She turned her head and vomited onto the stage. The headache receded but it still clung to her like a scar. Gone were the screams and pleas but more importantly, gone was her sister’s voice. Looking up, she saw Mike. Both his ears bled. Not from the music, she realized as she stared at his pistol. He’d taken matters into his own hands, had fired close enough to cause damage. He’d pulled out her hearing aids and for the first time in all of her life, Shawna thought her sister looked scared.
Angie stopped singing, her deformed mouth hanging in an open O.
The solution—the off switch.
Shawna’s curse had proven to be a gift.
Mike fired his rifle as the Robes advanced. He took them out until there was a pile of steaming and singeing fabric. There were others in the audience, climbing the sides of the stage. The fans took notice too. Any moment now, she and Mike would be torn apart by a sea of glitter critters.
Shawna found the pistol near her bruised elbow. She grabbed it, pointed at the thing that was her blood but by no means her sister. She closed one eye, steadied her arm as best she could, and pulled the trigger once more.
Angie fell from the stage and into the crowd.
Shawna couldn’t be sure but she swore the bullet had splintered her sister’s throat. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. There was no time to think as Mike lifted her from behind and carried her around the side of the stage, through the woods, and into a large vehicle. At first she thought it was the RV but it was much too decadent.
The words on the side and the picture of her sister—sans her new reptilian features—told her this was the official Angie Everstein tour bus.
“Where are Curtis and Foster?” she said as they entered.
Mike did not answer as he closed the doors and turned the keys.
She turned her head so they locked eyes. “Where’s Curtis and Foster?” she said again, nearly forgetting he was like her now. Without one of life’s most precious senses. He said nothing, shook his head no.
She didn’t ask where he’d gotten the keys. She didn’t ask if he’d seen the bullet lodge into Angie’s throat. She didn’t ask anything as they drove away.
In the rearview mirror she saw Robes and critters alike, jogging after them, though not fast enough. The bus accelerated and they faded into the background.
She made to place her hearing aids back in, then thought better of it.
Silence had never sounded better.
EPILOGUE
BRAVE NEW GIRL
MIKE MALLORY KNOCKED ON THE door and stepped into the bus. “You coming or what?” His voice had started to slur after his ear drums had ruptured.
“Be right out.”
She sensed him lingering. She’d never been on the other side of hearing loss. Even after six months, she still hadn’t grown used to it. She turned away from the mirror and nodded. “Be right out.” She formed the words slowly, deliberately, so he could see their shape.
He nodded back to her. “You’ll do great.”
“No pressure.”
“None at all.”
He closed the door and in the background she could just make out the rows of people gathered outside. Not an army by any means but their ranks were growing by the day.
She stared into the mirror at the dark bags under her eyes. They’d spread outward these past few months so that she permanently looked exhausted. She’d been in a constant state of tension for as long as she could remember, before and after the apocalypse. She hadn’t grown used to that either.
The world had not ended as she’d expected.
There was no great explosion or disaster, no missiles launched, no World War III. It had been a battle of a different kind, one that still raged. Hence the crowd outside.
It was unclear if Angie had been terminally injured. There had been no new songs released. Their group took turns checking the radio for signs of survivors, killing the volume whenever “Forever with You” came on, which was most of the time. Even if her sister was dead, the damage had been done. The song would live on forever, as all music did. The secret track, even if it wasn’t so secret anymore, was out there, in the atmosphere. Radio waves were everywhere, invisible information that traveled every which way. She shivered at the thought and not for the first time.
But there were survivors.
Individuals such as herself who were hearing impaired or those like Mike who had taken drastic measures to escape the change. Others were lucky. Earplugs didn’t do the trick, only slowed the song’s effects. Noise canceling headphones, on the other hand, were a godsend. At least until the batteries ran dry. They had a stockpile but it grew smaller by the week.
According to most of the popular radio stations, those that Angie now controlled, her army was flourishing. They spoke of Queen Everstein being alive and well, recovering more and more each day. Soon, her management team promised, she’d be singing as if nothing had ever happened. It could’ve been propaganda, comforting words to prevent panic in the new world, or maybe it was the truth. It was the latter theory that kept Shawna up most nights.
They were outnumbered. Glitter critters ruled the world. Their group of rebels was determined, sure, and growing, but it was a speck in the grand scheme. It seemed like a fool’s errand to form an opposition. But what other choice did she have? If she was going to give up, she would’ve done it that night at Gallows Hill. Fighting back was the only option. If they could stop the signal from spreading, there was still hope, no matter how miniscule. They’d already managed to destroy three radio towers near their site. Far from a victory but it was a start.
She finished applying her makeup, satisfied she appeared somewhat human. You couldn’t give an uplifting speech looking like you’d been awake for months.
She cracked her knuckles, took a deep breath, and stepped outside.
The sun was blinding and the temperature warmed her skin. Spring had been slow to start but she felt the promises of better times. She could’ve almost forgotten the world had ended.
Almost.
A podium had been set up outside the tour bus, the exterior of which had undergone a renovation. Someone (Mike, she suspected), had painted a large red X over her sister’s face. The crowd stretched nearly to the wall of the gated community they’d claimed five months back. Winter had been rough, the New Hampshire mountains bringing snow by the foot, but they’d managed to fortify their home base.
Not for long, she thought as she stepped up to the podium.
The critters would find them. This hideout would not remain hidden forever.
She cleared her throat and the microphone screeched with momentary feedback. Half the crowd winced. The others stared and stayed still. Martin Pineau, a medical engineer, stood off to the side. She and Mike had found him not long after Gallows Hill. He was steadily creating hearing aids for the group. Just a matter of time and supplies. Neither of which were plentiful.
The crowd grew impatient. They wanted good news, something to make them forget they could die at any moment. Mike caught her eye and winked at her.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
The crowd clapped in response.
“I’m sure by now you’ve heard that Angie may be alive and recovering.”
A few boos in response. Those that couldn't read lips looked to those that could for translation.
“It could be a lie but we have to assume it’s the truth. We have to prepare for the worst.”
She had their attention now. A strange feeling. Six months ago she’d been the almost-deaf girl everyone bullied. Now she was one of two world leaders. She wondered if her mother was still alive and if she’d be proud. Despite their differences, Shawna liked to think so.
She went on, telling the people what they wanted to hear: that there was an end to this. That they would find a way to rebuild and repopulate.
She’d grown good at lying these last six months.
In the distance a makeshift sign caught her attention. A man with a red beard an
d eye patch held it high. She stared at it for most of her speech, thinking about the days ahead, wondering if she’d ever come face to face with Angie again. What if her sister sat in a studio this moment, recording her follow-up album? Scheduling her first world tour.
Shawna tried to silence the thoughts, for silence, she’d learned, was the most powerful weapon in the world. The words on the sign echoed this sentiment.
Hear no evil.
Acknowledgment
Thanks go to the usual suspects, those being Emily Lacey, Ryan Beauchamp, Max Linsky, Scott Cole, Adam Cesare, Matt Serafini, Aaron Dries, and approximately 1.5 billion others. Thanks, too, to Grindhouse Press for their continued support and for calling me out on having two characters named Derek. There can only be one.
Patrick Lacey was born and raised in a haunted house. He currently spends his nights and weekends writing about things that make the general public uncomfortable. He lives in Massachusetts with his wife, his over-sized cat, and his muse, who is likely trying to kill him. Follow him on Twitter (@patlacey), find him on Facebook, or visit his website at https://patrickclacey.wordpress.com/
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