconds of darkness. My vision had been doing weird things all day: I hadn’t been able to look at Min, as if her face were made of sharp angles that cut into my eyes. Even the smell of her clothes and perfume was making my head spin, as if living together had somehow given me an overdose of her.
But here in the darkness I felt alone, almost under control.
Zahler still wasn’t starting the Big Riff, though, which left only me. I could play his old guitar part and wait for him to come in. But once the music began, the lights would pop back on, so bright, so sharp. . . .
And then the hunger would take control again.
I could run offstage right now, slip out of the club and into some all-night store, wolf down a slab of raw meat. Probably a better idea than taking a chunk out of someone right here in front of a thousand witnesses.
But even with the beast ravenous inside me, I had to stay. I couldn’t let Zahler live forever with the shame of having blown it tonight.
I took a deep breath, and just as my fingers moved . . . Zahler finally began to play.
Six years of practice took over: the Big Riff grabbed me, coiled around my spine and out my fingers, my nervous system responding as automatically as breathing. Pearl followed, then Alana Ray came in, the echoes of her paint buckets making the space huge around us.
The lights came up, and the crowd was suddenly cheering.
Good move, Zahler
, I thought.
Making them wait for it.
, I thought.
Making them wait for it.
Minerva kept them waiting too, left the Big Riff grinding for a solid minute before she brought the microphone anywhere near her lips. But you could tell she hadn’t frozen up—her whole body moved with the beat, drawing every eye in the crowd, gulping in their energy.
She played with them, drawing the microphone close, then pushing it away, grinning behind dark glasses. The Big Riff could hypnotize you, I knew all too well—Zahler and I sometimes played it for hours at a stretch. When Minerva let it flow through her body, she was as spell-binding as a swaying cobra.
Then she pulled off her glasses, braving the spotlights to peer into the audience, to fix them with her gaze. I saw their faces ignite with the light reflected from her, as if somehow she’d made eye contact with everyone.
That was when she started to sing, and when I started to feel
really
funny.
really
funny.
The words that Minerva had scrawled down in her basement tumbled out of her, as lunatic as the first time she’d played with us—incomprehensible, ancient, and wild. They dredged up weird pictures in my mind, the skulls and centipedes carved into the iron lock on her bedroom door.
The ground began to rumble.
Maybe it was just my stomach, the gnawing hunger changing into something sharper. It felt as if all the raw hamburger I’d consumed over the last few weeks had gotten to me at last, my iron gut finally succumbing to food poisoning.
The sight of Minerva with her glasses off made my head spin, the spotlights flashing from her face like crystal. I felt the garlic leaving my body in a hot sweat, as if giant hands were squeezing me, wringing out every protection I had against the beast inside.
Disgust was leaking into me, a loathing for everything that had put me on this stage: Minerva, this band, the Stratocaster in my hands. The whole insane idea of fame and adulation and even
music itself
. . .
music itself
. . .
I wanted to throw it all away, to run from all these pointless complications and let the beast inside take over. To hide in some distant, shadowy place and gnaw on nothing but flesh and bones—perfectly sated, an animal.
But my fingers kept playing. The music held me there, balanced between love and hatred.
I stared down at the stage, not looking at Minerva, but I couldn’t keep her song out of my ears. It kept pouring from the amplifiers, echoing back and forth across the club, building like feedback in my head.
The cables at my feet were moving, shivering like dizzying snakes across the floor. I tore my eyes from them, glaring out into the darkness of the nightclub.
I saw it start out there.
A shape moved through the crowd, a swell of hands thrown up into the air, like a stadium wave carrying itself along, traveling toward us from the back of the club. It broke against the stage, shattering into wild cries of surprise.
The ground rumbled under my feet.
Then the swell appeared again, moving from right to left this time, carrying screams along with it. That’s when I realized this wasn’t something innocent, like upraised arms at a baseball game. . . . Reality was bending before my eyes.
The floor itself was surging up, the bulge moving like a rat scurrying under a rug. More violent this time—the people in its path were thrown into the air, tossed up to fall into the outstretched arms of the crowd, like stage-jumpers.
My sharp ears caught a thin scream behind me, and I glanced back to see Alana Ray crying out, “No, no, no . . . ,” unheard in the booming beat of the Big Riff. But she kept playing: the music had also captured her, locking her hands into their fluttering patterns.
The moving surge of floor turned again, growing stronger. As I watched, the ground began to split, the earth opening like a huge zipper, vomiting up black water and cracked pieces of concrete. A choking smell filled my nostrils.
It was headed toward the stage, but none of us stopped playing.
A few people began to scramble away from its path, trying to run through the crowd, but most were staring raptly up at us, too mesmerized by Minerva to move.
It was the enemy, of course, the same beast I’d seen down in the subway. She had finally called it up.
The Stratocaster burned my fingers, my whole body rejecting the music we were making, but still I couldn’t stop.
Screams filled the nightclub now. More of the crowd fought to scramble over one another for safety, trying to avoid the snapping maws of the beast. It grew closer and closer to us.
And then angels starting falling.
They dropped from the ceiling on thin filaments, cables that sparkled in the spotlights, descending toward the creature and onto the stage. One angel swung to the top of each set of amplifiers, swords flashing in their hands. They rappelled down the stacks, stabbing each speaker right in its center, every thrust bringing forth a high-pitched shriek from the equipment—a squealing counterpoint to the Big Riff.
Dozens of them dropped onto the beast and into the crowd, pushing people away. They brought the creature to a halt, hacking with swords and stabbing with long, telescoping spears. Its cries of pain joined the squawking of the amplifiers, until the music finally began to stumble. . . .
Minerva’s voice faltered, and the spell was shattered.
I broke free, pulling the Stratocaster’s strap from my shoulder and grabbing the guitar by its neck, despising it with every fiber of my being. I raised it over my head and swung it down against the stage, smashing it again and again, its strings snapping, its broken neck twisting like a dying chicken’s. The guitar buzzed and squeaked out a last few tuneless notes, its death cries leaking from the surviving amps.
Around me, the others had ground to a halt. In tears, Alana Ray threw her sticks aside, kicking wildly at her paint buckets. Zahler just stood there openmouthed, staring at the battle on the nightclub floor. I couldn’t look at Minerva anymore.
Stepping back from the broken guitar, my hands bent into claws, I started to stomp at it with my boots. It peeped and squawked.
Then an angel landed on the stage in front of me, dressed in commando black, trailing a thin cable from her waist. She held a small object in one hand.
I recognized her: Lace.
I turned to run, to escape her and everything else: this band, this music, the monstrous thing we’d called up. But after a few steps, before I’d even reached the edge of the stage, she’d caught up with me, grabbing my arm and spinning me around, her needle flashing in the spotlights.
I felt a pinprick at my neck, then her arms supporting me.
“Say good night, Moz,” Lace said.
The sound of my own name almost made me vomit, and then nausea and pain melted into darkness.
PART VI
THE TOUR
There has never been a better time for a pandemic.
Airplanes can carry people across the globe in a single day, and half a billion people fly every year. Cities are far larger and more crowded than at any point in history.
The last great disease was Spanish flu, which appeared at the end of World War I. (Pandemics
love
wars.) It spread across the planet faster than any previous disease. Within one year, one billion people were infected, a third of the world’s population. Its spread was so frighteningly quick that one U.S. town
outlawed shaking hands.
love
wars.) It spread across the planet faster than any previous disease. Within one year, one billion people were infected, a third of the world’s population. Its spread was so frighteningly quick that one U.S. town
outlawed shaking hands.
And all this was before airplanes could fly across oceans, before most people owned a car. These days, any pandemic would travel much, much faster. We’ve got it all these days: dense cities, instant transportation, and all the wars you could want. For the worms, that’s motive, means, and opportunity.
When the last days come, they will come quickly.
NIGHT MAYOR TAPES
END HERE.
END HERE.
26 HUNTERS AND COLLECTORS
-MINERVA-
The smelly angels took us all away.
I tried to explain to them that I was fine—had been for weeks—and that Zahler, Pearl, and Alana Ray weren’t even infected. But one look at sweaty, frothing, guitar-smashing Mozzy convinced them we were all insane.
Other books
Akhenaten by Naguib Mahfouz
The Dreadful Lemon Sky by John D. MacDonald
Having His Baby by Beverly Barton
Cough by Druga, Jacqueline
When Romance Prevails (The Dark Horse Trilogy Book 3) by Dane, Cynthia
Sentido y Sensibilidad by Jane Austen
Cowboy to the Rescue by Louise M. Gouge
Glyphbinder by T. Eric Bakutis
Summer Friends by Holly Chamberlin
Saving the World by Julia Alvarez