by AnonYMous
Their eyes met for only a second. As fractional moments of time go, however, it was more than enough. Sanchez grabbed his hip flask and ran for the door, giving the urinals a very wide berth. The man taking a piss was Invincible Angus. And he’d seen and recognized the hapless bar owner.
‘Wait up, you fucker!’ Angus roared. ‘I want my twenty fuckin’ grand!’
Sanchez didn’t have the twenty grand. All he had was a hip flask full of piss. He’d have to sell a heck of a lot of it to make twenty thousand dollars, and generally speaking, his piss went for about three dollars a shot on a good day.
As he charged out through the washroom door, he heard Angus zipping up his fly. Now wash your hands! he thought. But he didn’t think that Angus would, somehow.
SHIT!
The washroom door was heavy and didn’t instantly spring shut behind him after he dashed through it. It made a slight creaking sound as it ground slowly to a close. Sanchez didn’t have the time to waste pulling it shut behind him. In a blind panic he rushed back towards the main reception area. It was a good fifty-yard run to reach the glass double doors at the end of the corridor that led to the lobby. And when it came to running, Sanchez was about as fast as he looked. Which wasn’t very fast at all.
He reached the glass doors, slammed into the left-hand one and barged it open. In his panicked state, his legs weren’t following the instructions from his brain as quickly as he would have liked. He lost his footing and fell through the open doorway and on to the floor in the reception area. As he climbed back to his feet he saw that, back down the corridor, Invincible Angus had come out of the washroom and was aiming a gun at him. Without waiting to watch him squeeze the trigger, Sanchez took a quick look around for his best escape route.
BANG!
Angus raced out of the washroom without bothering to wash his hands after hastily curtailing his piss. He first looked left, then right where, in the distance, he could see Sanchez getting up from the floor. The fat bastard had obviously tripped over after flying through the glass double doors at the end. Angus wasted no time in pulling his gun from inside his long trench coat and pointing it down the corridor at the troublesome, thieving little jerk. Without taking time to aim accurately, he fired a shot.
BANG!
The glass in the left-hand door shattered. The bullet had gone right through it and looked like it might have caught Sanchez in the shoulder, because the tubby bastard spun around just after climbing to his feet. If he had been hit, it couldn’t have been much more than a graze, because he didn’t stay around to chance a second shot. Angus saw him dart off to the corridor on the left that led to the bar. He immediately set off after him. No way he was he going to let the thieving dickwad get away from him again.
He raced down the corridor in pursuit. When he reached the doors at the end he leapt through the frame of the one that had been destroyed by his shot. His boots crunched down on a sprinkling of glass on the floor on the other side. Feeling several shards sink into his boot he readjusted his landing, bouncing into a kind of triple jump. Once he was sure he was clear of all the glass he glanced down at the heel of his right boot and saw a large shard of glass sticking out of it. Stopping momentarily, he reached down and pulled it out. Fortunately the heel was thick and the glass hadn’t penetrated through to his foot. He tossed the shard of glass aside and watched it slide across the marble floor. It stopped just short of the front entrance, for some poor unfortunate to step on later.
The reception area was completely empty. Not a soul in sight. Although it seemed odd that there were no receptionists on duty, Angus took account of the fact that he’d warned them earlier about the army of zombies headed their way. He had also just fired a bullet into the reception area. Combined, those two factors probably had a good deal to do with the lack of people around the place. He glanced about wildly to find Sanchez. The fat fuck had gotten quite a head start on him now.
Catching Sanchez was his top priority. He needed to know where the bastard had stashed his twenty grand, and if that wasn’t possible, then killing him would be a pretty good consolation prize. If he got his cash advance back, then he would have enough to pay back a decent chunk of the debts he owed. And maybe there was still a chance of claiming the fifty thousand dollars from Nigel Powell for killing Sanchez. But first he needed to catch him. Where the hell had he gone?
Charging off down the corridor towards the bar, Angus was surprised to find that Sanchez was already out of sight. The corridor ran on for about fifty yards before opening up into a large hall area with the bar off to the right. He figured Sanchez must have made it to the end and headed for the bar.
When Angus reached the end of the corridor he once again found no one in sight. The hall was completely empty now that everyone had headed into the auditorium for the final. In the bar on the right all the tables and chairs were unoccupied. The only living thing that remained was a lone bartender wiping down the bartop, a blond-haired young man in his early twenties wearing the standard uniform of black pants, white shirt and red vest.
‘Where the fuck’d he go?’ Angus bellowed at him.
The bartender didn’t answer, but tilted his head towards a door behind the bar. Angus nodded at him and ran over to the side of the bar where a section of the bartop was hinged to let staff come and go. He lifted the flap, letting it crash down onto the top, and ran through the gap in the bar. With rather more care he slowly pushed open the door at the back of the bar that led to the kitchen. He peered through it, wary of being ambushed by Sanchez. Had he known of the other man’s legendary cowardice he wouldn’t have bothered, but caution was something he’d learned very early on in his career as a hitman.
The kitchen was also empty. The staff had all gone, most likely to watch the show. They had left behind a godalmighty mess, though. Six-foot-high food trolleys were scattered around intermittently, and there were numerous worktops still covered in food, dirty plates and cutlery. But there was no sign of Sanchez.
Angus looked around the room for any other escape routes Sanchez might have taken. There was only one other exit from the kitchen, over on the far wall to Angus’s left. It was a white door with a circular glass porthole set in it at eye level. Watching his step, he carefully but swiftly crept over to it, holding his pistol at the ready in case Sanchez showed his face. When he reached the door, he turned the handle only to find it was locked. That could mean one of two things. Either Sanchez had gone through it and locked the door from the other side. Which was unlikely.
It was far more probable that his quarry was still in the kitchen. Somewhere.
Forty-Five
Just a few hours earlier, Emily had felt quite comfortable about being in the final. Armed with the knowledge that the four other finalists had also been pre-selected, she felt less guilty about how she’d come to be there. She had got to know Johnny Cash, Kurt Cobain, Otis Redding and even James Brown reasonably well. But with the first three dead and the fourth, James Brown, most likely responsible for their murders, she had some new finalists to meet. Freddie Mercury and Janis Joplin had been friendly and welcoming, and she had hit it off with them both straight away. She was also fairly confident that she could beat them.
The two new finalists to whom she had not yet introduced herself were Elvis and the Blues Brother. Right now, Elvis was out on the stage, singing for all he was worth. Acutely aware that she needed to stay among people, in case she was targeted by the killer, Emily took the opportunity to introduce herself to the Blues Brother. She’d seen him making for the backstage area a minute or two earlier, so she headed back there to find him.
She found him alone, sitting in one of the well-upholstered chairs in the corner, eating some chicken wings from a paper plate on his lap. There was a coffee table in front of him and another comfortable chair on the other side of it. As the chair was empty, Emily wandered over to introduce herself, though she hesitated for a moment. He was still wearing his sunglasses, so it was hard to tell whether or
not he welcomed her approach.
‘Hi, I’m Emily,’ she said, smiling and holding out a hand.
The Blues Brother had a mouthful of chicken and hurriedly swallowed the last few chunks. ‘Hi, I’m Jacko,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I won’t shake your hand, if that’s okay. Got greasy fingers.’
‘Sure,’ said Emily, withdrawing her outstretched hand. ‘Mind if I sit down?’ She gestured to the chair opposite him.
‘Sure.’ Jacko placed his paper plate, now empty except for a few gnawed bones, down on the coffee table between them and picked up a napkin to wipe his hands.
Emily sat down. ‘You nervous?’
Jacko shrugged. ‘Not really. You?’
‘A little.’ She wished she could see his eyes. ‘You did a great job earlier.’
‘Thanks. You too. Been singin’ a long time, I bet.’
‘Yeah. Got the bug from watching my mom sing in clubs when I was a kid.’
Jacko half-smiled. ‘You never lose the scent that fills your nostrils, that first time you watch someone great perform in a club, do ya? If they put you under their spell, you’ll never get rid of the urge to do it yourself, to feel it in your lungs, that scent from the club, the one that reminds you of the performance, huh?’
‘That’s it exactly.’
‘Yeah. I know. Shame people like Nigel Powell will never get that. He’s just a suit, trying to recreate that scent and sell it. This show, it ain’t got that scent. What they got here is a smell that came straight out of a can.’
‘Yeah, I guess. But it’d be cool to win, though, wouldn’t it?’
‘You think?’
‘Well, yeah. Don’t you?’
‘Hey, it’s always nice to win. But it ain’t the end of the world if you don’t.’
Emily really couldn’t figure this guy out. ‘’Kay then, what about the money? The money’d be nice, right?’
Jacko finished wiping his hands and put the napkin back on the coffee table. ‘That why you’re here? The money?’
‘Well, no. Not just the money.’
‘Fame too, huh?’ There was nothing aggressive about the way he spoke. He just somehow made it sound as though Emily’s pursuit of fame and fortune was rather shallow.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said defensively. ‘The recognition would be nice, but the money is important. It’s for my mother. She’s real sick, and the money would really help.’
Jacko smiled and nodded. ‘Sure. Know what you mean. Family’s important. Gotta take care of ’em, even if it means compromisin’ your values, right?’
‘How do you mean, compromising my values?’ She could feel the beginnings of a blush warming her cheeks.
Jacko airily waved a hand around the space, somehow indicating the entire auditorium and everyone and everything in it. ‘Is this really why you started singin’?’ he asked. ‘So you could win a talent show and make easy money?’
‘You’re kinda direct, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t mean to offend. Just wonderin’ if this is what you got into music for?’
‘Well, it’s either this or touring round the bars and clubs, earning just enough to get by, isn’t it?’
Jacko took off his sunglasses. ‘It’s an honourable way to make a livin’,’ he said, smiling.
‘Yes, it is. But it won’t make you rich, will it?’
‘So, it’s just about the money, then?’
Emily shook her head and smiled. He was quite a tease, this Jacko fella. ‘It does seem like it sometimes,’ she admitted softly. ‘But in all honesty I just love to perform in front of an audience. What’s your excuse? Why are you singing?’
Jacko stared up at the ceiling. ‘I lost my way. Forgot all about why I got into music in the first place. This here, this show, it’s just a shortcut to money and adulation. Not exactly payin’ your dues, is it?’
‘So it’s kinda like selling out, huh?’ Emily said dryly.
‘That’s exactly what it’s like.’
‘So you’d rather be out working the club circuit?’
Jacko sighed. ‘Yeah. I’d love to go back to the club circuit. Smoky bars, that’s where the magic really happens. Performin’ just so you can pay for your next meal, knowin’ that if you suck, your audience’ll let you know about it.’ He pointed in the direction of the auditorium. ‘That audience out there, they’d cheer a monkey with a banjo if it had a sob story. Playin’ in clubs, now that’s really livin’.’
He was right, and Emily knew it. ‘I agree with you,’ she said. ‘Those were some of the happiest times of my life, working the club circuit. I’d love to go back to it one day and just sing my own stuff, you know? Not be impersonating someone else. That would be awesome. Maybe if I do well here, I’ll get that opportunity. At the moment though, people want to hear me do Judy Garland.’
‘So you’re sellin’ out.’
‘We all are, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, we are. But you can only sell the family gold once.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Once you sell out, there’s no goin’ back. You can’t buy back your credibility if you never had it in the first place.’
‘I paid my dues in the clubs,’ Emily said defensively.
‘Me too, but now look at us. Performin’ as other people. It ain’t how I saw my career pannin’ out. I mean, look at me. I’m the ultimate loser. The Blues Brothers were little more than a tribute band themselves, and here I am impersonatin’ a tribute act. That’s about as low as it gets, ain’t it?’
He sounded genuinely regretful about the way things had worked out for him. For the first time, Emily began to reflect on the fact that she’d passed up her dream of being a singer in her own right, to chase the dollar as a Judy Garland impersonator. If she won this competition, that was how she’d always be known. If she made it big as a reality-show star, she’d never have credibility as anything else. She would always be known as the girl who sang like Judy Garland. But that was the price she would have to pay for the success she wanted. There was no sense in getting down about it.
‘It’s not all bad, Jacko,’ she said, trying to sound optimistic. ‘If you win, you can make all your dreams come true. You could go back to singing in the clubs and you wouldn’t have to worry about money any more.’
Jacko slipped his sunglasses back on. ‘Y’know, dreams do come true, Emily,’ he said, standing up. ‘But they don’t come for free.’ He smiled down at her and said, ‘I gotta go freshen up, I’m on in a minute. Nice talkin’ to you.’
Emily thought back to her earlier conversation with the Bourbon Kid. He’d talked about how the winner of this show would be selling his soul to the Devil. Now she understood what he meant. It was metaphorical, obviously.
Wasn’t it?
Forty-Six
Elvis stood before the panel, eyeing the three judges in turn. He had just given his all-time best performance of ‘You’re The Devil In Disguise’ and was waiting for their reaction. He was probably as anxious as he ever got. Which was not very.
The plan had been to underperform the song a little to give Julius a better chance of winning the show with his James Brown routine, but when it came to the crunch, he’d thought, Fuck Julius. Elvis didn’t even know the guy. Why should he give a fuck just because the guy was supposedly the thirteenth Apostle and was going to rid the place of all the goddam flesh-eating zombies outside? Hell, the other finalists weren’t going to make it easy for him, so why should the King? And besides, if the undead did swarm into the hotel, Elvis was one of those most likely to make it out in one piece. In his time he’d seen vampires, werewolves and now zombies and survived ’em all, baby. Still in one piece, and still cool.
Like the pro he was, Elvis had given his performance everything. The vocals had been spot on, the swivelling hips had sent the women in the audience crazy and the sneer – well, that was all his own. Candy was the first judge to pass comment. She leaned forward, squeezing her breasts together so tightly that there was almost a
race on to see which would pop out first: Elvis’s eyes, or her nipples.
‘Elvis honey, I think I’m in love with you. That was just awesome. I gotta tell you, those dance moves got just about every woman in here goin’ weak at the knees. Congratulations. I reckon you’ve just put yourself in contention to win this competition!’ The crowd cheered and stamped, the noise only fading as Lucinda began to pass judgement.
She was equally enthusiastic. ‘You da man, Elvis. You da man!’ she yelled, jigging her head from side to side and pointing randomly around the stage. Again the audience bayed their approval.
It was perhaps inevitable that the only negative comments should come from Nigel Powell, who was making a very good job of looking deeply underwhelmed. ‘Well, it was okay,’ he began, inducing jeers from the audience. ‘Well, it was. Elvis impersonators are two-a-penny on the nightclub circuit. It was good, sure, but I don’t think it was good enough to win the whole show. Truth is, you don’t really deserve to be on this stage with the other finalists. Good luck, though.’
Elvis headed off to the side of the stage with his usual panache, waving at the audience and blowing kisses at any of the prettier women with whom he could make eye contact. When he made it offstage to the side area behind the curtain he was slightly surprised, if not disappointed, to see that Sanchez had disappeared. Had the fat bastard even seen him sing? Or had he slunk off somewhere for an enchilada?
He decided to hang around behind the giant red curtain to wait for Sanchez to return. Freddie Mercury was announced, and bounded onstage enthusiastically for his performance. Just then, the Judy Garland impersonator sidled up alongside Elvis and briefly touched his right arm to gain his attention.