by David Simms
After a four count, they hit either side of the crack, dead in the center of the drum cymbal. Again, one more time in the most basic of rhythms which created rock music.
Like magic from the corniest of movies, the wall opened a foot wider and showed them freedom.
“It worked!” Luke dropped the ball and completely missed the wall of fire rushing at both of them from behind.
The opening must have triggered a back draft of some kind and within seconds, the cavern lit up like the Rockefeller tree on Christmas—doused in gasoline.
All Otis could think was that this must be how the people on Hiroshima felt right before the first atomic bomb hit. A massive heat fist sucked all of the air from their lungs as it struck.
The firewall slammed both of them with a death hand and flung them straight through—right into the arms of the final test.
As Otis felt consciousness fading and air finding its way into his body, he couldn’t believe his eyes. “I think we’re gonna be okay,” he said, right before the darkness took him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Muddy fell through the glass-like opening and found himself in worse shape than a moment before. He looked around for his band mates. Just as he had feared, they were nowhere to be found. He called out for them, but only echoes answered him, along with the rush of the subterranean river in front of him.
Where did this come from? Did the ocean feed it or did the mountain bleed a deep spring?
His feet slipped on the stone ledge and he landed on his side with a painful thump. He moved each of his limbs, squeezed both hands and turned his ankles. Nothing was busted. Nobody saw his boneheaded move, but how he wished someone was there to laugh with or even at him. Before he arose, he pulled himself up to a sitting position and gasped at the scene in front of him.
The ledge jutted out only four feet. After that, only water and the steep sides of the river filled his view. No banks rose from the water, only a curve from the bottom that continued to the top of the tunnel where he stood. The diameter of the river tube couldn’t have been more than twenty feet across. Too wide to chance it, though.
He could swim his way out, but as Muddy watched the tumultuous flow he knew he wouldn’t be doing much of anything except being flushed away at a high speed. He would likely drown before arriving wherever the river headed. What if the tunnel ended and the river continued under water? He imagined the burning of his lungs and the terror of getting trapped beneath the surface, knowing he was going to die.
But his friends were somewhere in this place and they were here because he’d asked them to embark on this strange trip.
He examined the ledge and attempted to gauge the depth of the water beneath him. An odd luminescence emanated from the walls and ceiling, likely from molds and quartz, but it wasn’t bright enough to help him see much under the surface.
He half-expected the ledge to retract, to close the wall behind him and force him into the water like in some Indiana Jones or Star Wars movie. But it didn’t happen. However, he couldn’t just sit here waiting for a hero. He was supposed to be Zack’s hero. Poe’s hero. He couldn’t do squat to save his mother so could he even handle this? His only other choice lay in ruin behind him and even Steven Tyler would never tell him to walk that way.
He lay down flat and reached into the water, feeling for the bottom. His hands found nothing but water. Cold chills raced up his arm in goose bumps as he fished around, hoping nothing bit them off. Could he chance it? It wasn’t like he had a choice.
Then he saw it. A lightened piece of wood peeked out from under the ledge.
He stared at it for a moment before grabbing hold of the corner and sliding it out.
Mark Twain might be laughing his butt off, or trembling in fear, if he saw what Muddy had discovered.
An old-fashioned raft.
And here was the mighty river.
Muddy climbed onto the makeshift raft and found it sturdy to stand on, but still he sat, feeling safer that way. Two oars lay strapped to either side. If he waited any longer, the dread might overwhelm him, so he pushed off. Immediately the current pulled him along. Even before he got his bearings, he felt the rhythm of the water pulling him to an uncertain destination as the music began to flow in his head.
More like Finn, he decided, than Sawyer, but Rush wrote it their way. More likely, he had the brains and skills of Huckleberry, along with the bad luck. Still, the adventurous streak in him had turned to high since that first night at the crossroads. Someone must have known where the river went; was this part of the River? Somehow, he doubted it, but still didn’t want to fall in and find out for sure.
Soon the raft, about five feet by eight feet, steadied enough in the unseen current for him to stand and survey his surroundings. Things wavered in the light against the walls, the ceilings, but didn’t appear to be interested in him. Thank God for that, he mused. Maybe all he’d have to worry about was whatever lay at the end of this tunnel.
Surely, the slaves who built it had an end in mind, some kind of escape route to rid themselves of the Tritons—or did they? No, no one would be that blind to their cause. Then he remembered some of his history class and the recent elections in the world, and prayed he was wrong here.
The river flowed and curved this way and that without incident or forks in the path. He barely steered at all, just mostly pushing off the walls when he got too close. Nothing but water flowed before his eyes.
Muddy began singing the song, hearing the guitars, bass and drums in his head. He was thankful no one was here to hear his voice. He loved guitar and could dabble in backup, but there was a reason he never sang lead.
Today, there was no one around to hear. Otis loved the song more, but the main guitar riff was too cool for him not to like. And that nasty bass line, if only they could find someone to play it—consistently.
Thump.
The raft must have hit a rock or stalagmite, maybe a piece of debris. Regardless, it was only a bump.
He barely shifted his stance, but steadied his guitar, just in case. It looked like a tree stump in the middle of the river, about thirty yards ahead. Just a stump, or rock.
Keep rowing. Keep steering.
Another stump/rock appeared on the left side about ten yards past the first one.
Now that he was closer, he got a better look and wished he hadn’t.
The stump sunk about a foot. The good news.
Then it rose up again and broke open. Not-so-good-news.
How did it break open? Muddy wondered, fingers whitening on the wooden oars. If they hadn’t slipped into the rings on either side of the raft, he’d be floating without a paddle—and this wasn’t a creek.
The stump appeared dark, yet opaque. Muddy remembered seeing a man-of-war once at the Jersey shore after a bad storm. It looked monstrous, but kind of see-through. Those jelly-bags didn’t have mouths, though. What broke open on these things were definitely mouths. Wide open jaws, seemingly without hinges.
Another image came to mind. That movie his dad showed him from the 1980s. Alien. It had plagued him with nightmares that took a week to wear off. He wondered if he would live to suffer through another bad dream.
The oar swung in his hand and wavered as he pushed away from the wall toward the middle, leaving a stump with a brutal maw waiting for him to venture too close. Both mouths tilted in his direction as he passed and showed an internal view of teeth—layers, rows and more layers of silvery teeth. The mouths managed to open even wider as if attempting to scream, or beg him to row over to them.
He looked for eyes and saw none, thankfully. He guessed none were needed down here. The vibrations of passing prey triggered them and they held open their mouths until something fed them. It also reminded him of some other things from the shore—the ones with two legs on that reality show.
He glanced off the right wall, something he had failed to see at first, and the raft bounced up a little, but it jumped too much for simply hitting into smooth ro
ck. He jammed the oar down as hard as he could. It stuck. The river didn’t care, however, and continued to push him along. The raft turned. He was no longer pointed forward and couldn’t see where he was going, if he was going anywhere.
He wasn’t.
The oar came apart and as he pushed off the cold rock with bare hands, he looked down. The man-o-war stump had chewed the wide end of the oar to splinters within seconds. Muddy watched the creature inhale it all as the teeth shredded the wood quicker than a piranha hopped up on energy drinks. Then it was gone. A roar he felt more than heard burst forth from somewhere around him. Not the one with the oar in the mouth. The other two had disappeared, so where had it come from?
He straightened the raft and paddled on with a single oar.
Just ahead, the monsters in the water made the movie, Alien, seem like a cakewalk. At least, in Alien, there was only one of them.
One by one, they arose from the water. Left side, right side and center, they emerged, obviously sensing he would be smart enough to avoid the walls.
Muddy’s mouth hung open. How could he avoid all of them? The current didn’t propel the raft fast enough to zip through their territory before they could converge on him. Could they move from where they rose? Were they grounded to the bottom? Just how deep did the river go? He didn’t wish to find out, but realized if even one of them overturned the raft, he wouldn’t last long enough to find out.
It hit him like a bass drum when he was thinking of how to paddle through them. It has been about the music all along—why quit now? The old two-four beat that made rock music rock, came to him in a flash. Ten feet before the next creature, he rowed left, narrowly avoiding it. Another popped up to the right. Muddy kept the beat, felt the rhythm.
He rowed and pushed, the snare to the left’s bass, the backbone to most rock songs since the Beatles hit the American shore. Actually, the beat struck long before in hidden roadhouses down south, far from the public eye, blazed by the bluesmen and women who laid the tracks for all to follow.
He could do this.
He rowed left, they arose on the left. He rowed right, they met him there.
Keep the boom-snap, boom-snap of the rhythm, he thought, and I’ll make it.
For a few minutes, he did just that. Then something else happened. They caught on. They learned the beat. They adjusted.
How the…?
They arose before he could row away and one cracked its head under the front edge of the raft, shattering two planks without effort. Cold water flowed across his feet and colder blood shocked his system.
Now what?
The two-four, left-right rowing worked, but some of them had learned, proving a little intelligence existed within those jaws.
Out of nowhere, a voice sung in his head. Remember where you are. What you are. What this river sings to you.
Silver Eye?
The words repeated. Then—you must get to the Dark Muse. You can’t allow him to leave.
Leave? Where would he go?
Another stump smashed the middle of the raft. Its head burst through, nearly between Muddy’s legs. He jumped back a step and swung the oar as hard as he could.
Home run! The oar connected with the stump thing and broke.
Both disappeared instantly. He was left without a paddle, but he recalled what his dad always said when he was trying to meet a deadline.
All that remained was his guitar; the one that really wasn’t anything like what he’d ever played before, but Silver Eye had given him the instrument and that meant something to him. The old man died because of them and Muddy would be both a fool and a coward if he failed the mission now.
Remember what this river sings to you.
The song. He’d been singing it all along, but what was different about it? He’d passed the first test by handling the steps, the right notes. How would the slaves build in a fail-safe here?
One more stump-creature crushed a plank on the right side. The raft tipped a bit with the water rushing over the side. Muddy shifted to ease the weight. Another waited on the left side for him and nearly caught his sneaker with razor teeth. If they broke another plank, the raft would likely disintegrate and pitch him into their hunger.
How many rows of teeth?
He wished he was as smart as Tom Sawyer was in that book, or song. Wait—that was it, the clue. Most of the song had worked just like it was meant to work, but the end, the solo, break part changed to something most people, most musicians couldn’t handle playing.
Could he?
He counted in his head, first. He needed to—it was the only way to time the song right. Another creature hit the raft and broke up more wood.
Quickly! Remember the song, came the voice again.
Forget the counting, he thought. It’s the song. He remembered a few musicians who played in odd tempo songs. They sometimes said, “It’s a feel thing.” They didn’t count; they knew it would kill the passion of the song. They let it breathe through them. Just like this band did. Like he would.
He hoped these things hated his playing. His rowing couldn’t help him anymore.
He unslung the odd wood and steel instrument. He’d never let this guitar, this gift from his mentor become sullied by the filthy water. Yet he really felt like shoving it down one of their throats.
Muddy felt the inspiration from Silver Eye encourage him and although it felt odd not touching the water, it seemed right. He aimed the guitar at the first creature and played.
The “A” he plucked shot out at the thing ahead of him. Though he actually couldn’t see it, he felt it fly like a bolt of electric directly at the open mouth. It shrieked as the note struck it, and sunk it.
Did it die? Muddy wondered for a moment then realized he didn’t care. He wouldn’t be returning this way. He struck out the next note in the pattern, to the right this time. Again, a direct hit. The creature howled and sunk out of sight, but the next ones lined up in the order they expected him to turn.Left, right. Left, right.
They anticipated the primal beat. Muddy smiled. As they sunk one by one, the waves they created pushed him left and right so he didn’t even have to steer.
It was both a good thing and a bad thing, he mused, knocking out the F# to the left, the current and swell leading the way. He readied the next note and struck to the right. The next three lined up so close together on the left that there was no way he could nail all of them without one gnashing its teeth into him.
Just as he’d planned it.
The middle and end sections of the song had changed to 7/8 time, an odd meter that most bands hadn’t touched, at least the popular ones. The one who wrote this song did and thanks to Otis’ fetish for cool drummers, Muddy bought into them and fell for one of the few bands that didn’t follow the normal rock and roll way. The time change meant that the usual downbeat, upbeat, one-two-three-four count was shortened. Otis had taught him to imagine walking eight steps then subtract one, ending on the left foot only to begin again on the same foot, but without losing time. It lost just one step, which, in music, often killed the heartbeat rhythm that fans loved. But the great bands made it work somehow. Still, most didn’t follow and couldn’t tap their feet to it.
Just like Muddy wished.
One and two and three and four. Then again. One half-beat missing that threw off so much and left the listener hanging. Perfect for strong musicians to send a strong message.
The three on the left never saw it coming.
He aimed and shot sharp tones to the left. Then to the right, and when the left one rose, he shot to the right once more, keeping him on track, away from the line of predators. The vibrations the guitar threw out knocked these primitive beings for a loop. They stood fooled and like he hoped, rooted to their spots.
More lined up, in the same pattern, the same rock pattern. Once more, he played the three-and-a-half beat rhythm and careened safely through without any creatures touching the battered raft. If he kept it up, safety had to be around the corne
r. Hopefully.
For the next minute or so, he played his heart out and though several things almost caught on and learned, he avoided the maws and teeth. Just in time for him to hit the end of the tunnel that had emerged without warning. It knocked him out completely.
He didn’t even manage a cry before blackness claimed him. As he faded, he felt his body being pulled under. So this was what it was like to drown, he thought. Mom couldn’t be far away now.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In the dark, Muddy saw her. His mother, six months removed from the cancer, and his father and Zack. His father coped by diving into his books; Muddy had his music and Zack. Well, Zack swam deep with his drugs, music, girls and anything that would hide him from the pain.
Muddy was in the water, but drowning in it. Until this happened, he’d never believed in what would happen after death. He believed his mother went to a better place, even Heaven as many of his family and friends said, but still, he didn’t believe in it for himself. Maybe it happened for only those who were pure or had suffered enough. Now he was there and feared he would never see his father again.
Or Poe.
He could handle the rest as they would live happy lives, but he knew Poe had so little to look forward to, other than the band. Even though they all tried to protect her, he wanted to be the one. Her savior, even though he knew she’d saved him lately and was likely the strongest of the group.
He opened his eyes and saw nothing but black. Maybe there wasn’t anything there after all. Maybe he didn’t deserve anything.
Edgar.
Someone called to him.
Mom? I’m coming home. Even in death, that felt cheesy to say. But he meant it.
Edgar.
Yet, it didn’t sound like his mother. Then who in the world was it?
He still floated towards it.
You have to finish the journey. Finish the songs. Do what needs to be done.
Who?
Finish it the right way. Save him. Finish it.