by R. D. Tarver
Jesse stopped to disentangle a patch of thorns that had snagged on one of the many holes in his ripped-up jeans when he heard a disembodied voice call out from the woods.
“You find yourself, a lowly sell-sword, on an overgrown road heading east. Ahead, you spy a gathering of kobolds who have erected their camp along your path. What do you do?”
“Very funny, guys.”
“The kobolds detect your presence and begin a ranged attack.”
A hefty dirt clod exploded against the trunk of a large oak tree, inches from Jesse’s head. He wiped the dirt from his eyes and called out to the forest. “Are we gonna do band practice, or play d&d?”
Another clod struck true, thudding against his chest. Jesse jumped behind the tree to avoid the next volley. Deciding to avoid further target practice for his attackers, Jesse called out again to the woods.
“Fine. I cast Magic Missile on the kobolds.” He proceeded to make the necessary calculations and specified his attack. “I’m a level twelve magic user, so that gives me nine missiles—I direct them all on the leader.” He picked up a handful of acorns and hurled them towards the unseen assailants.
“The kobolds make a successful saving throw versus spell damage. You are unsuccessful in your attack.”
Another volley of dirt clods flew through the trees on all sides; one of the projectiles knocked over the combo amp.
“All right, fuck this.” Jesse picked up his gear and began to leave. “I’m out of here.”
Silence followed the proclamation.
Finally, the voice called out once more from the trees. “The kobolds wish to formalize a truce so that band practice may begin.”
A towering, broad-shouldered colossus emerged from the forest beside Rust and Alex. Jesse was more disarmed by the unwavering ear-to-ear smile that he wore than the youth’s unusual stature, or his roughspun tunic. A mop of dense auburn hair flowed in his wake as he moved towards Jesse.
“Congratulations sell-sword! You have passed the rite of initiation,” spoke the large teen.
“Good job, dude,” Alex’s squeaky voice crackled through the still fall air. “You’re in.” He brushed off the dirt from Jesse’s jean jacket as he chuckled to himself from behind his oversized front teeth.
“Glad I could provide the entertainment.”
Alex cocked his thumb towards the large youth. “That’s Mazes, he plays drums. You guys are the rhythm section.”
“No hard feelings?” Mazes asked as he clasped Jesse’s forearm. “Before you joined our party of seasoned adventurers, I had to make sure you were up to snuff. I must say, I am pleasantly surprised. Very quick on your feet, young mage.”
Jesse hurried to keep pace with Mazes’s long strides as the giant swooped up his gear under one of his massive arms.
Alex saddled up next to Jesse and pulled him aside as the others continued ahead. “Sorry about the theatrics, man. Mazes is cool.” He followed the gargantuan youth with his eyes as he crested the hill, and lowered his voice. “He’s just a little off.”
“No shit. What’s with the name?”
“A couple years ago he was involved in this really intense d&d campaign.” Alex snickered. He glanced around and lowered his voice even more. “I heard he stayed up for almost a week straight, strung out on white cross, while the game went on, nonstop. He ended up going full on Mazes and Monsters, like in that shitty Tom Hanks movie. He had some kind of seizure and attacked the neighbor’s dog.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. His parents put him in a mental institution for a couple months,” Alex shrugged. “At first we just thought it was all an act so he could get homeschooled. But he’s been pretty much stuck inside his character ever since he came out of the funny farm.”
Jesse felt slightly unnerved as Mazes picked up a felled sapling and held it aloft as though it were a sword. He plodded ahead in front of the others, parrying and thrusting his way through the woods, presumably fending off hordes of imaginary foes that threatened to impede his party’s progress towards band practice.
“Luckily, he was playing a chaotic good paladin.”
Mazes struck the sapling against a dead limb overhead, causing it to come crashing down in the middle of their path. A strange-looking organic nodule the size of a football had become dislodged from the branch, and rolled towards Rust’s feet.
“Bees!” Rust screamed as he bounded farther ahead up the trail.
Alex stepped on the outer shell of the ovular pod and crushed it open beneath his shoe. The act of destruction revealed multiple disc-shaped layers that made up the internal support structure of the hive. Each layer was composed of a lattice of symmetrical honeycombs—hundreds of them. With the exception of the amber-colored goo stuck to the bottom of Alex’s shoe, the beehive appeared empty.
“It’s okay, there’s nobody home,” Alex said.
Jesse kicked at a cross section of honeycomb that was filled with a white gelatinous substance. The sight of the inner workings of the hive had a certain creep factor that was hard to explain. Each cell of the honeycomb matrix was perfectly identical. It was like seeing something that shouldn’t exist—order derived from chaos.
“Royal jelly,” said Mazes. He hung his head and sighed. “Pity this bounty will go to waste.”
“All right dorks, can we get on with this?” asked Rust. He called down to the others as he leaned against a tree, running a switchblade comb through the shock of greasy curls that sprouted above the shaved sides of his head.
“So where do you guys practice?”
“Alex’s place,” answered Rust. “His parents are 24/7 Jesus freaks, so we pretty much have the run of the place.”
Alex’s lips parted into a toothy smile. “They’re doing Bible Jeopardy after Sunday service today, so they won’t be back until late.”
They walked for a time towards the east, passing through the undeveloped farmland that stretched between the high school and the eastside residential district. As they ventured past Mal’s street, Jesse caught himself feeling desperate for any sign of her.
Finally, the group arrived at a modern residential development still under construction. A showy brick step wall announced the gated community where Alex lived. Jesse felt out of place amidst the cookie-cutter suburban landscape with its manicured lawns and overpriced yuppie-mobiles. A few sidelong glances from the neighborhood denizens confirmed the feeling was mutual.
Mazes and Jesse walked side by side through the row of open, intersecting backyards. At one point, Jesse gestured towards Rust, who strode confidently in front of the group, immune to the upper-crust surroundings. “Let me guess, he’s the singer?”
“Astute observation, young mage.” Mazes smirked. “He is indeed the minstrel of the party.”
They followed Alex through the side door of one of the houses—a large, two-story number with a grey brick exterior, nestled beneath a wood-shingled roof. Jesse tried to shrug off the sense of alienation as they set up their gear in the garage and began tuning up.
“I hereby call to order the first gathering of Hell Patrol!” shouted Mazes.
“Christ.” Rust shook his head. “Where’s the off button on this guy?”
Mazes took a seat behind a well-worn trap set where he followed the announcement with an ear-splitting cymbal crash. Jesse noted the running split in the cymbal and wondered at the cost required to maintain the giant’s hardware.
“All right, newbie,” said Rust. “Let’s see what you got.”
“You know any covers?” asked Alex.
“My old band used to do a lot of ac/dc songs.”
“Come on man, we’re not amateurs. Do you know any real covers?” asked Rust.
Jesse cycled through the catalog of bass tabs he had memorized from Guitar Player magazine.
“Okay, I got one.” He turned on the combo amp and plucked his e string a couple of times to dial in his volume. Before he could talk himself out of it, Jesse launched into his best attempt at the in
tro of “N.I.B.” by Black Sabbath, from the seminal album Black Sabbath, released in 1970 on Vertigo Records. He channeled his inner Geezer as he pummeled the strings with his fingers.
Wearing a mask of excited recognition, Alex rushed to throw his guitar over his shoulder, nearly dropping it in the process.
Mazes followed suit with an overbearing hi-hat count, but landed true on the beat just as the first verse kicked in. Jesse had never heard anyone play the drums that loud before. It was like watching Bonham on steroids.
The groove was stilted, out of tune, and clumsy, but contagious all the same.
Rust grabbed the mic with both hands in true Ozzy fashion and belted out the opening verse. His vocals were powerful, with just the right amount of gravel—somewhere on throat-bleed scale between Paul Di’Anno and Udo. While he was a far cry from Rob Halford or King Diamond, he could also hit the head voice high notes when he had to, and with a tasteful amount of vibrato, too.
Alex was the most technically proficient of the band, but not in an over polished, masturbatory Steve Vai or Yngwie Malmsteen kind of way. He channeled the blues-tinged darkness of the pentatonic prison, but in a way that made it his own. A disciple of the Left-Hand Path in the tradition of Jimi and Iommi, the southpaw strumming was an added visual bonus to his playing.
Jesse was no showboating Sheehan, but he could hold his own, and he knew his instrument’s role as the glue that bound the rhythm to the riff.
Two hours and a modicum of improvement later, the brotherhood of Hell Patrol was forged in homage to the progenitors of heavy metal.
After a few minutes into the logistical planning of their spring tour of the West Coast, a brilliant flash of light filled the garage.
The group turned to see Mal behind her camera.
“I’m not here, just be candid,” she instructed. “Try to act like this isn’t your first promo shoot, and I’ll do the rest.” She fanned the air in front of her face as she continued. “Also, someone should really let in some fresh air. It smells like balls and feet in here.”
C H A P T E R T W O
IN THE LAIR OF
THE ICE QUEEN
1
A heaping pile of scrambled eggs was deposited next to the stack of toast on Jesse’s plate. He wolfed down his breakfast, half-listening to his mother prattle on.
“And don’t forget to introduce yourself to your teachers. New kids always start out at a disadvantage.”
“This is high school. No one does that.”
“Don’t be shy, you’re a very smart kid—stand up and be recognized.”
Jesse obeyed her suggestion in the literal sense and stood from his chair with an open-mouthed, enthusiastic grin. He nodded his head up and down vigorously, causing the moutful of half-chewed eggs and toast to fall back to his plate.
His mother erupted in a loud, ornamental yelp, and chased Jesse from the table with a kitchen rag. “And please change that shirt. No one wants to be friends with Satan.”
He looked down at his prized Slayer shirt and brushed it off for good measure. “Give it a rest, will ya?”
He knew by the clamoring of dishes she had whisked into the sink that he had inadvertently drawn a line in the sand.
“Jesse, this is the buckle of the Bible belt. Remember that boy up in the city a few years back who killed his parents after he shot up that convenience store?”
“How could I forget? It’s like all anyone talks about around here.”
The door to the back bedroom creaked open.
“That’s bullshit, Mom,” Rick called out.
She ignored the intrusion. “People don’t trust kids anymore, so don’t give them a reason not to like you. You can be a very likable young man when you want to be.”
“Sean Sellers is an asshole and deserves what he gets,” Rick continued, undeterred. “He’s just a cog in the political machine intent on blaming the ills of society on something they can’t understand.”
Sensing one of Rick’s tirades coming on, Jesse began to gather his things for school as he felt the temperature change in the room.
“You’re just regurgitating the scripted propaganda perpetuated by the religious right. The Moral Majority and the pmrc are on a witch hunt to try to silence anyone who would make it harder for them to maintain their control over an increasingly secular society.”
His mother shook her head, bracing herself over the sink. “Thank you for the history lesson, Rick.”
“Death to false metal,” Rick replied. The door slammed shut followed by a blast of loud music.
“Well that’s just great! Now you got your brother all excited. You know it’s not good for him to get worked up.”
“Mom, he’s fine. You have to stop babying him. He’s a grown man.”
She wiped her face before escorting Jesse out the door. “You’re going to be late. Randy is waiting in the truck.” She handed him a crisp five dollar bill. “This is for lunch. Don’t spend it all on cigarettes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He heard the screen door swing open after him. “Have a good first day of school, hon. You’re gonna do great!”
2
Jesse floated through his first four class periods daydreaming about the events of the past weekend. With the exception of art class, which was dedicated to developing a series of Hell Patrol logos in various stylings (e.g., Death, Thrash, nwobhm, etc.), the day was a dull blur. Though he lacked the artistic talents of his brother, Jesse figured his sketches might be enough for Rick to work with, given the proper motivation.
If there was one thing Rick knew, it was music. Before the accident forced him into exile from the industry, Rick the Prick had even roadied for Metallica, for fuck’s sake. He was on his way to building a name for himself as a promoter before fate stepped in and traded out his motorcycle for a wheelchair.
His older brother had long ago instilled in him the importance of the almighty logo—the symbolic vessel that transported the essence of the band into the mind of a potential fan. Rick had a two-pronged theory about logos.
First, the logo required admission past the eye of the beholder. If the visual appeal was satisfactory, it didn’t matter what string of syllables were cobbled together that served to utter the name aloud. Those would eventually become meaningless through time.
As testimony to Rick’s wise council, Jesse reasoned that no one is really thinking about a hearing-impaired feline when they hear the name Def Leppard. It was just a pattern of sounds that conjured an association to the band’s music.
There was a science to it.
Secondly, a good name could be ruined by a shitty logo, while conversely, a good logo could carry a shitty name. Fortunately for Jesse’s new band, the latter was not an issue.
The end of fourth period concluded with the arrival of lunch hour. Jesse waded through the sundry offerings of the cafeteria, eventually settling on an overcooked chili dog that smelled like fish sticks and an order of greasy curly fries. A strawberry fountain drink topped off the nutrient-poor assemblage of heat-lamp stink.
As he slid his tray through the checkout line, his eyes were drawn to the bright sunlight that streamed in from the atrium. There he saw her, her raven black hair almost blue in the direct sunlight.
“Hey, you gonna pay for that?” The inquiry came from a bleary-eyed cashier. Jesse reached into his wallet and laid the five-dollar bill that his mother had given him on the counter, and left without his change.
He pushed through the glass double doors and entered the atrium where he was waved over to one of the aluminum picnic benches.
“Yo, Jess, saved you a seat.” Alex motioned to an empty spot next to Mal.
Before Jesse could sit down, a dark shadow filled his vision. The force of the collision nearly knocked him off his feet, causing the chili dog to fall to the ground and spilling the strawberry soda across the tray.
“Watch where you’re going, freak,” said one of the letterman jacket-clad varsity football players wh
o filled the center row of benches. He scowled at Jesse from beneath a fire-engine red flattop while two of his teammates began running mock play patterns with Jesse’s fallen chili dog.
Jesse took the seat next to Mal, trying his best to stave off the wave of rage that was boiling up from beneath his reddened cheeks.
Mal stole a handful of the soggy fries from his tray and dunked them into a concoction of ketchup and mayonnaise that seemed to be her only staple.