by Eric Miller
No sign of Ed, or Alan, their aloof guitarist. However, their bass player, Tyler, was already plugged in. Rob’s eyes veered toward the row of amplifiers, and instinctively he patted his empty shirt pocket. Memories were washing in like the tide, and already he was dying for a cigarette. He was their roadie, back in the day, and had been responsible for the entire backline—setting it up, breaking it down. Not to mention driving them from gig to gig in a succession of vehicles, including their first big truck after the second album hit and the record company decided to pay attention. But those days were gone, and now his primary function was managing their mercurial drummer’s legendary temper.
Satisfied Danny was fully occupied, he retraced his steps and headed backstage, and at the top of the stairwell he had a good view of what it took to put on a show these days. No turning up in a shitty old van with a few battered amps, hoping and praying the venue’s ancient PA system worked. Now it was multi-consoles, computer controlled lights, giant screens, pyrotechnics…
He looked down at the row of jet-black big rigs, meticulously lined up, trailers painted with the “Take The Night” logo, each one capable of a thirty-ton payload. But instead of the usual four dedicated vehicles, he counted six.
He took inventory once more. Six trucks.
The lift gates were down on four of the trailers and he decided to investigate. He could hear Danny on stage, already laying down a backbeat, and his feet instinctively matched the tempo as he descended the stairs. He approached two guys who were wearing standard issue tour shirts. “Something special for tonight?” He gestured along the line. When they offered him nothing but shrugs and wary glances, he left them behind and headed toward the extra vehicles.
Their livery was identical. No sign of the drivers. He walked the length of the final trailer, and for no particular reason, ran his fingers along the paintwork. Just for an instant, before his hand recoiled.
Feeling foolish, he stopped and reconnected, this time pressing his palm flat against the trailer wall. He gritted his teeth, while an odd sensation washed over him, as if he’d been trapped like a mouse. No more recoil. Instead, something inside had the measure of him, and it didn’t want to let go.
He broke free, and considered he’d imagined it. He felt the beginnings of a headache. Common sense told him he’d endured a long journey with Danny bellowing in his ear; he was hungry, thirsty, and probably suffering from the late afternoon heat.
Abandoning the vehicle line, Rob headed toward the shade offered by the enormous stage scaffold. The catering crew had already set up, and he gathered two cans of 7UP and a turkey sandwich. Minutes later, after ingesting the contents of one of the cans and the sandwich, he felt a whole lot better.
Another limousine crept through the gate. It stopped nearby, and he saw the driver get out and scurry to the rear passenger door. Soon after, Ed, Alan, and a guy who appeared to be Ed’s latest “spiritual guru” stepped out of the vehicle.
Rob raised his hand and waved. None of them reciprocated. Instead, they turned and headed toward a big, luxury coach parked near the gate, Alan’s posture was like that of a gangly stick insect, while Ed followed, hands in his pockets, his gamine profile overshadowed by his strange companion, who bore a ghastly pallor reminiscent of a vampire.
Rob frowned. Usually, Ed waved back. Which meant something was up. Under normal circumstances he would have followed them, hung out, and indulged in a little small talk. Instead, on this occasion, he figured he’d wait it out. All these years, and he could read his bandmates like a book: Alan pretending that Rob didn’t exist, Ed behaving as if he had one foot in another world, Tyler bearing a shield of perpetual stoicism, and Danny displaying his usual belligerence, especially if he was on the wrong side of a bottle of whiskey. There were nights when Rob wondered how they managed to pull it all together and play. But play they did, and their fans adored them.
The sun was beginning to fall behind the hills and more people were arriving backstage, despite Ed’s decree of keeping everything to a minimum—no families, no friends. Rob saw a cameraman wielding a digital Red, and a group of girls talking to their social media guy. He heard the beginnings of a powerful riff coming from the stage platform, courtesy of Alan’s guitar tech, and he watched the girls’ faces light up. Others had stopped what they were doing; everyone was listening. The night was already taking shape and it reverberated through his bones.
He spotted Ed’s nosferatu companion, over by the line of trucks. The guy was wearing a black duster jacket that hadn’t been cool since the eighties. Rob stared, and there was a moment of eye contact before his hand began to ache, the one he’d earlier placed against the trailer. He wriggled his tingling fingers, while common sense whispered platitudes. A mild discharge of static. He shrugged it off.
The music stopped. They were done with the sound check, and soon enough he saw Danny striding across the compound toward the motorhome, his hair plastered to his scalp, his T-shirt already dark with sweat. Rob downed his second can of soda and followed, and he almost made it before the fireworks started.
“All that embracing the dark shit. What the fuck was Ed thinking?”
No sign of their frontman inside the vehicle, but Alan had his feet stretched across the aisle and was trying hard to look bored under the weight of Danny’s verbal assault. “Superstitious, Danny?”
“Sure. Where is he?” The drummer made an attempt to push by and get to the rear of the coach. But the guitarist had other ideas and sprang to his feet.
“He’s resting. Leave him be.” He was taller by a good six inches, and normally it wouldn’t have mattered, but as Rob sprang on board to stop the altercation, he couldn’t help notice how frail his friend had become.
“Hey Danny, let’s go grab something to eat.” Two seconds of silence, maybe three; the heartbeats counted it out, hard and relentless. “C’mon, let’s go.”
“Sure. Why not.” Danny’s shoulders slumped, and Alan’s lips twitched in triumph.
Rob breathed a sigh of relief when they were back outside, until Danny hesitated. “I’m not hungry. I think I’ll go take a nap in Tyler’s Winnebago.”
“Look, about Ed. You know how protective Alan is—”
“Hey, I wasn’t going to kick his ass. I’m tired of all the devil crap, and those two shutting themselves off, is all.”
“Okay, I’ll walk you over, and keep your screaming fans at bay.”
On another occasion, Danny would have laughed.
***
An hour later, Rob wandered the compound, feeling restless. They were starting to let the crowd in. He could hear the excited murmur from beyond the stage and it added to the tension. Everyone was here to see the band. No additional acts for this particular show—it was stripped down, lean and mean, despite a logistics crew hauling the equivalent of a small town into the foothills.
Over by the row of eighteen-wheelers, he thought he saw Ed’s strange companion skulking around again, and he realized he’d never popped the question to Danny. Why the extra trucks? Probably because it hadn’t seemed important, and yet…
“Rob.”
He turned, and saw Ed standing behind him; still wearing his street clothes—black jeans and the ubiquitous black T-shirt—still looking like a rock star, despite his middle age. The guy bled cool, and always had. Even at the start of their career, when the press had discovered Ed’s real name carried an aristocratic title and their street cred had plummeted. Those same journalists had subsequently unearthed an ancestor who’d dabbled in the Occult, and all of a sudden Ed, and the band, were back in business.
The Occult, or devilry, as Danny called it, had proved an irresistible lure, one that Ed and Alan had subsequently woven into their lyrics. And while Tyler hadn’t cared one way or another, Danny had expressed his opinion right from the start. “One day, it’ll bite us in the ass, just you watch.” And there had lain a bone of contention for the next thirty years.
“How is he?” Ed continued.
<
br /> Rob closed the distance between them, and seconds later he’d subconsciously matched the other man’s posture. Hands in pockets, eyes on the dark hulk of the stage rising into the night. No need to ask about the subject of discussion. “You noticed.”
“He looks ill.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s just a little pissed about what you said—”
“He thinks I’m courting demons.” He placed a hand on Rob’s shoulder. Narrow fingers dug into the flesh beneath his shirt. “All these years, and I’ve never had to worry about what you believed.”
“You mean the devil worship? Come on. The fans love it, but—”
“I want you to promise me something.”
“Sure.”
“Whatever happens, take care of Danny and Tyler. Will you do that?”
“Why? What’s going on?”
Ed winked, broke away, and set off toward the motorhome. “Too late to explain. Not long now, before the show begins.”
Unease rippled in Rob’s gut. “What’s inside the trucks, Ed?”
He received no reply.
***
Time.
He hung out, stage left, and wallowed in the excitement borne by the crowd. It was like sitting on a roller coaster as it headed slowly, relentlessly upward, toward the first big drop. As always, they’d kept the platform dark and Tyler was opening up with his signature bass riff. In seconds, he had the entire auditorium clapping along with him, and when Danny joined in with a rapid, staccato beat, the crowd howled its approval.
He saw Alan waiting to go on stage, a slender ghost, his hair completely white. Alongside him, Ed had changed into a tighter pair of jeans and now sported a ragged bandana and a tangle of fetish necklaces. Their stage manager counted them down, and Rob watched them disappear into the gloom. He couldn’t see the crowd, but he could feel them, lying in wait, bleeding anticipation. And when Ed’s dark, eerie chant erupted through the mike, they fell completely silent, until three, two, one—Alan’s guitar kicked in, and the lights ignited with a blast of pyrotechnics. The crowd began to scream, and goose bumps ripped across Rob’s flesh. It happened on every single gig and it never got old.
He stood and watched, with a wild grin on his face, while his right foot tapped out the beat. No need to worry about Danny. He and Tyler were in the pocket, right from the get go, and after two numbers, Rob began to lose count. He was caught up in the magic, the same as everyone else.
Until eventually, the earlier headache began to reassert itself.
The sound faded momentarily, and he had to catch himself before he stumbled and fell. Confused, and unused to feeling faint, his heart began to hammer. He saw Danny, surrounded by a blistering array of percussion instruments, still true to his word, no sign of his earlier tremors, so Rob took a step back, followed by another, while he tested his balance. Maybe he needed a breath of fresh air; God forbid he was getting too old for this.
“You okay?” A young woman pushed a bottle of water into his hand. Her attention was back on stage before he could answer.
He took the water bottle; it felt inordinately cold in his hand as he headed for the stairs. And as he took a seat on the top step, he heard the pounding rhythm and soaring guitar cease, and Ed’s sotto voce lyrics take over—
“—and when the light is gone,
when your heart’s undone.
Give into the fight, and—”
Rob began to hear the chant, this time coming from the crowd—
“—take
the
night—”
It gathered momentum and made him feel dizzy all over again.
He downed half the contents of the water bottle and rubbed his eyes. Back stage, the lights were dim, but he could see the regimented line of eighteen-wheelers, an odd, ambient haze surrounding the furthest. He blinked, and figured he was imagining it. But instead of disappearing, the strange light clung to both truck and trailer like a halo. There was movement, too, over by the vehicle’s liftgate.
An inner alarm began to ring. He forgot all about his lightheadedness, and began to descend the steps. When he reached the bottom he reckoned he could make out two, maybe three people standing alongside the truck. No sign of anyone else. Barring security at the gate, he figured most folks would be watching the show.
Under normal circumstances he would have walked over there. He had every right. But on this occasion it felt prudent to be cautious and not announce himself, despite feeling an utter fool as he crept toward the nearest vehicle. Damned if he knew what was going on, but some primordial sense of self-preservation was telling him to be careful. Better still, to turn around and stay away altogether.
Instead, he crept from the shelter offered by the first truck and approached the second. His headache wasn’t getting any better, but at least the dizziness had gone. Logic put up a good fight, and reasoned they were hiding some kind of special effect to mark the end of the tour. And sure, Ed or one of the others could have told him about it, but whatever. The sooner he got this little mystery squared away, the better.
He approached the radiator grille of the third truck and his stomach did a loop-the-loop. He doubled over, clamped a hand over his mouth, and barely managed to silence the accompanying grunt of pain. He dropped to one knee, and from there he could see beneath the cab where the odd glow appeared larger and was spreading across the compound, intent on reaching the rear of the stage where he’d only just left.
He heard the whine of the liftgate motor. He wanted to stand, in order to get a better look, but his gut had other ideas and kept him crouched low like a frightened cat. The band was still playing but he barely heard them. He was caught up in an inexplicable net of terror, and inside, he railed at his own cowardice.
Voices.
They spurred a reaction from his joints and he scrambled to the fourth truck, still staying at the front of the line, away from the action taking place at the rear. He stopped, and risked a quick glance along the gap in between the trailers. He saw the nosferatu guy, bathed in a sickly, lavender light. Rob immediately ducked out of view, heart hammering in his ears, lungs bellowing short and fast. There was something inordinately bad about this, but what?
You’re being an idiot, common sense told him. Imagine what Danny would say, if he could see you now. Why don’t you just stand up, walk over, and ask—
His headache grew exponentially until something popped inside his skull. His upper lip grew wet; he tasted blood. He dropped to the ground and crawled beneath the fourth tractor. In the foreground lay a forest of axles and tires, and beyond—
The light was undulating, fluttering around a vague, domed object. It’s a prop; something for the show, you fool. And perhaps it was, but why did its proximity fill him with such belly-clenching horror? Flat on the ground, he pushed himself along. His nose still bled, pebbles of gravel tore at his shirt, but he felt so much safer with a roof over his head.
A jellyfish, he thought, as he scrambled for a better view. It looks like a stupid, giant jellyfish. Directly below it was the tall, pale guy. A ridiculous notion, but Rob expected him to sprout fangs at any moment.
He struggled, and attempted to claw back some modicum of reality. Here he was, hiding like a trapped rat beneath one of the trucks, while some of the crew unloaded props for the show. Meanwhile, another jellyfish floated into view, presumably from the sixth vehicle. The light they exuded increased, and Rob became temporarily blind. When his sight returned, he could see the objects gliding up the steps toward the stage.
Come on, they’re balloons. It’s like a Floyd gig.
Rob’s gut told common sense to shut the fuck up. Right now, his hands were trembling as hard as Danny’s. But instinctively, they stopped when he saw movement to his right: one of the drivers, climbing into the fifth vehicle. He heard the gates closing, and the engines kicking in. The sixth big rig began to pull out of its parking space.
Rob retreated; he crawled from his hiding place and crept back along the line. H
is heart beat loud and hard, and he didn’t realize the music had stopped until he was part way across the compound and he’d remembered to breathe.
Way above him, the light show on stage had shifted, had become an easy, hypnotic pulse of purple and blue. No sign of Ed’s voice and Alan’s haunting guitar, or Tyler and Danny’s pounding rhythm. Behind him, the two trucks were now on the move, the first already pulling beyond the security gate.
He headed toward the steps. The stage was the last place he wanted to go, but all he could remember were Ed’s last words, about taking care of Danny and Tyler. He began to climb. Dread took a firm hold on his spine. Common sense had pulled an about turn, and was now expounding the virtues of retreat. But it wouldn’t take long, he assured himself. A short, steep climb, go grab the guys, and get the hell out.
His manner of ascent was markedly different than the last. This time he stayed low, he used his hands and crawled up there like a lizard. Almost there, he risked a peek. He could see backstage—the manager, the girl, a few of the others—backlit into silhouette. They were silent, immobile, like a row of cardboard cutouts.
He rose onto the platform. Another few steps and he could see their faces, blank, staring beyond the stage, into the arena where the two glowing objects hovered like a pair of giant Portuguese men-of-war, their tendrils hanging low, brushing the heads of an enraptured, silent audience. He saw a sea of hands, holding smartphones aloft, allowing thousands of electronic eyes to bear witness, while their owners were hypnotized by the gargantuan, fluttering creatures above their heads.
“Christ,” he heard someone mutter. It was one of the techs, coming out of his stupor.