by Nick Cole
He goes for the kill with Somewhere Over the Rainbow. His arranged version.
And he nails that final moment, that final melancholy moment, he nails it right to the wall and he gets a standing O.
Seriously.
Beyond the footlights, he can see the first few tables standing. The rest of the room is made dark by a huge spotlight from the back of the room. But who needs to see, he can hear how good he was in their applause.
Very good, by the sound of it.
Frank walks backstage, waving, planning to come back with an encore number as the applause hangs out for another minute. He’s almost ready to go back out there with Summer Wind, but the applause dies and he can hear the scrape of plates and silverware being gathered. The busboys have come in to clear the room and people are already putting on their coats.
Later...
Later.
Later Frank finds Jimmy at the bar. He’s using the bar phone and that’s gotta be good, thinks Frank, with no reason why it would be. Maybe they want us to fly out tonight. Jimmy holds up a hand as Frank approaches, indicating he needs some space. Frank takes a place at the dark wood grain bar with faux leather bumper. The bartender, a Hispanic guy, probably Cuban thinks Frank, saunters down the length of the bar and flips a thick red napkin down in front of Frank.
Frank doesn’t have the money to buy a drink.
The guy looks at him.
Frank waves him off and the look of contempt is clear.
A moment later, Jimmy says to the receiver, “I’ll be back tonight.” Frank hears that. Clear as day. Clear as the dead of night. And then Jimmy leans over the bar and replaces the lime green phone on its cradle.
Frank watches Jimmy in the dark mirror with gold whorls on the other side of the bar. Jimmy staring at himself. He looks tired.
Very tired. And old.
Then he turns, and it’s the Jimmy who found him in the club up on State Street. Jimmy who said he had the right connections to get Frank a recording contract. Jimmy who could make things happen.
“Hey kid,” he beams. “You killed ‘em dead tonight!”
Frank gives that “aw, shucks” look.
“No seriously. Guy loved it. Really. I think we got something big here. He says he’ll come back tomorrow night with some boys from outta town. That’s our big moment, kid. Tomorrow night. You up for it?”
Frank nods.
“We’ll get through this together, kid.”
But they don’t.
Jimmy buys a few drinks on a Diner’s Club International card, then they part ways for their rooms.
Yeah, thinks Frank in bed that night, listening to the waves’ slow rolling in on the long Miami strip shoreline, there were warning signs. Jimmy seemed too happy. As though he were forcing it. But, thinks Frank finally because it’s the only thing he can live with at two in the morning, we’ve got a gig here tomorrow night.
And Frank sleeps.
In the morning Jimmy is gone. Frank doesn’t have breakfast because, again, he’s broke. He spent all the money he’d earned cooking in a greasy spoon since ‘Nam on a good show suit. A tux that’s absolutely useless anywhere but on stage. Even has blue ruffles that match his eyes.
Jimmy doesn’t show for breakfast. He’s been paying for all the meals. When Frank uses the house phone, the operator tells him that the guest he’s looking for, Mr. Valentine, has checked out.
And Frank knows exactly how it is.
Jimmy’s gone.
No contract.
No show.
When he passes the darkened showroom on the way to the elevator, he sees that Mucho Valdez and his Congeros will be playing tonight.
He gets his bag from his room, takes the soap and shampoo but not the towels, and heads for the front desk. Then he thinks better about that, because if Jimmy didn’t pay the bill.... well...
He’s headed out of the lobby and onto the wide steps where the bellboys wait, when the manager stops him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Romano? Your... uh, partner checked out late last night...”
“I just work for him...” protests Frank, knowing he’s about to get stuck with a bill he absolutely cannot pay.
The night manager chuckles softly in his tan summer-weight suit. “I’m sure. And there’s nothing to worry about. The bill is settled. He left a note for you.”
The trim man with the thinning hair who night manages one of the most once-famous Miami hot spots from the days when Sinatra and the crew really hung out here and this was the hottest ticket on earth, reaches into that light tan coat and pulls out a small, neat envelope. He smiles genuinely and hands it over to Frank.
Then he walks away.
Frank drops his bag and opens the tiny envelope.
“Kid! Sorry. Disco’s the thing. Guy loved your set but he says the kids could care less about the past. So I guess we’re the past. I’m going home to Delia. I’m sorry. I thought you were the one to bring it all back. But it’s gone now and you should find something else. —J”
There’s also a crisp twenty dollar bill.
The only thing Frank can hear in the vast yawning chasm within his head is Jimmy’s voice.
“We’re in this together.”
Except there isn’t a this anymore.
Or a “we’re.”
Not even a “together.”
It’s just... every day.
A few minutes later, Frank crosses the lobby and finds the manager.
“I need a job.”
Again the man smiles, and it’s neither charm nor smugness. It’s just pure professionalism and Frank realizes why this guy has this job. Because he’s a pro and he doesn’t make anyone feel terrible about themselves. Even when they should. Even when they’re at their worst.
“All right,” he whispers softly and leads Frank down the reception counter. Then, “Skills?” he asks, as though Frank has anything other than Marine, greasy-spoon cook, and no longer in demand nightclub singer on his non-existent resume.
Franks shakes off a moment where he can’t believe this is actually happening. That his dream is over before it even started. He shakes it off because he doesn’t need that right now. It’s today. Not that day in the future where everything was going to turn out great after the ink was dry on the contract. It’s just every day.
“I can cook.”
The man nods again, and a few minutes later leads Frank into the bowels of the once grand hotel. It’s not the kitchen. But it is near the massive industrial kitchen where Frank finally lands for the foreseeable future.
He spends the next eight hours washing dishes. And not just dishes, but scalding-hot pans of the giant-sized industrial kitchen variety. Pots so large, witches could roast small children in them. Everything is greasy and must be scrubbed, and Frank knows that even though he’s doing this, it’s some kind of test.
Because if it isn’t a test...
Because if it isn’t...
That’s just darkness. And he begins to sing, softly and just to himself beneath the spray of hot water and the din of dishes piling. Somewhere over the Rainbow. He hangs on to that and works at a mountain of tin and stainless steel covered in grease and burnt food that must be scrubbed and scratched out as he is bathed in steam, scalded by hot, harsh water and not overrun by gooks in the wire. Because there’s got to be a rainbow somewhere and he’s determined to find it. Something that makes this life worth living. Until then, you hold the line and don’t get overrun.
And so, just like back in the jungle, he takes it seriously and does his best. And tomorrow he gets to come back and do it all over again.
That’s the prize.
Because there are no credit cards or parents or gap years or finding yourself or chasing your dream. Not in 1975.
There’s just making a living.
At the e
nd of that first day, he gets a plate of hot food and some employment paperwork. That night, he sleeps on the beach after picking up a drink someone forgot by a cabana near the pool. The night falls and the clubs turn on.
Later, he can hear Mucho Valdez and his Congeros beating out rhythms in the sultry Miami night.
And he sleeps.
And tomorrow he’ll do it again.
Every day.
Chapter Seven
With the dawn died the last illusion of cool night air. The sun rose red and angry across the burnt iron mountains of Death Valley. Braddock had been up until late the night before, going over the route Mr. Steele had distributed to the Echo and Bravo team leaders which were all that remained of Task Force 19.
Then he was up early, organizing the convoy.
Twelve Humvees. Seven with mounted miniguns. Four with MK 19 automatic grenade launchers. One equipped with a TOW anti-tank missile system. Echo would be the lead element as far as Barstow, where Mr. Steele had advised them they would link up with a new element, call sign Hotel.
Braddock had thirty-two men left. Steele had executed a few of the survivors, including the pilots, from the shot-up C-130 after it returned to the desert base deep in the Mojave.
No ceremony. No public display.
Just their bodies out at the far end of the runway the morning after. No one had any idea how he’d killed them all.
“They were no longer mission-capable,” the giant man had informed Braddock later, beneath the shadow of the ancient air traffic control tower only Steele occupied. Across the runway from the rest of the mercenary unit known as Task Force 19. There were never lights on in the tower. Never. “We could not take the risk of having them desert us next time,” continued Steele abruptly. “Too dangerous. Every man must be mission-capable.”
The mysterious man’s voice had delivered all this flatly. As though the cowardice of the dead mercs were a matter of fact. And their death sentences the logical outcome. Then he’d fixed Braddock with an emotionless gaze that communicated nothing. Like he wasn’t even human. Even when talking about dead men.
Emotionless.
Which was saying something, coming from Braddock. The few women he’d known had opted out of any relationship, always with some angry rant about how “damn stoic” he was.
He’d had to look that up. Stoic.
He guessed they were right.
Still...
He couldn’t forget the gleaming blood-washed metal beneath the skin of Mr. Steele’s face on that day they’d fled the tower in downtown LA, and later nuked it into so much radioactive dust.
Braddock had evac’d off that roof in the chopper, with orders to find and terminate, with extreme prejudice, a man known only as Mr. Steele. The lady who’d called him “Darling” had given him his last orders. Then he’d found himself in the chopper, sitting across from his target. A man with gleaming, forged metal beneath a ragged flesh wound from a high-powered rifle. A man unconcerned about the wound in the least.
In the desert underneath the looming and silent air traffic control tower at the hidden base within the depths of the Mojave, after the flight of C-130s got jumped by an A-10, the look from Mr. Steele told him their conversation about the weak and the dead was over.
A day later Steele had shown up again, crossing over the empty burning tarmac to the barracks and hangars of the secret base to give an operations order for their next mission.
“We are going to retake Objective Iron Castle,” he began in a flat monotone. “Intelligence is unclear as to how much air superiority the U.S.S. Reagan still has over the LA basin. But after the incident two days ago we cannot take a chance with inserting by air. We will move to the objective by land vehicle convoy, linking up with element Hotel at the interchange near Barstow...”
“Who is Hotel Company?” began Mercer. A SEAL turned merc after he lost an eye in Afghanistan. Braddock thought Mercer was a little wordy for a SEAL. But then compared to Delta operators, most people were.
Steele swiveled his head in one slow pan, mirrored sunglasses landing on the one-eyed SEAL, turning away from the power point they were studying in the air-conditioned conference room of the barracks.
“Hotel element is en route from Vegas. It’s not your concern who they are. Once both elements link up... Hotel will take point and lead us into Objective Iron Castle where we will secure the facility for clearing operations of the surrounding area.”
Mr. Steele switched the power point to a route map.
“Drone recon indicates large masses of Infected in all the red areas. As of two days ago.”
The entire route for a hundred miles in every direction was colored fire-engine red.
“Gee... thought this might be easy,” snorted Mercer.
“We should also expect,” continued Steele, seemingly oblivious to Mercer’s graveyard sarcasm. “To encounter elements of the collapsing U.S. government and its military forces. Both ground and air units are on the table. BGM-109 Delta Tomahawk Missiles with cluster munitions are part of their inventory.”
Great, though Braddock, but said nothing. There was literally nowhere to run, or hide, from those things. Especially if they had cluster munitions. It would be like a rain of screaming hot explosive lead that could Swiss-cheese tank armor like it was melting butter. Light-skinned Humvees stood absolutely no chance.
“If we move swiftly,” continued Steele, “my analysis models predict they won’t commit hard assets and dwindling reserves to unverified targets of opportunity. If Task Force 19 can do this in one day... you might live. If we stop... you’re terminated,” droned the emotionless giant.
Mercer and Braddock stared at the swollen red masses indicating the infected zones along the route. All the places they’d be driving straight through tomorrow. No wonder they weren’t stopping. There was no place to stop.
“No active drone recon in the last two days?” asked Braddock.
“Negative,” replied Steele without emotion or further explanation.
“So...” began Mercer. “We just go for it. Full tilt. All the way to Iron Castle in just one day. We don’t make it... game over.”
“Affirmative,” replied Steele. “Full tilt.”
“Casualties?” asked Mercer.
“89.9 percent casualty rate,” stated Steele with no fanfare or regret. Just one more grim statement of fact. Like the state of their ammunition or the gas in their vehicles. Their chances of survival beyond tomorrow were just numbers not in their favor. Then Steele continued, “The last twenty miles will be the worst. Large concentrations of Infected lie along the 91 Freeway before the 241 toll route access ramp. There is no way around this area. If we don’t traverse the toll road... prediction models indicate catastrophic failure and entire unit decimation.”
Mercer whistled. Then whispered, “TPK.”
Steele fixed him with that dead glare and cocked his head ever so slightly as though waiting for an explanation of the acronym.
“TPK?” he prompted as Mercer continued to stare in disbelief at the map, the ex-SEAL’s teeth clenching, then un-clenching. His coal-dark eyes taking in all the places there were to die on the projected map.
“Total Party Kill,” whispered Mercer. Then snapped back to the surreal reality of the darkened shadowy air-conditioned conference room. Mentally walking away from the imagined horrors that lay along the marked route on the wall.
“When I was a kid. D and D. Everyone dies. Total Party Kill,” he said.
Silence.
“Roger,” affirmed Steele in some kind of mechanical mimic. “Total Party Kill.”
***
Later, as Mercer and Braddock planned the loadouts and the commo SOP, on toward midnight...
“I don’t think we’re making it out of this one,” the SEAL sighed matter-of-factly. “We’re heading into a meat grinder. Logged dr
one footage from a couple days ago shows the onboard targeting analysis pegging that crowd at the 241 upwards of twenty-three thousand. There just aren’t enough bullets, Braddock.”
Braddock picked up his mug of coffee and drank. It was cold. He leaned back in his chair, studying his work.
“Then we’ll use knives.”
Chapter Eight
Holiday watched as the mob slammed into, and then melted around, the fortified sides of the Vineyards. Frank’s Castle. The edges of the eastern and southern walls bifurcated the mass as they fell down from the road separating the burned remains of the McMansions and onto the slopes beneath their ramshackle cargo container walls that filled in the gaps of the townhome complex.
The swollen mass of dead corpses had been headed in a roughly straight direction that would have missed the complex all together. But at the last second, the dead, the zombies, the Horde, call a bunch of walking corpses whatever you want, they had without reason turned from the road above and as a collective hurled themselves straight down into the walls of the castle.
Now Holiday could hear, from at least a mile away, the pounding of their necrotic fists against hollow metal cargo containers and plywood boards. The rough barriers they’d erected over the past few weeks in the gaps between and throughout the castle. More and more living corpses continued to spill down the slope like some tired and dirty waterfall of death that never ended. So many in fact, that in time, at this rate, they must pile up and crest the three-story wall eventually. Or at least... that’s how it looked to Holiday from a distance.
He lit a cigarette and sat down to think.
He had two options.
Go back and try to draw them off the castle.
Or, go get help.
If there was help somewhere that could be gotten. Wherever that was.
His throat felt dry and he licked his lips.
He’d told them he’d go get help. That’s what they were counting on him to do right now. And that was what he was going to do.