Hell Patrol

by R. D. Tarver

  “This is my grandparents’ house.”

  “Oh shit,” Mal said. “We didn’t know anyone still lived here.”

  “They’re dead.”

  “Gnarly,” said Alex. The utterance drew a stern look from Mal. “I mean, sorry dude.” Alex fetched his boombox from the mantel above the fireplace.

  “Oh hey, do you think I can bum one of those?” Mal pointed to Jesse’s flattened cigarette butt. “These moochers took my last one.”

  Jesse nodded and reached into his jacket to pull out one of the loose cigarettes. Before he could offer it to her, Rust swooped in and swiped it out of his hand.

  “Thanks pal,” Rust said. He pulled out a silver Zippo etched with a skull and crossbones and lit the cigarette.

  Even in the low light, beneath the long strands of greasy curls, Jesse could see that his eyes were full of storms.

  Jesse handed another smoke to Mal, who leaned in for him to light it. “Such a dick, dude,” she whispered. “I promise not all of us around here are such assholes.” The small flame revealed the stark contrast of her fair pallor against the dark makeup. “We just stopped by to drink a couple beers. Totally thought this place was still abandoned.”

  “My parents are supposedly fixing it up.” Even in the shadows, he found it difficult to maintain eye contact with her and hold a conversation at the same time. “They were supposed to be done before school started, but I guess that’s not going to happen with the move and all.”

  “Ugh, I’ve been trying not to think about that shithole.”

  “You guys go to Macomb Springs High?”

  “Like we have a choice,” Alex said. “It’s like the only school around for a hundred miles, unless you wanna learn how to shoe a horse.”

  “So where do you live?” Mal gestured towards the empty interior. “I mean, while your family fixes this place up.”

  “They’re holding me and my brother hostage in this shitty trailer down the way. We have to share a room. It fucking blows.” Do I sound like an idiot? What the fuck am I even talking about? The metallic clink of Rust’s Zippo brought Jesse back to the moment.

  “Come on, let’s bail,” said Rust. “This place sucks anyway.” He brushed shoulders with Jesse as he exited the house with Alex close on his heels.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood, dude,” laughed Alex. “Cool shirt.” He pressed play on the boombox’s cassette player and ran to catch up with Rust.

  Mal lingered behind, allowing some distance between herself and the others. “We’re going down to the Hell Hole. You wanna come?”

  “Hell Hole?”

  “Yeah, it’s this lame smoke-hole near the old coal mine.” She pulled at an errant strand of raven-black hair that had become stuck in her lipstick. “We get suspended if we’re caught smoking near school grounds. It’s like all there is to do around here.”

  “Sure.” Jesse cringed as the word left his mouth. His mind’s eye spun up the image of his mother having to lower Hamburger Helper down to his broken body at the bottom of a derelict mineshaft.

  He followed Mal through the field of golden buffalo grass towards the edge of the woods.

  Not far into the dense forest, they came upon an old gravel service road and the remnants of a concrete retaining wall that held back the natural rock outcrop that surrounded the mine entrance. The surviving segments of a rusted railing assisted in the steep-graded descent towards the bottom.

  Alex and Rust were already inside the Hell Hole—an artificial vestibule constructed around what remained of the sealed mine entrance. Jesse remembered the spot well, as it was a constant source of ire for his mother every time the family visited his grandparents.

  As one of the last observable vestiges of the original Macomb Springs townsite, located much to the southwest of the present sprawl, the mine had been a refuge for ostracized teenagers for generations. The handcarved stone arch that surrounded the entrance had been bricked up and gated off ever since Jesse was a child. The ravages of time—along with a healthy dose of vandalism—had left the seal beneath the arch as little more than a visual deterrent.

  As Jesse followed Mal into the Hell Hole, the air became cool and damp, and smelled of mold. A pile of half-melted candles lined the graffiti-covered brick seal. Segments of an ancient rail cart track were visible beneath the crumbling concrete slab before disappearing behind the gate, snaking deeper into the mine. The gate was so rusted it looked like it would crumble if touched; it was all that stood between them and the inner workings of the mine. Jesse was relieved to find the barrier intact.

  Alex switched sides on the cassette tape. The gentle ringing of acoustic guitars reverberated into the cavernous hollow as the opening of “Beyond the Realms of Death,” a B-side power ballad by Judas Priest, from the album Stained Class, released on Columbia Records in 1978, began to play.

  “Is that an Rx-5150?” asked Jesse.

  Alex nodded. “Yeah man, and it’s totally metal—says so right there.”

  Jesse got the reference before Alex pointed out the stylized metal insignia located at the bottom center of the cassette deck door. He didn’t have the heart to tell Alex that metal in this case was just a reference to tape quality. Jesse had coveted the Panasonic line of boomboxes for some time, but could never come up with the cash to buy one.

  “Hey Mal, why don’t you come sit by me and we can do one of your séances?” asked Rust. He let out a loud belch to accompany the request, eliciting an audible chuckle from Alex.

  Mal recoiled, pulling Jesse away to avoid the gaseous assault. “Barf. You smell like bologna.” She took a seat on the ground opposite the others and motioned for Jesse to sit next to her. “And you know séances don’t work unless you know the names of the spirits you want to contact, right?”

  “What about those guys who blew their heads off?” asked Alex. He tapped on the boombox as he continued. “I heard they were listening to this record when it happened.”

  “Don’t even mention those losers,” said Rust.

  “That’s not how it works,” said Mal. “You have to conduct the séance in the same place where they died.”

  Alex beamed excitedly at Jesse. “Speaking of séances—before we moved here from the city, my sister went to high school at Putnam City North with—”

  “Sean Sellers, yeah, yeah,” Mal interrupted. “We’ve heard it a million times.”

  “And one night after the murders, she went with her friends to his parents’ house up in Summit Place—back when it was still abandoned.” Alex stretched his tongue over his large front teeth to moisten his lips as he continued. “They tried to summon the spirits of his dead parents, but instead, the board spelled out the name Ezurate, just before it caught on fire and burned up.”

  “Ezurate?” asked Jesse.

  “That was the name of the demon that possessed Sellers. The one that made him kill everybody.”

  “He totally stole that from Anton LaVey,” added Mal.

  “Sounds like somebody’s been watchin’ the 700 Club again with his Jesus-freak parents,” said Rust.

  Alex ignored the jab and furrowed his brow as though deep in thought. “Damn. What the hell were those guys’ names? It’s driving me nuts.”

  Jesse saw the opening and went for it. “James Vance and Raymond Belknap were listening to the album Stained Class before entering into their suicide pact during the winter of ’85.” Jesse regurgitated the line from one of the articles he had read in Rick’s archives. “Only Belknap was actually successful though.”

  Rust spat out his beer. “Holy shit! Look at this Poindexter go.”

  Jesse sat on the ground next to Mal and crossed his legs underneath him. “My brother is totally into Judas Priest. I mean, me too—but he’s like obsessed. He has a box of newspaper clippings from the trial and everything.” Jesse suddenly felt as if he were dominating the conversation. “It’s practically all he’s talked about until he finally got a copy of the new record after it was delayed in court.”r />
  Alex squealed at the mention of the much-heralded release. “Dude, that record is like impossible to get a hold of. You have to get him to make me a tape of it.”

  “Actually,” Jesse reached into his pocket and produced the cassette Rick had given him, “he already made me one.” As he gently handed the tape to Alex, a sudden silence fell over the group as though some profound ceremonial ritual had taken place. The handwritten label read painkiller, flanked by two inverted pentagrams sketched on either side—one of Rick’s illustrations. “It’s going to change everything you’ve ever thought about Priest.”

  Alex reached into his jean jacket and offered Jesse a warm bottle of Budweiser.

  “What the fuck, Alex? I thought you said you didn’t have any more,” complained Rust.

  “It’s awesome. We were just listening to a couple tracks,” Jesse said, taking a swig of beer before passing the bottle to Rust.

  “That’s cool. So you guys are like, close?” asked Mal.

  “Yeah, I kinda take care of him even though he’s older.” Jesse shrugged. “He was in a bad motorcycle accident.”

  “Sounds like a regular Evel Knievel.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Mal said. “Rust is just trying to impress you by being a dick.”

  Alex swapped out the cassettes and turned the volume up on the boombox. The title track resonated off the surrounding stone, creating a natural reverb effect.

  Jesse chimed in after the first track ended.

  “This next song is my favorite. I mean, I haven’t heard the whole album yet, but I think it’s my favorite.”

  “What’s it called?” asked Alex.

  “‘Hell Patrol.’”

  Rust and Alex exchanged a look that could have been fueled by either terror or unbridled excitement. As if guided by some telepathic communication, they both jumped to their feet and shouted in unison over the music, “Hell Patrol!”

  “Great. You just gave them their band name. Now we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Jesse felt his heart skip a beat as he watched the two bang their heads until the track was finished.

  “You guys have a band?”

  “Hardly—they don’t even have all the instruments.”

  In an effort to push through the awkward lull of silence, Jesse seized his opportunity. “That’s cool. I used to have a band—sort of. We had to move before we got any gigs or anything.”

  “No shit? What do you play?” Alex asked.

  “Bass.”

  The seed had been planted.

  Jesse offered the information coyly, knowing that his preferred instrument was generally in short supply among would-be rockers. “I haven’t taken any lessons or anything. Pretty much all self-taught.”

  “You wanna be in the band?” Alex blurted out. “We need a bass player.” The offer was followed by a swift punch on the shoulder from Rust.

  “Sure. I mean, if that’s cool.”

  “Come on, Rust,” Alex pleaded, rubbing his shoulder.

  Rust downed the remainder of the bottle of beer, appearing suddenly disinterested in the conversation. “I guess you can try out. If you don’t suck maybe you can stick around until we find someone better.”

  “You haven’t even heard him yet,” Mal said. “But I’ve heard you guys, and you aren’t exactly in a position to refuse talent.”

  “What do you want from me, woman? I said he could try out.”

  I’m in the band.

  The thought resonated through Jesse’s mind along with a flood of images portending the future that lay in store. Despite the immensity of the social victory—and on the first encounter with the inhabitants of his new world, no less—Jesse’s mundane responsibilities wormed their way to the forefront of his mind.

  “Shit. Does anyone know what time it is?” he asked.

  Mal pulled back the row of cascading bracelets that lined her forearm to reveal a black Swatch with a spider on the watch face. “Almost 7:30 p.m.”

  “I gotta run.”

  “I’ll walk with you.” She pointed to the distance beyond the ranch house. “I live just over there.”

  “Thanks for the tape,” Alex said.

  “We meet here at the Hell Hole before practice on Sundays, two p.m., sharp,” said Rust.

  “Cool.”

  4

  Mal led the way back towards the ranch house. Despite the heavy, military-issue combat boots, she traversed the thick underbrush gracefully.

  “You still back there?” She turned to face Jesse while holding back her raven-colored hair. “You walk like a ghost.”

  “Sorry,” Jesse shrugged.

  “You don’t have to apologize.” She pushed on his arm gently. “Unless you really are a ghost.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m real.”

  The exchange was interrupted as Mal became distracted by something in the distance. She grabbed Jesse’s hand, pulling him down behind a thicket of stubby mesquite trees just off the Old Townsite service road.

  Jesse followed her eyes as they peered out from behind the tree line. There in the distance, barely visible in the fading twilight, he could make out the silhouette of a bearded, bespectacled man atop the road-cut outcrop that loomed above the mine entrance. The man tended to an array of strange-looking scientific equipment installed atop the rocky outcrop. He was wearing headphones and scribbling readings from the equipment into a notepad every few seconds.

  “Do you think he saw us?” asked Jesse.

  “Relax, he’s not wearing a uniform. He’s not going to arrest us or anything.”

  “Maybe he’s a meteorologist or something?”

  “Doubt it. We haven’t had a tornado in this part of the state in like twenty years. The town was built on an old Chickasaw burial ground.”

  “All right—then maybe he’s some kind of sex pervert that spies on teens at the local make-out point?”

  Mal turned to Jesse and gave a wry smile. “But we’re not making out.”

  “No—I know,” Jesse stumbled. “But that’s probably what he wants to see—because he’s a sex pervert.”

  The man turned towards their hiding spot and adjusted his headphones over his ears just as the words left Jesse’s mouth. He seemed to be looking right at them through the undergrowth at the edge of the tree line.

  “Nice try.” Mal took Jesse’s hand. “You could at least offer to buy me dinner first.”

  They ran through the woods, laughing at the strange, bearded fellow who followed them quizzically with his eyes. They kept running until they came upon a rusty barbed wire fence that separated the forest from the adjacent pasture.

  After crossing back through the sea of buffalo grass, they stopped to catch their breath once they were in sight of Mal’s street—a collection of small, sad homes that lined a winding gravel road that ran alongside the endless expanse of pasture.

  “So,” Jesse spoke up, “you never told me what you play.”

  Mal rolled her eyes. “Please—I’m an artist.”

  “Oh yeah? Like drawing and painting and stuff? My brother can draw pretty good. I’m terrible at it.”

  “You ever heard of Mick Rock or Annie Leibovitz?”

  “They were in Heart, right?”

  She laughed. “Hardly. Their instruments actually made musicians famous.” She planted her feet and leveled her shoulders at Jesse. “I’m a photographic artist.”

  “Cool. So you’ll be at practice, too?”

  “Don’t hold your breath. Those guys suck.”

  5

  The next day, Jesse arrived at the Hell Hole with his bass slung over his shoulder and a 20-watt combo amp under his arm. He had paced around the concrete enclosure for a good while before finally noticing the rolled-up piece of notebook paper crammed in between the gate’s wrought iron bars.

  He tugged at the piece of paper, pulling it free from the rusty iron gate. In doing so he caused one of the loose bricks to separate from its mortar and fall behind the crumbling seal.
He was held captivated by the whisper of darkness now visible beyond the gate.

  Like the grain silo on his familial land, the mine was also a relic of his childhood, but one that still retained the attribution of otherworldly powers ascribed by his youthful imagination; however, unlike the silo, the passage of time had somehow increased the sense of foreboding that he felt upon gazing into the dark abyss. The Gothic stone archway that rose above the gate did little to allay the baleful portent.

  He unrolled the loose piece of notebook paper and tried to decipher the crude instructions. A lone x appeared at the end of a perforated line drawn to indicate his path. He held the paper and oriented the dark circle in the center marked: you are here. Suddenly feeling the fool, he lugged his gear back up the concrete incline and into the woods towards his destination.