Deadly Loyalty Collection

by Bill Myers

  But the cab never stopped.

  Frustrated, she turned around only to see the limo she had traveled in pull away as well. Again she ran, shouting and waving. This time she was heard. The limo stopped, and the driver rolled down the window. He was a kindly looking, gray-haired gentleman. “Yes, miss?”

  Becka tried to catch her breath. “Can . . . can you take me to the auditorium?”

  The limo driver looked at his watch. “I suppose so, miss. But we’ll have to leave right this moment so I’ll have enough time to swing back and pick up the others from the party.”

  Becka looked back toward the hotel. She wanted to call the suite to have Mom come down. But there just wasn’t time!

  With a quick prayer, she climbed back into the limo. It sped off into the night.

  Scott held firmly to Billy’s jacket as Billy’s motorcycle pulled in front of the auditorium.

  “Thanks for the ride, Billy!” Scott shouted as he climbed off the bike.

  “No problem, man. Listen, I’ve gotta go in and check some wires . . . Here’s the money you earned working with the crew. I really don’t think it’d be a good idea for Doland to see you after what happened at the party. So, you just stay out front, okay?”

  Scott nodded. As he took the money, his eyes widened.

  “Wow! A hundred and fifty bucks! I didn’t work enough hours for that!”

  “Don’t worry . . . Consider it hazard pay for those cat scratches,” he chuckled. “Besides, the other guys on the crew drink up that much just in beer. See you around, Scott.”

  “See ya, Billy.”

  Back at the hotel, the lights were off. The hotel room was illuminated only by the flickering flame of the black candle in the center of a table. Doland, the large bald man, and three groupies held hands across the table. The chant began, low at first, but then gradually increasing until it became a shout: “All must die! All must die! All must die!”

  And with each word, Doland felt the power within him growing stronger. Tonight would be the night.

  10

  Becka was one of fifty teenagers crowding around the backstage door in the auditorium. A huge man with a green beard and a red-dot tattoo in the center of his forehead blocked the entrance. As far as Becka could tell, he only spoke four words: “Not on the list.” That’s what he said to the girl in front of her and what he said to a dozen others before that.

  Becka had had no problem getting inside the auditorium. But the wait at the backstage door was long as one teen after another tried to persuade the guard to let him or her pass.

  Each time, he scanned a tiny piece of paper in his hands and said, “Not on the list.” Becka guessed that there couldn’t have been very many names on the list, since the piece of paper was no larger than a bubble-gum wrapper.

  Finally, her turn had arrived. “Hi,” she said. “Remember me? I was here the other night for the concert.”

  The big man showed no sign of recognition.

  “I’m Rebecca Williams. I’m a friend of Mike Parsek’s.”

  “Not on the list,” the guard said, barely glancing at the paper.

  “No,” Becka said. “I’m on the list. I’m sure of it. You didn’t look close enough. Rebecca Williams.”

  The guard looked again. “Not on the list.”

  Becka shook her head, fighting the panic that threatened to wash over her. “No! That can’t be right! It’s very important that I see Mike before the show. His life may be in danger. Maybe it’s under Becka Williams. Look up that name. He calls me that sometimes.”

  The guard’s eyes glazed over.

  Becka suddenly felt the girl behind her press against her. “Hurry up, will you?” she muttered. “The man said you’re not on the list. So, go already!”

  Becka turned around. “This is not what you think. I am a friend of Mike’s, and he said — ”

  The girl made a face. “I heard he dumped you.”

  Becka was shocked. How would this girl know anything about that? “He did not . . . no one dumped anyone. We were just friends and . . . if anyone dumped anyone, it was I who did the dumping . . .”

  Again Becka turned back and looked at the guard, hoping that somehow he would remember her.

  “Not on the list,” he repeated.

  Mike stood behind the curtain. The auditorium looked virtually the same as it had for the previous show, except for the more elaborate lighting. One new piece of equipment had been added — an even larger fire cannon.

  As Mike strode onto the stage, Billy came out from behind the control board. “So what do you think of her, Mike?” Billy asked, looking at the cannon.

  “It’s a monster.”

  “You should see it fire! I tested it earlier today. The fireball went about forty feet up into the rafters. I thought it was gonna blast right through the roof!”

  Mike frowned. “What about the crowd? Are we going to be raining fire on them?”

  Billy shook his head. “No, it dissolves into nothing after that initial blast. But I’d sure hate to be in that first forty feet. There’d be nothing left but cinders and ash.”

  Mike nodded, looking slowly along the length of the huge, shiny black barrel. “You’re sure this thing is safe?”

  “Sure,” Billy said. “It’s got a warranty and everything. We’re gonna fire it off about three times during your solo at half strength and then at full strength at the end like we usually do.”

  As Mike stared into the large black hole at the end of the barrel, an uneasy feeling swept over him. He shook it off, feeling frustrated. He’d been listening to Rebecca Williams too much.

  By the time the broadcast had begun, Becka had tried the other five backstage entrances with the same results. In fact, she was pretty sure the guards must be related because they all looked alike and said the same thing.

  Except for the last guy. Instead of “Not on the list,” he chose to say “Beat it, bimbo” to every girl and “Beat it, jerk-boy” to every guy.

  Finally, the lights dimmed and the music began. With a resigned sigh, Becka searched for her seat.

  The crowd was even larger and rowdier than before — for good reason. There were TV cameras everywhere. It was a big event, all right, and the band rose to the occasion.

  As Becka made her way to her seat, Doland was already cutting loose in the first song. He was frantic — a madman with a microphone. The crowd hung on his every word.

  “Over here! Becka, over here!”

  She turned toward the familiar voice and saw Scott waving at her, pointing to the empty seat. “We’re over here!” he shouted.

  She moved through the crowd toward him, yelling, “I thought you were backstage!”

  Scott shrugged as she finally arrived. “Doland showed up at the party and some weird stuff started happening. I’m kinda fired. But Billy gave me a ride over and paid me a hundred and fifty bucks!”

  Becka looked at him, caught by one part of what he’d said. “What kind of weird stuff?”

  Over the pounding music, Scott explained the intended animal sacrifice and showed her the scratches. “They don’t hurt too bad!” he shouted. “Billy poured hydrogen peroxide on them before we took off.”

  Becka’s stomach churned. Something was going to happen. She was certain of it. “I never got to talk to Mike!” she yelled. “Security wouldn’t let me pass!”

  By now the concert was in full swing. As the TV cameras rolled, the Scream gave the performance of a lifetime. Doland never let up. Jackie Vee’s fingers flew over the strings of his guitar as though he were carving an intricate sculpture out of a wall of sound. But it was the rhythm section that really dominated. Mike Parsek was at his peak, pounding out the beat as Grant Simone tracked him lick for lick on the bass.

  They were phenomenal, and everyone in the auditorium knew it.

  It wasn’t until Mike launched into his solo that Becka noticed the new fire cannon. It was huge. But that wasn’t what caused her breath to catch. There was something oddly fami
liar about it. A chill suddenly washed over her . . .

  It was the cannon from her dream.

  As Mike increased the pace of his solo, Becka’s heart pounded. She had to warn him. Suddenly, a terrible blast shot a huge tongue of fire into the air above the crowd. Everyone screamed, including Becka.

  “Take it easy!” Scott shouted to her. “It’s all part of the show.”

  Becka’s eyes shot to him. “Not this time, Scotty! This time I think Doland is — ”

  The sentence was cut off by another mighty blast, even bigger than the last. The crowd screamed as never before, and Mike picked up the pace.

  Becka caught sight of Doland as he cheered Mike on from the edge of the stage. One by one the other members of the band left the stage just as they had during the other show. Mike was left to carry on with a fury of drum rhythms.

  Becka’s eyebrows rose as Doland suddenly slipped behind the curtain. What’s he up to? she thought. A moment later, she caught a glimpse of him all alone at the control panel. Billy had moved from the panel to watch Mike along with everyone else.

  “Scott, let me borrow those binoculars!” Becka shouted. She snatched them and quickly focused on Doland. He was quickly turning a knob on the control panel.

  Just like my dream! she thought. Only instead of a gnarled and twisted claw touching the control panel, it was Doland.

  Becka began to pray. But when she looked up at the barrel of the cannon, she groaned. It slowly turned toward Mike . . . just as it had in her dream.

  Becka bolted, pushing her way through the crowd. She knew she’d never get close enough to warn Mike, but she had to try. Jesus, Jesus, help me! she prayed.

  Scott moved behind her, trying to help them both navigate through the crowd. But the crowd was wall to wall. No one moved.

  “Excuse me! Excuse me, please!” Becka shouted over and over again.

  But no one listened.

  “Out of the way!” Scott yelled. “This girl’s sick! She’s going to puke any second! Let us through!”

  The crowd instantly parted. Becka and Scott squeezed toward the stage.

  Mike neared the peak of his solo. He was so intent on his playing that he didn’t even notice the cannon barrel slowly turning toward him.

  “Mike!” Becka shouted. “The cannon! The cannon!”

  Scott joined in. “The cannon, Mike! Get out of there!”

  But it was no use. They could not be heard.

  Becka continued pushing through the crowd. The cannon was aimed directly at Mike as he launched into the height of his solo. In just a few moments, it would fire.

  “Please, Lord!” Becka prayed out loud now, not caring who heard her. “Save him! Save him!”

  Mike feverishly pounded the drums. Becka was so close she could feel the vibrations coming from the cannon as it prepared to ignite.

  There were only seconds left. Becka and Scott pushed through the crowd harder and quicker but were still too far from the stage.

  They weren’t going to make it. She wouldn’t be able to warn Mike.

  She felt Scott grab her. “Get on my back!” he shouted. “Hurry!”

  Scott boosted Becka up to his shoulders. She frantically waved. “Mike! Mike!”

  The cannon began to shake.

  “MIKE! MIKE!”

  And then, suddenly, he looked up and saw her waving.

  She pointed frantically toward the cannon.

  He turned and saw the barrel pointed his way.

  Suddenly, a colossal explosion rocked the stage. Becka screamed, but Mike was already in the air. He leaped off the drum riser, flying through the flames as they ignited his platform, his drums — everything around him.

  The crowd screamed as the curtains caught fire. Panic filled the auditorium as fans stampeded toward the exit.

  Becka managed to catch a final glimpse of Mike before she tumbled from Scott’s shoulders. He staggered to his feet. He looked a little worn and bruised, but he was unhurt.

  “Thank you, dear God,” Becka prayed as she was jostled this way and that. “Thank you . . .”

  In all of the confusion that followed, Becka and Scott managed to slip by the guard at the backstage door. Once past him, they hurried down the long corridor that ran underneath the stage. When they came out on the other side, they saw Mike helping Billy, Jackie, and Grant clear the instruments and sound equipment away from the charred and smoldering curtain.

  “Mike!” Becka shouted as she ran into his waiting arms. They embraced for a long moment.

  Finally, Becka pulled away. “I’ve been trying to warn you for hours!” She swallowed as a sob threatened to choke her voice. “Thank God you’re all right.” She gave a shaky sigh before continuing, “When two men tried to kidnap me at the hotel, I heard one of them mention Doland’s name and something about frying the drummer onstage, and . . . and — ” her eyes burned as tears cascaded down her cheeks — “I tried so hard to warn you!”

  “You did warn me,” Mike said softly. He looked deeply into her eyes. “You saved my life!”

  Again she embraced him, so happy that he was alive.

  “Too bad.”

  The voice made her grow cold. She turned around to see Doland sneering. “You spoiled the show!” He stalked toward them menacingly. “I wanted to burn you onstage, Mikey. It would’ve been the best publicity stunt ever. Now, I just get to fire you the normal way.”

  “You can’t fire me,” Mike said, his voice trembling slightly.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I quit. You’re one sick dude, man! I want nothing to do with you or your music!”

  “Oh, I’m crushed,” Doland sneered. “Lucky for me drummers are a dime a dozen. We can find another one anytime we want.”

  “Not with me, you won’t.”

  Becka turned to see Jackie stepping forward.

  “Or me,” Grant said, moving up beside him. “I’m quitting too. We’re all quitting!”

  Jackie Vee nodded. “You’ve gone too far this time, Doland. I think the cops want a word with you now, for what you tried to do to Mike. You’re goin’ down this time, man.”

  For a second Doland seemed lost, but only for a second. He spun back around to Becka and Scott, his features suddenly contorting.

  Becka braced herself. She had the feeling that something horrible was coming next.

  “This is your fault!” Doland suddenly growled. His voice was guttural, unearthly. “You are the ones who must pay!”

  The other band members stepped back in alarm as Doland’s face contorted until it was unrecognizable.

  Becka stood still, watching. This was the hatred she had felt from the moment she first stepped off the shuttle bus at the hotel and caught sight of Doland. Now, waves of hatred bored into her with amazing intensity.

  For an instant Doland’s face seemed like a grotesque gargoyle mask. She had seen a sudden transformation like that in other encounters.

  Doland’s face just as suddenly turned back to normal. But she wasn’t fooled. She knew the battle was finally out in the open.

  As Doland started toward her, she opened her mouth to speak. But nothing came out! Alarm washed over her. She couldn’t speak! It wasn’t fear — she knew that. She didn’t know what it was! Could this be a new power she had never encountered before?

  Father, help me! she prayed silently. As she did so, peace washed over her. But still she couldn’t speak.

  Suddenly, she heard Scott praying softly behind her. “Deliver us from evil, O Lord. Deliver us from evil.”

  Doland hesitated, shooting Scott an angry glare. He continued toward them. Soon, he was only four feet away.

  Becka still was held in silence.

  Another voice — Mike Parsek’s — suddenly joined Scott’s prayer. “Deliver us from evil, O Lord. Deliver us from evil.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  At that moment, it was as though a gag were removed. Becka knew that she could talk once more. Swift understanding came to her
: God had given Mike the opportunity to step out in faith. And he’d done it! Now she was allowed to move in and help. She took a slow, deep breath and spoke clearly: “In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, I command you to stop!”

  Instantly, Doland stopped moving.

  Becka swallowed, then continued, “I speak to the demonic force controlling Tommy Doland.” Her voice was stronger now. “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of his blood, I command you to leave! Come out from Doland — now! Come out of him and never enter him again!”

  For an instant the gargoyle-like mask reappeared. But suddenly, Doland’s face returned to normal, as if the demon had settled back inside of him once more.

  “What’s going on?” Mike whispered.

  Doland grinned and took a step toward Becka.

  “I said come out of him!” Becka ordered. “Come out in the name of Jesus Christ!”

  Doland’s features changed rapidly in quick succession.

  “He doesn’t want it to go,” Scott explained, with a note of wonder and sadness in his voice.

  Becka continued to hold Doland’s glare. Despite his hatred and the hideous sneer, she felt sorry for him. Very, very sorry.

  Mike looked on, then quietly spoke. “He’s condemned himself.”

  Slowly, sadly, Becka nodded. But there was more work to be done. Her voice broke through the silence, bold and confident. “In the name of Jesus, I command you to leave! Leave and do no more harm to these people!”

  Instantly, Doland staggered back. It was as if he were suddenly afraid to even look at them. He retreated another step or two before turning and slinking across the stage.

  “Remember,” Becka called, “you are bound from ever harming these people again. We command that in the power and authority of Jesus Christ.”

  All watched in silence as Tommy Doland exited the stage. The police waited for him near the bottom of the stage.

  A couple of crew members started to mumble. They’d obviously seen nothing like this before. And, as the encounter faded, Becka felt the weakness return to her body. It was one thing to speak in faith, to feel the power of the Holy Spirit surging through her. But it was quite another to be plain ol’ Rebecca Williams.