Drowning in Gore

by Ledger,John

  The first album sessions were a low key affair considering the outfit was unknown outside of their local area, yet to make an impact, but they became a big hit and word spread quickly. Paying homage to George A. Romero’s Living Dead series, this initial event had the band and their crew, along with the selected winners recording in a series of cemeteries. By the time tracks were written for the second album, the buzz around Drowning in Gore and their unique take on recording material and involving fan participation grew immeasurably, and a bigger budget allowed them to hold their events at various notorious residences, including the former home of an infamous serial killer. After information leaked on the location of one of these places led to the session being swamped by mobs of Drownatics who hadn’t managed to win, the band then changed the details of each consecutive event to a Mystery Recording Location.

  The third album, with songs primarily derived from supernatural themes, saw the band delving into ghostly realms, and consequently, the competition winners found themselves ferried off to acclaimed residences purported to be haunted, culminating in a most harrowing session at a long abandoned insane asylum. Unlike previous efforts where the winners were made aware beforehand of what locations these activities would be taking place, these individuals weren’t told until they were already well on the way to the Mystery Recording Location.

  Once again, for the long awaited fourth album competition which saw a record number of entrants try their luck, the location was kept shrouded in mystery.

  Now, Brooke, one of eight lucky souls apparently randomly selected from a pool of finalists, was beginning to think that the whole expedition was nothing more than a self-serving expedition in promotion. A thinly veiled excuse for rock stars to get themselves totalled and party it up with fawning groupies, rather than any real interaction with all the fans.

  For one, several of the people here weren’t the types Brooke suspected had anything to do with operating equipment or cameras or twiddling mixing desk knobs. They were big titted, long legged, ridiculously attractive women who she supposed were there because they were more adept at twiddling musician’s knobs.

  As well as that, three of the alleged winners were similarly gorgeous women, and while they might have been genuine entrants in the contest, only one of them really looked like she was a hardcore Drownatic; the others could have been plucked from the pages of a swimsuit magazine.

  The two swimsuit models were Donita and Penelope, the potential Drownatic was Jayne. That left her and the other four apparent winners, a strange ensemble she suspected were just there to even up the numbers and keep up appearances. Two were bona fide metal aficionados; a thin lanky guy she’d heard referred to as Craig, a slightly overweight nerdy fellow Gus, all kitted out in Drowning in Gore apparel from head to toe. The other two looked like randoms off the street. One was a man in his late forties, a guy who looked like he belonged in a suit and tie, pushing pencils; Lonny she thought his name was. The other was a musclebound jock fellow with a louder voice than any of the band members, a charmer known as Samuel.

  There were the four members of the band; Crypt the vocalist, Nash the guitarist, drummer Flood and bassist Tsunami, along with a few nondescript alternative folk Brooke took as cameramen and the like, as well as others who didn’t seem to serve any purpose other than to drink, shout and carouse, and generally spur everybody into a party vibe.

  And then, there was the old guy.

  Brooke had no clue who this geezer was or what part he played, but there he was, a grizzled old dude in a trucker cap and a flannelette jacket, conversing with other members of the Drowning in Gore collective like he was right up to date with everything. She’d be lying to herself if she said the strange old guy didn’t give her the creeps.

  She’d be lying if she said their current mode of transport didn’t give her the creeps as well. They weren’t on a bus, a tour van, limousines or anything like that. They were on a boat.

  No ultra-fancy, luxury cruise ship or vessel which might have suggested the party was going to be a sea faring one, drifting around the bay or something of that nature. Nor were they segregated into groups and put into motor boats to speed them off to some imagined destination, perhaps a secluded island. No, they were on a goddam tour airboat, a big bastard of a thing with a capacity seating of thirty passengers or so. They were pretty full to capacity as well, Brooke surmised, not even taking into account whoever was piloting the craft and any additional staff. She was pretty sure that it wasn’t the band in control of everything, figuring they must have hired the boat and somebody to drive it, but then again she could be wrong. Maybe they’d forked over enough dollars to get free reign of the whole thing.

  That alone made her nervous, but being in an airboat with a host of folks guzzling alcohol like there was no tomorrow and getting more exuberant by the minute made her even more uneasy. Being in an airboat point blank made her really fucking nervous. Especially considering none of them were informed they would be travelling to the Mystery Recording Location by water and she’d bet they hadn’t come prepared for it.

  She hoped these horror obsessed musos had taken safety precautions and she wasn’t talking about stocking up on condoms for a groupie gangbang. Out here on the water, heading to fuck knew where with a pile of drunken idiots, in the middle of the night could go from a good time cruise to a monumental fuck up in no time flat.

  Abruptly, Crypt made his way towards the front of the craft and bellowed in a strident voice that rolled over the crescendo of the boisterous passengers. Decked out in black leathers, with chains, spikes and a plethora of silver jewelry dangling from his outfit, his face painted in a ghastly concoction that made him look like some nightmarish freak, he didn’t exactly seem like a water-faring traveler. His bandmates were similarly dressed and Brooke wondered if that was the planned look for any video shoots to happen, or if in fact, the assortment of overly beautiful women on board might have been make-up artists and the like. She guessed it was plausible. She readjusted her assessment that they were just eye candy or groupie hangers-on, but not much. She was still willing to bet a pretty penny on the latter being closer to the mark.

  “Okay, little bit of goddamn silence, hey?” Crypt shouted, punctuating his request with a clap of hands clad in fingerless, stud-encrusted leather gloves.

  Dutifully, the noise abated somewhat, then died down completely. Bar the noisy churn of sound being generated by the boat’s engine and propeller, and the splash of water against the hull, things in the boat were about as quiet as they were likely to be.

  “I guess since we’re far enough away from where anybody is likely to spring a flash mob on us, or hordes of fans missing out on this momentous occasion, and we’re pretty safe in the knowledge that nobody is going to bail out in a rush, unless they fancy a long swim home, then it’s high time to reveal the Mystery Recording Location,” Crypt grinned, the expression bordering on malevolent. “And to provide a little history on why this place is gonna be killer!”

  The announcement was met by a roaring ensemble of applause, cheers, whoops, whistles and clapping. Brooke kept her response to a subdued round of claps, though she was feeling less than enthusiastic about this with each passing minute. She wasn’t digging his remarks about folks feeling inclined to bail out, disturbed by the connotations; as if they were headed to a place likely to make people jump overboard or wish they had.

  “Benchley, come on up here, old buddy,” Crypt said. He raised both hands, beckoning, and heads craned to see who he was addressing.

  At the very back of the boat, the odd old man in the cap and jacket stood up. He tugged the cap down over his unruly shock of silver hair, scratched once or twice at the bristles of whiskers adorning his weathered face, with hands as gnarled as ancient tree roots, and then started shambling down to where Crypt stood patiently, still grinning.

  He walked without issue, undeterred by the motion of the boat, clearly a fellow quite adept and accustomed to doing so, navigating his wa
y towards the front of the craft between rows of seats with ease. Reaching the place where Crypt waited, the old guy swiveled around to face the passengers, a smirk of his own appearing on the grizzled visage.

  “Go ahead, old-timer,” Crypt nodded. “Tell the punters here what they can expect out here, where we’re going.”

  Benchley’s creeping smirk spawned into a crooked grin, revealing a glimmer of badly discoloured teeth and he pushed the cap he’d just tugged down back on his head, revealing shaggy eyebrows that looked like frostbitten caterpillars.

  “I’d be guessin’, by the looks of you people,” Benchley finally spoke, in a gravelly tone that sounded like he was gargling gravedirt. “That none of y’all ever been out to the swamps ever.”

  A chorus of sound marrying confusion with curiosity, with some interest and a measure of disbelief, floated back, though the introductory remark from the old man seemed more like a statement than a question to Brooke, not something he was actually seeking a response to.

  “Which prolly means, that none of y’all know jacksquat about Marshlands Malice,” Benchley mused.

  “Fuck’s Marshlands Malice?” Samuel called out, his strident voice booming like a foghorn. He was pounding beers and had been ever since boarding the craft, and the more he consumed, the louder he got. Brooke winced just at the volume of his voice; certain that by the time they ended up at their eventual destination the guy would be up to levels on par with a megaphone.

  “Well, if y’all kept ya traps shut and didn’t interrupt me before I even get a full head a steam goin’ in the way of tellin’ y’all, I’d be bringin’ y’all up to speed now, wouldn’t I?”

  The toothy, lopsided grin remained on Benchley’s face as he addressed Samuel and anybody else who felt the need to interject, though the look lurking in his eyes suggested they should keep quiet if they wanted to hear or learn anything.

  “Yeah, yeah, get on with it, old-timer,” Samuel said dismissively, elbowing Craig the metalhead in the seat next to him and tipping a wink at Swimsuit Model Donita as if he’d said something incredibly witty. “Drinking times a-wasting.”

  Brooke debated pointing out that he was well into drinking time already, but didn’t want his attention to suddenly be fixated on her. The way he’d been ogling all the women on the boat, made her suspect he was of a similar mindset about groupies and drunken party orgies, and since she wasn’t exactly what one might classify supermodel material, he might decide that she was an easier target than the uber-attractive women. Last thing she wanted.

  There were murmurs of agreement, requests for Samuel to pipe down and an equal measure of expectant and nervous silence from others.

  Benchley waited until all passenger noise died away completely, then jabbed with one crooked pointer finger off across the waters they were traversing. Most people followed the trajectory of his gnarled digit. Brooke was a little surprised to notice that they were either approaching land or soon to be passing something other than just water, for in the foggy mist of the night, there were crowds of distant trees. They looked dark and ominous, and didn’t lessen the ill-at-ease feelings already festering within her.

  “These rocker fellas here wanted a real scary-ass place to take folks for their little concert or what have you,” Benchley grinned. “Well, ain’t no place scarier than them swamps right over there. And that’s where we’re headed. The domain of Marshlands Malice. And before the big guy there with the mouth starts flappin’ his gums again, let me just tell y’all ‘bout Marshlands Malice. Y’all know ‘bout Swamp Thing, Critter From the Black Lagoon, goddamn Lizard Man, Swamp Devil, all that shit? Well, y’all can forget about that shit. Fake, fiction, kids’ stuff. Marshlands Malice is the real McCoy. The real deal. And these here swamps belong to him. If there were gators, crocs or anythin’ of the sort in there, he’d a ripped ‘em apart and had ‘em for lunch long ago. Most folks round these parts are afeared to go in there huntin’, fishin’ or anythin’ ‘cause it don’t matter if Malice just ate, Malice is always hungry. Big, bad ugly ass sumbitch genu-ine swamp hellbeast unlike none of those pussy examples I done just made mention of.”

  “What? You fucking serious, geezer?” Samuel hooted. “You been knocking a few brews back too? You mean, something like fucking Victor Crowley?”

  Benchley stared blankly at the guffawing knucklehead.

  “Ain’t no black magic Satan shit going on here boy. I’m talkin’ a bona fide goddamn honest to hell, killing critter reignin’ supreme in these swamps.”

  “Shit, I don’t mean Aleister Crowley, you befuddled old shit-talking drunk. Victor Crowley’s a fucking character from a movie.” Samuel shook his head, snorting more derisive laughter, elbowing Craig again and jerking a thumb towards Benchley. “Christ on a catamaran, this old salt is out to lunch. Any of you people taking stock in any of this claptrap?”

  “Just shut up, Samuel!” That came from the girl Brooke took to be a genuine Drownatic, the goth looking Jayne, her hair in a black and red do that spilled in spike formations down her back, over a studded leather jacket. “Just because the only reason you’re here is to suck beer and ogle tits, doesn’t mean some of us aren’t interested in why we’re really here.”

  “What, that’s not why we’re really here?” Samuel feigned surprise, and this time Lonny, the business man lookalike, leaned forward from his seat behind the beefcake and nudged him with a friendly punch.

  “Ha! Good one, buddy!”

  Fucks sake, Brooke said to herself. She wouldn’t have picked Lonny to be a shallow fuckstick like Samuel, but apparently appearances were grossly deceiving.

  “Okay, simmer down everybody,” Broad-shouldered, black-haired rhythm guitarist Nash; the main creative driving force behind the band and the prime reason for much of their female fanbase, got to his feet now, almost as adept on the moving water craft as old Benchley. “Cheers, Benchley, I’ll take it from here.”

  Still grinning, Benchley shuffled back up the aisle space between the seats, aiming for his vantage point at the rear. As he passed Samuel, he stared emphatically at him and an expression more like malevolent amusement flickered across his grizzled countenance.

  “Old Malice is gonna git you first, big guy,” he uttered in a hoarse whisper.

  Samuel flipped him the bird, biting down on a series of choice words he wanted to accompany the gesture, but the old guy was off, not bothering to look back around. Some of the others cast looks his way as he moved past them, but he favoured none of them with a response. He just returned to his seat and sat there, arms folded across his chest, something akin to satisfaction now on his face.

  “Benchley is dead on right,” Nash addressed the passengers. “We’re going to the swamps. Deep into the swamps. We heard whispers about the Marshlands Legend back when we were working on Possessed by Ghouls, but we already had the concept for that album fully fleshed out, a lot of lyrics and music written. All our ideas were being channelled into the whole supernatural, ghostly, poltergeist vibe so we put any other ideas on the shelf for future reference. When the time was right and we started kicking around ideas for what kind of wicked, horrific shit we could feed to all you Drownatics for the next platter of splatter, legendary monsters came up. I think that was your brain-orgasm, Flood?”

  Skin-headed, corpse-painted drummer Flood jacked up two thumbs in the air, a cigarette clenched between his lips, trailing smoke around his bald dome.

  “But we didn’t want ordinary monsters and shit that has been flogged like a dead horse. No Bigfoot, no fucking Chupacabra, Loch Ness Monster, Jersey Devil, Yowie, Yeti, fucking Rainbow Serpent, we wanted something no other motherfucker’s touched before. So, the tale of Marshlands Malice came back into play, we dug around, did our research. You Gore Whores know we don’t skimp on the detail to bring you the best and the baddest horror metal under the moon. Anyway, the more we dug, the more we dredged up about this insane, swamp-dwelling, flesh-craving freakbeast, and we all knew, that was the sweet spot. The stories
we’ve heard would curdle your blood and make you piss your pants, so we realised that had to be committed to record, immortalised in music. As we always do, we’ve gotta go right to the source, to bring that ultra-real, grimy as fuck, terrify you to the core of your soul vibe to the tracks. Which is precisely what we’re all doing out here on this wondrous water craft about to be ensconced in the realm of Marshlands Malice. We jetted out here the other day, incognito, so no clever paparazzi or super sleuth Drownatics managed to get a fix on our new Mystery Recording Location and found a sweet, funky-ass dwelling sitting right on the swamp banks, one of those shacks that hasn’t seen folk inside the walls for fuck knows how long. We’ve got it decked out with cameras, equipment, the whole works to make this an experience none of you will forget as long as you live…”

  “Hold up a second!” There was another rise in passenger noise, this time Craig making himself heard loudest. “How’s that going to work? You said you’re in some old swamp shack that hasn’t seen civilization for fuck knows how long and you want us to think that’s where you’re recording? Filming videos and shit? Come on man, what do you take us for? I’m guessing there’s no electricity there, if there ever was.”

  “Smart guy,” Nash nodded in approval. “There is no electricity there. But we’ve got a whole bunch of heavy duty battery powered stuff and a couple of big ass generators out there. Everything is geared to go, so don’t think we take any of you for idiots. Like I said, we always dig deep, we do our research and if the spot for us doesn’t have exactly what we need, then we make damn sure to arrange it so everything runs perfectly smooth. Which is precisely what we did. This is going to be insane and you good people, Drownatics one and all, can mark my words. The ambience is fantastic, the atmosphere is creepy as fuck, trust me, you’re in for a treat.”