Sol Survivors | Book 2 | Nashville Nightmare

by Benton, Ken

  A gunshot sounded from somewhere in the city, shortly followed by two more.

  “Yes,” Kendal finally replied. “I feel he is still okay, but that could soon change. Has a hurt leg, you know. He’ll need your help getting away if he emerges from his test unscathed.”

  “Who took him?” Joel asked. “What hall? And what test are you talking about? Why did they call him a rabbit?”

  Kendal frowned. “The hall gang took him, of course. Could be worse. At least he stands a chance with them.”

  Mick spoke. “Joel, look how he’s dressed.”

  Joel’s vision bounced off Mick and landed on Kendal’s clothes. They were odd. The man had two different coats only half on, with both extra arms dangling in the back. He wore a pair of shorts over striped baseball-style pant legs underneath, and two different shoes on his feet, though both were dress shoes.

  “He looks like Callaway,” Mick said.

  Kendal’s expression changed. Joel hoped Mick hadn’t insulted him.

  “Someone we know,” Joel explained. “You look like someone we know. Please, can you tell us how to find our friend? Or safely take us to him?”

  “Callaway?” Kendal asked. “You’ve met Callaway, you say?”

  “We have a friend by that name, whom you remind us of. He stays with us.”

  “You mean sometimes,” Kendal replied. “He stays with you sometimes.”

  “That’s … right.”

  “You must have a barn then, or maybe a large chicken coop. Well, seeing as you are friends of Callaway I view it as my honor to help you the best I can. Probably why I’m here tonight. I’ll take you to the hall. We’ll have to walk along the river a few blocks to stay out of the Napier gang territory. Not that there’s many of them left. This way.”

  Kendal began walking to lead them, the heels of his shoes clunking on the pavement in rhythm with the extra coat arms on his back swinging from side to side. Joel asked Mick for the night goggles back before following. Then they had to hurry to catch him.

  “So you know Callaway?” Mick asked in an appropriately low tone.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him, but I’ve heard of him. Most of us know about Callaway of Knoxville.”

  “Who do you mean?” Mick asked. “Nashville residents?”

  “Heavens no! I mean us.” He turned and motioned both hands toward himself. “You know, us … cathemerals. In the south, leastways. Stories get around about someone like Callaway of Knoxville who waited seven years in silence for his commission.”

  Mick gave Joel a perplexed glance. Joel only shrugged before bringing the night goggles to his face. They left the parking lot and followed a dirt path under the highway bridge before heading into a woodsy area. Somewhere on the western horizon lightning flashed, but no sound followed. Kendal walked with confidence, appearing unconcerned over the weather or their safety.

  How someone like him could survive in an urban hell, on both sides of the clock, was beyond Joel. But he evidently could, and acted like he knew where he was going. The fact he looked and talked like Callaway could not be easily dismissed, nor could the revelation that he knew something about him. These Callaway-Kendal people would make an interesting study. One could not deny they existed and comprised a third class of post-Helios society. Joel suddenly found himself much more interested in spending time with Callaway and possibly benefitting from his wisdom. That notion would have been absurd a few hours ago. If this Kendal character could really lead them to Sammy—if they could rescue him, get away, and make it home—he will have proven himself to be nothing less than an angel.

  The woods opened up to the railroad tracks again, which Kendal led them right down the center of, clunking his heels on the wooden slats. Joel didn’t like it. Being in the only open ground with thick trees on both sides made them an easy target for an ambush. But it didn’t last. Soon the left side became the backs of buildings and street dead-ends as they approached another bridge. Kendal had them turn left and begin zigzagging through the city streets from there, which Joel liked even less than the railroad tracks.

  “Yes there is certainly a show tonight,” Kendal said after two blocks, “or we would already have company.”

  By now Joel let the goggles hang around his neck and gripped the AR in a position for fast response. Mick did the same with his rifle when Kendal mentioned the word “company.” Neither of them were apparently in the mood to ask clarification from Kendal. It was not possible to stay as fully alert when engaged in conversation.

  “Are we close?” is all Joel asked.

  “Oh yes, almost there. I’ll take you around to the back door first.”

  It was only one more block before they came alongside a large building. That’s where Joel saw the first other person moving about, who slipped into an alley after staring at the approaching trio.

  “This is it,” Kendal said leading them to a flatly-closed door on the side of the building. “This is the back door. It’s locked shut right now, of course.”

  “Where is our friend?” Joel asked with rapidly waning patience.

  Kendal pressed his ear to the door. “There!” he said. “The show is still in progress. Your friend the rabbit is still alive.”

  “His name is Sammy!” Joel said. “How do you know he is okay?”

  Mick pressed his ear to the door as well.

  “Hear the singing?” Kendal asked him.

  “Yes,” Mick replied. “Barely. If you call that singing.”

  Kendal motioned with his chin. “Is it … Sammy’s voice?”

  Mick scrunched his face harder before replying.

  “No. Why would Sammy be singing? What is this place?”

  His question was answered by the last person Joel expected: Joel. He’d been studying the building and calculating where they might be. A partially-burned sign also helped jog his memory. He’d been here before.

  “This is the Country Music Hall of Fame, isn’t it?”

  * * *

  Sammy found it difficult to gauge the judges’ reaction to Enzo’s final number. They were good at not tipping their hand until Mort was ready to give his assessment. A fair amount of audience enthusiasm bloomed right from the beginning, but what did that mean? This contest was all about pleasing Mort, and he was not easy to figure out.

  As Enzo’s performance progressed, Sammy experienced a sinking feeling in his gut over his final song choice. It was too different than Enzo’s. He wondered if he could last-minute swap it. After all, Finn would just be trying to follow him in his guitar strums—which weren’t likely to be anywhere near as accompanying as his piano plunking had been, based on their last stringed fiasco. But there were two problems. The first was Sammy couldn’t remember another song under this kind of pressure.

  The second materialized when he turned to Finn seeking reassurance. The turncoat was bopping to Enzo’s performance.

  Damn it.

  Honestly, though, what did he expect? Sammy wasn’t exactly in a friendly environment. Everyone wanted him to go down in flames. They were merely squeezing the best entertainment they could get out of him before declaring him the loser and…

  Enzo hit the high point of his song.

  “You know where you are, baby? You’re in the jungle!”

  The audience went wild. Mort looked behind at them and smiled, but he also shook his head. Sammy wasn’t sure what that meant. It was definitely an energetic song choice. Sammy’s would be a ballad by comparison. Then again, Enzo’s last song was even slower. Ah, the whole thing was rigged and Sammy’s best chance at this point probably lay in trying to grab Daniel’s pistol.

  Enzo sounded nothing like Axl Rose. Daniel’s piano banging didn’t remotely resemble the musical score of the actual song. But every now and then he hit off-key notes which almost complimented the singing. It would probably be enough. After all, that’s essentially what Finn did for Sammy on the last round.

  Gazing out at the theater seats seeing all the grisly s
pectators enjoying themselves, Sammy had an epiphany. He realized this nightmare he’d been dragged into was all these people had going for them. They were putting to the best practical usage several out-of-tune instruments and a couple guys who knew how to play a little once upon a time. They created real sport for themselves by pitting captives and insubordinates against each other in a macabre contest under the threat of death for losing, and a dubious promise of freedom for winning. And although the performances were appalling by real-world standards, this wasn’t the real world. When the singer and musician occasionally connected and produced something that didn’t sound like a screeching feral hog, it brought moments of appreciated entertainment. That’s all these lowlifes wanted before descending into their disgusting bloodlust. One only needed to seduce them into enjoying themselves for a fleeting moment to receive their meaningless approval.

  Sammy changed his mind again about his final song choice. It had a chance.

  Chapter Twenty

  Joel tried pounding the rock he picked up near the latching, but noticed what looked to be a large deadbolt higher up in the door crack.

  “You won’t smash your way in there,” Kendal said. “You’d need to get someone inside to open it for you, by some trick or another. And I doubt anyone is near it during the show.”

  Joel held his weapon up. “Maybe if we make enough racket, someone will open it to see what’s going on.”

  Kendal began nodding but ended up shaking his head. “You have a reasonable strategy, but not an effective method. They’re used to the sound of gunfire here. Makes them feel at home. And if the shots were coming from right outside this door, supposing they had a mind to investigate, they’d come out a different one, don’t you agree?”

  “Yeah,” Joel said. “How many other doors are there?”

  “Just the front, as far as I know. That’s our best bet, even if it’s well-guarded. Maybe I can ask them to let us see the end of the show.”

  “Do they know you?” Mick asked.

  “Oh yes, they know me. Some even listen to me on occasion. Though when it gets close to their feeding time they start acting like the pack of avaricious animals they’ve become. Makes them dangerous—but stupid, too. We don’t have any choices, the way I see it, or the luxury of much time left if you want to save your friend.”

  “Lead the way,” Joel replied. Mick grimaced but nodded.

  Kendal took them around the building and through a narrow alley, where Joel spotted his second additional human since they arrived at the music hall. This one was no more than a shadow lurking at the other end, which quickly gave way to the on-comers.

  “Don’t hold your weapons in a threatening manner,” Kendal said before they came out the opening. “But it would also be a mistake not to keep them at the ready.”

  “Let’s shoulder them like a sentry,” Joel said to Mick. “Not by the strap.”

  The two of them may have looked foolish with the rifles leaning on their shoulders, as if they were in boot camp marching behind an extremely odd drill sergeant, but that is how they emerged.

  Yes, this was the Country Music Hall of Fame all right. Joel immediately recognized the rotunda across the courtyard. Another flash of lightning illuminated its shape for a second against the blackening sky. Joel couldn’t tell whether thunder followed it, or if those were more gunshots in the distant city night.

  The lightning flash also revealed something else: the figures of people lurking in the shadows. If it wasn’t for that, the place would have appeared empty.

  Kendal slowed down, but continued towards the theater entrance. Some of those menacing human figures began inching their way forward from the crevices. Most were visibly armed. One who had a shotgun cradled decided to walk straight up to the visitors.

  “What are you doing here now, prophet?” he said. “And who are these intruders you brought, coming to our house so confrontational in the way they are armed? You looking for trouble?”

  At least half a dozen ghastly gang members now stood in the open, eyeballing Joel and Mick with faces that projected everything from worrisome curiosity to repulsive lechery. None yet had a weapon aimed at them. One did shift a pistol from one hand to another in a way that bothered Joel, but Kendal positioned himself between them.

  “No trouble,” Kendal replied. “These are friends of mine I brought over from Napier. I told them about your show tonight, and they wanted to see it. I see no harm in that, and especially in establishing neighborly relations instead of killing each other all the time.”

  “Bullshit,” a voice behind him said, shortly followed by murmurs of agreement.

  The forward speaker frowned at the others before answering Kendal.

  “That’s not how it works in this city. You know that. And besides, you’re too late. The show is almost over. Only one performance left.”

  “And we ain’t sharing our meat with any outsiders,” a new voice shouted.

  A different one spoke. “I don’t know, looks like we might have plenty of meat now.” Laughter from several of them followed.

  Joel moved his AR off his shoulder into both hands, but kept it pointing upward.

  “Now hold on!” Kendal shouted in an amazingly commanding tone. “These two are under my protection. You know I don’t eat meat, and they aren’t interested in it, either. We just want to see the end of the show. That’s all. Then we’ll be on our way. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist, because refusing them would be rude.”

  “You don’t get to insist anything, you old fart bag,” someone said. “Get out of here before you end up on the menu yourself.”

  “No, don’t let them get away,” another voice hissed.

  But the forward speaker rebuked them.

  “This man is a prophet! Y’all know not to mess with no prophet.” He then turned sideways and yelled, “Inker!”

  The one waving the pistol stepped closer and said, “Bullshit! These plump chickens ain’t from Napier, and ain’t even from the city. Look at them! Overfed and country fresh, like the rabbit. They want to see a show? Well they’re gonna be in the damn show!”

  “Watch yourself Nate,” the forward speaker responded, “or you’ll end up screwing all of us.” He turned sideways again. “Inker!”

  Joel put a slight bend in his knees and used rapid eye movements to keep himself tensely aware of everything and everyone. Kendal was apparently relying on the fact that for some strange reason some of these Nashville noctos feared him. But others obviously didn’t. Certainly not this Nate fellow. He would probably be the first one Joel would have to take out.

  “To hell with your superstitions,” Nate said. “Mort is going to agree with me. These country chickens will be tomorrow night’s show, most likely. And your prophet can suck my balls in hell.”

  But another came to the side of the forward speaker, as if to back him.

  “Oh you’re both crazy,” Nate responded.

  Joel noticed a new person now visible near the front entrance to the theater. This one walked more cautiously, but also confidently. He held what might be an automatic weapon. Whatever it was had a sizeable magazine. The forward speaker spoke to him.

  “Inker, the prophet showed up and wants to see the last act with these two friends of his from Napier.”

  Another lightning flash revealed that Inker’s skin was splotchy, probably from a full body tattoo. This time thunder followed a few seconds after. Inker took several steps further out into the courtyard.

  “They can’t go in armed like that,” Inker said in a west-coast accent. “They’ll have to surrender their weapons at the door.”

  Murmurs among the others indicated approval of Inker’s decision. Such a drastic change of heart from some of them could only mean they wanted to see Joel and Mick disarmed, which was never going to happen while Joel had breath in him.

  Kendal turned to Joel and raised his eyebrows.

  “We don’t need to go inside,” Joel answered. “If they just open the
door so we can see in, we’ll stand outside to hear the last act.”

  Kendal nodded and turned back to relay the message, but Nate began yelling objections. The fury in Nate’s voice had others on edge, including Inker—who raised his weapon.

  The next voice came from above. A loud thunderbolt struck close enough nearby that there was no delay between the lighting and thunder. It was utterly jolting. Everyone in the courtyard reacted involuntarily. Some ducked. Some recoiled. Some brought their weapons forward out of pure reflex, including Joel and Mick.

  One person fired. It wasn’t Nate or Inker. Joel didn’t see who it was because Kendal stood between them and blocked the view. But he did see Kendal double over.

  He also saw Nate point his pistol. It was the last thing Nate ever did. Joel put two rounds through his center torso, flinging him backwards.

  “No!” the forward speaker yelled bending down next to Kendal, who now lay on the concrete. “You dumbshit!”

  Joel’s next target would have been Inker, but Mick already put him down with two or three rounds. Joel caught a glimpse of Mick kneeling and continuing to aim his rifle. Good boy.

  With Kendal down, Joel could see the person who shot him, now aiming a pistol at Joel. He got one more poorly-aimed shot off as Joel kneeled. Joel took him out with two quick rounds before moving the barrel to put one more in Inker for good measure.

  That’s when the second lightning bolt struck. This one made the first one look tame. It hit the tower on top of the rotunda with such force that blocks of concrete crumbled and fell from it, crashing with their own thunder on the courtyard. Joel felt his very soul shake from it.

  “You’ve doomed us all, you idiots!” the original forward speaker screamed in a voice worthy of a Hollywood horror movie. “You killed a prophet, bloody hell! And brought annihilation on Nashville!” He then stood, aimed his shotgun at someone, and fired.